Once Upon a Time
by LA Knight
Summary: Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in an oncoming storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, and oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within them. A collected fanfic series; currently on book 10.
1. Book 1 Little Red and the Big Bad

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Warning_  
_Concerning the Titles_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Concerning the Fanfic's Purpose_

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_**WARNING: **__this chapter contains a rape scene (for those who really don't wanna read that kind of thing). I apologize if this offends you, but I felt it was necessary for the plot._ _I hope you enjoy the story nevertheless._

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**Once Upon a Time  
A Modern Faerie Tale**

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**Chapter One**

**Little Red and the Big Bad**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Lost Maiden, a Pack of Wolves, Some Instructions, and a Beast in the Subway**

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Every word is a part of a picture. Every sentence is (or can be) a picture. The reader uses their imagination to put those pictures together, and the pictures weave together to form the intricate tapestry that is a story.

There are many kinds of stories in the world: comedies, love stories, adventures, tragedies. Stories of laughter and love, warriors and sorrow. Each story has a beginning, a middle, and an ending (though what story can ever be said to ever truly end? Tellers of tales throughout the long centuries would dare anyone to find such a story). The magic of the story begins with those oft spoken words, "Once upon a time..."

And then there are the best kinds of stories to be had, the ones that have a little bit of everything.

Faerie tales.

In faerie tales, there is a man. He may be a proud prince or he may be a humble soldier. He may possess magic from a genie's lamp or the condescension of a good faerie creature met in the dark woods and treated with kindness. Perhaps he slays the dragon. Perhaps he saves the beautiful princess in her tower. Perhaps the prince loses his kingdom to an evil wizard. Perhaps the humble soldier inherits a kingdom from a dying king.

Then there is the woman. She may be a beautiful princess or she may be a simple peasant maid. She may have a voice like angels singing or be trapped beneath an ancient and terrible curse from a wicked faerie. Maybe she heals a beast in the forest. Maybe she breaks the enchantment on a sleeping prince. Maybe the princess runs into the labyrinth to escape the monsters that so mercilessly hunt her. Maybe the simple peasant maid marries the prince and lives happily ever after.

And in faerie tales there is evil. Pure, dark, and vicious. An insidious poison that hounds the maiden's footsteps or haunts the prince on his quest. There is evil in the world, as well - always has been, always will be. Evil needs no excuses. It needs no promptings. It only needs to catch the scent of prey, to feel the adrenaline pumping and taste the fear on the air...

**.**

Once upon a time, under the burning fluorescent lights of the nearly empty New York City subway, a pack of human wolves loped after their chosen prey. Bared teeth gleamed like moonlight on knife blades. And they could smell with their beasts' noses the delicious musk of a woman's fear.

She didn't want to run. Her legs burned and her lungs screamed. A stitch ripped through her side. But she didn't know how long it would take for them to overtake her if she didn't run. And if she were overtaken, they would most likely kill her for what she'd done to (and for) one of their own. If they didn't kill her, she would wish that they had.

So she ran. Her long, brown hair streamed out behind her in ridiculous ringlets. She'd been on her way home from the salon. She'd gone there simply to make herself look nice for no reason. No reason at all. Just because she could. Because her twenty-ninth birthday was approaching, would come in a little more than two weeks. Because she was happy and had the time and her sisters said she ought to (and for once, she'd agreed with them). She'd spent the day pampering herself because she wanted to.

It had brought the wolves down on her like a killing plague. So now she ran. The glass and stone on the concrete walkways cut her bare feet. She hadn't bothered holding onto her brand new high heels. They were just shoes - she could buy more. She did, however, clutch at her purse. The large leather satchel held some of her few most treasured items. It slowed her down, but she didn't care.

Slowing down would nearly get her and the strange one killed. She _would _care about that.

She glanced over her shoulder. Desperately tried to gauge how far behind her enemies were. Tried to catch a glimpse of the red jackets like blood against the dingy gray of the subway tunnels. Suddenly she tripped over a homeless man lying across the pavement. She hit the ground - and the corpse - hard. It ended up saving her life. A bullet slammed deep into the grubby tiles on the subway walls. She shrieked and glanced into the homeless man's face. Rheumy eyes stared back at her. She choked on the cloying, too-sweet stench of alcohol and death.

Sucking in the air she'd wasted in screaming, she jumped up and kept going. Kept running. Kept choking on her own terror and tears. Kept praying the monsters behind her wouldn't try to shoot at her again. It wasn't as if she could hide anywhere. There was nowhere to go.

Her right knee throbbed with every step. She'd whacked it good on the pavement. The flesh of her face burned where the men chasing her had cut her with their knives. The blood dripped into her eyes and mouth. Just the thought of those fear-bright knives made a sob catch in her raw throat.

She shivered as icy blasts of air gelled her fear-sweat to her body. She'd dropped her heavy, black leather jacket some ways back. Like her heels, it had slowed her down. Now she was so very cold in the freezing December air. Cold and sick and chilled with the fear. Her throat burned as she heaved in great lungfuls of air.

She didn't look over her shoulder again. She didn't have to. They caught a pretty good fistful of her hair and yanked. She jerked out of their hold. Lost some hair in the process. They caught it again. Gave it a good, hard haul. Against her will, she was yanked off of her feet. She smashed into the ground. But the fist in her face, braced by four brass rings, shot her straight up into the air again, and into outer space. Too dazed to scream, she floundered and gasped for air. Steel-toed boots connected with her flesh and passed through to bruise her bones. Then the knife flicked out. Burned like pain under the fluorescents. A dark shadow knelt above her and touched ice-cold steel to her cheek. She mumbled something under her breath, but with all the sneering and jeering from the wolves in human form, they didn't hear it.

It sounded an awful lot like, "Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going."

Then the blade sank into her skin. Blood flowed.

And she began to scream.

**.**

Nuada had no intention of interfering. He was quite otherwise engaged.

Even as he subconsciously made that decision, he flicked the spill of star-blond hair out of his face with a toss of his head and continued to spin and strike with the silvery twin war axes in his hands. Sweat trickled down his scarred back as he moved with savage, primal grace, a pale jungle cat preparing for battle. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead, in the lines of his defined muscles, across his scarred chest. The muscles coiled and bunched beneath the flesh of his forearms as he struggled to become as proficient with these rather unwieldy weapons as he was with the knife, sword, and lance. The axe was _not _a favored weapon, but as a warrior, he needed to become equally adept at using any and all blades, not just those he favored.

His friend, the only one who had followed him into exile - a rather large silver cave troll nicknamed Mr. Wink - watched as the prince worked himself to the point of exhaustion. How long had the prince been training? Five hours? Six? Longer? He could see the fatigue in the Elf's relentless movements. See that he strained to move as if he were whole and healthy, though it was plain to Wink that the prince was not. When was the last time Nuada had actually slept?

The troll knew that nothing he could say would force Nuada to take it easy, rest a little. No. Honor, the way of the warrior, chivalry, valor, physical prowess; that was what mattered to the Elf prince. That, and his vindictive vendetta against the race of Man. His desire to find the final piece of the Golden Crown - the prince's proper inheritance - and use it and the other two pieces to awaken the Golden Army.

Once awakened, Wink knew Nuada would command the Army to slaughter all of the humans who dared stand against him and the other faerie kingdoms. He would drive the humans out of the fey forests and out of their cities of poisonous concrete and burning steel. Thrust them back to their primitive caves, where they would huddle in fear of the living darkness. Then he would raze those noxious cities to the ground. Nothing would stand in the Elf warrior's way - not even the demands of his own healing body. Instead the prince would attempt to sweat out the iron sickness and the last vestiges of poison.

Their power meant fae royalty didn't have to worry about the iron that infected human cities. Usually. And when it _did_ become too much for the magic running through immortal blood, there were troll potions to combat the effects. But even then, the humans' lead and iron could still be a problem. Especially when a virulent faerie poison also sludged through royal veins. Yet the Elf prince pressed on, training. Making ready for the coming war, and the slaughter of the ravenous humans.

Nuada knew what Wink was thinking. He allowed his lips to quirk into a brief, humorless smile for a moment before returning his focus to the training at hand. Wink knew him quite well. Yes, he had a vendetta against the humans. They were hollow, wicked, vicious... little better than animals. So no, he would not help the woman.

The Crown Prince of Elfland was cynical, jaded, angry, and brooding. He had only three loves in his life - three motivating loves, at least - and those were for his beloved twin sister, Nuala; his father, the One-Armed King of Elfland, who still commanded the prince's loyalty from the far-off court of Bethmoora; and Nuada's love for his people. He trained night and day, giving himself only time to eat, sleep, and bathe, in preparation for the war that he knew was going to come one day. Nothing stayed or slowed him - not pain, not exhaustion, not illness. The feral-eyed warrior would not allow it.

He _despised _humans; hated the entire breed. They were greedy, selfish vermin that deserved to be butchered like the empty, hollow meat they were. One day, as the crown prince, as his father's son, as the prince of the Elves of Bethmoora, he would raise the Golden Army and use them to massacre the humans, and exact vengeance for their broken vows and the brutal rapine they had committed against the world.

And so he had no intention of helping a foolish mortal woman who ought to have known better than to wander the subway at night alone like an idiot sheep. She deserved the mugging she would receive. What was a few gaudy, valueless trinkets lost to human predators? Instead, Nuada focused on pushing through the fatigue and last vestiges of weakness from a bout with iron sickness. Gods curse this disgusting mortal city and the poisons that saturated the place. Even he could be brought low by such things for a time. Especially when first made ill by whatever coward had sicced the dipsa serpent on him only a few moons ago.

Then he caught the hideous scent of evil male desire.

It was thick, musky, seminal. It disgusted him. Choked him. His nostrils stung with it, as did his eyes. It was the stench of perverted arousal, cruelty, and the sickly scent of wolf skins. Of predators. He had to swallow quickly as bile rose in his throat. For a moment the prince recalled emerald eyes glazed with shock and pain. Golden blood soaking into hair like spun garnets. Agonized screams. Grief sharp as a lance in his belly. Desperation.

Nuada shook off the millennia-old memory, but could not shield himself from the foul reek in the air.

"My prince?" His friend, Wink, questioned softly. He had seen the horrified, sickened look on the Elf prince's face. "What do you sense?"

"A woman... mortal. And wolves." His voice was oddly distant, musing, as if he were commenting on the weather. But Wink had seen the revulsion in feral eyes like molten bronze. Seen the ghost of memory in those eyes. "They hunted her. They have caught her. They mean to rape her. Because..."

He could taste the faintest traces of their thoughts, that pack of wolves. They had hunted this woman for vengeance. Because she had taken one of their own away from them to someplace safe. They had dogged her footsteps in secret for weeks, searching for the opportune moment to strike. And they struck this night, sought to dishonor the woman with their vile lust, because she wore a red dress and had curled her long brown hair. That was all. Those were their reasons. They would rape a woman because of...

Before Mr. Wink had finished processing the prince's words, Nuada was striding from his subterranean home, motioning for Wink to remain. Over his shoulder, the Elf called, "Stay here, my friend. I want to make sure my... home away from home... is well guarded. Don't wait up for me."

And he began to run, to race, like a silver wind through the the pillars of the New York Underground.

_If there is one thing I despise more than humans, _Nuada thought, the embers of long-banked fury fueled by old grief smoldering to life, _it is a coward. And a rapist is the worst sort of coward. No woman, mortal or otherwise, is to be raped when I am there to stop it._

**.**

It was like a hammer. They beat her body. Pounded against her. Inside her. She was drowning in the burning pain and the blood. She could taste both running down her throat, choking her like poison. Her legs had long since been rendered numb by blows. She no longer had the energy to fight. Too many blades of flesh had sliced through her hold on reality. She was floating, or drowning - she couldn't decide which. Strangely, she smelled forests, and tasted the musk of wolf fur on her lips. Concrete burned cold as ice through her ripped dress, bit into her battered shoulders. Her face was a sheet of fire. Distantly, she felt something tear inside her. Felt the hot blood come. Vaguely registered the pain.

_Not again, _her mind - and her memories - screamed at her over and over again. _Not again, please not again, not __**again**__..._ But the pain and the icy cold and the crushing weight above her smothered the plea. Snarled at her, _Yes, again. Again and again. Yes._

Then the hammer blows inside and around her were still, and she was granted blessed respite. She drew a gurgling breath, and barely managed to keep from choking on the blood in her mouth. She spat it on the ground and blinked as the darkness above her moved away, allowing the dim fluorescent light to kiss her eyes. She groaned as the feeling began to return to her legs. Cried out in shock and agony when a foot connected solidly with the side of her face. Fire erupted under her cheek. Added fuel to the burning.

"Don't think we're finished, honey," the rough, bestial voice growled. "We just got us an interruption, that's all." And he kicked her again, in the ribs. Something cracked, and she rolled and hunched in on herself. Couldn't catch her breath even to whimper.

"You will not touch her again."

The voice that spoke was ice cold and clear as fresh spring water in the mountains. It made her teeth ache to hear it - or that might have been the throbbing in her skull from the beating she'd so recently received. She blinked past the haze of pain, and beyond the dark mountain of her attacker standing in front of her, out of the eye that wasn't swollen shut, she saw boots. She couldn't focus beyond the boots. Black leather laced up the sides, supple, but scuffed and worn, as if they were old and had seen much use. It was amazing, what things she noticed as her limbs jerked helplessly and her head throbbed, as blood seeped from her body.

For a strange, bizarre moment when the entire world became one surreal dream, she thought she saw a cat standing in those boots, a large pale cat the color of fresh cream with golden eyes like the blood of ancient trees. A lion intent on the kill. Then it shifted to look like an ivory hound with firegold eyes and teeth bared in challenge. But then she blinked again, trying to focus on the soft, white fur of either beast, and the strange phantom-creature disappeared as her vision blurred.

Shuddering, she tried to prop herself up on her skinned elbow, or at least a forearm, but that was rendered nigh impossible by the shooting pain that lanced from her shoulder to her wrist.

"She your woman?"

The voice that demanded this information was gruff, accented with a touch of Brooklyn's tang. It made its victim shiver at the sound of it. She curled up, trying to remain inconspicuous enough that they forgot about her. If they forgot about her, she could get up and run.

Maybe.

The mysterious speaker made a sharp sound of disgust. "Women are not property."

She had to look again, even though something deep inside screamed at her not to do it. The voice was so cold and deadly it seemed to freeze her marrow; to crystallize her blood. She raised a trembling hand to brush her damp-sticky hair from her bleeding face and saw a man, his flesh so shockingly pale in the dim subway light it was tinted with blue under the fluorescents. Silver hair that slowly morphed to pale gold hung past muscular shoulders. Firegold eyes shot with crimson were set in shadowed sockets, and his lips were dark as night. An intricate scar slashed across his race. She quaked at the sight of him, though she didn't know why. A strange sense of familiarity shivered through her. An odd sense of familiarity, and a very healthy dose of fear. And just a glimmer of hope?

If the men who had tortured her were a pack of wolves, this man was a beast out of a faerie tale. He carried in each hand a silver-bladed axe on a gold-etched black handle. The blades gleamed like pain. The beams of fluorescents hit the cruel edges, giving off intangible sparks of starlight that burned her good eye with their brilliance. Strange, savage death kissed every line of those weapons.

_They would do well to run,_ she thought absently. More lucidly, she prayed, _Heavenly Father... help me. Please..._

"Look, _eśe_ - dis ain't none of your business. The _puta_ and us, we got ourselves an understanding-"

With a look full of loathing and dark fury, the pale warrior snarled, "Be quiet."

Years later, she would try to describe, to her children, to her brother, to the people who would adopt her into their strange family, what had happened that night. Her brother would never understand, but her children and her family - as yet to be gained - would understand what she meant when she said that one moment, the blond man had been standing there, aloof and isolated from the group of brutal human predators, and the next, he was crouched over the man who had so recently taken his turn with her, an axe blade buried in the human wolf's back. A fine spray of crimson blood arced across her savior's nearly-white chest.

She tried to gasp, but her throat, squeezed until bruises circled her pale neck like a necklace of shadows, was swollen nearly shut. Trying to draw such a deep breath made her nearly choke. Despite her pain, her bruises, her blood staining the concrete, something told her that the pack, despite the Beast's presence, was still dangerous. She _had_ to get up.

In the time it took her to make that decision, the blond warrior had struck down four of the nine men who had set upon her. He leapt to decapitate a fifth, when a sixth one, cowering on the ground and feigning death, suddenly struck out with something that glinted star pain bright in the light of the overhead fluorescents. The steel knife bit into the man's calf, right above the ankle. She tried to gasp and choked again. Had the cut severed her rescuer's Achilles tendon? The pale man fell to one knee with a cry that was more rage than pain, and the blade descended again, sinking into the meat of one shoulder. Blond hair flew as his head jerked back and his spine bowed, his body instinctively flinching away from the weapon.

The brunette woman he had fought to rescue glanced around frantically as she scrambled to at least sit on her butt and not be prostrate on her back. Every movement sent burning needles of sensation down her previously numbed legs. She ignored the feeling, casting around for her purse until she found it lying a couple feet away. In it she kept rocks, a habit from her college days that had never gone away. With hands that shook, she pulled out a good-sized stone and hurled it. Her arm screamed at her as she did, protesting the abuse it had suffered, and her aim fell short. She'd been aiming for the man with the knife, trying to hit his temple.

She got him in the back.

The stone projectile had the desired effect, however. The man with the blade whirled to look at her, his face purple with rage, contorting viciously. She tried to move back, but her arms, which she had to use to move herself, to hold herself up, buckled at the elbows, unable to take her weight. She fell onto the ground once more. Her head cracked the pavement. The man had enough time to take a single menacing step toward her before something silver arced across his throat. He took another step, stumbled, and his head fell from his shoulders. The man whom the blond rescuer had been attempting to butcher when the knife blade had interrupted him lay dead as well.

Six wolves down, three to go. She was feeling pretty good about those odds until she heard the gunshot. It echoed through her skull. She couldn't hide her wince, couldn't muffle her scream. The white-skinned man stumbled. Staggered. Her eyes registered the gunshot wound, black against the moon-pale flesh. Dark amber blood streamed from the wound.

Crimson-washed bronze eyes sunk within darkness like rings of smudged kohl met a frightened blue gaze shadowed by bruises. Rage, regret, relief, staggering pain and almost brutal exhaustion - they warred amongst themselves behind his eyes. She felt something akin to a sob hiccup in the back of her throat. Her own regret burned. She swallowed it, swallowed her panic, trying to wet her throat. It was swollen and hot saliva would wet it enough for her to speak, at least a little.

She climbed unsteadily to her feet, body shuddering. Hot blood streaked her skin, soaked her stockings. She stumbled towards her rescuer even as she raised a trembling arm to point at one of the men approaching him from behind. The pale warrior whipped around and the axe blades sank down between neck and shoulders on either side, rending flesh from clavicle to bottom ribs.

Seven dead. Only two left. At least, that's how it seemed. But a sharp cold _zing_ through her chest warned her. There was danger approaching. They had to get away. Her instincts screamed, and her panic surged. She had to get them both out of there, right now. Something horrible would happen if they remained. Even as she was fighting panic, she was forming a plan - half a crazed idea, rather, but it was all she could think of.

He glanced at her, and something in his eyes told her to run if she could. But she couldn't. She couldn't leave him. His injuries were horrible. He could very well die here, alone in the subway, because he had tried to protect her from the scum of New York City. The idea made her heart burn like a candle flame. It gave her the power to croak, "Behind you!" He turned, and the spiked hafts of the axes plunged into the rapist's belly. The human wolf gagged and died, scarlet bubbling between slack lips. She shuddered and grabbed her rescuer's arm.

"Be gone from here," he snapped. There was something hateful in his expression, but she didn't care. His pants were soaked in blood, his and the blood of the wolves. He limped badly from the wound at his ankle. His right leg wouldn't support his weight. She saw the leader of the pack, her attackers' alpha male, raise the gun. Blue eyes widened. Her hero turned, raised the axes as he shifted to stand between her and the lead wolf. The warrior stumbled as he put weight on his bad leg in his haste to attack.

The gun fired twice.

Blood poured from the new hole in his left shoulder. His arm hung like a useless lump of meat at his side. A hole allowed the light of the subway to shine through the meat of one bicep. She had to fight not to be sick. Had to think clearly, had to suppress the shock that wanted to simply numb and blur the world into nothing. Had to time all of this just right. If she got it wrong, even a little, they would both die. She needed to hear footsteps. She knew they would come. The footsteps of the approaching enemy, but their assailant didn't know that.

She laid a hand on the man who stood beside her. He flinched at the contact and twitched away from her touch, but she knew he would act exactly the way he needed to in order to save them both. When she heard shoes clanging on concrete, on metal stairways, she screamed as loud as her tortured throat would allow, "Officer, Officer! Help us!" She tried to wave, as if she could see someone.

The gunman jerked and half turned to look in the direction she was waving. A silver axe flew through the air and embedded itself in the monster's skull. He fell to the ground, and she turned to the man who had thrown the axe with such deadly accuracy.

"We have to get out of here," she whispered. Clutching her purse in one hand, she grabbed his uninjured arm with the other and ducked beneath to take his weight, making it easier to lead him. He tripped and stumbled. She nearly fell with him. "Ow! Okay, okay..." She sucked in a breath and tried to think. Her body was numbing itself, compartmentalizing the pain of her injuries, allowing her brain to numb her to what had happened so she could think. It was an old trick from her youth. It would cost her later - suppressing trauma reactions always did, she'd learned that in psychology - and only the blanket of shock allowed her to manage it at all. But even with the trick, fire burned inside her and sticky blood cooled on her skin. Everything hurt, especially her right knee, her slashed and bleeding face, and the ripped places inside of her. She didn't want to think of what would happen when the shock and the mental walls she'd put up dissolved and the trauma came back. Last time she'd dealt with something like that, she'd passed out.

_Heavenly Father, give me the strength, _she begged silently. She pulled the pale man's arm and settled it more firmly over her shoulder, trying to more easily support some of his weight. He tensed, but allowed himself to lean on her a little. His pain was almost tangible. _Help me save us both. Help me stay strong, stay focused. I can't do this without Thee. Help me, please._

A warmth stole through her chest, and she closed her eyes. Everything would be all right. Everything would work out the way God wanted it to. She could do this. She _could_. And if she couldn't, well... she'd figure it out when she got that far.

The pale man weighed much less than she'd expected, but he stiffened as soon as she tried to get them both to their feet. Tightening her grip on his wrist, she pushed herself upright, supporting him as well as he staggered to his feet with a groan stifled behind clenched teeth.

"Okay... okay, come on. There has to be a safe place here somewhere. Yeah. Come on."

"How are you doing this?" He demanded gruffly from between clenched teeth. "A moment ago, you could barely move."

"It's a lot easier to push myself past suicidal limits if others are depending on me." As a wave of dizziness and horror tried to choke her, she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. The sharp stinging pain ripped her back to the blissfully almost-numb present. "And I had time to gather my strength and get a second surge of adrenaline. Self-producing caffeine shots are great. Come on, we need to hide out until they leave. Let's go."

"I do not want your help."

"Um... no offense, my lord," she muttered, remembering to whom she was fairly certain she spoke, "but I _so_ don't care. Shut up and walk if you can. Come on, come on..." Her voice was breathy with fatigue, with pain. She didn't sound impatient, only exhausted. "We gotta go. Is there somewhere we can go?" She saw him open his mouth to speak and knew she needed to press her advantage, now, before he got enough energy to really make a good argument. So she hissed, "Look, I'm not gonna leave you here. If you know somewhere we can hide until they forget about us, I suggest you tell me so we can get there before more of them show up. You're in no shape to fight. There's steel and Teflon in those bullets - poisonous to your kind."

She was hazarding a guess. She'd seen the delicately pointed tip of one ear peeping through the strands of silvery blond hair and the fact that the sclera of this man's eyes was nearly burgundy, not white. It was one reason she didn't fear this man as much as she might have otherwise. If she was wrong, this would all be for nothing. He'd think she was mad as a hatter. But she could tell by the way he tried to flinch away from her that she'd been right on target.

"You-"

"I have the Sight. And I work with children on a daily basis. You pick up a few things. Now seriously - let's _go!"_

She put the last bit of volume her voice would allow into that last word. He glared at her for what seemed like a thousand years before giving her an almost imperceptible nod. She tightened her grip on his wrist to ground herself, tensed her shoulders to more easily support his weight, and began to move. So did he. They were silent, the better to hear their enemies. Footsteps stomped on concrete, and they moved faster. Pain lanced her body, stealing her breath away. She bit her lip to stifle her moans. He, her rescuer who moved like a jungle cat, was in worse shape than she could have imagined anyone surviving. She owed him. She _had _to help him.

"You are bleeding," the blond man beside her hissed. His teeth were still tightly clenched. She snorted.

"So are you. Stop talking. Begging my lord's pardon," she added as an afterthought.

"Why are you doing this?" He demanded. His voice dripped with venom, with fury. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Refused to answer. She needed what little breath she had. He pressed, "Answer me. And it's, 'Your Highness.'"

"Oh. My apologies, Your Highness," she said, and kept moving without answering. For a long time, there was no speech between them, save for the tersely muttered directions her rescuer bit out from between gritted teeth. Her vision was beginning to fade in and out, things becoming flickering and white and sparkling. She blinked and bit her tongue to pull herself back from the brink of fainting. She had to do something, or she would fall at his feet. Her fingertips were cold and numb. Her legs were full of red hot spikes. She was gasping now, near the end of her strength, but she knew she couldn't afford to collapse. What if her companion needed her help? What if the icy walls she'd erected between herself and what had just happened suddenly collapsed as well? She'd break into a million pieces. She couldn't afford that. Not again, not yet. Not ever.

"What is your name?" The pale-skinned man demanded, though his voice was laced with pain. She glanced at him.

"Your Highness, why are you talking?"

"Because I no longer hear the sounds of pursuit. So tell me, human, what is your name?"

She sighed, and tried to keep the world from spinning out of control around her. Taking in a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth to reduce some of the vicious pain threatening to crush her, she finally admitted, "It's Dylan, Your Highness."

"Dylan? I thought that was a man's name among... most people."

The rape-victim glanced up at him, shivering and still managing to sport an incredulous expression on her face. Was he seriously asking about whether she had a guy's name while she bled from vaginal tearing and he slowly bled to death from multiple gunshot wounds? Seriously? Or was he trying to make small talk? Because that was actually sort of what it sounded like. But why? Why couldn't he just shut up and concentrate on not dying like a normal person? She shook her head slowly from side to side in exasperation.

"It's unisexual. Although my father _did_ want boys," she found herself saying.

"I take it he had all daughters," her rescuer replied dryly.

"Until the last batch, yeah. My sisters' names are Petra, Pauline, and Mary, Simone and Gardenia, Victoria and Francesca. Triplets and three sets of twins. I have a twin brother, John; we're the third set. Since you don't like me, why are you asking?" She wasn't cracking jokes now. She could tell by the revulsion in his golden eyes that he positively loathed her.

"The sound of silence irritates me," he replied, his voice wicked ice cold, like starlight in the subzero depths of space. She fought a shiver. "I would prefer even your irritating voice to the sound of my own thoughts at this moment. You have not the slightest idea what those... _animals_ were thinking."

"I'm sure I've some notion," she said with a sharpness she hadn't intended. But the unmitigated gall he must possess to claim-

"Do you know what the barrel of a human's gun would do to a woman's body? Or a glass bottle? A knife blade?" He hissed, his voice seething like the molten bronze of his sanguine gaze. "Do you? Because I do."

She bit her lip and shook her head as tears burned her eyes. She'd read in a book once about a group of men who had raped a woman until they were exhausted, spent, and because their bodies could do no more, they had continued to ravage her body with the hilts of their swords. The woman had died slowly, agonizingly. The idea turned Dylan's blood to ice. And she knew that the men who'd attacked her, bearing the inked mark of the Rojos, would have done much much worse to her. Worse even than she'd experienced during her days in-

_No. Don't go there. Not now. I can't break now. I can't break_ ever. _No._

"You are more fortunate than you can possibly imagine, that I decided to save you."

"Regretting the fact that you did?" Dylan asked, only half-joking. He glanced at her, then away, and she knew the answer instantly. She sighed, but didn't comment. If she was right, her rescuer had every reason to gripe about the fact that she'd "imposed" on him, as it were. Dylan knew many of the fey didn't like humans, or at least cared little about hurting or manipulating them for a moment's amusement. She even admitted that some mortals deserved the Fair Folk's hatred. How was this Elf to know that she was not one of those dark-hearted humans who relished the pain and torment of other beings? Many of the fey didn't believe such humans even existed anymore.

"If it makes you feel any better... I'm truly grateful," she replied softly. "Thank you, Your Highness."

Dylan felt the Elf stiffen even more. Start to pull away. In retaliation, petty though she knew it to be, she tightened her grip on his wrist, pulled a little. She wasn't going to let anything happen to this idiot just because he was trying his hardest to piss her off and make her leave him behind. She had no doubts that that was exactly what he was trying to do. Well, she wouldn't have any of it. He needed help. She wasn't a monster, no matter what he thought; she wasn't going to just leave him to die. Besides, without the need to help him driving her... she'd likely collapse and let herself bleed out on the pavement.

"Where are we going?" She asked wearily after several tense moments.

"A safe place," he mumbled absently, glancing around. They needed to hurry. He smelled the tang of ozone, which meant a subway train was coming, though not for some miles yet. They had perhaps ten minutes. But he also caught the irritating stench of humans. Male. Aroused, angry. On the prowl. Hunting for something... or someone. Also no more than ten or eleven minutes away, but moving quickly, quicker than Nuada and Dylan could in their current, injured state. Dylan, being human, was slower, weaker. His only chance of escape without further risk of injury would be to leave her. He contemplated the idea for a moment. After all, she was only a pathetic human. He owed no human anything but a swift, merciless death.

"How you holding up?" She asked breathlessly, and tripped over her own dragging feet. They both started to go down, but she caught them, steadied them. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she fought the waves of nausea and searing pain. "I am... so, so sorry, Highness. My fault. Gosh. Move, feet," she snapped down at the ground, as if ordering the appendages around would make them obey her. "Did I jar anything? Any fresh bleeding?"

"No," he replied slowly. "No."

A debt of honor was being incurred here, and it greatly displeased him. Infuriated him. He loathed humans, despised them for their spineless, heartless, gutless behavior. For everything they had done to the world. Yet here was a mortal woman who had remained behind, severely injured and afraid, to make sure he survived the fight he had engaged in to save her. Even now, when it was obvious to an imbecile that she needed medical attention, she refused to leave him, because he was injured. Either she was a simpleton, a madwoman, or not altogether human. Those were the only possible explanations.

He heard footsteps, closer this time. Smelled the wolf pack in men's clothing approaching them. Far enough away that they could not yet see or be seen, but close enough that they were nearly out of time. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain, he made a decision and with a snake-quick strike, lifted Dylan into his arms and over his good shoulder in what the humans called a fireman's carry.

"What are you doing?" She yelped. The utter terror in her voice enraged him. "Stop! You're in no condition... what are you doing?"

Her voice had dropped to a whisper as he approached the gap between the concrete walkways and the subway rails. Even as they watched, a rat sizzled and fried as it touched the third rail coursing with electricity.

"Watch the middle bar," she squeaked.

She squeaked because her body was reminding her in painful ways that it currently didn't like her, but she had no choice but to ignore it. She felt muscles bunch, coil, ripple, and then her rescuer sprung, leaping so that when they landed, it was on the far side of the tracks, well clear of the electrified rail. The impact of their landing sent rockets of pain shooting through Dylan's pelvis and face, and she bit her lip to stifle a scream. Fresh blood exploded from the countless knife-slices bisecting her ruined mouth.

Nuada did not ask her if she were all right. He knew she was not, and he did not care to hear her lie to him (or to whine) about her status. He did not ask if she were bleeding still. He could smell the copper fear stench of her blood, feel it dribbling down the arm that was pressed against the backs of her thighs by virtue of holding her clasped tightly over his shoulder. Feel it smeared across his shoulder and back from the cuts on her face. He shuddered in disgust.

"Are we almost there?" The human woman whispered. He turned his head until he could look at the slashing ruin of her face.

"Yes," he managed to say calmly. She was watching him with wide, fearful eyes like cobalt pools of ice shrouded in mist. As if he were the answer to all her prayers. Her salvation. It had been... centuries since anyone looked at him like that. The last person had been Nuala, as a child, when their mother...

Nuada's chest ached with the struggle to draw breath. His skull throbbed from loss of blood. The last embers of iron-fever would be rekindled by the poisonous metals in his body and the pain would only continue to get worse. His body, already weakened by poison and illness and exhausted from hours of training, wouldn't last much longer. But he could carry her as far as the entrance. That burst of effort had shaved three minutes at least off their journey. If he continued to be able to maintain this pace, then they would be safe in moments.

He heard a _click_, and turned slightly to look behind him. Dylan tried to focus on the concrete that rose above and away from them, but everything was blurred. Nuada saw the men, saw their grins, saw the gleam of the light upon the steel barrel of the gun, and spun as the weapon fired. A bullet, burning with pain and toxic lead, ripped into his side. His breath shot out of him, and he hit his knees on the ground. He tasted toxic metal, scented it, and realized a train was coming.

Dylan whispered, "No. No. It isn't fair. Put me down and get out of here. Please, you have to-"

"You killed our friends, _eśe_," the first thug, the one to the left of the gunman, called out. Dylan fell silent. Tears made her cheeks shine under the dirt and blood on her face. Burned in the slashing cuts. "All for the _puta_. You're gonna die. No weapons now, man."

Bronze eyes met silvery blue. Both burned as they urged the other to abandon them and run. Nuada got to his feet. The mortal in his arms cursed under her breath, calling him ten kinds of idiot. The Elven warrior didn't care. He had engaged in a battle to save her life. Human or not, abandoning her now would be dishonorable and cowardly. He had made his decision. Like a true prince, he would abide by it.

He tried to sprint. He was as slow as a human now. The gun clicked. He picked up speed, or tried. Dizziness slammed him hard. He stumbled. The entrance to his sanctuary was less than sixty seconds away.

The gun fired, twice.

A bullet bit deep into his good arm. Dylan landed on the ground in a heap as his muscles lost the ability to hold her. She cried out when the ground hit her. Agony shot through her back, her legs, her pelvis. Her skull screamed at her. Another bullet found the back of Nuada's right thigh. He stumbled and fell hard to the floor on hands and knees. The moment he was on the ground, she was on her knees. She had a stone in one trembling hand.

_Heavenly Father, please, don't let me miss,_ she prayed silently.

She threw it, hard. It hit the gunman's hand, and he dropped the gun. It went off, and he screamed as blood began gushing from his foot. In his gyrations, he kicked the gun onto the tracks, which rumbled with the weight of the approaching train. Dylan whispered a prayer of gratitude even as she hauled her rescuer to his one good foot.

"Tell me where," she commanded breathlessly. Her knees buckled. She quickly locked them and bit down on her tongue. The pain helped steady her a little. "We have to go. Tell me where!"

"Straight," he gasped. Pain made him dizzy. Blood-loss made him cold. He wanted to rest, just for a moment, but... but in rest lay death. "Fifteen feet."

They staggered forward. Dylan looked around wildly. Bright light washed over them, and the subway train shrieked at them. She gasped and cried, "Now what?"

Nuada touched the wall of concrete and gasped out, "Guardian, let us pass. Slay our enemies."

Dylan's vision twisted, doubled, and she knew somehow she was going to die. Blood or train, that's what she wondered. Would the train make her into a pancake? Or would she turn into a puddle of blood? That was the question, wasn't it? The crimson liquid dripped onto the cement. Her stockings were soaked with it. Everything sparkled around her and her skull buzzed. The speeding train bore down on them, screaming that they were going to die. She tasted death on her tongue. She blinked at the wall as a gaping darkness yawned before her. Her own eyes or the whispered words of her rescuer?

The faerie warrior lurched forward, dragging her with him, and she fell... through the wall. The subway train whizzed by them like a herd of carnivorous horses. Nuada sagged against the wall. Safety. Blessed safety at last.

He turned to Dylan, who dropped to the floor in a graceless heap. She sank into oblivion as the world went black around her. Just before unconsciousness closed up her senses, she smelled the sweet scent of lilies and roses, and inexplicably thought, _Grandma?_

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_**Author's Note:**__About the length. Okay, this chapter is about 6500+ words (not counting author's notes; with author's notes it's 8000+). So ANs are only 20% of the chap. The chapter lengths vary depending on what's going on, just an FYI. There are a few long chaps, but not a whole lot (IMHO – long for me is 8k+). This will be a rather long, fic, though. _=) _At least 100 or so chapters._

_._

_**Concerning the Warning:**_ _About the rape scene. It really was necessary because... I feel that if you are going to have rape in your writing, it's a hard subject. And you shouldn't gloss over it, because it is violent, violating, and traumatizing, and the evil of it should not be diminished. However, in my opinion, this scene is not that graphic. However, one of my favorite reviewers suggested I put a warning up, so I have. _

_As for the necessity of the event itself..._ _Nuada is not going to care about anyone getting mugged or even murdered. He will care, however, about a woman being raped, because he has honor. I literally could think of nothing else that would force him to behave in the way I required for the fic to be believable. _

_One thing I do __**NOT **__want to do is paint Nuada through rose-tinted glasses or make him out of character in anyway. I don't want an out-of-character Elf prince, and I don't think most of his fans do either. We fell in love with the Nuada from the film, and that's the Prince we're going to get in this fic. Hence, rape - the most heinous thing anyone can ever do besides molest a little kid - is the only tool I can use here. _

_._

_**Concerning the Titles:**__The title "Once Upon a Time" was inspired by a book series I absolutely love by the same name. Written by many different authors, this series consists of retold fairy tales, such as _the Storyteller's Daughter _by Cameron Dokey _(1001 Arabian Nights), the Crimson Thread _by I-Forgot-Her-Name ("Rumpelstiltskin"), and _Golden _("Rapunzel"), also by Cameron Dokey. Because this fanfic will incorporate a gazillion and one fairytale motifs from a vast variety of sources, I couldn't use a fairytale inspired name for the title of the fic (chapter titles being another matter altogether). Hence, the only thing I could think of that fit is Once Upon a Time. So the fic itself is named thusly. If any kind, gentle, loving soul wants to help me the heck out and suggest another title, please do._

_As for the chapter titles... each chapter title will be inspired by a fairytale or legend (usually the one whose motif appears in the chapter) and in some instances, like this first chapter, after a retold fairy tale's title. "Little Red and the Big Bad" is a retelling of "Little Red Riding Hood" with cannibalism and a rather ambiguous ending, found in _Swan Sister_, an anthology compiled and edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. And each chapter will have a secondary title which gives a more in-depth look to what's to be found in the chapter. Since each chapter, like a story, must have a beginning, middle and end (usually), I also call each chapter a "short tale" that makes up the bigger story._

_As for "a modern faerie tale," well... it basically is. It's a fairytale set in our time, so... a modern faerie tale. Although the phraseology, I will admit, was inspired by Holly Black's modern fairy tales (_Tithe: A Modern Faerie Tale, Valiant: A Modern Tale of Faerie, _and _Ironside: A Modern Faery's Tale_)._

_._

_**References Made in the Chapter:**_

- "Every word is a part of a picture. Every sentence is (or can be) a picture. The reader uses their imagination to put those pictures together..." is an almost direct quote from the movie _The Mighty_, which is based on the book _Freak the Mighty_ (I can't remember who it's by, but it's a pretty unique title so if you want to read it, it should be easy to find). It was one of the most interesting explanations of reading I'd ever heard.

- "Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going." This is a line from the short story "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman.

- The thing about iron poisoning. Originally that wasn't in here, but then one of my favorite reviewers made a comment that Nuada is a very good warrior, he's been through wars where there are no rules, he's had to fight dirty, and he can take out just about anyone. Her point was - how did Nuada end up so badly injured by a gang of street thugs? So I introduced three concepts: one, the exhaustion. If you've just gone a bazillion rounds with yourself over the course of 5-6 hours, you're gonna be tired, and slow, and not quite as sharp as you would be otherwise. The second was iron poisoning. Why would Nuada end up hurt so badly? Because he went into a fight, 1 against 9, while he was exhausted and still sick. Gives him a viable weakness here.

Now, what _is _iron sickness? I've read a lot of faerie books, and in almost all (if not all), iron is toxic to the fae. Even someone like Nuada, who's strong and tough, would be affected if he was in the city long enough (this is also my theory for why he looks so sick in the auction house scene; it's the only scene where he looks almost... dead). As he lives underground and such, obviously there are ways to circumvent the iron sickness, so why it didn't work this time is up to you. But that's just a little back story on that. Toodles!

- The third concept is the dipsa assassination attempt. The dipsa serpent is a snake from the medieval bestiary (I assume that means it's not real) that's so small it's really easy to step on, and so poisonous that by the time you've realized it's bitten you, you're a second away from dying anyway. Here, I've altered it a bit so it's a type of faerie.

- The thing about the stones was something I actually did in middle school. I carried rocks in a fanny pack around my waist in case I ever needed a weapon, because I was afraid of guns and was too young according to my parents to own a knife of any kind.

- Petra, Pauline, and Mary - Peter, Paul, and Mary was a musical group from the 60s (maybe the 70s).

- Victoria and Francesca; look at the male versions of those names. Victor and Frank. Victor Frankenstein.

- Simone and Gardenia. Simon and Gar. Simon and Garfunkel. I love their music.

- "The Sound of Silence" is a song by Simon and Garfunkel. My own brother never really liked it. It is in the Dustin Hoffman film, _the Graduate_.

- The thing about the gun being used to rape a woman was from an episode of _CSI: Vegas_ I saw once.

- The thing about the bottle being used to rape a woman was from an episode of _Criminal Minds_ I saw once.

- The thing about the knife being used to rape a woman was from a _Labyrinth/Legend_ fanfic I read once. I don't think it's on here anymore, and I certainly don't remember who wrote it or even what it's called, but I remember that much.

- The thing about the swords being used to rape a woman that Dylan remembers (that exact story) was from a book I read about Robin Hood called _Lady of the Forest_. I liked the book a lot, but not that part (too sad). Will Scarlet's wife was the victim of rape by Norman soldiers as related in the text of this chapter. It was really really sad.

- "Heavenly Father, please don't let me miss" is inspired by the movie _IT_, based on the novel by Stephen King. In _IT_, the character Beverly prays, "God, please don't let me miss," right before firing her silver slingshot bullet at the monster. I changed it to "Heavenly Father," because the character Dylan is LDS (Mormon).

- Dylan is named after the singer/songwriter, Bob Dylan. She has a more feminine middle name.

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_**Concerning the Fanfic's Purpose:**_

_This will be a prequel/companion piece to _Hellboy II: the Golden Army_, with an alternate ending to the movie. I don't like that Nuala and Nuada die. That's just... freaking lame. I mean... ugh. I hated that Nuala killed herself, so that Abe will have to go to therapy. I hated that Nuada died, because surely he was redeemable, a man of his honor and greatness and... I dunno. I was all depressed throughout the movie because the villain was someone who was complaining about all the things I whine about all the time (people not appreciating the magic and wonder in the world, too many parking lots and malls when there ought to be trees and flowers and parks, that kind of thing) and then he freaking up and dies!_

_Argh! Stupid Hellboy movie script writers! Are you all on acid or something?_

_*insert scream of intense frustration here*_

_So yeah, that's why the ending in this fic will be different - I hope. If it doesn't fit, then I'm screwed, but I'm gonna do my freaky best. So yeah, prequel/companion/rewrite of the second live-action _Hellboy _movie to salvage the ending, the villain, and the love interest of a hero. I'm going to try to keep things as close to the movie as possible, though, and __**I am desperately attempting to avoid the dreaded Mary-Sue**__._


	2. Waking the Prince

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Creature of the Day_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made In This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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**Chapter Two**

**Waking the Prince**

**that is**

**A Very, Very Short Tale of Much Blood, Some Passive Magic, Someone Like Scheherazade, and a Debt of Honor**

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Nuada ignored the screams. The golem he had set as the protector of this sanctuary had waited for the train before crossing the tracks and dealing with his enemies. Now he heard the wet sounds of tearing flesh, the cries of terror, and found no pleasure or pain in them. The Elf simply ignored them. His wounds burned as iron contamination spread like a disease through the flesh, coloring it the sickly blue of a drowned corpse. Exhaustion beat at him. His muscles ached from the human metals and from the sickness still ravaging his body. A wave of dizziness washed through him, and he groaned. When it passed, he glanced at the mortal sprawled upon the ground by the entrance.

Never before had he brought a human to one of his sanctuaries. He had never had a reason to. But now, because of his thrice-cursed honor, he was forced to keep this mortal from dying because she had risked her life more than once to save him. No human had ever done anything for him, much less something like that. He owed her a terrible debt.

_May all the gods beyond the stars curse her._

Nuada looked around the Spartan room. There was a stone fireplace, above which hung a small painting of his sister, one of only two luxuries in the place. His eyes took in the table with two chairs, and several cabinets and trunks which held clothing, weapons, medical supplies, and non-perishable food items. The bed, with a thin mattress and one pillow, stood near one of those trunks. The blanket, a quilt from his old bedroom at the summer palace of Renvyle, was his second luxury. When a wave of melancholy threatened to drown him at the thought of the quilt and his childhood palace suite, he ruthlessly dismissed it. There were two doors on either side of the fireplace, one that led to a bathing room, and one to a privy. The floor of the main chamber was of cold, clean-swept stone. So he could have access to water, there was a tiny well in a corner, out of the way but within comfortable reach. A young crinaeae, with very little power but a unique and quirky talent, kept the water clean, cold, and sweet.

In the center of the room was a woven mat. It was this that was his aim. He fought another wave of dizziness as he dragged the human towards the mat. With every movement, blood flowed thick and heavy from his wounds. His heart labored to pump in his chest. Sheer determination fueled by rage and self-loathing (A _human!_ A human saved his life! _Pah!_) gave him the strength to do this. Panting with exertion and pain, he thought frantically about how he could tend her wounds when his own were so severe. After all, if he passed out from loss of blood, they would both die. On the other hand, he could not treat his own wounds by himself.

The human solved his problem for him by waking up as he set her down upon the mat. She slowly opened bleary eyes, then blinked as shock and fear spread across her bleeding face. A thin, weak cry of terror ripped out of her mouth as she scrambled away from him in a crab-scuttle until she had half-crawled atop his bed. Wonderful. Now the stench of humanity and iron-laced blood would saturate all of his bedding. Fantastic.

"For Danu's sake, human, I mean you no harm. Be still."

Under more normal circumstances, Dylan would've made some sharp retort at the biting censure in his voice, but even if she'd felt up to it, just then her arms – which had been holding her up - buckled beneath her, and she slid to the floor. She immediately curled in on herself like a snail, holding tight to herself. Nuada looked her over with keen scrutiny, and the human woman shuddered. Her bruised, bloody, and battered face was positively bloodless. Frightened blue eyes were set within deep, dark circles in her face. Nuada could tell by the bruising that her left cheekbone was cracked. The brunette didn't seem to notice that, nor the blood seeping from the dozens upon dozens of cuts and slashes across her face.

Dylan's gaze found him. Panic stole through her eyes. He could hear the thunder of her heart in her breast.

_Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn..._ The words came unbidden to her mind. She remembered the story, had read it so many times she had it memorized. And what better time to use those guidelines than now? Dylan felt like she'd walked into a fairy tale... or a faerie tale. Preternatural warriors, magical sanctuaries, war axes like shooting stars... yeah. A fairy story. Complete with blood and slaughter. Closing her eyes against the sight of that white-skinned warrior with the bleeding wounds, she remembered, _Favors will be returned, debts be repaid._

On the trail of that thought came another, different, one of her own instead of something read once in a book: _he won't hurt me unless I provoke him._ With that realization, the paralyzing fear seemed to ease.

A little.

"Where are we? Are we dead?" She asked softly. It never occurred to her to ask who he was. Once she'd made it away from the overpowering male presence of him and put some distance between them, the memories had surfaced fairly quickly. He was an Elf, one of the Kindly Ones. One of _them_.

One trembling hand wiped at a trickle of blood from a cut right beneath her eye. Remarkably, Dylan felt better. She had complete feeling back in her fingers and toes, and the throbbing, red-hot pain from her pubic bone and pelvis were gone, replaced by a dull ache. The ragged slashes across her face no longer screamed at her. Her vision wasn't sparkling like white stars against grayness, and the ability to focus at least a little had returned. The floaty sensations from blood-loss felt more like she'd had a few bad cuts that required stitches rather than being gang-raped by a pack of human predators. Remarkably, the battered woman had enough attention span left after the pain to really want a shower.

"Are we dead?" Dylan repeated, then added, "Um, Your Highness."

The air was icy against her skin, which looked gray, even to her own eyes. She was trying not to give anything away to the man in front of her, but her mind raced, and she couldn't hide the panic in her eyes. Body trembling visibly with the urge to get up and run, somehow she knew a mere mortal in her condition couldn't move fast enough to outrun the unearthly man in front of her, even in the bloody state he was in.

But she _had_ to run. She had to get up and run, but her legs shook uncontrollably. Where were they? The scent of roses and lilies clung to the stones around her, but the stench of blood burned her nostrils and tried to swamp the perfume of flowers. Heart pounding, she bit her tongue to hold herself still. If she bolted, she knew instinctively he would be on her in seconds, and then... and then he... he would... just like the others, just like the wolves, and just like in the basement, he would...

_Run, _her brain screamed. _Run, run, runrunrun!_

_Can't, _the other part of her moaned. _Can't, hurts too much, can't__..__._

"No," he grunted. He didn't add, "Not yet," but she heard the implied threat under his words.

Dylan swallowed hard. Her brain was working overtime, now that they were no longer being chased, her mind considering some rather sinister possibilities. What if... what if this person had only tried to help her so that he could hurt her himself? It was a viable concern. How many of the Bright Ones had told her that humans gave especially good sport? Even as she thought it, she stuck her tongue between her teeth and bit down again, trying to calm her suddenly racing heart. Salt-blood flooded her mouth and pain flooded her face like a riptide, dragging at her fear. Pain had always been an anchor for her, and she used it now, even though she _knew_ eventually that would come back to bite her. She'd worry about that later.

_Focus on the pain, _she told herself, struggling for calm. _Taste the blood. Feel the sting. Focus on that. Relax. Just a little-_

_RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN-_

_Relax!_ She screamed at herself. _I can't even hear myself think when I'm having a freak out._ Drawing a shuddering breath, her side flared with pain. That helped her to focus as well. Carefully, Dylan examined the idea that this tall, muscular, blond, bullet-riddled man had intervened on her behalf just so he, too, could have his turn with her. Would he do that? _Could_ he do it? Or would he do something else to her? Something worse?

_He's too badly hurt,_ the logical part of her mind murmured, while the screaming, terrified part of her mind kept reminding her of all the teens she knew who'd been suckered by a man feigning injury; kept reminding herself of _Strands of Starlight_, where a girl was raped by a man she healed after a bear had severed his arm. All these things that told her she was being stupid, being too trusting.

But she was a doctor. It was her duty to ease pain, heal hurts. Never mind that she was supposed to do that for people's minds, for their souls. She knew enough about the human body that she could make a passable attempt at healing it here. The Hippocratic Oath and all that.

_Screw the Oath,_ she shrieked at herself as the man in front of her shifted position. She pulled her body back as far as she could. Pain smashed down on her like a tidal wave. _Forget about the Oath! He's going to rape me!_

_Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn.c_ Her brain seemed to trip over the words as they resurged into her mind. _Favors will be returned, debts be repaid._

_Heavenly Father, what do I do? I'm freaking out, help me. I need help, I need a hospital, and so does he, and I don't know if it's safe to be around him. Tell me what to do, please..._

In church, she'd often been told to wait ten or fifteen minutes for an answer to prayers. Generally, that was the minimum time between the end of a prayer and the receipt of an answer. But this time, the answer was practically immediate, and so strong that she felt it in her teeth:

_Help him, or you will both die._

Her heart skipped a beat. Slammed against her sternum. Hammered in her chest. Dylan swallowed several times, trying not to gasp for air, feeling as if she'd just been sucker-punched. She had to help him. She could feel it in her bones, but... but going near him made her want to cry. To scream. To break down and never get back up again. What if he hurt her?

_Now, _the feeling insisted, pushing at her. _Already, he fades. You must begin now._

_Fades?_

She noticed he was sitting on the floor, his chin on his chest, his face hidden behind the curtain of his hair. His pale skin was tinged with a sickly blue undertone, slicked with sweat, and he shuddered continually. At the sight of him, Dylan started in surprise. The blond man looked half-dead already. Shoving her long hair out of her face, she leaned in and peered at him, ignoring the way her skin prickled and her panic screamed. Her eyes found the holes that bled sluggishly. Adrenaline surged through her veins at the sight. He was still hurt, way worse than she was! How could she not have remembered?

"Whoa! Lie down!" She ordered. He looked questioningly at her, and opened his mouth to speak. "Do it!" Dylan yelped, voice laced with panic. _Don't argue_, she begged silently, motioning for him to make himself horizontal. _Please, just do what I say before I have hysterics_. "We have to get those bullets out right away! Or the human metals will infect your blood." What was the old saying about fighting the Other Kin with metals? _Holy silver, burning iron, cold lead, blessed electrum._ Iron and lead could kill a faerie creature if they managed to infect the blood. And didn't gunpowder have salt in it?

"I suppose you know how," he replied sarcastically. "Because as you can see, there are no others here."

Dylan panted shallowly as panic threatened to overwhelm her, trying to fight it back. She couldn't afford to be intimidated or frightened by her rescuer and his harsh words. Even as she was thinking this, she made the abrupt mental switch she'd learned at the institutions, going from panic-stricken fear and hurt to deep, deep rage. Glaring at her rescuer with something akin to venom, despite the fear coiling like worms in her belly, she crawled to her purse lying several feet away and dragged it back. She glanced at him. Blue lines were bright against his pursed lips. Her rescuer was in pain. Both irritated and admiring of his stalwart stoicism, she unzipped the thing which looked more like a medium-sized leather messenger bag than a purse and dumped its contents on the floor.

The mortal woman was muttering something under her breath. It sounded to Nuada like, _"If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain."_

Rifling through the contents of her bag, the blue-eyed mortal pulled out a lighter, scissors, a pair of long tweezers, hand sanitizer, and a plastic spool of white sewing thread with an old-fashioned, four-inch tapestry needle stuck through the top. She found these items amongst so many other things that Nuada was surprised they all fit inside the bag. The sheer number of items made his head spin.

"Interesting collection." His sarcasm could've cut through bone. Something dark pulsed through Dylan as she shivered and thought desperately, _Don't get afraid. Get angry._

"Well, Your Highness, you never know what might come in handy," she wheezed. Her head suddenly began to throb, but she ignored it, focusing on the metal tweezers as she flicked open the lighter and called forth the flame after sanitizing her hands. Holding the tips over the dancing tongue of fire, her eyes watched the metal begin to glow as it heat up. "This will hurt."

"You are actually going to attempt this," he gasped. His vision was starting to phase in and out. He gritted his teeth against the poison-induced nausea. "Are you a... healer?"

"Sort of," she whispered, and bade him lie down. Too exhausted to argue, Nuada tried to obey, and ended up collapsing upon his back, seemingly unconscious. She'd been right in thinking he was worse off than she. Right in guessing what the metal would do to him. The iron from the blade and the lead from the bullets, gestalted by the iron-sickness and the last traces of dipsa venom in his system, were already beginning to poison him. The pale-skinned man was as weak as a kitten now. Luckily, he was also out cold.

Dylan's fear began to recede just a little more, and she leaned over him. Shivered, knowing she was on the edges of control. Only the numbness of shock and the ember of warmth in her chest kept her from shattering completely. She tried to ignore the burning that began in her knee and raged through her body all the way to her bruised, lacerated, and probably cracked cheek. Feeling nearly done in, the brunette forced her hands to remain as steady as possible while she carefully pushed the now sterile tweezers into the wound at his belly.

The human woman had been wrong about one thing – Nuada was not unconscious. He was _barely _conscious. He did not even have the strength to open his eyes. He could only lay there, trying to conserve his strength. Then the human moved, began working on his injuries. Fire ripped through him, and the Elf found himself paralyzed by iron. The metal in the instrument scorched his skin, but she unerringly found the bullet lodged in his body and plucked it out. Fresh blood flowed, and Nuada sank into blissful oblivion.

"Gotcha," she hissed. "Tricky little sucker."

She grabbed needle and thread and hastily stitched up the wound.

"Four years of med school really paid off," she muttered to herself as she repeated the performance on both of his arms. Only two bullets left. She'd even removed the fragments of concrete and ceramic that had ricocheted off the walls.

She was grateful that he was unconscious. What pain would he probably be suffering if he'd been awake? His eyes had gleamed as if with a fever. Maybe he was sick. Maybe the metal was poisoning him worse than she knew. She only knew stories, nothing solid. What did she really know about doctoring an Elf? That was one faerie she'd _never_ encountered in this sort of situation before. And Dylan wholeheartedly believed that that was exactly what this pale, blond man was. His grace, his power, the whiteness of his skin and the oddly familiar, deep gold of his eyes – all of it was so blatantly fey, blatantly Elven.

Dylan could tell up-close that her patient wore no makeup, no contact lenses. This creature was something right out of a storybook, something right out of her greatest and oldest dreams. She'd seen his kind before. Was known to his kind. And there was something so oddly familiar about him.

Dylan had suffered eleven years in nut house lock-up because she believed in people like him. Claimed to have seen them. Had dedicated her life to helping them survive in a world of concrete, steel, and poisons. And now she had the chance to help one of the Shining Ones again.

Any whisper of excitement, however, was dull and tasteless when compared to the overwhelming fear of the large man on the ground in front of her knees. Every time he so much as twitched, her heart jumped into her throat, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. The impromptu doctor had tried reciting poetry in her head, something to focus her conscious mind on to reduce her fear, but Dylan had quickly realized that in order for the Elf to survive this surgery, she had to pay total attention to him.

_How am I going to turn him over? _She thought suddenly. _How am I supposed to roll him over? I have to get him on his stomach so I can deal with those other wounds. I don't think I can turn him, not as weak as I am._

He solved her problem easily – he woke up.

Bronze eyes rimmed with crimson snapped open. She would've screamed, but the only sound that managed to escape her mouth was a breathless squeak of fear. She jerked away from him.

Black lips pulled back in a snarl. Her eyes went wide. A pale hand shot out, wrapped around her throat, and began to squeeze.

**.**

His cell phone rang, making him jump a mile high. He glanced at it and saw it was his uncle calling. He flipped the cell open and said, "Hey, Uncle Thad."

"John, Dylan's in some kind of trouble."

Well, that would explain the nervous tension. For the last few hours, he'd been pacing back and forth in his office, ice cold and unable to get warm, with a strange, restless tension building in his joints and a wicked headache brewing at the base of his skull. And now his uncle had called to tell him that his older twin sister was in some kind of trouble.

"What's up, Uncle Thad?"

"I was expecting her hours ago to give her her birthday present, thought maybe she'd forgotten about me. But after a few hours, I fell asleep and had one of my dreams. There was a pack of wolves chasing a little girl in a red dress, and something else, a huge white lion prowling after the wolves. I don't know what that means, but I'm worried about Dylan. John, you're in New York. Can you find her?"

"Uncle Thaddeus, I'm on the job." Technically. They'd stuck him outside on security detail, pushing the curious civilians past when they tried to stop and gawk at the federal agents swarming around the skyscraper where witnesses claimed to have seen aliens.

"She could be in danger, John!"

John Myers sighed, and checked his watch. It was three in the morning. He didn't feel like scouring the New York subway system looking for his sister just because his uncle had a bad feeling after waking up from a weird nightmare. But... there was the restlessness. The itchiness beneath the skin, and the odd headache, that meant he ought to be at least a little concerned about Dylan.

"John, please-"

"Okay. I'll look as soon as I get off shift. And I'll call you when I find her."

"Hurry, Johnny. I don't know what's wrong, but she's going to be in the middle of something big if you don't find her soon."

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Don't worry."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I don't know __**WHY **__this chapter is so short. Um... well, whatever. It's okay. So, who saw that coming? I mean, the part about her being John's twin sister (John being our oh-so-mortal love muffin from movie 1)? Anyway, hope you guys are enjoying it so far. Keep on trucking! Anyway, onward to the daily mythological creature bit (this only popped in after the fifth or sixth revision of this chapter, because chapter 13 was posted around Lughnassad, and has a little blurby on leprechauns in there. The reason for this is explained in chapter 13). Anyway, so on to that._

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _The aos si (aka, the sidhe)! In Irish mythology, the aos sí, known in even ancienter days (I know that's not a word) as the aes sídhe are a supernatural race comparable to the fairies or elves of England. They typically live underground in the fairy mounds across the western sea, or in an invisible world alongside the mortal realm (known in some places as the Twilight Realm). Aos sí means "people of the mounds" in Gaelic. In Irish literature the people of the mounds are also referred to as the daoine sídhe, and in Scottish Gaelic literature as the daoine sìth. Commonly known as the sidhe, thought sidhe actually means "the mounds" in Gaelic, and is thus a misnomer._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Waking the Prince" is a short story retelling of "Sleeping Beauty" with gender reversal, by Kathe Koja (she wrote _the Blue Mirror_, amazing modern "Bluebeard" novella; you must read it, and it's short), found in the anthology _Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears. _I figured it fit since we have a sleeping (see _unconscious_) prince and a "princess" who wakes him up. He's just not that happy about it._

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_**References Made in the Chapter**_

- A crinaeae is a Greek water nymph specifically associated with wells and fountains.

- Danu is a goddess in Irish mythology. The name "Tuatha de Danaan," which are the Sidhe of Irish mythology, also translates as "People of the Goddess Danu." So it would make sense for Nuada to say "Danu" instead of, say, "God."

- "Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turnc Favors will be returned, debts be repaid." These are two lines (set at different intervals) in the story "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman. The same goes for "If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can ease its pain."

- "A Sound Like Angels Singing" is the name of a retelling of "the Pied Piper of Hamelin" by Leonard Rysdyk. But the title has always seemed to me a brilliant auditory descriptor.

- "Don't get afraid; get angry" is a line from _the Hogfather_, though I think it's only in the film and not in the book by Terry Pratchett; it's a piece of advice offered by Susan Sto-Helit, a governess to two rather unusual children.

- Scheherazade is the main character of _1001 Arabian Nights_ and the one telling the stories.

- The white lion imagery is inspired by the fairy tale "The Singing, Springing Lark," which is number 88 in the collected stories of the Brothers Grimm. Although the lion is not said specifically to be white, he is white in the episode of _Jim Henson's The Storyteller_ entitled "The White Lion," based on this and similar stories. I use the white lion image instead of the white cat, as Nuada reminds Dylan of Puss in Boots in chapter one.

_**Suggested Reading List**_

- _Daughter of the Blood_ by Anne Bishop (the first book in a trilogy known as _the Black Jewels Trilogy_, in _the Dark Jewels Series_; a story of an extraordinary girl who, among other things, is incarcerated because she tells stories about unicorns and dragons)

- _Daughter of the Forest_ by Juliet Marillier (a beautiful and expansive retelling of "the Wild Swans" set against 5th century Ireland and Britain)

- _East _by Edith Pattou (though based mostly on "East of the Sun, West of the Moon," does share some similarities to "The Singing, Springing Lark")

- "Hans My Hedgehog" from Jim Henson's _the Storyteller_

- _Heir to the Shadows_ by Anne Bishop (sequel to _Daughter of the Blood_)

- "Here There Be Dragons" by Laurell K. Hamilton (a story of a young woman with psychic powers who shelters a young monster)

- _The Hogfather_ by Terry Pratchett (also a great movie)

- _Peter Pan_ by JM Barrie (book and 2003 movie)

- _The Secret of Roan Inish_ (a film about how one little girl fixes up an entire island to gain favor with the fey folk of her homeland)

- "A Sound Like Angels Singing" by Leonard Rysdyk (a retelling of "the Pied Piper" found in _Snow White, Blood Red_)

- _The Spiderwicke Chronicles_ by Holly Black

- "The Springfield Swans" by Caroline Stevermer (a short story retelling of "the Wild Swans," mentioned here in honor of _Daughter of the Forest_; this version, however, is set in the 90s and involves baseball; found in _Snow White, Blood Red_)

- _Queen of the Darkness_ by Anne Bishop (sequel to _Heir to the Shadows_)

- "The White Lion" from Jim Henson's _the Storyteller_

_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"The Singing, Springing Lark." _

_Once upon a time, a man goes on a journey and asks each of his daughters what she would like. The oldest wants diamonds, the second pearls, and the youngest a singing, springing lark, which he is unable to obtain. On his journey home, he sees a tree with a lark, and orders his servant to catch it. A lion springs out and threatens to kill him for trying to steal the lark. To spare his life, the lion demands the man bring the first thing to meet him on his return home, and gives him the lark. The man fears it will be his youngest daughter who greets him, but his servant persuades him to accept the bargain. His youngest daughter is the first to greet him. When told of his promise, she sets out the next morning. At the lion's castle, she is greeted by lions. She marries the lion whose lark her father had tried to take and lives with him, sleeping by day._

_One night the lion tells her that her oldest sister is marrying and offers to send her with his lions. She goes, and her family is glad to see her. After her return, the lion tells her that her second sister is marrying, and she says he must go with her and their child. The lion tells her that if any candlelight falls on him, he will be transformed into a dove for seven years. The youngest daughter has a chamber built to protect him, but the door is made of green wood, and it warps, making a crack. When her sister's wedding procession goes by, candlelight falls on him, and he turns into a dove. The dove tells his wife that for every seven steps she takes, he will drop a feather and a drop of blood, and perhaps she can track him by that, and flies off._

_When the seven years are nearly up, the youngest daughter loses the trail. When she climbs up to the sun and asks after the white dove; the sun does not know, but gives her a casket. She then asks the moon, who does not know, but gives her an egg. She asks the night wind, and it can not help her but tells her to wait for the others; the east and west wind can not, but the south wind says that the dove was again a lion and fighting a dragon that is an enchanted princess near the Red Sea. The night wind advises her to strike the lion and dragon with a certain reed, to allow the lion to win and both creatures to regain their form, and then to escape on the back of a griffin. It gives her a nut that will grow to a nut tree in the middle of the sea; which would allow the griffin to rest. The youngest daughter stops the fight, but the princess also regains her form and takes the man who had been a lion with her on the griffin. The daughter follows until she finds a castle where the princess and her husband are to be married._

_She opens the casket and finds a dazzling dress in it. She brings it to the castle, and the princess buys it from her, the price being that the daughter is to spend the night in her husband's bedchamber. But it is to no avail because the princess has a page give him a sleeping draught. Though the daughter pleads with him, he thinks it is the wind's whistling. The next day, she opens the egg. It holds a chicken with twelve golden chicks. The princess again buys them for the same price, but this time her husband asks the page what was the wind the previous night, and the page confesses to the draught. He does not drink it the second night, and he and his wife flee on the griffin to their home._


	3. First Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Creature of the Day_  
_References Made In This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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**Chapter Three**

**First Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Pain, Terror, Healing, and Insight**

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Red-washed molten bronze eyes snapped open. Dylan would've screamed, but the only sound that managed to escape her mouth was a breathless squeak of fear. She jerked away from him. Black lips pulled back in a snarl. Her eyes went wide. A pale hand shot out, wrapped around her throat, and began to squeeze.

The air exploded from her in a wheezing choking sort of gurgle. Desperately trying to suck in air, she gasped, but nothing would come. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Breathlessly, she managed to choke out, "Wait... wait. I'm trying to help you. Remember?"

"You are human," he snarled. His voice wavered. She could see exhaustion and fever clouding his eyes. See the pain in him. "Why would... would... you help me?"

She could only make a gurgling sound in her throat as his fingers bit into her neck. Nuada watched the human through somewhat blurry eyes as her mouth gawped like a fish, as her hands scrabbled weakly at his own wrapped around the slender mortal throat. Her lips slowly began to turn blue.

"Answer me," he demanded. She made a choked noise, and the Elf relaxed his grip by a fraction, to allow her to speak.

"I helped... you escape... remember? I'm not the enemy," the human wheezed.

"Why help me?" Nuada growled, and tried to shake her. It did not work, but she closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. Sharp Elven ears could hear the pounding of her empty black heart. The blond fey could practically taste her nauseating fear. "Tell me!" He growled, and she flinched. Filthy human coward.

"You saved me from the wolves," Dylan gasped. Opened her mouth to say more, snapped it shut.

_"And?"_

"It's... it's the decent... thing to do... please... please let go..."

The Elf prince suddenly released her as dizziness washed over him and the strength left his limbs. A strange burning was spreading across the back of his thigh and through his right side. Nausea rose up sharp and swift in his belly - a reminder of the poison and iron-sickness in his body.

The terrified human scuttled backwards like lightning, gasping for breath as she huddled as far away from him as possible. Her eyes were glassy with terror. Even with his vision blurred and her hands cradling her throat, he could see the brilliant scarlet marks his grip had left against her skin. He had not meant to do quite so much damage. Illness and pain had stolen a measure of his control.

"Very well," he muttered, looking away from the blood-red fingerprints at her throat. "See to my wounds, then."

A soft keening whimper came to him from the corner in which she cowered, but that was all. She did not move, or speak, but only stared at him, eyes wide, unblinking, panting with fear. He loathed the stench of woman's fear. Had loathed it ever since... The Elf tried to gentle his tone.

"I thought you were my enemy," he said by way of explanation. It galled him to have to explain to a disgusting human, but it was the only way. He could feel the blood seeping from his body with every beat of his heart. Ignoring the vile taste the words left in his mouth, he added, "I mean you no harm, human, if you mean none to me." Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. "Now continue with what you were doing."

Trembling, Dylan shook her head, still whimpering.

"You were... quite... keen on aiding me a few moments ago," he replied to her silent negation. He tried to keep his voice calm. Frightening the wretched girl further would not aid him in any way.

_If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain_, a voice in Dylan's mind whispered, a breath of memory. She could only blink once, the lone reaction to her brain's promptings, and continue to struggle to breathe. The brunette shuddered, feeling like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her body refused to stop shaking, and her teeth chattered as if she were cold. Doubtless, if she'd attempted to speak, she'd have bitten her tongue.

"Can you not speak, human?" Nuada was losing patience now. His voice, usually cold as arctic winds, took on a searing bite that lashed his unwilling companion to her bones. Body aching, wounds burning, feverish, muscles cramping mercilessly, head pounding, and limbs weak, he snarled at her, "_Speak!_"

_Ease its pain... holy crap. Someone, help me... someone. Anyone.__ Heavenly Father..._

Warmth spread through her, easing some of the mindless animal panic, pushing back memories of other hands wrapped around her throat. Only when she was a fraction calmer did she reply. "You just tried to strangle me," Dylan reminded him in a quivering voice. At least she hadn't stuttered.

"Ah. It speaks." The ice-cold voice was laced with venomous sarcasm.

One trembling hand swiped at the tears on Dylan's face, while the other gently explored the flesh of her throat, which was already beginning to swell. She had to get control, had to pull herself together. Biting her lip, she acknowledged that she couldn't afford to lose it here. Not right now. Not _ever_, darn it. She would never break again. Not after last time. There was too much at stake in her life. Struggling for calm, blue eyes fought to meet a glacial bronze gaze as she drew in a ragged breath and said, "You can't move anymore."

"_What?_" That one word was suffused with such hatred.

"Not like that," she whispered, voice trying to fail. Swallowing, she went on, "One more move like that, and I'm outta here, okay?"

"Cowardly human wretch."

"Look, Your Highness, you scare me to death, okay? That doesn't make me a coward, that just proves I know you could kill me with your pinkie toe if you wanted to." She was babbling, but somehow, she couldn't force herself to stop. It was either babble or start shrieking hysterically. "And I don't want to die trying to help someone who's just going to kill me for no reason other than I don't have pointy ears, green skin, or butterfly wings. Sorry. I'm trying to help you. But you can't go choking the life out of me and dismembering my dead carcass just because I poke you where it hurts. Now, promise me you won't do stuff like that anymore, okay?"

"I will make no promise."

Dylan almost screamed in frustration, but clamped it back behind her teeth. She couldn't force herself to go near him while he looked at her with such glittering menace. What if he did something awful to her? What if he tried to rape her? Rape wasn't always about control. Sometimes, it was merely about breaking someone in the worst way possible because you hated them more than anything else in the world. That was how the Elf was looking at her now. Even as she realized this, a minute trembling began in her body, and she shivered again.

"Please?" She whispered desperately, staring at him with fearful eyes. "I... I can't... Your Highness, _please?_"

"Very well!" Nuada tried to shout, but it came out as more of a hoarse croak. The mortal cringed and whimpered. Nuada's head felt thick and throbbed mercilessly. "I vow that I shall not attack you so long as you are attempting to heal the damage done to my body. I will offer no harm to your person while you do this. Satisfied?"

"Swear it on the Darkness That Eats All Things," she commanded. The oath of an Elf was enough for her... under normal circumstances. Most fae couldn't lie, unless they were royal. But these were not normal circumstances.

"I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that I shall not attack you so long as you are attempting to heal the damage done to my body. I will offer no harm to your person while you do this. Now are you satisfied, human?"

Yeah. Yeah, she could be satisfied with that. She hadn't been sure that the Darkness was actually a real thing, since so many things were distorted in myth, but Dylan knew what it was supposed to be, and _no_ fey creature would swear by it and lie. Never, ever, in a million years, for to swear such an oath and be lying about it was to condemn yourself to death. A really bloody, horrible death being consumed by eternal and everlasting, living darkness.

The thought terrified her. She closed her eyes, and prayed silently, _Heavenly Father, I don't think I can do this. I'm freaking out here. Help me. Just... anything. Anything you can give me would be good. Help me be calm. Help me be strong. Please. I can't do this on my own._

_Where you see only a single set of footprints, _a voice whispered in her mind, _it is then that I carried you._

_I will carry you..._

Dylan swallowed a half-sob as a strange, sweet pain hit her chest. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel comforted, almost safe. Then, turning back to the supernatural warrior that had saved her life, the doctor's professionalism settled over her like a well-worn, favorite coat or child's security blanket.

"Um... hey," she murmured, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of one wrist, attempting to avoid getting blood in her eyes. It sort of worked. Instead, it smeared across her eyebrows and down one cheek. Darn it, she was tired, but she _had_ to do this. He needed help. If he died... she couldn't let him die. So many of them had already died...

_If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain..._

He was ignoring her now. Slowly, she crawled back to his side. "Hey." Dylan touched his shoulder lightly to bring his attention to her. His copper eyes slashed to her face, and she jumped, trembling anew. "Your Highness, I-I need you to roll over, really slow. I gotta get the bullet in your thi-"

"It went through," he mumbled, and grabbed her hand, brought her fingertips to the bloody, ragged hole a few inches above his knee. He hissed when her fingers made contact. She gasped and jerked her hand away, shaking. "It will heal," he added, and sat up slowly. She swallowed hard when his eyes fell on her again. "You are injured."

"Just... let me stitch you up." _Please,_ she added silently. _You're freaking me out._ "I'm worried about you." _When you're not, you know, trying to strangle me or tear gaping, bloody chunks out of my body with your eyes._

_He's going to rape me, he's going to rape me, I can't, not again, he's going to rape me, there's no one to help, no will come, I-_

"You... are worried for me?" He repeated woodenly, snapping her attention back to him. He blinked, confused. Growled, "Why?"

"You have a bunch of gaping holes and some bullets in you, not to mention a stab wound and a slashed ankle - possibly a nicked Achilles tendon - that are both still bleeding, and you want to know why I'm worried? Look, Highness, I can't wait for you to pass out from blood-loss before I treat you because I don't know how long I can stay conscious, and you might forget your promise and try to kill me again, so please just let me do this and I'm babbling again. Ignore the babbling and do what I say, okay? Please? Please?"

He stared at her for a long moment, puzzled by the earnestness in her mutilated face, which conflicted with the fear in her eyes. Then the Elf prince had to take a moment to process her long, rapid stream of words and make sure he actually understood what she wanted before he carefully rolled over onto his stomach, stifling the groan of pain that wanted to escape from behind his clenched teeth. She heated the tweezers over her lighter again, wishing she had the means or even the strength to do this properly. When the metal was starting to singe her fingers, she sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and plunged the instrument into the wound, where she saw the gleam of the bullet. He grunted in pain, and she felt tears pricking her eyes.

She hated this. She _hated _it.

Dylan got the bullet out of his arm, as well as the one in his side. She had to fight not to be ill. This only worked because she didn't have enough energy to vomit. It didn't help that she also pulled a sliver of bone out of the wound, too. Apparently the bullet had chipped a rib.

"Okay... um... got it!" She cried, and dropped that bullet beside the others lying in a small splash of residual blood on the floor. "Okay, lemme just stitch you up. Hang on." Reheating the needle, she bit her tongue as the silvery needle bit into his flesh and went through. When the sight of the open wound and the threaded needle grew blurry, she would pause for a moment, blinking to clear her vision. Her head was nearly nodding over her work, and everything burned and ached, but luckily she never jabbed him, only herself, jolting herself back to full wakefulness every time. She had to sew up all three holes in the back, as well as the stab wound.

"How are we doing, Your Highness?" Dylan murmured softly as she wiped some of the blood from his skin.

Nuada turned his head to regard the mortal woman over his shoulder. He had been sliced, stabbed, and shot. Iron and lead oozed added toxicity into his blood with every beat of his heart. Instead of being taken to an Elven healer like his sister undoubtedly had been, he had to make do with this stupid, inane human who babbled like a half-wit and resorted to primitive surgery to heal wounds inflicted on her behalf. And she wanted to know how he was doing? While she stabbed, poked, and prodded him with metal implements and burned his wounds with fire?

"Are you mad?" He demanded. And what was this "we" business?

"I gotta get your ankle," the mortal whispered, voice gentle, ignoring his question of her sanity. Her hands were trembling. She didn't know how she was going to do this when she was on the edge of exhaustion, when only dreamy shock kept her from mad hysterics, but it needed to be done, and it was going to hurt him more than anything else had so far. The idea made her shake. She didn't want to hurt him. Dylan hated hurting people.

What if he hurt _her?_

_Oh God, I can't... oh God, help me, please, I can't, oh God, oh God, I_ can't...

_Footprints in the sand..._

"I would rather reserve my strength at the present moment, so if you would be so obliging as to move towards my feet..." She could have seen his sarcasm if she'd been blind. Her hands began to shake even worse.

Dylan obligingly crawled to his foot and lifted it carefully, ignoring the muttering noises her patient was making under his breath, though she heard the words "mad" and "lunatic" a couple times. His foot jerked out of her hold when she touched near the wound. The Elf clenched his fists and sucked air through his teeth with a hiss, forcing his limb to stillness. Dylan bit her lip as she lifted his foot and positioned it between her legs, her bruised thighs tensing to hold the foot in place as she carefully pulled back the skin on either side of the slash wound to reveal the tendon. His toes curled and clenched tightly, and she knew she was hurting him. When her searching gaze saw that the tendon was not severed, or even scratched, she gave a shuddering sigh of relief. For a moment, she forgot her mind-numbing terror as the full implications of the wound set in her brain. Their situation could have been so much worse, but his ankle was fine, which meant nothing here wasn't fixable by primitive field medicine.

_Thank You, Heavenly Father, thank You, _she breathed silently in prayer, head bowed, before she hastily checked the muscles for any serious damage and then began to stitch the wound closed. As she worked, she told him, more to keep herself calm than to inform him of anything, "I was scared that they'd damaged your Achilles tendon. I wouldn't have known how to repair that kind of damage," she added. "Not with what I have on me. But they didn't. It's just the position of the wound that's making it hard to walk."

"That is well, then," her patient said faintly. He sounded exhausted. The fear began to melt away again, just a little.

Finally, she was finished stitching. She cut the thread, shoved her tools aside, and flopped down on the floor as far away from him as her tired body could manage, sighing. Her entire body ached. Dylan only wanted to lie down and sleep for a year, or maybe forever. But more than that, she wanted a shower. How she was going to manage that in a mystical hideaway beneath the subway, she had no idea. How she was even going to get up to move, she didn't know either.

Dylan noticed the Elf looking at her scrutinizingly. She would've flushed, but didn't think she could, what with the blood-loss she'd suffered. Her head and face hurt, and her heart began to pound. "What?"

"You are injured," he reminded her as he slowly sat up. Did the human not feel her own pain? Did she not feel her body crying out to her for peace, for numbness? "The wounds on your face need to be tended and-"

"I'm fine, Sire," she muttered, looking away. _Don't remind him of weakness_, she moaned to herself. _Fake being fine. Lie. Do something! Don't give him a reason to attack!_ "You needed more help than I do."

"You are still bleeding."

"So are you," she whispered, aching to her bones. Her flesh itched, desperate for soap and hot water. Her eyes itched, desperate for sleep. _But he promised,_ she reminded herself tiredly. _He swore...__ on the Darkness..._

He glanced at the infuriating mortal as he got to his feet. His body throbbed, but already the wounds were healing. This place, saturated with healing magic, accelerated his already sped-up healing abilities. Far off and away amidst the hills of Bethmoora, in the hidden city of Findias, he could feel the palace healers working on his sister's wounds. Now that the bullets had been removed, they would both heal quickly. He could limp. The flesh of his shoulder wound was slowly knitting back together, though he knew the stitching had been necessary. His ankle... well, he was not one-hundred-percent certain about how much damage there would be.

So he walked very carefully to one of his trunks and pulled out several articles of clothing. He tossed her three, which she barely caught. One of them landed on top of her face. His mouth twitched at how absurd she looked. Idiot humans; it was as if they were made to be mocked.

She pulled the garment - a pale blue silk shift that he kept for the occasional leman to wear - off her head and looked at him.

Finally, Dylan couldn't take it anymore. "I need to wash. You probably don't have running water in this place, but I..." She trailed off and looked at her hands. They were caked with drying blood the color of antique gold. "I have to get this off, I gotta-"

"Very well," he said only.

His muscles burned with fatigue and his wounds throbbed. The magic in the room, passive rather than active, did not numb the pain, though it slowly healed the injuries over time. But he knew from the accounts of some of the fae he knew that women and men who had been ravished were always desperate to cleanse themselves of their attackers. In this, it seemed, humans were no different than Elf-kind (though the idea of mortals and fae sharing any similarities beyond the need to breathe and consume sustenance disgusted him).

So he found a pitcher, filled it with water from the bucket by the well, and found a basin and a wash cloth. "I have no women's soap," he said coldly. "Nothing perfumed or soft."

The Elf despised the fact that he felt he ought to make excuses for the Spartan way in which he lived. He was a warrior, a soldier, and had no need for luxuries. The two he allowed himself were for homesickness's sake. The portrait of his sister, his other half, and the quilt from his dead mother's own hands, were the only pieces of home he had brought with him into exile besides his weapons. He need not apologize to _her!_ She was nothing but a filthy human!

Nuada brought the basin down with an audible _thunk_, and the human jumped with a startled gasp. Her reaction made him feel like a monster terrorizing a little girl, but he shoved the feeling down and away, ignoring it with all his strength. He poured the water into the pewter basin and tossed in a wash cloth. For a moment, he just looked at the water. Then muttering something under his breath, he glanced at the well, and steam began wafting upwards from the surface of the water in the basin.

Dylan blinked in surprise. _How did he do that?_

"I will turn my back. Wash yourself and dress in fresh garments. I promise," he added, every word coated with killing frost, "that I will not look." His words dripped with scorn. And so saying, the blond fae lord turned his back on her and began to slowly peel off the black silk trousers that were now slick with his blood. She saw he had his own basin full of water, a pitcher, and a cloth. Even as she watched, he peeled off the thin, black linen half-trousers that she realized belatedly were his underthings. Suddenly, there he stood, an Elven warrior, naked in front of her, covered in drying blood.

_This night is stranger than any dream I've ever had_, she thought vaguely as her mouth dropped open and her heart began to pound. The part of her that generated sheer terror squealed, _He's naked, he's naked, he's naked, he's naked__, he's going to__-_

_I __**know!**_ Dylan yelled at herself, rage at her own pathetic weakness surging through her with every slamming beat of her heart against her sternum. _I know he's naked! I got the concept, okay? Jeez. Shut up, brain._

Oblivious to Dylan's inner arguments, Nuada wrung the cloth out and began scrubbing almost viciously at his thigh, which was crusted with dark golden blood.

"Stop! You'll reopen your wounds!" She cried. The doctor in her was pushing into the foreground.

"Do not _dare_ even _think_ to command me, human," the Elf growled.

Dylan could feel the blood draining rapidly from her face, leaving her dizzy. She protested softly, "But... Highness, your wounds-"

"See to your own needs." His voice was like ice, and her heartbeat thundered like the drums of war. She heard the blood suddenly come rushing back through her head, and struggled to her feet. Fear or no, he was going to undo everything she'd just done if she didn't stop him.

"Sit down," she snapped, and grabbed the cloth out of his hand. "Let me." He growled at her and moved to grab the wash cloth, but she snatched it back from him and snarled, "Let me, you jerk. You could undo everything I spent the last several hours trying to repair. So hold still!" Her eyes were fear-bright, but she held onto her rage with all her strength, using it as a shield to hold back the hysterics.

In that moment, this human reminded him so strongly of Nuala as a child, when they had both suffered injury and his twin had been insistent on seeing to him before herself. He surprised himself by barking a hoarse laugh and sinking into a chair, muttering, "Very well. As you wish, little human healer."

"And don't move, please, Highness," Dylan added, and draped her cloth over his lap as best she could without touching him. The terrified woman simply could not see to him with his... his... with _that_ staring her right in the face. Huffing in irritation, she allowed her thoughts to sink back into numbness induced by routine. How many times had she sponged and wiped blood off of someone who could not be taken to the hospital for various reasons? Gang kids, young street walkers, runaways - and those were just the humans. Then there were the ekeks, the fauns, the Wee Winks, and all the other fae that came to her for healing. The familiar motions almost made her calm. Never mind that this all-too-male Elf was eyeing her with a cold gaze like copper shards of ice. Dipping the cloth into the water, she began gently wiping off the blood from his leg wound. Her hands shook a little, but she was still careful. He hissed when she touched the stitched bullet hole.

"Sorry," Dylan murmured. Her hair hung in her face, tacky strings greased by sweat and blood and things she didn't want to think about. "I'm trying not to hurt you, I promise you I am. Just hold still. I'm nearly done." She was breathing shallowly when she moved between his blood-streaked thighs to clean the still-oozing wound in his belly, and he could hear every time she swallowed.

"I can do this myself," he informed her caustically. He noticed her face paling, her lips taking on a grayish-blue tinge. She seemed to be holding her breath. He wished he could do the same - the stench of her blood and mortality made the iron-induced nausea in the pit of his stomach almost vicious.

"Begging Your Highness's pardon, but I don't trust you not to hurt yourself," she informed him with no little acid. _Rage,_ she thought. _I am rage. Just rage. Oh, God, please help me..._ "I can't tell if you're doing what you're doing to piss me off and make me act like the humans you seem to know, or if you just want to die, or what. I don't care. I'm a healer; my duty here is quite clear. Until you either kill me or I'm able to walk out of here on my own, or until you're healed enough that you can carry me to the nearest hospital, I will not let you do yourself harm. You're already too thin," she added, glancing at the whipcord muscle clinging to his frame. "You're what, zero percent body fat? I don't think you eat right." She was babbling again, she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. It was like word vomit or something.

"You do not even _know _me," he said incredulously.

"I went to med school. Technically, I'm a doctor. Trust me, I know some stuff," Dylan replied, focusing intently on the wound in his shoulder and the one on his arm. She saw the powder-whiteness of his skin; the faint amber lines of infection leading from the wounds; the tracery of blue veins beneath the flesh. She wondered how he had managed to avoid bruising, especially around his wounds.

As for Dylan, her entire right side, cracked ribs and all, was a mass of black and purple, and so was her face beneath the slashing cuts. "You are not healthy," she informed him in a clear, firm voice. Her doctor voice. It only quavered a little, which was great, because she needed it to hide behind. "I bet you don't sleep enough, either."

"I am a strong warrior-"

"Begging your pardon again, but even an Elf's body must wear out eventually. You're speeding up the clock. You should rest more, Highness. You're working yourself too hard."

"You know nothing of what you speak," he snapped. How dare she imply that she, a mere mortal, could possibly understand the need for constant vigilance, agonizing preparation? What did she know of the fae and their struggle to survive in the world of the disgusting, vile humans? The unofficial war between the fae and mankind made no allowances for personal weaknesses such as sickness or exhaustion, and neither could he.

She looked up at him for a moment, then said, "Back, please." When he was in position, she said softly, "I know a lot more than most people give me credit for." She began to clean the wounds on his back and the back of his thigh. "I know that the Elven royal families have princesses who are often powerful sorceresses. Their princes and noblemen are great warriors... like you," she added, intent on her work. Her voice was slurring, but she did not seem to notice. "Valorous, courageous, strong, swift. Great tacticians and all that. And I know that the fae fear a war with humans."

"How do you know this?" He demanded. How could she possibly?

"I hear things."

"But _how _do you hear them?"

"I know how to listen, Sire. I also know that the greatest warriors of the fae will prepare for war because they fear it draws all too close. Remind you of anyone? All these things, I know. I also know that even the bravest, strongest, best warriors need time to rest. Constant vigilance, Your Highness," she added softly, "can lay you low more effectively sometimes than all of the enemies' tricks." And she put the cloth back in the bloody water and went back to where the garments he had thrown at her lay upon the cold stone floor. "If you'd be so kind as to turn your back?"

He did, thinking hard.

Dylan watched him warily the entire time as she pulled off her once-new red dress, now ruined, and her stockings, her ripped camisole, her bra. Her panties had been lost by the train tracks what seemed like eons ago. She washed the scarlet and gold from her hands as best she could, then scrubbed the dried blood from the rest of her skin. She was only careful patting at the scabbing cuts on her face. Her flesh was raw and painful by the time she was finished, but she was clean, blessedly clean. Using the rest of the water, she rinsed the slime of cruelty and savage lust from her hair.

Still eyeing the Elf's back doubtfully, she pulled on the pale blue shift and black kirtle he had provided for her, and tied it loosely with the white sash-like girdle before sinking to the floor, hunched against the leg of the wooden table. It was a good hiding place; in the light, still, but shadowed enough that if she remained still, he might forget about her. And it had the added benefit of also being several feet away from the Elf himself.

She watched him dress, nothing else on hand to do. Even sick and wounded, shot full of holes and stitched up, he was still powerful enough, strong enough, inhuman enough to move with savage, primal grace. He was also stupid enough that he was probably bleeding again. He wasn't acting hurt, when he should have been favoring his injured bits. He was acting as if he were in the peak of health.

_Elves make no sense,_ she thought, irritated. Pure tiredness was beginning to drown the icy ball of fear in her chest. _Fae lord or not, he's being stupid._

The Elf pulled on loose black trousers and a loose, blood-red tunic, and sank heavily into the chair by the table. He sighed and allowed his head to fall back. For a long time, there was silence. Dylan could hear the rushing of midnight subway trains, the velvet buzz of fluorescent lights flickering, the thumping drum of her own heart against her ribs. She also heard the musical softness of his breathing, steady and even for the most part, but hitching every few moments, as if pain was sneaking up on him and attacking him from behind. The mortal woman watched him, drinking in the sight of him.

Proof, here was proof. She'd known, she'd always known, but ever since she'd come back from the institutions, the greater fae had mostly avoided her. Only the lesser of the faeries had sought her out. She'd been eighteen. An adult. And she no longer lived in the still half-wild woods of Jersey, but in New York City. Even moving to the edge of Central Park hadn't been quite the same. There was no reason she ought to have been able to See them any longer.

But she did. Dylan had always been able to See. She Saw now, especially. There was an Elven warrior - probably a lord or maybe even a prince - sitting in front of her. And there was something so strangely familiar about him...

"We seem to find ourselves at an impasse," he said suddenly. She jumped, startled from her reverie. The act hurt. "You, a human, have saved my life more than once. I owe you a debt of honor. And at the same time, mortals are my sworn enemies and I loathe them and their depraved ways. Add to that that you have discovered one of my sanctuaries. Any other human, I would dispatch without a qualm. But you... I cannot."

_Cannot? _She thought, surprised. _Why not?_

It wasn't as if she could stop him. With the way he had handled those brilliantly silver war axes, she knew he could kill her in seconds, even in his current condition. Even as she watched, the wound at his ankle was slowly scabbing over, as if hours of healing were only taking moments. She wondered if it was him, or something else. Since she felt better with every second - though nowhere close to a stone's throw away from halfway to semi-okay - she had to figure it was the room, or maybe the air. Something that affected them both.

"It pains me to say these things," he continued, almost as if talking to himself. "Mortals are prideful, greedy, hollow creatures and yet I owe my life to one, a terrible thought. And yet you are no ordinary mortal, are you? I know of no other who would risk life and limb for someone you do not even know, much less one of my people; someone who looks as I do is obviously fae. You knew me for a faerie, yet you still sought to aid me. I cannot kill you. The mystery of it would drive me mad. What kind of human saves a faery?"

"I do," she mumbled bitterly. He didn't hear her words, only her voice's soft whisper.

"Silence. I'm not finished. Yes, it's certain that I cannot kill you. Yet you are a mortal. It is what you call a conundrum. I ought to kill you. My duty as a prince of my people requires it." He saw her eyes becoming bigger and bigger in her face. She looked like a frightened cat. If she'd had fur, it would have been standing on end. The terror in her eyes should have gratified him. Instead, it sent a shaft of discomfort through the Elf prince. The human _had_ saved him. More than once. "Yet my own honor requires I do not. What would you do in my situation?" He asked too-casually.

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Her? He was asking _her?_

"Me?" She squeaked, then added belatedly, "Sire." Her head hurt. Her brain was squealing like a frightened pig that this was a trap, that she was going to die, that he was setting her up. She remembered suddenly that his promise not to harm her had only extended until she was done tending his injuries.

"Yes," the Elf said too softly. "I wish to hear your thoughts."

Nuada had to admit, he was baiting her. But... he hurt. His body ached, his wounds burned, his head throbbed, and he stank of human blood, both human-wolf and "innocent" blood. It sickened him, angered him. And, even though it was indirectly, it was still her fault. He was taking it out on her unfairly, but in that moment he did not care. And another part of him wanted to see how tricky she could be. What kind of viper had he invited into his little nest, he wondered? How cleverly could she twist her words, and his? He did not trust her. He could not. She was human.

"Um..." Dylan sucked in her cheek, biting it in thought, trying to quell her panic. Pain lanced through her face at the action. Her face betrayed her pain. "Ow. Um..." She suddenly felt like the storyteller from _the Arabian Nights_, walking on eggshells with her words. "Well... a king - or a prince or a lord," she amended hastily, "without personal honor... cannot hope to be an honorable... um... ruler to his people... and a dishonorable one..." Blue eyes watched him warily, looking for a reaction. He was only watching her, his chin on his fist. _Where was I?_ She wondered, and remembered, _Oh, yeah! A dishonorable ruler_ "brings shame to his kingdom."

His mouth twitched with somewhat wry amusement. It was a very diplomatic answer. Where had she learned such... skill?

Nuada suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. When she shrank away from him, he felt like a monster again. Cursing silently, he tried to put a gentler expression on his face - or at least a more neutral one. He was treating her like a prisoner, when she had done nothing to deserve his enmity and everything to earn his gratitude. She made him feel as if he were torturing a fae child, instead of manipulating an adult human.

The blond Elf shook his head to clear it and wished he had not when his skull began to pound. He put a hand to his forehead, trying to make sure all the pieces of his skull were still in their proper places. The nausea worsened until he was almost sure he'd be violently sick. Fortunately he managed to suppress the urge to retch. Showing weakness to a mortal would have been insupportable.

Dylan felt the tension drain out of her. The situation still had her scared, no doubt about that. But blood loss, trauma, and the late hour were finally taking a toll. She looked at him, and saw his intense scrutiny was no longer fixed on her.

"Begging Your Highness's pardon, but... now what?" She whispered, letting her head fall backward. Her voice was a worn thread of sound, on the verge of emotional and physical exhaustion. He glanced at her sharply, saw her head lolling on her neck. She was tired. So was he - so very tired.

Gently, though he did not know where such gentility came from, he said, "We will discuss it in the morning. You should sleep."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same, Sire," she said simply. Nuada might have snarled at her - how dare she argue with him? - but he heard something behind her voice that made him nod once to her. She was like no other human he had ever met. What human would not relish the chance to sleep, to indulge in sloth?

Apparently, this one. Perhaps she feared dreams.

Or perhaps she feared _him_.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _this chapter was kind of short, too. Hmm... whatever. Hope you guys enjoyed it! So, because of the thing with the well and the bowl of water, today's mythological being of the day is a water faerie! Wootness! Anyway, reviews are loves! They are as the balm of Gilead to my writer's soul. =)_

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_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _the nixie! Or nix, when referring to males. The nixe (genderless plural) are German river merfolk who may lure men or women to drown. The German epic _Nibelungenlied _mentions nixe in connection with the Danube river. The males can assume many different shapes, including that of a human, fish, and snake. The females are beautiful women with the tail of a fish. When they are in human forms, they can be recognised by the wet hem of their clothes. The nixes are portrayed as malicious in some stories but harmless and friendly in others. By the 19th century Jacob Grimm (of the Brothers Grimm) mentions the nixie to be among the "water-sprites" who love music, song and dancing, and says, "Like the sirens, the nixie by her song draws listening youth to herself, and then into the deep." According to Grimm, they can appear human but have the barest hint of animal features: the nix had "a slit ear", and the nixie "a wet skirt". _

_One famous nixie of German folklore was Lorelei. According to the (rather modern) legend, she sat on the rock at the Rhine which now bears her name, and lured fishermen and boatmen to the dangers of the reefs with the sound of her voice. The legend of Heer Halewijn, a dangerous lord who lures women to their deaths with a magic song, may have also originated with the nix. That legend is written at the bottom of this chapter._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Gawped is so a word. I promise. I know that's not a reference, but I just wanted to make sure everyone knew that.

- The thing about "you saved me from the wolves" was inspired by "You saved us from the wolves," which is a line in the non-Disney sequel to Disney's _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_, the movie called _Happily Ever After_ (you know, with the Wicked Queen's brother and the seven Dwarfelles and Mother Nature and all that).

- The whole bit about Dylan helping Nuada being the decent thing to do was inspired by _X-Men Origins: Wolverine_. There's this whole thing with these really nice old people that help Wolverine and it's really cool and cute and it's the best part of the movie, really.

- "If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain" was cited last chapter. It's going to be Dylan's mantra while dealing with Prince Prissy-Pants (yes, I'm talking about Nuada)

- The line "You just tried to strangle me" was vaguely inspired by an episode of _Inuyasha_ where the title character's brother's tries to kill Kagome, the love interest. She responds with, "Hey! You tried to kill me, didn't you?"

- "Ah. It speaks." is not inspired by anything. It's a coincidence that it's reminiscent of a line from the movie _Doom_.

- The Darkness That Eats All Things is a concept I first heard in a _Meredith Gentry_ novel (Laurell K. Hamilton) but, in the same way that she didn't make up the Sluagh or the Gabriel Ratchets, I doubt she made that up, either.

- It said on the International Movie Database that it seemed as if Nuada and Nuala's blood was a deep, dark gold, instead of red. This is supported by the color Nuala's sleeve turns when Nuada gets that cut on his arm, and by the twin cuts on their faces in the Library Scene.

- Everyone should recognize the line "Just hold still" from Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_.

- Word vomit is a concept from _Mean Girls_.

- The line "hear the rushing of midnight subway trains" is a rehash of the line "I can hear that lullaby of the midnight train" from the country song "Boondocks" by Little Big Town. It's a beautiful song, actually, though a bit twangy.

- The description of Dylan as a viper really was inspired by something. I was looking for a descriptor and couldn't think of one. Then I watched _Sense and Sensibility_ and laughed my butt off at the part when Mrs. Ferrars screams, "Viper in my bosom!" at Lucy Steele.

- I first heard that thing about "pieces of his skull" from _Guilty Pleasures_ by Laurell K. Hamilton. I was never sure if she meant it as a feeling or literally, the person's skull was in pieces.

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_

(_lacking enough books for a decent reading list, I've added many Snow White inspired novels, because of the film Happily Ever After, referenced above and listed below_)

- A&E's _Sense and Sensibility_

- _Beauty_ by Nancy Butcher (a very interesting take on "Snow White," with an unusual Magic Mirror, but no Seven Dwarves)

- _Cannon Movie Tales: Snow White_ (live-action musical version that's adorable, though scary in some parts)

- Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_

- _Fairest_ by Gail Carson-Levine (a "Snow White" novel by the author of _Ella Enchanted_)

- _Happily Ever After_ - great "Snow White" sequel, and Snow White saves herself! Woot!

- "In the House of the Seven Librarians" (a short story using "Snow White" themes, found in the anthology _Firebirds Rising_)

- _Mirror, Mirror_ by Gregory Maguire (written by the author of _Wicked_ and _Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister_; a "Snow White" tale set against Italy during the Crusades and featuring an eighth dwarf)

- "Red as Blood" by Tanith Lee (found in the anthology _Red as Blood_)

- _Sense and Sensibility_ by Jane Austen  
- _The Serpent's Shadow_ by Mercedes Lackey ("Snow White" set against Victorian England, and Snow White is half-English, half-Indian; as in, from India)  
- "Snow" by Francesca Lia Block (from the anthology _the Rose and the Beast_; no prince, but very satisfying anyway)  
- "Snow-Drop" by Tanith Lee (found in the anthology _Snow White, Blood Red_)  
- "Snow in Summer" by Jane Yolen (I believe it's in _Snow White, Blood Red_, but I might be wrong. Anyway, _**BEST **_and _**MOST HILARIOUS **_version of "Snow White" I've ever read. When Snow lets the stepmother inside, she knows it's the stepmother. She makes all nice, pretending she doesn't know, and then when the stepmother isn't paying attention, hits her on the head with a frying pan and kills her.)  
- _Snow White: A Tale of Terror_ (film starring Sigourney Weaver as the Wicked Queen; a somewhat scary movie, but Snow White gets with one of the "dwarves" - he's actually a falsely-accused outlaw - instead of the somewhat foppish prince, yay!)

- _White as Snow_ by Tanith Lee

- _X-Men Origins: Wolverine_ - also an okay movie

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _The Legend of Heer Halewijn._

_Once upon a time in Holland, the evil faerie lord Halewijn lured maidens with a magical song. Those maidens would go to meet him in his forest, where he would kill them by either turning them to stone with his magical sword or beheading them. One day the Princess Machteld heard the song and was drawn to the dark recesses of the forest to meet Lord Halewijn. A white bird warned her not to follow the song, but she could not resist. Although she could not ignore the lure of the magical faerie song, the clever princess thought of a plan. When she finally came face to face with Lord Halewijn, she showed that she had fallen in love with him and his magical song, and together they rode to a field of gallows, where he declared his intention to kill her. Impressed by her beauty, however, he allowed her to choose the means of her own death. Princess Machteld chose to be beheaded, imploring Halewijn to remove his shirt so that her mortal blood would not stain him:_

_"But first lay off your upper robe, for maiden's blood, it spreads so far. If it stained you, it would be my grief."_

_Lord Halewijn laid down his sword and began to disrobe, all according to the clever princess's plan. While he was pulling his shirt over his head, the cloth muffled his magical song and Princess Machteld was freed of his spell, though Halewijn did not know this. Machteld grabbed the magical sword and cut off Halewijn's head. She then took the head and triumphantly returned home. Returned to her father's castle, the head was shown to all and there was a great celebration. Alas, Princess Machteld never wed, for no suitor could ever match the passion inspired in her by Lord Halewijn's song._


	4. Second Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Character of the Day_  
_References Made in This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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**Chapter Four  
Second Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Tears, Memories, the Fate of an Elf Queen, and a Bath**

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Her silent screams choked her awake. Dylan bolted upright as panic shrieked under her skin and pain burned through her. She fought desperately against the urge to be sick, biting down on her fist until blood welled up and dripped down her arm. Only then, as memory slowly seeped back into her mind, did the sheer terror ease its throttling grip on her throat a little, and she remembered how she'd gotten here.

The Elf had carried her to this bed, hadn't he? He must have, as she'd fallen asleep (or possibly unconscious), soothed by the comforting warmth of the Spirit in her chest, leaning against the table where he now sat. Was he awake?

Dylan shot the Elf prince one wild-shy glance and saw the pale man in a red tunic and black breeches asleep in his chair, his head tilted forward so that his chin rested on his chest and his long, blond hair curtained his face, shielding him from view.

At the sight of him, memory flashed through her mind - _hands choking, fists beating, bones cracking, flesh tearing, and the blood, so much blood _- and she gasped softly as her body constricted in pain, both physical and not. Tears burning her eyes, she curled in on herself like a snail, cradling her pain to her chest. Had he... had he done anything to her? Touched her? Or... or...

A sharp heat flared in her chest, a soothing balm against the icy terror threatening to shake her apart. No, he wouldn't do that to her. He'd saved her. He wouldn't hurt her, at least like that. No. Not this one.

But others would. Others _had_.

Not wanting to wake her rescuer, she didn't cry. Dylan had no idea as to whether he would be angry at being awakened by mortal weeping, and she didn't have to touch the raw necklace of shadows around her throat to remember how much damage he could do when enraged. But her entire body shuddered with pain and fury, shuddered because it had happened _again_. Those monsters... those _monsters_...

A whimper managed to escape her, and the slumbering Elf in the chair stirred. Dylan immediately forced herself to get quiet. To hold herself together, she clutched her fragmenting soul to her chest and bit her lip until her tongue tasted the copper tang of blood. Tiny tremors shook her body. She wouldn't cry. She would _not._ She wouldn't wake the Elf. From the look of him, he needed to sleep for a lot longer if he was going to recover. He seemed worn, stretched, too thin in body, soul and mind.

And she... she...

When her body had stopped shaking, the brunette reached up and hesitantly touched her face. Dylan found hard, crusted lines where her attackers had slashed her face, thin and thick scabs that hurt whenever she changed expression. Sighing, she allowed her hands to fall back against the soft quilt. Her brother had warned her about this when she'd decided to counsel troubled teens. Those men had attacked her not to kill her, but to send a brutal and terrible message from Tito, from their leader. They'd wanted to make sure it was driven home, right to her heart. Make sure she knew not to mess with them or one of theirs again.

Just the thought of their rough hands, like coarse animal hair, and their hot fetid breath... their beady, bestial eyes... Dylan fought hard not to be violently sick. As a child, she had seen... some awful things. Experienced far worse things. It was one of the reasons she could possess any measure of calm now.

_"We warned you,_ puta_. Never mess with our _chicas_, yeah?"_

Lisa, they were talking about Lisa, but she'd had to. She'd _had_ to. For Lisa's sake. For the girl who needed help and couldn't trust anyone but the therapist who Saw what she Saw, who knew about the magical world that existed like blood beneath the skin of the mortal realm. She'd had to help that girl, the girl who was so much like her beneath the skin.

And still the wolves growled and snarled, _"Now you'll remember... every time you look in the mirror."_

Her nails had left bloody crescents in her palms and her throat ached from holding back her scream by the time the memory faded enough for her to beat it back into the depths of her brain with a mental sledgehammer. She'd woken in an icy terrified sweat from dark memory-dreams nearly her entire life. After eleven years of poisonous thorazine pumped through her blood, Dylan knew how to deal with nightmares.

She could handle this. She could _handle_ this.

Coldly, logically, she thought hard about her situation, trying not to think about the attack itself. With a mind as icy and clinical as she could make it, she assessed the damage done to her body. Dylan allowed the part of her mind not occupied with conscious thought to dwell on the pain in her body, the only thing keeping her collected.

Her face had more than twenty cuts criss-crossing her features, but there was no nerve damage. Of course, there would be scars, though she didn't really care. There was always the viable option of covering them with makeup. Or getting rid of the mirrors in her cottage. There was only the one in her bathroom.

Or she could simply get used to seeing the thin, raised lines the wounds would leave behind, as if her face had been flogged by the thin lash of a faerie waggoner's whip.

Then there was the bruising. She knew from the difficulty she had breathing that her ribs were cracked, but having had broken ribs before, she knew that this time, hers were not. Still, if the pain worsened at all, or anything else hit her torso, she'd have to find her way to a hospital immediately. Punctured lungs were one of her prime fears relative to broken ribs.

Her cheekbone was cracked, but since her eye was still in its socket, she seriously doubted it was broken. None of her limbs or fingers or toes were damaged, though she'd lost a fingernail in the scuffle with her attackers. The main threat to her health was the effects of her rape.

She had not been a virgin, thanks to the hell her life had been in the institution. Thanks to two vicious monsters who thrived on the pain of others. That fact had most likely saved her life. The blood and pain were from minor tears and severe abrasions, but she had seen young girls bleed to death from a hymen savagely ripped through during a rape. Luckily, she wasn't bleeding anymore; she'd made sure of that before going to sleep, and surreptitiously checked again now. No fresh blood. So that danger wasn't quite as prevalent in her mind any longer. It seemed that all she would need to do once she'd healed up a little was get therapy.

Therapy.

Two scalding hot tears rolled down her cheeks and soaked the pillow she rested her head upon. The idea of talking to a psychiatrist, even though that was her profession, made her shudder with revulsion, with a child's shame of weakness and a woman's rage at being made to feel helpless yet again. Shudder from phantom memories. The echoes of old wounds. The pain of the betrayed and confused. Self-loathing so deep only a child would understand where and when it came from, how it still breathed and festered.

She ignored it, refused to let it hurt her. Refused to acknowledge that she felt any of it.

_It's not my fault,_ she thought. _None of it was my fault. It has never been my fault. I won't _let it be _my fault. _Memories more than two decades old. Memories more recent than those. A child's memories, and a girl's. A woman's pain mingling with a child's nightmare. But she wouldn't let herself be that child anymore. She wasn't seven years old anymore, or twelve, or fifteen, or nineteen. She was twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, and strong and she would _not_ let those memories hurt anymore.

Dylan fought the tears back. A study-partner of hers in med school had often said she would die an early death from fighting back the urge to cry the way she did, and refusing to allow herself to vent disappointments in any way. As a psychiatrist, Dylan even knew that it was unhealthy. She thought her old partner, Julian, might have been right about the early death; every time she suppressed her tears, it became harder, and her chest ached, as if she were having a minor heart attack. Maybe she was. Maybe her body was storing up all the angst like a battery, and one day her defenses would crumble under the D-cell power.

"I will not fault you for weeping," the ice-cold voice murmured from the chair. "You need not stifle your tears."

Dylan jumped at the sound of his voice and winced when her body protested stridently. Glancing over at him, she opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. She had no idea what kind of footing she was on with this person.

But she had to say something about the tears. She felt stupid, letting him see how shaken she was, how much the attack had upset her. After all the brutality she'd dealt with in her life, was she really going to cry about this? Cry, like some naive child who had no idea that men were vicious, cruel monsters? She wasn't Sorcha of Sevenwaters, after all, that innocent daughter of the forest from one of her favorite books, an untested girl taken unawares. Rape should have been nothing new to the teary-eyed woman.

It _was_ nothing new, she reminded herself. She wouldn't let herself cry over old memories again. Nor new ones, either. She'd sworn to herself years ago never to cry over anything that happened to her. Never again. Never.

"You may not fault me, Your Highness," she muttered. "But I'd fault myself. I don't have a good reason to cry." The words were more for herself than him. "I'm alive, aren't I? I'm not going to die anytime soon. This isn't going to kill me. I'd only be crying about... anyway, it's stupid to cry over something I can't change." After all, all crying ever got her was a soggy pillow and a brain and body too exhausted to fight back when the time came. That route was never an option. Fighting back was the only choice, even if she died fighting.

"I am used to human weakness. It is considered acceptable by your people's standards to cry."

"But not by mine," she hissed. "I will _not _be weak." _Never_ _again. Never._

"Those are the words," he said coldly, "of one who has learned the painful lesson that enemies do not respect tears of grief, and only rejoice in their making. Is this not so?"

His words lanced her. She never cried if she could help it; it brought the predators down on her like rabid dogs. Self-preservation demanded she keep the tears back. But how could he know that?

And why was he suddenly being so kind to her? His voice, like ice. His words, like friendship. It was almost as if he were trying to console her, trying to tell her that he understood. The thought made her face burn and her hands clench beneath the quilt. He didn't understand. She was so sick of people saying they did. At the most, he might think his words applied to common human bullies or perhaps torturers who worked for her enemies. Maybe her attackers. After all, he was an Elf in a time many fey considered to be wartime.

But that wasn't what she meant. It wasn't what she was referring to at all.

Suddenly, the faces of her family swam before her eyes, and she gritted her teeth. Loneliness and a feeling like homesickness, but different, a longing for a person instead of a place, welled up in her chest. She missed her twin brother. And how she despised the rest of her family, even though she didn't want to. Even though she loved them, too. How she hated the world, and humanity, and yes, even the rescuer who had been too late to save her before such vicious damage had been done. Men. She hated them, all of them, even though she knew it wasn't fair.

For just a moment, Dylan allowed her loathing, her hate, her rage, to wash up and over her, to pour off of her like a black tsunami; all of that pain, all of that anguish and hatred, directed at men.

With something that might have been a snarl, she flung back the quilt and got to her feet. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she wasn't just going to sit here and stew in her own distress. Dylan noticed distractedly that her abrupt movement had caused the Elf in the chair to suddenly jerk upright, eyes intent on her form. Her face, she knew, was a mask of ice-cold rage.

Unfortunately, the effect of her mini-tantrum was thwarted by the fact that she then had to sink back down to the bed as a roaring filled her ears and her vision began to go gray.

"I hate you," she moaned softly.

Images of her parents, her siblings, the men who'd attacked her, all filled her mind. Her eyes burned. The mortal had no idea whether or not she were speaking to the Elf in the room with her, her treacherous family, the twin brother that had never been there when she needed him, the wolf-men who had attacked her, the demons from her childhood, or herself, huddled and pathetic on the bed. _I'm not a little girl anymore. They can't make me a little girl again. Not ever._

Biting down on her lip until fresh blood from the cuts flowed, she sank her nails into her palms. Her shoulders shook, and her mouth twisted into a grimace of despair. Dylan covered her face with bleeding hands to hide the evidence of her lack of composure.

"I hate this. I _hate _this." The word 'this' referring to her ever-increasing compulsion to weep aloud, sobbing like the terrified child she'd been all those years ago. She couldn't be that child again or she would shatter into a million pieces.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she jerked back in surprise, a soft sound of fear escaping her lips. She looked up quickly into the blank, empty face of the blond Elf standing above her. He was expressionless as he sank onto the bed beside her. With a wild cry, she scuttled off the bed and hunched against the nearby wall, shaking. Too close, he was _too close_. How had she allowed herself to be so consumed by her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed his approach? Never mind the fact that he was an Elf. She couldn't let her guard down! She'd only slept because she'd been so exhausted and couldn't help it!

He said, very, very softly, "I hate humans. I have always hated them, nearly as far back as I can remember. They are empty creatures without hearts or souls. I despise them. Every act of cruelty and pain and suffering they inflict on themselves is well deserved by their breed. If not for the debt I owe you, I would cut off your head before you could draw a full breath. _I_ hate _you_."

He fell silent for a while, as if thinking, and her tears cut at her eyes. Her lips trembled. Why was he saying these things to her? Was he trying to say the attack was her fault?

Dylan drove her nails into her forearms, trying to suppress the hurt and black emotion in her chest. She narrowed her icy blue eyes at him, knowing and hating the fact that her nose was swollen and red, her eyes flecked with gold, her eyelashes spiked by tears, her cheeks splotchy with color. She hated that. She hated to be vulnerable, but more importantly, she despised looking that way. Why was he saying these things to her?

_Not my fault. It's not my fault._

Then he said, "I have a twin sister, Nuala. She is my life. But when I was a boy, she and I were very close to our mother, Queen Cethlenn. A mortal like yourself, born after the time of magic and wonder that you humans could never fully come to appreciate, has never seen a creature like my mother." For a moment, Nuada trailed off as memory swamped him, and he spoke almost to himself. "A creature of grace, ethereal beauty, dazzling charm. The fey praised my mother for her wisdom, even though she was Fomori and we were Tuathan. For centuries, she was my father's greatest advisor. Unlike my father, her hair was... blood red, rubies and garnets spun into the finest silk strands. Eyes like leaves hammered from emeralds, but they turned to beaten silver in the moonlight. Skin the color of marble, like an alabaster statue. My mother was so very beautiful, and kind. So very kind. I... my sister and I... loved her very much.

"One day, over three thousand of years ago, we were walking in the woods of Renvyle, my mother and sister and I, thinking it safe, and humans attacked us. Men, thirteen of them. A pack of wolves in men's clothing. They murdered our simple guard and defiled my mother. They..." The Elf prince's hands curled into fists that trembled slightly. "They used more than their bodies. She fought them, but she was not armed for war, and there were too many. Still, she tried... desperately, she tried to give my sister and I a chance to escape. We ran, but we were only children. They caught us.

"My mother bled to death from what they did to her. Having made us watch our mother's desecration, they were going to kill my sister and I, but a passing troll warrior attacked and killed them, saving us. _That_ is why _I_ saved _you_," he added softly. "I would not have what happened to my mother happen to any woman, ally or enemy, mortal or immortal, Elf-kind or human. I would," he said softly, tonelessly, "that I could have been there before any damage had been done. You are the only human who has ever forced me to taste the bitterness of regret. The only human," he whispered, "to whom I owe a debt. Think on that."

He got up and went back to his chair, propping his chin on his fist and looking resolutely away from her.

Dylan blinked, and wondered why she had felt revulsion radiating off of him when he'd been near her, even as he'd been speaking to make her feel better. Why had he confided such a painful memory to her? Unless he was trying to tell her something, and she had missed it.

Sighing, she realized she would probably never figure it out while her skin crawled like a thousand insects and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Dylan asked tentatively, "Your wounds, Sire... how do they feel?" She felt like she ought to do something to break the ice, even though all she wanted was to run and hide in the shower and never come out. Water had always made her feel safe.

"They are well enough." His voice was firm again, and icy. The brunette woman felt as if she'd been tossed into a mountain stream in January.

"May I see?" Dylan asked softly.

_When in doubt, _she thought, _resort to medicine. Excellent conversational topic_. Her sarcasm could, unfortunately, only be appreciated by herself inside her own head. Wiping at her cheeks, she wondered absently how much longer she could hold back her tears before they broke out of her in a flood. Days? Weeks? Months? A year or two more at the most? She doubted it would be longer.

But only a portion of her mind dwelt on this. The main part of her consciousness was spent trying to futilely exploit her nearly non-existent psychic powers against the Elf in an attempt to force him to remove his clothing, so that she could examine his injuries. He only turned to stare into her eyes, the pale yellow ice of his gaze boring into her skull.

"You're not going to let me see, are you?" She muttered. Somehow, he shook his head without moving a muscle. It boggled the mind. Sighing, she asked, "In that case, is there any chance I could take a bath, Your Highness?"

He gestured impatiently towards the door to the left of the fireplace, which she assumed led to a wash room. Slender etchings of golden-haired nymphs frolicked in a pool on the door. Dylan glanced at the Elf, but he wouldn't look at her anymore. Great. Now he was just making her nervous.

Irritated, she got up slowly, her knees quaking, pain radiating from her joints, and, after grabbing her purse - and its comforting collection of stones - made her incredibly slow way to that door, wandering how she was going to manage all by herself in there. Trying unsuccessfully to put the thought out of her head, she opened the gold-etched, wooden door and slipped into the room.

Nuada waited until Dylan had quietly shut the door behind her before the Elf muttered something that sounded like,

_"Candles. Rose.  
Towels. Clothes._  
_Water hot and blue,_  
_Soap and shampoo."_

For some reason, a reason the Elf prince had never been able to discover, crinaeae and other elemental faeries had an affection for silly rhymes. They liked them, apparently, and so silly rhymes so simple and ridiculous that a child might have invented them were then recited as spells. It was basically all a game of pretend, but the chores got done. He felt an acknowledgment from the crinaeae, salamander, and sylph that were bound to the bathing room, and knew they would easily handle his wishes.

**.**

Dylan found the bathtub full when she closed the door to the wash room. It was a gargantuan bath made of white marble veined with gold and silver, in the shape of a tree. A foot of tub wall stood between the floor - which was rough, red stone - and the surface of the water, which steamed. The white mist rising off the water smelled of rose petals. Placed in little cubbies set about a foot apart in that wall were candles, fat pillar candles the color of a twilight sky. Tiny candle flames flickered and danced, illuminating the room. Beside one of the candles was a shelf that held an ivory bar of soap in the shape of a sea shell, and a dark green bottle of what was probably shampoo shaped like a rose. Rising up behind that shelf and cubby was a wall, set apart from the actual walls of the room, carved by thousands of tiny shelves to create a waterfall effect.

Carefully undressing, Dylan laid the sash, dress, and shift over a chair by the door and walked slowly to the edge of the bath. Steps led from the floor into the tub. The rails gleamed golden. She walked into the water, grateful for the steaming liquid and its soothing touch against her skin. The brunette ducked under the water, and held her breath, relishing the feeling of weightlessness and isolation the water offered.

She wanted to stay there forever.

**.**

Nuada had not the slightest idea what to do with this human that his sense of honor had dropped into his lap. Dylan was more of a trial than he had anticipated. He had forgotten, in his long exile, that women who had suffered defilement were skittish, paranoid, and hydrophiles. The human moved around him as if he were one of the craven beasts that had forced themselves upon her. She flinched every time he glanced her way. The competent, truculent, if somewhat nervous human who had seen to his wounds had vanished while he had slept. Perhaps he'd dreamed of the primitive surgery and Dylan's skill with the needle, her incogruously gentle bedside manner and strange sense of confidence.

But his fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt and unerringly found the wound in his shoulder, puckered and warm from the sickness he knew would be there. He fingered the end of the sewing thread in his flesh.

Could Dylan truly be a human? She did not move like a human, or speak like one - for the most part, anyway. No vile expletives, no blasphemies or curses. The only thing human about her was her scent and her features. That alone informed him that she was exactly as she said. She was mortal, a daughter of mankind, a Child of Mud. Yet this daughter of the Mud People had doctored his wounds, tenderly washed the blood from his skin, even though it was plain for all to see that she was stark terrified of him.

She made no sense. Of that, he was certain.

So wrapped up in his own thoughts was he that he didn't at first hear the soft, heartbroken singing coming from the bathing chamber. When the soft sounds reached him, he found himself on his feet before his abused ankle had enough time to protest. The Elf prince limped to the door. The melody was off-key and yet, hoarse and out of tune as Dylan was, Nuada felt as if he ought to recognize the tune.

_"For you know, once even I was a  
Little child, and I was afraid,_  
_But a gentle someone always came_  
_To dry all my tears,_  
_Trade sweet sleep for fears,_  
_And to give a kiss goodnight._

_"Well, now I am grown_  
_And these years have shown_  
_That rain's a part of how life goes,_  
_But it's dark and it's late,_  
_So I'll hold you and wait_  
_'Till your frightened eyes do close,_  
_And I hope that you'll know..._"

Then he heard a soft sob and a splash. There was no more singing.

Nuada waited for what seemed like hours. Seated at the table, absently tracing the bullet holes on his torso through the thin linen shirt, he watched as the sand in his tiny, copper and unpolished crystal hourglass trickled into the bottom. The sand was whiter than bones. Even as he watched, the little hourglass flipped itself over, marking the end of the second hour since the singing had so abruptly ended.

He did not wish to admit it, but he was starting to become concerned for the mortal. His honor demanded he keep the human alive as long as she remained in his care. How long could one mortal stay in the water? Had she possibly drowned?

Muttering to himself, he got to his feet, intent on discovering just what she did in the bathing room, her bath having most likely been over for some time. He refused to allow her to indulge in laziness while she remained at his sanctuary.

**.**

Dylan blew the air in her lungs out with a whoosh that surrounded her with bubbles. She almost smiled. Every hour, it seemed, this bathtub drained completely and refilled. It didn't seem as if there were enough time for it to be done, but somehow it took moments only. She was grateful, however, as it kept the water deliciously hot.

Her skin, though she had scrubbed it until her flesh should have been rendered a raw and bloody mess, was sparkling clean and rosy pink, fragrantly scented with the essence of lilies and roses. There was no blood on her skin, either from the attack or from any bleeding that may have occurred during the night. That made her relax even further into the steaming hot water.

Leaning back to allow the cascade of hot water from the carved waterfall to pour over her hair and back, she sighed.

Dylan hadn't felt this relaxed or safe in years, since she was a child in New Jersey, surrounded by the forests and meadows that lay all around her Uncle Thaddeus and Aunt Niamh's house. Grateful for the peace surrounding her, the glow of the candles and the sound of the water singing over marble, she smiled wanly and closed her eyes, allowing the tension to drain from her body completely.

Safe. This place was safe.

The door slammed open.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, maybe the average chapter length is going to be 4-7k instead. I don't want to add junk just to increase my word count, so yeah. I'll just have to be satisfied. But every so often, a big fat chapter will pop up, just so you know. Thank you guys so much for all that you've done so far. I love my faithful and loyal readers!_

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the sylph! A sylph (also called sylphid) is a mythological creature in the Western tradition. The term originates with the famous alchemist Paracelsus, who described sylphs as invisible beings of the air, or his elementals of air (as undines are for water, gnomes for earth, and salamanders for fire, in alchemy). There is no known substantial mythos associated with them. Because of their association with the ballet _La Sylphide_, where sylphs are identified with fairies and the medieval legends of fairyland, as well as a confusion with other "airy spirits" (e.g., in William Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_), a slender girl may be referred to as a sylph. Sylph has passed into general language as a term for minor spirits, elementals, or faeries of the air. Fantasy authors will sometimes employ sylphs in their fiction. Sylphs could create giant artistic clouds in the skies with their airy wings. Famous sylphs include Willow from Terry Brooks' _Landover _series, Tinkerbell, and Ariel, the servant of Prospero in _the Tempest_. Anyone who watches _the Pagemaster _will see sylphs at the beginning of the song during the animated portion of the film. Fantasy, the purple book, says, "Hello, my babies," when she sees them._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- the thing about Dylan snailing is from _Witch Baby _by Francesca Lia Block

- the holding her heart/chest/soul bit is from _New Moon _by Stephanie Meyer

- Yes, I took the whole "I feel thin, stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread" from _Lord of the Rings _and warped it a bit.

- The fact that Dylan's face was sliced up like that was inspired by the 80s tv show, _Beauty and the Beast_, with Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman.

- The way Dylan recollects the rape was vaguely inspired by _Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys _by Francesca Lia Block

- The thing about "every time you look in the mirror" is quoted directly from "Once Upon a Time in New York," the first episode of _Beauty and the Beast_.

- The thing about the lash and the faerie waggoner is inspired by Mercutio's monologue about Queen Mab in _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare. He mentions that Mab's chariot is a walnut (I think) that is "drawn by a team of little atomies over men's noses as they lie asleep," her waggoner or driver is "a small, gray-coated gnat," and that his whip is made of spidersilk.

- I heard the thing about eyes popping out of sockets due to broken cheekbones in _A Kiss of Shadows_, by Laurell K. Hamilton. Don't read these books, though, they are so totally lame.

- A friend of mine actually did tell me I'd die an early death if I didn't let myself cry. His name wasn't Zach, though.

- Sorcha of Sevenwaters, the main character of _Daughter of the Forest_, in my opinion didn't really have an understanding of the evil that men could do to women. She seemed... shocked by the concept of rape.

- Originally Nuada's mother was named Tualha. Tualha is the name of the kitten-bard from _A Wizard Abroad _by Diane Duane. However, I discovered that Balor of Irish mythology was married to the Fomorian woman Cethlenn, so I changed it.

- The thing about Dylan being the only human to ever make Nuada feel regret was inspired by _The Last Unicorn _by Peter S. Beagle. The Unicorn, who had been turned into a human for a while, fell in love with Prince Lyrr while she was human, and this love allowed her to feel regret for Lyrr, something she couldn't do before then.

- I came up with the design for that bathtub all on my own. I like bathtubs. I like creating really cool looking bathtubs. I just do. I dunno why.

- That thing about "a child of mud" is from _Artemis Fowl_. The fae in that series call humans "Mud Men."

- The song Dylan sings in the bath is "A Lullaby for a Stormy Night" by Vienna Teng.

_**Suggested Reading List:**_

- _Witch Baby _- Francesca Lia Block (actually, pretty much most of Ms. Block's stuff from before 2002; this book has themes from _the Arabian Nights_ as well as from "Hansel and Gretel" and "Rapunzel")  
- _The Lord of the Rings_ - JRR Tolkien  
- _Beauty and the Beast_ - Barbara Hambly (novelization of the first episode of the show)  
- _Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys_ - Franscesca Lia Block  
- _Romeo and Juliet_ - Shakespeare  
- _Daughter of the Forest_ - Juliet Marillier (a retelling of "the Wild Swans" set against fifth-century Ireland and Briton)  
- _A Wizard Abroad_ - Diane Duane (set in modern Ireland, deals with Balor as depicted in Irish mythology)  
- _The Last Unicorn_ - Peter S. Beagle (read the book, watch the movie)  
- _Artemis Fowl_ - Eoin Colfer  
- "Lullaby for a Stormy Night" - Vienna Tang (song)

_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**__The Flower Queen's Daughter_ _(found in Andrew Lang's _The Yellow Fairy Book_)._

_Once upon a time, the prince of Bukovinia helped an old woman who was caught in a ditch. She told him that the most beautiful woman in the world was the daughter of the Flower Queen, who had been kidnapped by dragons. He could save her and marry her. To help, she gave him a bell: to ring it once would bring the King of the Eagles; twice, the King of the Foxes; and thrice, King of the Fishes._

_He told his father he meant to rescue the daughter and set out. After a year, he met a very old man, who did not know where the dragon was, but if he traveled a year, the prince might meet his father who might know. At the end, the father could not tell him, but directed him on to his father. That man told him that the dragon had just gone to sleep - it slept one year and woke the next - but the princess was held by his mother in the next mountain, and the Mother Dragon held a ball every night, at which the daughter would be._

_He entered the Mother Dragon's service, saying that he had heard of her beauty and goodness. She was an ugly woman with three heads. She told him that he had to take her mare out to pasture for three days and always return with it. The first day, it vanished, and he rang the bell. The king of the eagles found the mare racing among the clouds and brought it back. He brought it back to the Mother Dragon, who, as a reward, gave him a cloak of copper and let him come to the ball, where he-dragons and she-dragons were dancing. He met the Flower Queen's daughter, who told him to ask for the mare's foal as reward._

_The second day, the mare vanished again, he rang the bell twice, and the king of foxes brought the mare back from the hill; the Mother Dragon gave him a silver cloak and let him go to the ball again. The third day, the mare vanished again, he rang the bell thrice, and the king of the fishes brought the mare back from the river. The Mother Dragon gave him a golden cloak, said she would make him her body servant, and when he asked for the foal, gave it; she was pleased with him because he had flattered her beauty. The Flower Queen's daughter told him they would meet in the meadow if he succeeded._

_The Mother Dragon let him go to the ball, but he went to the stables instead. At midnight, he and the Flower Queen's daughter fled on the foal. The dragons woke their brother, but they got to the Flower Queen, who protected them. The queen agreed to a wedding, as long as her daughter came and lived with her in the winter. The prince agreed, and despite it, was happy with his bride their entire lives._

(I picked this story because when I think of flower fairies and flower queens, I think of the flower fairy books written by Cicely Mary Barker. And when I think of those books, I always think of the stereotypical sylph-like fairies, with tiny bodies and wings of gossamer, wearing acorn caps and flower-petal dresses. So I picked this fairy tale to match our Mythological Creature of the Day.)


	5. In the Insomniac Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Creature of the Day_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _just a random fact - the word hyperventilation basically means "breathing too much," but there's another word that means the opposite: hypoventilation. That means not breathing enough. So when you see the word hypoventilation in this chapter, I meant it to be hypo- and not hyper. Okay? Carry on._

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**Chapter Five  
In the Insomniac Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Mistaken Intentions, Fresh Blood, Another Promise, the Revelation of Names, and a Tale From Dylan's Childhood**

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The door slammed open.

Dylan's eyes popped open, and she shrieked. Her hand found the exquisitely-shaped, green glass bottle of rose-scented shampoo, grabbed it in white-knuckled fingers, and threw it as hard as she could towards the door before scrambling madly out of the tub and grabbing the towel. She refused to be attacked while naked – call it a self-confidence thing, or just inconvenience. Having random parts of her anatomy flopping around while she ran was also distracting, not to mention painful. She couldn't afford any sort of distraction in a fight. Hastily covering herself, she reached into her purse and snatched up one of her rocks. She needed to get more soon, she thought a bit wildly. She was running out.

Then Dylan's wide eyes focused on the – quite furious – personage standing in the doorway and felt the blood drain from her face.

"I-I-I-I thought y-you were... I'm s-sorry, Y-Your Highness, I thought... you're g-g-gonna k-kill me now, aren't you?"

"Can you think of a reason why I should not?" Nuada demanded from the door.

In one upraised hand he held the bottle of shampoo, caught after Dylan's hasty throw. She had tried to attack him. This... this filthy, ungrateful, putrescent _human_, whom he had saved at risk to his own life, had dared to attack him. How _dare _she even _consider_ the idea?

Rage burning in his veins, he took a murderous step forward, his dark bronze eyes tinged with the color of fresh mortal blood. A thrill of satisfaction shivered up his spine as she shrank away from him, trembling.

"Tell me, human," he snarled, and felt another shuddering thrill as he saw her flinch at the thunderous sound of his voice. She hid behind the curtain of her dripping wet hair, which barely hid the whiteness of what might have been scars on her shoulders and upper chest. "Why should I not kill you here, now? You have attacked me unprovoked-"

"You scared me!" She yelped, voice fraught with panic. "I thought... I thought you were the enemy. You can't p-possibly kill me for that!"

"What enemy?" He demanded incredulously. Was she lying? Or simply daft? "There is no enemy that can defeat me, and no one can get into this sanctuary unless I invite them."

"Well, how am _I_ supposed to know that?" The mortal demanded waspishly.

Dylan was suddenly furious. She hated feeling like a moron, but somehow the Elf in front of her was making her feel incredibly stupid for not realizing that an enchanted place like this probably couldn't be broken into without at least a lot more noise than she'd heard in the last two and a half hours. But she'd been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she'd reacted without thinking, her fight or flight instinct triggered. With nowhere to run, she'd grabbed the nearest object of any worth as a weapon and flung it as hard as she could, albeit with little accuracy.

And now that her reverie was broken, suddenly she could feel what she'd done to herself in her aborted attempt at flight. Chest and side aching dully, her breath came in shallow pants that she couldn't control. Her face, which she'd accidentally hit against the corner of the little waterfall, throbbed in tandem with her heartbeat. The cracked cheekbone burned like blue fire. She felt a trickle of wetness on her cheek, and when she wiped gingerly at it, the back of her hand came away bright red and dripping wet. Pain whispered of old terrors. Attempted to seduce her into falling back into memories. Desperately, Dylan shoved the sudden choking fear down and away, and forced herself to look at the Elf in front of her.

"Do you think a warrior such as I would have an unguarded sanctuary?" The Elf demanded, voice cracking like a whip.

Dylan allowed herself to feel the burning in her face, the ache in her ribs, and even the sting of her missing fingernail, before allowing the scream rising up in her throat to rip out with her terror-fueled fury.

"I don't know!" She yelled. "I'm _human!_ What do I know about enchanted holes in subway walls and stuff like that? I'm a psychiatrist, not one of the Brothers Grimm! What do I know about the fae? I know a lot, but not _that_ much. I haven't been a kid for almost twelve years! The average dog doesn't even live that long. Good grief, you're such a jerk!" Why did he have to try and make her feel so blasted inferior? Forget this crap! Fury rose up in her, sharp, hurting, black.

Then the Elf moved, a single motion, and the fury dissipated like mist in the harsh morning sun, to be replaced by ice-cold fear.

He stepped to the edge of the bath, the only thing standing between them. His eyes bored into hers like wasp stings, frosted bronze promises of pain. Her chest ached. She couldn't catch her breath.

Suddenly, he leapt. Dylan lost sight of him in the moments he was airborne.

He landed with frightening grace only a few feet away from her, taut with menace, eyes full of hatred. She couldn't stop her whimper from escaping.

Then he faltered, and fell.

He hit his knees on the rough red stone of the bathing room floor, clenching his teeth to stifle the sounds of his pain. Blood, a dark stain, spread across his tunic from belly, side, and shoulder. Tiny streams of it ran down one leg to puddle upon the floor. He clapped a hand to his chest, ducking his head so that the human before him would not see how the wounds burned and cut at him.

The Elf did not realize it – if he had, he might have forgotten his honor and killed her out of fury – but he looked as if he were bowing to her. Dylan didn't say anything about that, however. She only gasped, steeled herself to do something positively suicidal, and moved herself underneath his good arm.

"You must have ripped your stitches," the irritated woman muttered. Her head felt cobwebby from panic and the brief moments of hypoventilation. Trying to stand was making her gasp, and pain was lancing across her chest. Being so close to a male was making her heart thunder. It felt as if her sternum might crack. But surely, in his new state of injury, the Elf wouldn't harm her? Despite what she'd thrown at him? After all, it hadn't been a rock. She wouldn't have missed with a rock. Trying to suppress the quivering fear that slid through her guts by biting her tongue sharply once, she mumbled, "Come on, Your Highness, we need to get back out there."

"Why are you helping me?" He growled halfheartedly. Dizziness sucked the breath from his lungs and made him gasp.

"Same reason as yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that," she snapped, finally getting her feet under her. Her shoulder was not going to appreciate this in the morning. The Elf didn't weigh much, but now that she'd had a good soak, her bruises, aches, and pains were starting to settle in again, and new ones were coming out. Through gritted teeth, she commanded, "Now lean on me, Sire. I don't know what kind of damage you've done to your leg, so it's best not to put too much weight on it."

"I was moments away from killing you," he informed her through his own clenched teeth, baffled at her behavior. Could she have misinterpreted his intentions? Was this perhaps why she was aiding him?

"Really?" She asked, sarcasm tingeing her breathy voice. "Well, good for you. I totally had no idea that the angsty Elf prince with the blood-red eyes wanted to do me in. I thought he was kidding about axing me. Silly Dylan, what _could _I have been thinking of?" Dylan hated being angry, but she had to force herself to stay furious with him for frightening her, or she would become terrified and be unable to treat his wounds, frozen by her fear. She didn't have time for terror. Instead, what was needed here was sarcasm of the most acidic type – her specialty. So she shoved down the fear until it was barely a tickle, bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, and then said, "Now stop being such a baby and do what the nice doctor-lady tells you, all right?"

"Do not patronize me, human," he snarled at her as she helped him into his chair.

She ignored him. Hustling butt, she ran back into the bathing room to grab her purse. Remarkably, she found laid over the chair where her soiled clothes had been, a fresh batch of garments: a white shift, a green kirtle, and a golden rope that was probably meant as a girdle. _I don't wanna be naked, it'll make my hands shake,_ she thought to herself, and hastily donned the shift, tying it with the rope. She'd put the over-gown on later. It wasn't necessary now.

Clutching her leather purse in trembling hands, she ran back out and dumped the contents on the floor. She grabbed spool and thread, needle and scissors, her lighter, and found gauze, bandages, masking tape, and hand sanitizer. As a child, she'd once thought this bag was magic. As an adult, she realized she just forgot to take out almost everything she ever put in there. Perhaps one item in five ever saw the light of day again.

The only reason she carried the inconvenient parcel around, she reflected almost absently, was because it had come in handy at the most remarkable moments.

"Shirt off," Dylan ordered briskly. Swiping at her face with the back of her hand when she felt a strange tickling, she glanced down to see her skin was still wet and red. Under her breath, she muttered, "Ow. Crud." Laying out everything she'd set aside on the small table, the human woman watched warily as the Elf slowly, gingerly pulled off the deep red tunic stained dark with his blood.

"Could you not find the decency to dress properly?" Nuada demanded when he caught sight of her in the plain shift and girdle. Her blue eyes leveled on him like ice, and for a moment the Elf prince felt himself frozen in place, even his thoughts stilled by the chilly gaze. There was a strange, vast emptiness behind her pale, mortal eyes that held him. A fury that was more than fury. A grief that was more than grief. A feyness that he hadn't seen in a human in thousands of years, if he'd ever seen it at all.

"Shut. Up. Your survival is far more important than how I dress, Highness. In case you didn't notice, you're bleeding, and I'm not sure why, though I have several viable theories, so let's check that out and you can eat my face off another day, all right? So I'll say it again – _shut up_."

The woman knelt, cringing when her knee – which she'd hit against the pavement in her flight the day before – took her weight. Needles of pain shoved deep into her leg, but she ignored them. Shoving her unbound hair out of her face, she peered intently at the bullet hole above the waist of the Elven warrior's trousers. Dylan bit her lip when she saw the thin lines, angry and bright gold, running from the wound down the Elf's belly and disappearing beneath the fabric of his leggings. As she checked the stitched wounds in his arms and shoulder, she saw that they were the same – lines of a sickly golden color marred the white skin. The mortal sighed, and went through her bag again, muttering under her breath.

"Not you... not you... no, no, no... nope... ah-ha!"

Out of the bag came a jar marked with a handwritten label: _Echinacea/Goldenseal Salve_. This seemingly remarkable item was always on her person because it helped prevent and fight infection, and she was both very clumsy (see _prone to injury_) and highly sensitive to her random injuries becoming infected.

_Not to mention, tetracycline is crazy expensive, _she thought, and added with a touch of sarcasm, _Blast my delicate constitution._

She also grabbed a tiny set of Q-tips (part of her portable first aid kit) and a pack of tissues. Placing those on the table as well, she carefully wiped the fresh blood from the Elf's chest. Biting her lip, she set to work. She'd have to cut the stitches already there and pull them out. The wounds were bleeding badly – she needed to figure out why.

"Okay," Dylan mumbled to the Elf, trying to ignore the way his eyes followed her movements, trying to ignore the way his hands clenched into fists. She wasn't sure if it was the pain, or the sight of her, that brought out this reaction. His face, as inscrutable as darkness, made her heart thump. "Okay, let's get started."

Then there was a long silence. Dylan was fine with that. Silence was great when you were trying to concentrate.

"What is your name?" Nuada asked when the empty silence had stretched into long minutes, perhaps even an hour. He wondered if he still frightened her. She moved with a surety that he had missed at the day's beginning, but she still refused to really look at him. The Elf had to wonder if she would even answer his question. For several moments, as she pressed her lips together and poked into the wound at his belly, she did not speak. Her eyes were focused on her bloody job, and one corner of her mouth turned downward in concentration.

"Dylan," she said abruptly. She took the metal flame-maker and flicked it open, so that the metal would heat up. "I told you that," she added.

"Your full name."

She gave him a poignant look and did not answer him, but only pulled the thread from the bleeding wound at his shoulder. The look told him much, if not all. This strange (_and irritating,_ he snarled silently) human woman knew the power of names. Perhaps she was a reader of the old tales. It mattered little. Nuada was almost certain that without some sort of promise from him, he would get little in the way of that sort of information from her. Infuriating mortal.

If he possessed the stronger telepathic gifts his far more talented twin could claim (specifically, the ability to walk through mortal minds without being sullied by the contact), he could have simply ripped the knowledge he sought from her mind. However, he did not possess Nuala's delicate mental touch. Everything she was, he was not. Everything she claimed – the power to heal, the full magic of the Old World, their father's love – he could not. So he had to use... charm... persuasion... and other such soft methods, to learn what he wished to know. Or torture, which yielded not altogether-reliable results. Only in direst need would he attempt to pull the thoughts from a human mind. The last time he had been forced to do so, the poisonous mind had made him physically ill for days.

"Do not worry," he said tonelessly, breaking the silence that had descended after her abrupt answer. "I give my word as the crown prince of Bethmoora that I will not use the knowledge of your true name against you, nor allow any other of my kind to do so, save for your own well being or if you were to betray me." An event, the Elf prince fully believed, would not be long in coming, so the promise cost him nothing. "Now I ask again – your name, human?"

"You just said it," she growled under her breath, and plucked a thread from his flesh so deftly he barely felt it.

"What?"

"You just said it," Dylan repeated, voice tight. "Highness."

"I said only 'human.' What are you babbling about?" Nuada demanded, gritting his teeth. Would she always speak in these frustrating riddles?

"You call me 'human' as if I had no other name," she informed him, eyes like cobalt ice. She glanced at the lighter, tried to ignore the searing heat beginning to scorch her skin. "So begging Your Highness's pardon, but I'm sure as heck not going to tell you my real one."

"I..." The Elf prince gritted his teeth against the invectives he wanted to spit out. Swallowed back the curses. When he was certain he could speak without snarling (and could resist the urge to drive the razor-sharp knife the warrior always carried into that empty void where a heart should have been), Nuada said tonelessly, "I meant no offense. Will you tell me your name?"

"No." Dylan flicked her eyes to the Elf's face and back to his wound. Her fingers were starting to hurt. The metal of her lighter was becoming too hot for her comfort. It was almost ready. "And this," she muttered, "is really going to hurt. It's the only thing I can do, with what I've got to work with. The wound in your stomach won't close. I can't get the bleeding stopped."

She glanced at the hot metal and hissed at it. A droplet of saliva touched the metal and sizzled.

Nuada understood what she was going to do, and braced himself. He would not allow the human to receive enjoyment from his pain by crying out. Somehow, he did not doubt that the mortal spoke the truth about what she would do, and how needful it was.

"I am ready."

Dylan glanced at her patient, at the mouth set in a tight line, the cold eyes, the proud face, and sighed softly in exasperation. For a moment, she was reminded of her brother, John, whenever he'd been hurt as a child. Reluctantly, she said, "Myers. Dylan-Roberta Sahara Niamh Myers."

Nuada opened his mouth to speak, paused, and looked down at her.

"Niamh?"

"My uncle Thad's wife. Brace," she replied shortly, and pressed the hot metal to the skin. The Elf jerked, then stilled. His fingers bit deep into the soft wood of the chair arms. A feverish light glinted in his eyes. Dylan spoke to cover the hideous sound of sizzling flesh. With her mind drawing irritating parallels between the Elven warrior and her twin, she suddenly couldn't stop talking. "My brother John's middle name came from him. He's my mother's older twin brother. My aunt Niamh is my father's younger twin sister."

Finally, she pulled the lighter away, and waited while the Elf's harsh breathing eased. Perspiration glistened against the moon-pale skin. After several long moments, Nuada's death grip on the arms of his chair loosened and he very slowly relaxed. It took another moment for her words to penetrate the fog of agony.

"Sahara?" The Elven warrior's pain was audible in the growl of his voice. "Is that not a desert?"

"My mother," she mumbled, with a flash of her old irritation, "was a neo-hippie from Arizona who loved _the Lion King_. And she was a bit dyslexic." Hence why Mrs. Heidi Myers had mistaken the Savannah desert for the Sahara desert.

"Dylan-Roberta?"

"My father was a Bob Dylan fan, but my mother told him he couldn't name me after someone famous, since he'd already done that to my sisters. So he snuck it in there backwards. Robert Dylan – Dylan-Roberta. My mom didn't realize what he'd done till after they took me home from the hospital. By then, it would've been too much effort to have it changed. What's your name, Your Highness?" She asked suddenly. "It's not Roiben, is it?" The corner of her mouth twitched, as if this were some sort of private joke. "Or Oberon? Airgetlam? Iubdan?"

He blinked as the pain receded further. _Thank the gods for the healing magic in this chamber._ Yet he had not told her his name? Somehow that seemed like a grave oversight. And where had she heard the name Roiben before? He knew that name. Knew an Elf that carried it; King Roiben Darktithe. Why did she suggest it? Why would she think of any of those names?

"No," he muttered. "It is not Roiben, Oberon, Airgetlam, or Iubdan. I am a bit too tall to be Iubdan, anyway."

"Very true, Highness. So what is it?" As she moved to cauterize the other wound, the one in his shoulder that refused to close, she glanced at him, saw his eyes were like frozen pools of amber. Blue lines of pain stood out around his mouth. Dylan sighed and murmured, "You don't always have to be brave, you know."

"I am a warrior. I fear neither pain nor death. These wounds are as nothing," he said coldly. "Though the concept is not something a frail human female would ever understand."

"Men are stupid," she said, and pressed the hot metal into his skin.

The only thing that stopped him from striking her as searing agony burned in his shoulder was the tears that welled up and rolled down her cheeks. His pain truly distressed her. It made no sense. She, a human, wept for pain that he would not show to her. As he clutched at the arms of his chair and clenched his jaw against the fire ripping through him, he stared at her, focused on the diamond tears streaming down her face.

Nuada had to sit with gritted teeth for a long moment after she pulled the metal away before he could force his body to relax. Pain surged through him like some hellish and fiery tide.

Thankfully, she moved on to other wounds. These only needed to be re-stitched, as he had torn the thread from his body with his leap. As she worked, he watched her. Watched the light glittering off the tear-stained cheeks. Noticed the cool determination in her expression, and the grief in her eyes.

"I saw a demi-merrow once," she said suddenly. He blinked, the only outward sign of surprise that she could see. "Well, more than once. But the first time I saw her, she was sick. I didn't understand why at first."

Nuada glanced down at the human as she took up a pair of scissors and, without so much as a 'by your leave,' cut a huge hole in his trouser leg over the bullet wound in his thigh. It, too, had traces of amber blood-poisoning under the skin. She sighed, but continued with her story.

"I realized," she went on, and grabbed her hand-labeled jar of salve, placing it next to her, "that she came from the creek behind our house. The creek where my sisters would go with their boyfriends, goofing off and having fun. The creek where they would dump all of their trash. The creek where my oldest sister, Petra, threw her used cigarettes so my parents wouldn't catch her. My sister Victoria used to dump out all of her nail polish and her makeup so that my mother couldn't force her to dress up for my father's dinner parties. Mary used to shoot soda cans out there. If they landed in the creek, she scored points. Never mind she wasn't supposed to be using my father's gun in the first place.

"And they said _I_ was the difficult one," she grumbled, no little bitterness in her voice.

"When I saw the demi-merrow, I realized that I had to do something. So I ratted out Mary to my dad about the gun. He locked it in the shed on a shelf too high for her to reach without climbing, and she's dead scared of heights. I ratted out Victoria to my mother. I forget what happened to her. And I ratted out Petra to our teachers one day when I knew she was smoking in the girls' bathroom. They obligingly called my parents. Then my twin brother and I cleaned up the creek."

Nuada was interested in spite of himself. He could tell by the way she spoke, by the way she moved, that she was telling the truth. As she sewed up his left arm as carefully as she could, he watched her face. There was bitterness there, and anger, but not at him. Not at anyone in the room. Her eyes glittered.

"And the demi-merrow?" Nuada could not help but inquire. He could feel tiny eyes on him and Dylan, and knew it was the little crinaeae that lived in his well, watching him, listening intently to the tale of the other water faerie.

"She survived, thank goodness. I had to nurse her back to health, which was scary. I mean, I was five years old. Anything could've gone wrong. I only knew from books the kind of thing to do – let her swim in fresh rain water, which I collected in a real glass fish tank. Plastic isn't exactly friendly to the Lords and Ladies, is it?" Dylan heaved a sigh. "I went to the dairy farm a few miles down the road and asked to have some of the milk straight from the cows, which I put in glass bottles. I didn't want to risk contamination by plastic or chemicals. I also asked the farmer for some of his wife's bread, since they use their own homemade flour and such. It was as old-school as I could get it. I even fed her with my baby spoon." At his questioning look, she elaborated, "My mother bought all of us baby silverware – knife, spoon, fork, bowl, plate, sip cup - from this place called Things Remembered when we were born. Had it engraved with our name, date of birth, whatever. Real silver. I figured silver was better than steel, and it seemed to work."

"Why silver?"

"I read in a book once where a witch had to tame a unicorn because it was lost in the human world, and the only way to take it back to the Faerie World was to tame it long enough for them to lead it back. It was a very young unicorn. One of the ways to tame it, the witches found in this book, was to shoe it, but horse shoes are made out of iron, and they didn't want to hurt it. So Granny Weatherwax, the oldest and best of the witches of that kingdom, melted down her silver tea set to make silver shoes. I figured that if it worked in a book, it might work in real life."

"Go on," he prodded when she fell silent. She was wiping away the blood caked around the cut on the back of his ankle now. "What befell the demi-merrow? You said she recovered?"

"Yes, Sire. I set it up so she could take moon baths and everything. I was only five, so I took every precaution I could think of. Even then, I knew that being young and small meant more things could go wrong for me than otherwise. It was difficult – I was grounded most of the time for doing things my parents had forbidden me to do but _needed_ to be done, like visit Farmer Cotton down the road. He lived three mile away, and my parents said it was too far for me and my brother to walk."

"Your brother helped you?" He asked, surprised. Not only one, but _two _human children had saved a demi-merrow, cleaned up the human filth in her home, and nursed her back to health, for no reason? Unless there had been a reason behind it all. Perhaps they'd lusted after her magic. Even humans at that young age could be vipers.

"Yes. John always helps me when I need him. He was the only person who believed me about the merrow; he's got a bit of the Sight, but not as strong as me. I think he was besotted with her. He used to talk to her for hours. I would've been jealous, but I totally understood. After all, a merrow! And a demi one, too. John and I were both small for our age, so meeting a faerie that was small too made us feel... better about the whole thing. And we'd read so much about the merrows, and now we had found one. She was so beautiful. For years after that, I wanted to grow up to be a demi-merrow. Then I realized I'd have to shrink by quite a lot if I wanted that to happen, so I decided I wanted to be a dryad instead, except I was too fat."

"As a boy, I wanted to be a troll. I found them to be formidable warriors," Nuada murmured, almost to himself, without thinking.

Dylan giggled.

"I can't see you as a troll, living under a bridge, scaring little children, Your Highness," she said. Then he moved, a ripple of menace, and she dropped her eyes back to his ankle. _Then again_, she thought, suppressing of shiver of apprehension. _Maybe I can, at that_.

"You took her back to the stream, I hope," Nuada said, his voice thick with venom. How _dare _she laugh at him? Had she ever seen a troll, she would not be so quick to laugh at his childhood wish. What boy, having been saved by something that loomed nearly two feet over his own father's head (antlers and all), with more muscle and temper than a team of angry draft horses, would not wish to become like his rescuer? Every time he forgot for a moment that Dylan was a disgusting mortal, she would remind him with her actions or her words.

"Yes, we did. She gave us permission to fish in the creek whenever we wanted after that, as long as we only fished for food, and not for sport. Maybe she did something, I'm not sure, but when our family fished out there, only my brother and I ever caught anything, and it was only ever enough to feed the two of us. If anyone but us tried to eat the fish, it tasted disgusting to them." At the memory, she laughed, though there was something bitter and sad in it, and it made him uneasy. "It served that lot right, I suppose. They never appreciated the beauty around them."

"And you did?" Nuada demanded, the words bit out from between clenched teeth. He had not the slightest conception under the sky why he was suddenly furious at her, but his rage was a pulsing, seething thing beneath his skin.

"I try," she said softly as she placed the final stitch, added the first dab of salve. "I always try to appreciate it. I try to teach others to do the same. That's all anyone can do." Dylan grabbed the jar with the homemade label off the table and unscrewed the lid. "This is a salve made from Echinacea and goldenseal. It's to help fight off infection. I made it myself, in my garden, under the sun. No contaminants."

"Impressive." His voice was like acid.

Dylan ignored him. Her own voice remained professional as she continued, "Your wounds are infected, no doubt from the human metal."

"No doubt," he commented sarcastically. "Your powers of deduction are incredible."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," she whispered as she began to spread the salve on his ankle. "About the shampoo bottle. You scared me. I thought something had happened, and the men who... the men that attacked me had somehow... found me again."

He stared at her, and he knew she could feel it, the weight of his gaze, even if she couldn't see it. She had thought herself in danger from that pack of human predators? But he had slain them before her eyes. Or did she not remember? But how could she not? Despite his thought that it was impossible for her not to know, he told her, "Those humans are dead. I killed them myself."

"I know that," Dylan said, looking anywhere but at him. "Fear doesn't always make sense." Like her absolute and utter terror of the dark, and of needles, and basements... "I'm sorry. Look, can we change the subject? You never told me your name when I asked. What is it?"

"Nuada. I am Prince Nuada, Silverlance, son of King Balor-"

"Balor? The One-Armed King of Elfland? 'Hail Balor,' " she whispered suddenly, eyes alight with some half-remembered wisps of thought. " 'Great King of the Tuatha dè Danann. See the ranks of his unconquerable Golden Army! See how they parade in their glittering pride before him! His splendor is very great. He bows down all resistance.'" She noticed him glance at her in surprise, so she added with a modest shrug, "I know the speech. I read a lot. Your Highness," she added belatedly. "Wait... you're an actual _prince?_ Of a kingdom?"

Nuada inclined his head in a regal and icy gesture he'd learned from his father. Dylan's eyes widened almost comically.

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness," she said softly. Ducked her head.

After a long moment of silence, Nuada asked, "Tell me... what do you read?"

"Legends. Myths. Fairy tales. My patients read those kinds of things as well, and it's common ground between us since they consider me to be an old lady."

Nuada barked a laugh. She? An old lady? She was a mere infant compared to most of the people he knew. And was this what they would talk about? Tales? Speeches? Childhood stories? Did that make her feel safe to be around him? Did that make it easier for her to deal with him? She seemed so skittish and yet... he had known women who'd tried to slit their own throats for less than what she had been through.

As she spread the salve on his wounds, he listened to her talk of tales, books. It was interesting, seeing as how he had not picked up anything other than research volumes (and a rare book of poetry, in capitulation to his twin) in several centuries. Things certainly had changed in the last few hundred years. The last time he'd talked of literature, it had been with Nuala, who loved books as dearly as he loved to piece together intricate bits of goblin-mechanics or work with his carving knife or at his forge. How odd, to find himself discussing something Nuala treasured with a mortal he could never trust.

But the longer they conversed, the less reserved she became. Without the thick tension permeating the air, the healing magic of the sanctuary was allowed to work much more speedily. His wounds, sustained only a few days ago, seemed to have gained more than a week of healing – those that weren't infected or had been ripped open. They hurt, fiercely, but he no longer felt so exhausted, so shaky.

He would have wagered the same about the human, though he was surprised that she hadn't yet wept wildly or gone into hysterics since her attack. While the healing sanctuary's magic affected the mind as well as the body, it was to a much lesser extent. Nuada eyed the human, sudden unease churning in his stomach. Why _hadn't_ she broken yet? Was she shoving down her emotional response to the attack?

_It matters little enough to me what she does,_ he reminded himself. _She is a human. I care not if she weeps or does not weep. Let her do as she pleases, so long as she remembers her place._

When Dylan was finished tending his wounds, she carefully washed away the dried blood from the reopened cut on her broken cheek and added a bit of the salve. Then she put all of her things away in her bag. She had to fight to stifle a yawn.

"If it wouldn't kill you, Your Highness, I'd suggest a hospital for both of us, but I know better."

"Your wounds," he demanded suddenly. His voice was harsh. "They pain you. Do you... need anything?"

"No," she replied, too quickly. "No, thank you. I just need to sleep. Being in water for a long time always tires me out, not to mention that took... what? Six hours?" With a wry twist of her lips she added, "Quit moving around so much, Your Highness, you're going to kill yourself."

"We both require some rest." After a second of thought, he added gruffly, "You will take the bed. I will take the floor." Last night, he had simply waited until she slept to move her to the bed. This time, he would save himself the trouble. And this way he would not have to contaminate himself with her mortal stink again.

"But you just had basically major surgery! Again! While you were awake!" She cried. "Are you nuts?"

"It is," he told her firmly, "the chivalrous thing to do." Although the idea of honor or chivalry applying to a human revolted him. He thought of chivalry, of valor, and wondered if his posterior would appreciate his gallantry in the morning.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _ack! I was reviewing this final draft (final, yeah right) of the chapter and realized I didn't have an author's note! Oh, the humanity! So, since I have no idea what to say (other than, "Awww! Nuada so cute! And polite.") I suggest to all of you guys that you watch the movies _Take the Lead, Stand and Deliver, October Sky, _and _Freedom Writers. _All four are based on true stories, and are awesome. You should also watch _Xanadu_. That is not based on a true story. But fans of Greek mythology will like it, I think. Also fans of Oliva Newton-John and fans of Gene Kelly._

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_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the merrow! She/he is the Gaelic equivalent of a merperson. They're typically benevolent. According to the bardic chroniclers, when the Milesians first landed on Irish shores the "Suire," another name for the merrow, played around them on their passage. Merrow are capable of attachment to humans and often intermarried and lived among humans. However, most times they eventually return to their former homes beneath the sea. Merrow-maidens are reputed to lure young men to follow them beneath the waves where afterwards they live in an enchanted state (but, it should be noted, the men do not die). Merrows wear a special hat called a cohuleen druith, which enables them to dive beneath the waves. If they lose this cap, it is said they have no power to return beneath the water. This cap (sometimes a cape) is normally red, and if a human could capture and hide either so the merrow never found it, then she would remain on land without a fuss. But if the merrow should ever find her cap or cape, she would feel compelled to return forever to the ocean, leaving entire families behind. Sometimes they are said to leave their outer skins behind, to assume others more magical and beautiful. The merrow has soft white webs between her fingers. She is often seen with a comb parting her long green hair on either side. Merrow music is often heard coming from beneath the waves. Most of the stories are about female beings; however, there are some about mer-men who capture the souls of drowned sailors and keep them in soul cages under the sea. Female merrows were considered very beautiful, but the mermen were ugly, another reason why merrow women sought out human men. _

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"In the Insomniac Night" is a short story by Joyce Carol Oates. Apparently it's a redone fairy tale, but I don't know which one. I can't figure it out, and I've read the darn thing several times. But anyway, it's in the anthology _Black Swan, White Raven _(seriously, you guys should just read all of those anthologies)._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- I know from personal experience that running around naked if your breasts are bigger than a B is painful. Not to mention, bare breasts in a fight can be a real inconvenience (esp. if the sight of them fails to strike your opponent dumb, which is what they were used for in the film _the Whole Nine Yards_).

- The thing about Nuada's eyes being like wasp stings is actually an homage to the fairy queen in the book _The Fairy Rebel_, by Lynne Reid-Banks.

- Nuada's insistence on doing things that damage his already damaged body is inspired by Dr. Gregory House in the last episode of season 2. It's amazing, the parallels you can draw between men of different species simply from their stupidity.

- The bag Dylan carries is the bastard child of a bag my editor used to have, one she gave to me, and one my cousin carries. The size is from mine, the color and style is from my editor, and the vast extent of the contents is from my cousin (who carries the most random things in her purse, including gauze, medical tape, etc).

- "This is really going to hurt" is from the movie _Hook_, with Robin Williams. Capt. Hook says it to Jack right before he attempts to pierce the kid's ear with his hook.

- Niamh is a character in Irish myth, but she's also the mother of the main character of _Daughter of the Forest_, the sister of the main character in _Son of the Shadows_, and both mother and daughter of the main character in _Child of the Prophecy_, all by Juliet Marillier.

- The concept of twins marrying twins is from _Anne of Ingleside _(or the one before it, I'm not sure) by LM Montgomery. And I've always wondered, if you have two sets of identical twins marry and have children, how similar will the kids look? That's going to be answered in this story, even though the twins that married aren't identical.

- I think I said Dylan's named after Bob Dylan, but just in case I didn't, she's named after Bob Dylan.

- Roiben is the main male character (alongside Corny) in Holly Black's _Tithe_, and the King of the Unseelie Fae in her sequels, _Valiant _and _Ironside_.

- Oberon is the King of the fairies in the Shakespearean play, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, the cartoon _Gargoyles_, and the movie, _the Voyage of the Unicorn_. They appear in other things (Raymond E. Feist's _Faery Tale_, for example) but those three are the big ones in my life.

- Airgetlam (or argetlam) is a Gaelic epithet that means "Silverhand or Silver-Arm." Christopher Paolini did not invent this term (hack writer). It is actually a term that applies to the character Nuada in Irish myth because in mythology, Nuada gets his arm hacked off and gets it replaced by a silver one.

- Iubdan is the Irish version of Tom Thumb, which is funny, because Nuada's like, six-foot-one. It is also the nickname of the MC's dad in _Son of the Shadows_, whose real name is Hugh. They call him this because he is in fact so very tall.

- Yes, the phrase "I fear neither pain nor death" is a rehash of Eowyn's line from _the Two Towers_. I like that line. It's very... Nuada. His mindset is "must be tough, can't let the human see I have feelings and nerve endings and can be hurt by burning hot metal." Which is stupid, but what can you do.

- The sick demi-merrow in the polluted stream was inspired by _Spirited Away_, where the main character meets what they think is a stink sprite, but it turns out to be a river spirit who's river in full of junk. They even pull a bike out of the poor thing. It's pretty gross. But it shows how polluted his river is. When he comes in, he's basically a living pile of brown slime the size of three stacked cars. When they finish cleaning him, he's a bunch of crystal-clear water and a wooden mask (and a bit smaller).

- Farmer Cotton is the name of Rosie Cotton's father (the Hobbit girl who married Sam Gamgee in _the Return of the King_).

- The book with the unicorn wearing silver shoes is called _Lords and Ladies_, by Terry Pratchet. "Lords and Ladies" is another general term for faeries.

- In this book I read, the Faeries' Oracle, it said that moonlight is the element of the fae. In the _Young Wizards _series, and in Wicca, things allowed to soak up moonlight tend to retain power. I mixed the two concepts and took the healing power of moonlight from _A Swiftly Tilting Planet_ and smushed them all together to come up with the idea of the healing moon baths.

- Dylan's desire to be a demi-merrow/dryad was inspired by my childhood wish to grow up to be a vampiress.

- The speech that Dylan recites about Balor is a rehash of a speech about the real Balor of Irish myth made by the cat-bard Princess Tualha in the book _A Wizard Abroad _by Diane Duane.

- I forget where I heard it, but in some movie, a kid was in this crappy situation and his only comment was, "Chivalry sucks." This inspired the last line of the chapter.

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_

_(Since the fairy tale of the day is "Beauty and the Beast," there are some books thusly inspired)_

- _Anne of Ingleside _by LM Montgomery  
- "Beast" by Francesca Lia Block (from her anthology _the Rose and the Beast_; one of the best versions of "Beauty and the Beast" I have ever read, which ends with the line, "She loved him, her beast-boy, but sometimes, just a little, she wished he had remained a beast." Explores the idea that the relationship between Beauty and the Beast changed when he became human again)  
- _Beastly_ by Alex Flinn (I didn't think it would be any good, but it so is! Great retelling of B&B from the Beast's perspective)  
- _Beauty_ by Robin McKinley (great novel-version of the fairy tale)  
- _Belle_ by Cameron Dokey (one of only 3 versions of the story where Beauty isn't actually beautiful; in this one, she is average. Her valued trait is her ability to carve wood. This novel explores the nature of beauty versus Beauty - the normal kind versus the kind that launches ships and starts wars)  
- _Cannon Movie Tales: Beauty and the Beast_ (great live-action musical version starring Rebecca de Mornay as Beauty)  
- _Child of the Prophecy_ by Juliet Marillier  
- _Dark Angel_ by Meredith Ann Pierce (employs themes from "Beauty and the Beast," though the Beast really is a bad guy in this one, under a spell that makes him evil. First in the _Dark Angel_ sci-fi trilogy)  
- _Daughter of the Forest_ by Juliet Marillier  
- _Faery Tale_ by Raymond E. Feist (although the explanation on faeries near the end is kind of lame)  
- _The Fairy Rebel_ by Lynne Reid Banks (totally adorable! by the author of _the Indian in the Cupboard_)  
- _The Fire Rose_ by Mercedes Lackey (book 1 of _the Elemental Mages_; the story of "Beauty and the Beast" set against Victorian America around the time of the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. At least, I think it was 1906).  
- _Ironside_ by Holly Black  
- _Lords and Ladies_ by Terry Pratchet  
- _Rose Daughter_ by Robin McKinley (Ms. McKinley's second "Beauty and the Beast" novel, this one with a surprising ending)  
- _Son of the Shadows_ by Juliet Marillier  
- _A Swiftly Tilting Planet_ by Madeline L'Engle (I can't remember why, though. Book four in the series begun with _A Wrinkle in Time_).  
- _Tithe _by Holly Black  
- _Valiant_ by Holly Black  
- _A Wolf at the Door_ edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (for it's brilliant story, "A Wolf at the Door," inspired by "Beauty and the Beast")  
- _A Wizard Abroad_ by Diane Duane

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"Beauty and the Beast!" Few if any people know the true story, so let's check this out. _

_Once upon a time, wealthy merchant lived in a palatial mansion with his three daughters, all of whom were very beautiful, but only the youngest, at fourteen, is named Belle, or "Beauty," for being lovely and pure of heart. In contrast, her sisters were quite wicked and selfish. On day, the merchant lost all of his wealth in a tempest at sea, and he and his daughters had to move away to a small farmhouse and work for their living. After some years of this, the merchant heard that one of the trade ships he had sent off had arrived back in port, having escaped the destruction of its compatriots. The merchant determined to set off to the city to discover whether the ship contained anything of monetary value. Before leaving, he asked his daughters whether they desired that he bring them any gift upon his return. His two elder daughters askeed for jewels and fine dresses, thinking that his wealth had returned. But young Belle was satisfied with the promise of a rose, as none grew in their part of the country and they were her favorite. The merchant, to his dismay, found his ship's cargo has been seized to pay his debts, leaving him without money with which to buy his daughters their presents._

_Return through the forst, he became lost. Seeking shelter, he entered a dazzling palace. Inside were tables laden with food and drink, which seemed to have been left for him by the palace's unseen owner. The merchant accepted the gift and spent the night most comfortably. As the merchant is about to leave next morn, he saw a rose garden and recalled that his dear Belle had desired a rose. Upon picking the most lovely red rose he cound find, a hideous Beast roared in fury and leapt out of hiding. The Beast growled at the merchant, telling him that for taking the rose, one of the Beast's most precious possessions, after accepting his hospitality, the merchant must die. The merchant begged to be set free, arguing that he had only picked the rose as a gift for his youngest daughter. The Beast agreed to let him give the rose to Belle, but only if the merchant would return in a week's time. Or, the ferocious Beast added, the merchant's daughter could come to the castle in her father's place._

_Distraught, the merchant nevertheless accepted this. The Beast sent him on his way, with jewels and fine clothes for his greedy daughters, and stressed that Belle must come to the castle of her own accord. The merchant, upon arriving home, tried to hide the secret from his youngest, but she pried it from him and willingly hied to the Beast's castle. _

_The Beast received her graciously and informed her that she was to be mistress of the castle, and that he was her servant. He gave her rich clothing and food and carried on lengthy conversations with her. Each night, the Beast asked Belle to marry him, only to be gently refused each time. After each refusal, Belle dreamt of a handsome prince who earnestly pleaded with her to explain why she continued to refuse the lonely Beast. Belle replied that she could not marry the Beast because she loved him only as a friend. Belle became convinced that the Beast held the prince captive somewhere in the castle. She diligently searched for him and discovered multiple enchanted rooms, but never the prince from her dreams._

_For several months, Belle lived a life of luxury at the Beast's palace, being waited upon by invisible servants, having no end of riches to amuse her and an endless supply of exquisite finery to wear. Yet eventually, she became homesick, and begged the Beast to allow her to visit her family. He allowed it, on one conditiong: that she return exactly a week later. Belle happily agreed to this and set off for home. With her she brought an enchanted mirror and ring. The mirror allowed her to see what occurred at the Beast's castle, and the ring allowed her to return to the castle in an instant when turned three times around her finger. _

_Belle's older sisters were surprised to find her well-fed and dressed in finery. They grew jealous of her happy life at the castle, and, hearing that she must return to the Beast on a certain day, beg her to stay another day, even putting onion in their eyes to make it appear as though they wept out of longing for her. Yet it was their secret wish that the Beast grow angry with Belle for breaking her promise, so that he will eat her alive. Belle's heart was moved by her sisters' false show of love, and she agreed to stay the extra day._

_Guilt began to plague Bell as she thought of her broken promise to the Beast. She used the mirror to see him back at the castle. In horror she discovered the Beast lying half-dead of heartbreak near the rose bushes her father had stolen from. Belle immediately used the ring to return to the Beast._

_Upon returning, Belle found the grieving Beast nearly dead, and she wept over him, saying that she loved him. When her tears struck his hideous form, the Beast was transformed into the handsome prince from Belle's dreams. The prince informed Belle that long ago a fairy turned him into a hideous beast after he refused to let her in from the rain, and that only by finding true love, despite his ugliness, would the curse ever be broken. He and Belle married and they lived happily ever after._


	6. Ninth Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Creature of the Day_  
_References Made in This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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**Chapter Six  
Ninth Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of an Old Experience, Another Tale From Dylan's Childhood, a War of Words, a Meeting of Memories, and an Offering of Peace**

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Seven nights later, Nuada fell asleep watching the even rise and fall of Dylan's chest as she breathed. Her eyes were closed, but he wasn't certain she was sleeping. Except when lulled by the magic in the bathing chamber, the Elf prince had not seen the mortal sleep at all until now. Nearly nine days without any true rest... But then, who could sleep, after what she had been through? Men had ripped away her innocence, attacked her, beaten her, raped her, nearly killed her. Now she was in a strange place; perhaps even, to her, a lonely place. In a strange bed, alone with a strange male she had never met, who spoke of killing her as if it were nothing, yet who needed her care.

Ugh, the very thought of him needing her left a bitter taste in Nuada's mouth. This mortal, who dared to defy him, who dared to force oaths from him, now lay curled upon the lone bed in his sanctuary, huddled beneath the golden quilt his mother had made for him before her death. Part of him wanted to hate her. The rest of him merely wanted the complication of her gone from his life.

The Elf prince had never known a human like Dylan. Instead of being uncaring, lazy, and hateful, she was seemingly compassionate, industrious, and careful. She had spent the majority of the time not required for stitching his wounds in such domestic tasks as sewing up the tears and holes in his clothing. His boot, the one that had received the slice from the human wolf's blade, had also been carefully sewn closed, with stitches so small and neat the prince felt almost as if he were looking at a noblelady's embroidery instead of a mended piece of leather. The mortal had taken the time to wash his soiled and bloodstained clothes while he slept off the blood-loss-induced exhaustion. He'd awoken to find them laid out across the chairs and trunks to dry. Using the flat lid of a rectangular trunk, the human had set up a little first-aid station, with scissors, thread, salve, bandages, and other items laid out neatly for easy access. The bloodstains had been cleaned from the mat and the stone floor. Finally, the fireplace had been swept clean and washed, the stones no longer soot-black but pale white, the grate now gleaming silver.

The sylph from the bathing chamber informed the prince that the strange mortal woman had quietly and politely requested the means to clean up the mess she had made in the prince's sanctuary. Though lacking the intriguing rhymes the little elementals preferred, the human was so nice and so polite that they had decided to see what she would do with the things she'd asked for. Sure enough, this human had cleaned up the bathing room and the main chamber.

_The human_, the sylph tinkled at Nuada. Her voice chimed like bells. Only someone well versed in the languages of the fae would have been able to understand her. _She weep much, long time. Try not to, but can't help. Her pain, very bad. Cleaning help. She __smile then. Sometimes __sing._

"Indeed?"

_Yes. Pretty. Like child. But soft._

Dylan sang. Interesting. He must have been far more exhausted than he'd imagined, if the sound of it hadn't woken him. And what humans sang nowadays? True, the wretched mortals had something they _claimed_ to be music, but anything with functioning ears knew it for what it truly was – human garbage. For the sylph to say Dylan sang... well, what did she sing? What music could the human possibly know that would justify the little fairy's compliment?

And to say she sang like a child... children did _not _sing well. So what did that mean?

Nuada watched the human curl up tighter on the bed, shivering. If she had been anything other than what she was (and had he been anything but what and who _he _was), he supposed he might have fetched another blanket for her. If she had been one of his people, and not a mortal, he was certain he would have.

The Elf did not move. He merely watched the human woman, and pondered her.

This strange human was young, perhaps thirty - Nuada was no connoisseur of mortal ages, but she could not be much older than thirty-five; an infant compared to the prince, who had lived for over four millennia. This young mortal, one of the wretched progeny of Adam, should have betrayed her bad blood in some way by this time. Running away, perhaps, or attacking him. Stealing one of his weapons, maybe, to pawn for paltry coin. Even simply indulging in slothfulness.

But no. Dylan remained in the sanctuary, seeking only to aid him in any way. She completely defied every concept he had formulated over the years about her kind. He watched her, and waited, wary of some sort of trick. Part of him wondered still when she would betray him. And yet... and yet.

Frustrated with the turn his thoughts had taken – to consider this mortal less than a threat was ludicrous! He was beginning to sound as mad as she! As beguiled as his father and sister had become by the promises of men – he swiftly drew his mind to a different track, something trivial and inconsequential.

What sort of name for a woman was Dylan? Something more feminine was more suitable. And that ridiculous other name – Roberta. A human name, and decidedly British sounding. Sahara – that barren, desert waste. That did not fit the mortal, either. Nor did Niamh, though it was a good name. None of those names fit the human who had inexplicably saved his life.

The prince thought of the ladies of Bethmoora's court and other courts that he knew or remembered; allowed their names to fit through his mind. Ailís, Jocasta, Sorcha, Líle, Boann, Iselle, Eilonwy, Pádraigín, Gráinne, Iúile, Siobhan, Liadan, Maev. Yes, even Niamh... and Nuala. His precious, beloved Nuala. _Her_ name fit her like a silk glove, but the human's...

Dylan-Roberta Sahara Niamh Myers. No, it didn't fit the provoking, enraging, impossible human woman.

Nuada did not mean to, but the exhausted Elf fell asleep in his chair as he thought of how foolish humans were in the naming of their children. He fell asleep listening to Dylan breathe, a soft sigh like the wind in the trees, the only other sound in the chamber besides the crackling fire and his own pulse. It had been a long time since he'd had that experience. Not since the last night of his last visit to Bethmoora, to Findias, listening to the shushing lullaby of his sister's breathing.

As he drifted off into slumber, his perception shifted, driven by his slowing thoughts, and Nuada was almost sure he could feel the rise and fall of Nuala's breast as she breathed, far away in Bethmoora's new capital city.

**.**

The Elf prince awoke to the sound of sobbing.

Instantly awake and alert, he stretched out with his senses, trying to catch any signs of intruders in his sanctuary. How they might have entered without his knowledge, he knew not, but he _did_ know that caution was often the better part of valor. When he heard nothing but quiet weeping, smelled nothing but the scents he had grown accustomed to in the nine days Dylan had resided in the sanctuary, the blond warrior allowed himself to open his eyes and slowly, carefully scan the room.

The fire that he had built up before falling asleep glowed red and sullen in the fireplace, only embers now. Even in the near-darkness, his keen eyes saw the empty bed where the mortal woman had recently slept. And silhouetted against the angry glow of the coals was a hunched figure, crying quietly, rocking slowly back and forth as if trying to comfort herself. Nuada thought briefly about telling her that he was awake, but decided against it. He didn't want to intrude on her pain, didn't want to deal with a mortal's tears.

_And_, a voice whispered in the back of the Elf's mind, cruel in its honesty, _you do not want to see a frightened woman cringe from you, human or not, mighty warrior._

_I care not if she behaves as a coward towards me. She is a human – what else can one expect?_

Again, as before, the situation was taken out of his hands.

In a quiet lull between her sobs, the human's voice came out in a broken, wretched whisper. "I know you're awake. You don't have to pretend."

"I have no reason to pretend," Nuada said softly, voice like ice, and began to rise slowly to his feet, though pain lanced through his thigh and ankle. Anger lent him strength. Helped him to ignore the sharp slicing burn.

How _dare_ she spurn his kindnesses? He had no reason to even let her live, and he had saved her, clothed her, fed her, given her a bed, given her sanctuary. Now this pathetic, weeping girl had the gall to spit his courtesies back in his face? How was it that every time he thought to do her a kindness, tried to forget the putrid human blood in her veins, she wrenched his memory back to the fact that she was as lowly as the filthiest mud, and never to be trusted?

Voice dripping frigid venom, he continued, "I thought only to spare you embarrassment, as you seemingly despise your own weakness. I see now that courtesy is wasted on humans, even one such as yourself. What are humans, after all, but hollow, greedy, lustful, vicious creatures? Slothful, cruel, and hateful? And with no thought for anyone but themselves? No heart. No soul. No feelings-"

Dylan looked at him then, her face stricken, and it was as if she had struck him. There was more than rage there. It was... nameless, a conglomeration of pain and grief and incredulous anger. She opened her mouth, and poison poured out, black and thick and choking.

"How dare you? How _dare _you! _I_ have no feelings? You disgusting _toad!_ You, O Prince of Elves, seem to have the feelings of an animal! How dare you talk to me about how humans are? Mortals are the enemies of your kind – that you've made super clear. I got it, you hate me, I heard you the first time! But don't you dare lump me in with those monsters who have, through their negligence and stupidity and plain uncaring, decimated your people, thrown them back into the shadows. Don't you dare! Don't even dare! You have no _idea _what I have suffered to defend your kind. What people I care about have suffered! How dare you speak to me like that? You pompous little pri-"

"Suffer? _Suffer?"_

He was suddenly on his feet, his face twisted with fury. A cold light glittered in his eyes, so at odds with the heat in his voice. Without even a thought, he reached for his twin-dagger, which lay in its sheath upon the table. The Elf drew the blade from the leather sheath, allowing the dim light to catch blood-red on the pain bright metal. He relished the shimmer of fear beneath the rage burning in that mortal gaze. Welcomed the thrill, the sudden lust for blood and battle, when the human shrank back a little.

"You wish to speak of suffering? You mortals, you are always so selfish! It is all about you! Everything is always centered around _you!_ Well, I have some news for you, human! My people have suffered! Your kind broke the treaty with _us! _And because we know honor, because we know justice, because we refuse to break our vows, our oaths, your kind has forced us into the twilight of the world, to the very edge of darkness, when _we_ are the ones whose task it is to protect and care for this world."

He took a step toward her, and noted with some surprise that she didn't back any further away from him. Her face, splotched with dark bruising, was flushed with anger where otherwise pale flesh would have been. That scarlet outrage and the tears glimmering in her eyes flooded his veins with an answering wrath. How dare she look him in the eye and try to garner his sympathy with her pathetic mortal tears?

"You wretched mortal! _We _suffer! We are locked away in the minds of mortals, fading away, dying, because of the disgusting, wretched _humans!"_

"You think I don't _know _that?" She yelled, struggling to rise to her feet. Old hurt was flaring up beneath her skin, making her body burn.

Later, she'd probably be horrified – not to mention retrospectively terrified of repercussions – of what she'd said and done. But right then, she was so achingly furious. All she could do was scream at him. Her throat burned with things long locked away. Fury and grief scorched her. Blood dripped from her hands where her nails sliced the skin. Images flashed behind her eyes, drowning her in pain. Blood, so much blood. Hurt and death. Betrayal, and darkness...

"I _know _the Fae are dying!" Dylan shrieked. Her own voice cut at the inside of her throat. "I've seen it! I've suffered for it!"

"Liar! Filthy human liar-"

"_Shut up!_ You don't know what you're talking about! My parents had me locked up for _eleven years_, thinking I was insane, because I tried to keep your kind safe from humans! Humans like me!"

Tears were streaking down her cheeks now, burning in her cuts, but the tears were tinged with the taste of rage, not grief. She could grieve over her ancient, half-healed soul wounds later. Right now, her anger pulsed in her blood. Copper washed over her taste buds. Crimson flooded her vision. Dylan was drowning in memory, in blood, in midnight black hate. Looking into eyes like twin pools of scarlet-tinged molten bronze, predator eyes full of an answering hate, she let herself scream. For the first time in a very long time, she spat out all the poison in her memory. She smashed Nuada with it, tried to scald him with it, hurt him, hating him.

"Do you know what they used to _do _to children in mental institutions? Do you have _any _idea? I was seven years old! They electrocuted me!" Dylan screamed. Her skin itched with memory and her eyes blanked to phantasms –

– _Pain_  
_Heat pain burning her skin  
White lights flashing in her eyes blinding blinding_  
_Flash bulb photo pain_  
_Only a second lasts forever_  
_Sizzle sizzle burning flesh burning_  
_Hurts hurts please can't move hurts_  
_So much pain... –_

The Elf warrior stared at the mortal woman in front of him. His eyes took in her white shift and green kirtle, the golden sash tied loosely around her waist. She looked like one of his people in those clothes. He saw her hands, white with pain and red with blood, and her eyes, her oh so mortal eyes, wet with grief, and flecked with gold. The bright red face, shadowed with darkness and bruises, flared like a beacon. Nuada stared at Dylan, and saw the world through a crimson haze. Her words struck him like blows. The betrayal in her voice and the hatred boiling in his blood were knife blades in his belly.

Nuada's eyes burned like fire, but Dylan did not back down.

"They beat me!" The mortal shouted. Her lips were wet with blood. A stream of red trickled unheeded down her chin from where she'd bitten her lip. Those words, like a hammer, smashed through to the blond warrior's memory –

– _Pain_  
_Fists that struck because he would not surrender  
Could not Nuala could not had to save her_  
_Kicking punching fighting_  
_Mother!_ Mother!  
_Screaming blood tears blood  
Nuala!_  
_Cracking pain taste blood copper fear pain_  
_Can't breathe can't see can't move_  
_Mother screaming begging_  
_"Not my children!"_  
_Nuala... –_

"They locked me away in the dark!" Dylan wailed, the fear surging forward into her voice again, twisting it until she was sobbing with the old terror. Shaking violently, she wrapped her arms around herself and bit the inside of her cheek. Fire flared, blue and wicked hot. Pain rocked her. She fell like a sleepy child into its arms, allowing it to sweep over her. It fed the fire, and anchored her as the storm swept through her mind –

– _Alone_  
_Darkness choking  
Heart thumping alone alone dark fear_  
_No time no space no sound_  
_Timelessness and terror_  
_Scratching at the walls  
Worse when the straitjacket holds her prisoner  
So dark  
This empty room full of nightmares_  
_Alone_  
_Screaming_  
_"Let me out! Let me out! I'm scared!"_  
_Weeping but no one comes..._  
Alone! –

"They starved me!" The human wailed this at him. There was staggering pain in the words, swirling in the room. It scorched the air. Knifed through him like a blade of burning cold ice. And Nuada remembered, couldn't _not_ remember –

_- Days in a cell no bigger than a large box  
Heat blistering sweat dripping_  
_Thirsty so thirsty_  
_Tongue like sand in his parchment mouth_  
_"Where will the next strike occur?"_  
_Hunger_  
_Belly aching crying out_  
_Bread please a crust of bread_  
_"Tell us what we want to know, Elf..."_  
_A sip of water__ please_  
_Fresh, clean, sweet water_  
_Thirsty so very thirsty_  
_"Tell us what we want to know..."_  
_Water please_  
_"Tell us..."_  
_Water..._  
_"Tell us..."_  
_Please give me some water... –_

"They forced me to take medication!" _This_. Dylan shuddered as memory called to her. Shivered. This was what was nearly the worst. Not quite the worst but nearly, so nearly. The medicine. Thorazine. Lithium. Succinylcholine. Diazepam. Vesprin. Navane. So much poison pumped into her body over and over again, for _years._ If she didn't take the pills, they drugged her food. Ashes in her mouth. If she didn't eat, they tried to force feed her. Drowning in poison slop. If she fought them, they strapped her to a bed. Trapped, trapped like a rat. They strapped her down and stabbed her with needles full of hypodermic lies –

– _Prick_  
_Opium whispers in the blood  
Smothering her can't breathe can't think_  
_Thorazine poison in the vein  
Lost in the mist_  
_Running running can't think_  
_Where's the music the memory?_  
_John, John, can't remember_  
_Where is John?_  
_Who is John?_  
_The fairies, the fairies, they..._  
_No fairies_  
_But I know the_  
_No fairies no fairies no fairies_  
_John_  
_I do believe in fairies_  
_Help me, John! Help me!_  
_Who is John?_  
_No fairies_  
_John, where are you? Where am I?_  
Who _am I? –_

"They r-" She began, but swallowed the words blistering her throat and spat out others before memory she couldn't bear, memory she refused to let sink into her brain, tried to return and bring the old nightmares back. "My parents betrayed me! They locked me up and shut me away because I kept insisting that there were faeries in our yard and in the creek behind our house who needed help because there was trash and stuff in our yard that was killing the plants and polluting the water and _no one would listen to me!_"

She screamed that last, rushing it together so that it sounded like, "_Nonud lissenamee!_" But Nuada, stunned by her revelation, by the pain in her face, the pain that gave truth to her words, understood her perfectly. He found his voice as she sank trembling to the ground, unable to stand any longer.

"You..."

Dylan hid her face in her trembling hands. Her body tried desperately to shake apart. The room pulsed with the psychic tendrils of ice-cold soul pain. Only one of royal blood could have tasted that pain on the air... but he could. It sickened him because something in him recognized that soul pain for what it was, almost seemed to resonate with it. Something that he'd kept banked for more than three thousand years.

"Your parents..." The Elf prince breathed, and had to reign in his rage and the sudden sickness roiling in his stomach with an iron grip. Had to force down the brutal memories he could not allow to surface right now. "They imprisoned you, tortured you, because... you told them..."

Nuada trailed off, staring at her hunched, shivering form. He realized suddenly that it was freezing in the chamber.

Almost as if the shouting match had never happened, he moved to the fireplace and began building up the fire again. He could not look at her. It was not that he felt ashamed. Never that, never because of a human. Nuada did not feel shame or awkwardness now. He was... pole-axed. Completely pole-axed. The human had totally and completely confused him. What mortal would weather the things she had suffered for his kind? It made no sense. Dylan owed him _nothing_. She owed none of them anything and yet he knew she was not lying; he could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Feel it in the air. This was a woman who braved death to save an Elf, who fought a warrior in order to force him to care for himself, and had suffered eleven years of imprisonment and torture for a people not her own. She was mortal, human, but such loyalty, such honor...

She made absolutely _no _sense! She was driving him mad! Somewhere in all of this was a trick, he knew it. There was something, there _had_ to be. No human did these things simply out of the goodness of their heart! Perhaps she was a changeling. Or maybe brown-blooded, with the old earth magic of the brownies and hobs in her veins from long ago. But this woman could not be a human. Her blood could not be poisoned by mortal filth. There was no possible way.

"I do believe in faeries," she half-chanted, tears streaming down her face. She pulled away from him when he shifted closer, hid her face from his sight. She trembled so hard Nuada thought that at any moment she might shake apart. "I do, I do. I do believe in faeries, I do, I do."

She struggled for breath, trying not to remember. Her chest burned. Like a leaf in a gale, she trembled, hiding her face behind the wall of her hands. Pretend, that's what Dylan had to do. Pretend that there was nothing there, nothing but the wall of her hands and the smell of her own breath. Nothing, except the sound of her heart and the heat of her body. Taste the air. Feel the flames. No pain, no memory. Hold onto the moment like a lifeline. Hold on. Hold on. Stay hidden. Don't fall into the past. Hold on.

Dylan shifted so that her hair hung in her face, and she pulled her hands against her heart. The breath in her lungs rattled like death. Nuada shuddered at the sound. The sight of that curtain of brown curls vexed him. He wanted a clear view of her face, wanted to see the emotions etching themselves there for everyone to see. In a moment, he was kneeling in front of her, one hand extended towards her. She was still rocking, still blind to her surroundings, still whispering her chant, the soft, droning croon that had sustained her for the eleven years they had kept her locked up in that hellish place. "I do believe in fairies, I do, I _do_..."

The Elf caught a single lock of hair between index and middle finger, a strand that hung just in front of one closed, darkly shadowed eye. Blue eyes flew open. The mortal sucked in a breath and froze. Her absolute fear screamed at him. Nauseated him. Nuada made rash promises to the Fates and the stars to keep from being sick. If he so much as twitched the wrong way, he knew she would attack him, not as a human against one of the fey, but simply as a woman against a man she thought would hurt her.

This close to her skin, her hair, the scent of his own blood and the putrid scorching stink of iron no longer clouding the air, he smelled her humanity, her mortal blood. The stench of it almost burned his nostrils. His fury flared like white fire, tempered only by his confusion and the way her pain resonated within him.

The Elf prince could not reconcile the child he imagined in his mind, fighting the only way she knew how to protect a race not her own, with his image of human beings. No human would do these things for his kind. Mortals, monstrous and cruel and evil, did not _do _such things. The hearts of the Children of Mud were black pits filled with nothing but rot and greed, incapable of honor, valor, compassion, kindness. No mortal would suffer for his kind.

And yet... yet Dylan still bore the scars. Both on her body (he'd seen flashes of them the night he'd barged into the bathing chamber) and in her mind, on her heart - on her soul. The soul she should not have possessed. He could feel anguish pouring off of her body in waves. Trembling, weeping, keening, rocking... her grief tasted to him like ashes.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, her voice strangely empty, and she took a shuddering breath, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. A soft sound, like a whimper, touched her lips, but that was all. He could practically see her building up her walls, fighting back her pain, ignoring her wounds. She was afraid, he realized. Afraid to allow herself to feel pain, grief, the hurt of her family's betrayal, the horror of whatever torments had been inflicted on her as a child. Nuada watched her as she slowly regained her composure. That strange sense of her emotions, the taste of her pain, slowly dissipated, leaving him with nothing but a pervading uneasiness.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Dylan repeated dully. Her eyes were almost glassy, her face oddly blank. "It was just... the bed was thin - not that I mind," she added hastily. "It just reminded me of... and the fire began to die and I... I... I'm afraid of the dark."

At that point, her voice cracked.

This was a fear he knew very well. Nuala had always been terrified of the darkness as a child. How many nights had she stolen into his room when they were children, frightened of the shadows, to curl up in his arms and sleep, knowing he protected her? The comparison between this dark-haired, blue-eyed mortal and his flaxen-haired, amber-eyed sister made him feel strangely, distantly protective. But his twin had never been a victim of such depraved brutality. The Elf had no idea how Dylan would react if he tried to hold her as he had held his sister in her fear.

Not that he would. Some things were simply too vile to contemplate.

Yet he had never felt like such a monster than at that moment as Dylan looked around almost helplessly, trying not to catch his eye. She was not merely afraid of the dark. Empty now of at least her anger, she was shaking with what he could only assume was fear of him. She had, after all, just screamed like a harpy at an Elf prince who loathed her entire race and wished her dead. An Elf prince whose only reason for leaving her alive was so intangible a thing as a debt of honor.

Seeing the obvious terror in her eyes, smelling it on the air, Nuada felt like a beast.

"You... need not be afraid," he muttered falteringly. Now the Elf regretted his harshness, his claim that she had no feelings, the things he'd shouted at her. He could have said worse things. Far worse things. The prince knew that. But what had passed his lips was bad enough. And now that he saw her grief over his people and her fear of him... now that he knew her... he was almost ashamed. Almost, but not quite. Still... it was enough to make him attempt gentility.

"Come. Sit at the table," he said, trying to be gentle, and held out his hand to her. She flinched away. Silently, the prince cursed. This was all he could think to do to make amends. Like trying to coax a skittish horse, he waited patiently for her to accept him.

Dylan took the proffered hand with no little hesitation. Her face, blank as a doll's, looked as if it might crack. She rose slowly. The room was having an effect on her injuries as well. The last few nights of broken half-sleep had given her enough energy to speed the healing from the room. Perhaps a full two month, maybe two and a half, in this room, and she would be - physically, at least - as good as new.

As for her heart... he knew not. He could only be kind - an art long lost to him in his years of exile, and hard to relearn in a mortal's presence. But he led her carefully to the table. Dredging up ancient court manners from years ago, he pulled a chair out for her and helped her to scoot in. She thanked him quietly. Her voice trembled.

So did he. Nuada's entire body, drained by his rage, shook with fatigue, but he could not sleep with her so frightened of him. His honor demanded he make reparations. After all, she had done nothing but give him aid. Look at what he had done to her in return for her kindness. The Elf prince stared at her across the table. She huddled in the chair, hiding behind her curls. Clenching his fists, the Elf cast around for something to do, something to say.

_Your honor is a flimsy thing, Prince Nuada,_ his inner voice snarled at him. _It allows you to take pride and pleasure in battle, and_ _prevents you from anything other than slaying your enemies outright. No unnecessary torture. No rapine. Yet that same honor does not prevent you from terrorizing a brutalized young woman. Her breeding makes her an acceptable target for your rage, does it not? A filthy human, a mortal, a proud and hollow nothing-creature –_

_Be silent! _He snarled at himself. The voice fell quiet. The Elf warrior sighed imperceptibly and returned to looking at the mortal woman.

They sat in interminable silence until he could bear it no longer.

"Are you hungry?" He asked softly. "Thirsty?"

She shook her head.

"Tired, perhaps?" Another negation. "You do not wish to return to bed?"

At this, Dylan's face blanched and she glanced at him fearfully before looking hastily away. He bit back a sigh of frustration. What did the Elf Prince of Bethmoora know about making polite small talk? With a human of all creatures? What could he say to break the brittle tension between them? Why would this blasted, gods-cursed, frustrating mortal not aid him in trying to be kind to her?

"No, thank you. You should go to bed, Your Highness," the mortal murmured listlessly, staring into the flames. "You need your rest."

And she laid her head down on her arms upon the table and closed her eyes, shifting to hide her face behind her hair. Despite the seemingly casual pose, Nuada could see the tension knotting her shoulders. Was she waiting for him to hurt her? He wanted to feel furious with her at the idea, but it only served to prick his conscience.

Nuada tried to stay awake until he was certain that Dylan slept, so that he could lay her in the more comfortable bed again as chivalry (unfortunately) demanded, but his body and mind shuddered with exhaustion, and he unwillingly succumbed to sleep.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _sigh. Will our dear Prince ever pull his head out of his butt? Only boys are so stubborn (no offense, all you boy fans of mine. Obviously present company is excluded). So, here's the sixth chapter. Yay! And you all know by now that I love, love, love long reviews. But I also know it can be hard to think of what to put in there. So here's a review prompt (these will pop up throughout the fic to help with ideas on what to say in your reviews; you don't have to do them, or do all of them, if you don't want. It's just if you can't think of anything to address and don't wanna leave a "omg dis so cool pls update now" review). So I would like to know 6 things:_

_1) Who wants to know what was happening in Nuada's flashback where he was asking for water?_

_2) Tell me what you think was happening. Not just the event itself, but the backstory. Was it during a war? How old was Nuada? Was any other Fae with him? Where was Wink during this imprisonment? Who were the humans interrogating him? All that happy stuff. Who knows, I might pick it to be the official backstory of that flashback. _=D

_3) Give me four things you liked about this chapter, and I mean REALLY liked. What moved you, made you laugh, made you cry, made you gasp in shock or fear (if anything did)?_

_4) Was there anything you didn't like? I'm okay if there was, I just want to know what it was (and it has to be something substantial, not "I don't like that Dylan has brown hair." Okay?)._

_5) Where do you guys see this going? Now that he's trying to be nice to her, what do you see happening to his hatred of humans?_

_6) __**Challenge:**_ _who would be willing to write a one-shot (or more than a one-shot) about Dylan's time in the mental institution (but you must include John or it breaks the rules)? Or Nuada's time during... whatever was going on during his flashback with the imprisonment thing? You guys totally can, and I really actually would love it if you did, I just want to know about it so I can read and review it. PLEASE?_

_And of course, what you liked, what you didn't, what you want changed, any typos you see, etc. All that happy stuff! Love you all! Ciao._

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_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _The swan maiden is a mythical creature who shapeshifts from human form to swan form (or vice versa). Despite the name, males are found in a small number of legends. The key to the transformation is usually a swan skin, or a garment with swan feathers attached. The folktales usually adhere to the following basic plot: a young, unmarried man steals a magic robe made of swan feathers from a swan maiden so that she will not fly away, and winds up marrying her. Usually she bears his children. When the children are older they sing a song about where their father has hidden their mother's robe, or one asks why the mother always weeps, and finds the cloak for her, or they otherwise betray the secret. The swan maiden immediately gets her robe and disappears to where she came from. Although leaving the children may grieve her, she does not take them with her. If the husband is able to find her again, it is an arduous quest, and often the impossibility is clear enough so that he does not even try. There is an Irish legend called "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" (not to be mistaken for the Scandinavian folktale regarding the white bear) where the husband finds his swan wife again. Other good examples of the swan maiden in legends and stories is the ballet _Swan Lake, the Black Swan _by Mercedes Lackey, and the Nest Entertainment film, _the Swan Princess.

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The quilt from Nuada's mother was inspired by the short story, "Swans," by Kelly Link. In that story, the main character's mother made all seven of her brothers and the main character a quilt, but the main character's quilt was not finished before her mother died. The whole quilt from the dead mother was a nice bit, so I wanted it.

- The way Dylan cleaned everything up is heavily inspired by the movie Disney's Enchanted. I love the Happy Working Song scene! But the fact that she finds it soothing is from the movie _For Rich or For Poor _(I think that's what it's called). In that movie, Kirstie Alley's character is sobbing and talking to this Amish woman, and then the Amish woman says, "Now, let's go scrub the floors!" And KA's character gushes, "Oh, could we?"

- The sylph's voice tinkling like bells is inspired by Tinkerbell as described in the original Peter Pan.

- "I know you're awake. You don't have to pretend" is a rehash of the line "I know you're there. You can come out" from the episode "Once Upon a Time in New York" from _Beauty and the Beast_.

- A child being locked up for telling tales of fairies, dragons, unicorns, etc. is from Anne Bishop's _Dark Jewels _series.

- I first saw electro-shock therapy being used on children in the movie _Return to Oz _(based on book 3 in the _Oz_ series, _Ozma of Oz_). They never actually _**DID **_it, but the threat was there.

- The thing about being locked in the dark is both an experience from my life and draws on _Tenchi in Tokyo_, where the young villain is sealed away in the dark. It traumatized her so badly that thousands of years later, it still freaked her out.

- "I do believe in fairies; I do, I do!" is from the live-action movie, _Peter Pan_, when Tinkerbell dies and Peter tries to bring her back (if you believe in fairies, clap your hands! Do it!... you're not clapping).

- The comparisons between Nuala and Dylan... are important. That's all I can say. They've been in since chapter one, but just in case you missed them, they're there. And they _are _important. So yeah.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

_(Contains a lot of stuff relevant to magical swans; both "the Wild Swans" and_ Swan Lake. _Mostly _Swan Lake.)

- _Annie (1982 film; musical based on the _Little Orphan Annie _comic strip. Totally cute. Related to _For Rich or For Poor _concept) _  
- _Beauty and the Beast _by Barbara Hambley

- _The Black Swan_ by Mercedes Lackey (the story of _Swan Lake_ as told from Odile's perspective; Odile is the black swan who takes Odette's place at the betrothal ball the Prince holds to announce his future bride)  
- "The Black Swan" by Susan Wade (the story of _Swan Lake_, combining Odette and Odile into one person, with a sad ending, but beautifully written; found in the anthology _Black Thorn, White Rose_)  
- _A Company of Swans_ by Eva Ibbotson (the story of _Swan Lake_, minus magic, set against pre-WWI England and Brazil, by a master storyteller. In this story, it is the MC's father, not the guy who turns her into a swan, who is the villain. A fun thing to do is read through the book, looking for the parallels to the _Swan Lake_ story).

- _Daughter of the Blood _by Anne Bishop  
- _Deerskin_ by Robin McKinley (based on the fairy tale "Donkeyskin," but with a happier ending; see _Fairy Tale of the Day_)  
- Disney's _Enchanted _(yes, the spoof-movie. The clean up bit is great)  
- _Ozma of Oz_ by L. Frank Baum (it's pretty cute, but watch the movie first)  
- _Return to Oz_ (film based on _Ozma of Oz_)  
- _For Rich or For Poor_ (a movie with Kirstie Alley and Tim Allen)  
- _Peter Pan _by JM Barrie  
- _Peter Pan_ the movie (2003)  
- _Princess Tutu_ (an anime that draws heavily on both _Swan Lake_ and _the Nutcracker_, as well as a bit of "the Little Mermaid")

- _Swan Lake_ (beautiful ballet, but be careful which version you attend. Though the music is the same, the choreography and the storyline itself can be different. In some versions, Odette and the Prince die instead of living happily ever after).

- _The Swan Princess_ (a film by Nest Entertainment drawing heavily on the _Swan Lake_ story)  
- "Swans" by Kelly Link (a short story retelling of "the Wild Swans" in the anthology _A Wolf at the Door_)  
- _Tenchi in Tokyo_ (it's an anime; _**warning,**_ there are 2 other _Tenchi_ anime: _Tenchi Muyo_ and _Tenchi Universe_. Do not watch _Tenchi Muyo_.)

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"The Princess That Wore a Rabbit-Skin Dress" (similar to one of my favorite fairy tales," Donkeyskin," but with a happier ending)_

_Once upon a time, a king died after his wife gave birth to a girl. The queen remarried, and that husband also died. Then she married a third time, and that husband was so cruel to her that she became ill and died. _

_The last husband wanted to marry her daughter. The daughter's mare told her to ask her stepfather for a dress of silver; with some help from fairies, it took a year and six months. Then she asked for a dress of gold, which took two years and six months, and a dress of diamonds and pearls, which took three years and six months. The mare gave her a dress of rabbit skin, and the princess rode off on her. _

_Some hunters, including a prince, found her and took her to the castle, where they gave her a job in the kitchen. They were rude, saying she needed only the ears to be a rabbit. One day, the mare told her that the prince was going to a party; the mare carried her there and gave her a nut that held the silver dress. The next day, she went in the gold dress; the third, in the dress of diamonds and pearls, and the prince gave her a golden ring. She wore the ring after she took off the dress, and the prince recognized and married her._


	7. Fifteenth Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_  
_Analysis of "The Death of Fairy Tales"_  
_First Lines of "Mother Earth, Father Sky"_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter is a slow, take-a-breather chapter between action bits. At least the first parts. We'll see how it goes. The formatting is way off in some places, but ff dot net won't let me fix it. I tried to fix it again in this third (fourth? fifth?) draft, so hopefully it takes._ _And this night is like, night number 16+. It's been at least a week since the argument in chapter six._

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the crinaeae. In Greek mythology, the Crinaeae were a type of naiad (water nymph)_ _associated with fountains or number of Crinaeae includes but is not limited to: Aganippe, Appias (though she is from Roman mythology), Myrtoessa (one of the nurses of infant Zeus,_ _she_ _dwelt_ _in a well in Arcadia), and the_ _Sithnides (a group of nymphs associated witn a fountain in Megara). Comparable to camenae. I don't know what _those _are, but I promise by the time you've read this chapter, I'll have found out. Muahahaha!_

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**Chapter Seven  
Many** **Nights Gone By**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Absences, Friends and Enemies, Dylan's Words, New Blood, and the Beginnings of a Truce**

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Nuada jerked awake with a start. Whispers of dreams clung stubbornly to his brain. Rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes to brush away the cobwebs of sleep, the Elf stretched, spine cracking as his back arched. He sat up slowly, mindful of the tightness in his limbs and the dull ache in his body. Pale amber eyes alighted on the chair that the human had fallen asleep in the night before. He knew without being told that the day had slipped away and night had fallen across the world above.

Without meaning to, the warrior had fallen asleep near dusk, exhausted from the day and the sickness spreading through his body from his wounds. The mortal had watched him practice with his gleaming silver blades all the day, pursing her lips but saying nothing, eying him with disapproval, reminding him so strongly of Nuala as a child that he'd almost smiled. The fair-haired fae knew she was concerned that he would do himself harm, but he'd been unworried. He knew how far he could push his body.

Or so he had thought.

Without realizing it, however, he'd managed to exhaust himself, and had fallen asleep upon his bed for the seventh day in a row without meaning to. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Nuada realized that there was an extra bedcloth draped over him. He had fallen asleep atop the golden quilt. Now he lay beneath a thin cotton blanket. Puzzled, he looked around for Dylan, to see if she could account for this. Somehow, the Elf prince knew the mortal woman was responsible.

He did not see her.

Getting to his feet, the Elf lord stifled his groans as stiff muscles protested. He scouted the room, in case Dylan was hiding, perhaps frightened of him now that he was awake. All the past day, and the six days prior to that, even as she cast him furtive, irritated looks, she had made a point to stay far away from him. As far as possible, in fact. The argument - if one could call it that - was no doubt accountable for this.

Having spent more than two weeks in the Elf prince's sanctuary, the unlikely pair had fallen into some bizarre habits – Nuada training under Dylan's disapproving eye, trying to sweat out the virulent poison and iron sickness that pervaded his blood and rendered him nearly weaker than a mortal, and Dylan doing the chores usually reserved for the lowly elementals bound to the sanctuary. The iron in Dylan's blood – a trait the Fey Ones did not share – slowed the healing magic's effect on her body. Sixteen days of healing had sped up the process, but not by much. Three weeks, perhaps, of magical mending, had been packed into a little less than two.

As for Nuada... the contamination of his wounds, though combated by magic and medicine, still kept those injuries laced with infection from healing properly. The slash at his ankle, the stab wound in his shoulder, and the gunshot wounds in his thigh and arm refused to close properly. They oozed a noxious-smelling fluid that looked and stank like sour milk. Once the seepage had begun, Nuada had refused Dylan's aid. The injuries continued to worsen. That fact pricked the Elven warrior's temper like a needle.

What honed said temper was the realization that, upon discovering his mortal caregiver's absence, his first feeling had been a brief stab of concern – not for his own safety, or anything centered around the Elf prince at all, but a fear for Dylan.

Curse that _loathsome_ human. Somehow, she was corrupting the blond warrior. Entirely against his will, he found himself beginning to almost... to almost _like_ her. The way one begins liking a stray cat or dog that stays around long enough to ingratiate itself to people.

The idea made him grit his teeth.

"Where is the human?" Nuada asked of the sylph, the salamander, and the crinaeae. The fire elemental and the little nymph in the well did not speak. Neither did the air sprite. This silence, and Dylan's absence, Nuada's own physical weakness and the persistent ache throughout his body, honed his already knife-sharp temper to a razor edge.

"Well? Where _is _she?" He demanded, his voice a beast's growl. The blond warrior glared at the empty room. Irritation tingled in his blood. Something, a shimmering voice like wind chimes, murmured the answer in his ear. Nuada muttered, "Another bath? That mortal indulges herself far too often."

_Hiding_.

"Hiding?" The prince echoed, forcing the odd twinge in his chest to fuel his irritation. "From what? There is no danger here. I will not harm her so long as she is in my care. From what does the human hide?"

_Everything. Water make her feel safe. Much water in her blood. She know sister-water._

Indeed. She knew of Sister Water, how water is the life giver, and the daughter of Mother Earth? How did she know that? Aloud, he asked, "What makes you say this, Ariel?"

_She move like selkie, sing like mermaid._

"I very much doubt she moves so gracefully or sings so beautifully."

_No, no, no! Not graceful or beautiful, Highness. Love. Full of love. She love it all._

"I do not understand," Nuada murmured, frowning absently. He felt his rage fading away as he continued to regard the flickering wisp of fairy in front of his face. "What of love? What do you mean?"

_No explain. You see. Someday. Human in bathtub._

"Well... I care not. At any rate, she was beginning to smell."

_Smell? No smell. Human smell._

Moving to work the stiffness from his limbs, he went to one of the trunks lined up against the walls of his sanctuary and retrieved a fresh change of clothes. The Elf had some errands he wished to attend to, and he wanted to run them in clothes that did not stink of human female. The Elf knew he needed to make his escape from this place quickly. The stones of the floor and the walls themselves oozed mortal stench. It sickened him.

Nuada hastily donned black trousers, tunic, and boots – a very casual ensemble for him – and made his way to the entrance of his healing sanctuary. Stopping only long enough to grab his spear (only a fool went around unarmed in these times), the prince pressed his palm to the chamber's entryway as a soft voice made its way through the door to the bathing chamber.

_"... The mermaid weeps blood red pearls  
While Bluebeard beheads his lovely girls,_  
_And Rapunzel's deceitful braid unfurls_  
_To lure the prince to his death._

_"An Arabian night burns like a star,_  
_And Cinderella drives a fancy glass car._  
_But Little Red can only run so far_  
_Before the Big Bad Wolf can find her..."_

Nuada glanced back over his shoulder at the wooden door to the bathing room. What was this? The words reminded him of the old, mortal children's tales he'd heard long ago, but the melody was dark and bitter, melancholy. These words, just like Dylan's words from that dark night a week ago, somehow resonated with something inside the Elf prince. Dylan's voice shuddered down the Elf's spine, making him shiver. Her voice tasted of bone-deep loneliness, black despair. Again he thought of Nuala, of the grief in her during the wars against the humans all those centuries ago. Yet how could a mortal feel such grief? They felt nothing except the base emotions of an animal - fear, hunger. Nothing more.

_"Someone cut down the fairy wood.  
Crying about it won't do any good,_  
_And Goldilocks won't do what good girls should,_  
_But she does what works for her._

_"Odile hides and Odette cries._  
_The Goose Girl weeps over her maiden lies._  
_Dwarven hearts shatter when Snow White dies._  
_And the child won't listen anymore._

_"Dolls are dying while Clara dances._  
_Secrets are lost behind magic mirror glances,_  
_And the Lass has lost all four of her chances._  
_It doesn't matter anymore..._

_The stories don't matter anymore..._"

The resonance reached a pitch that made some dark, long-suppressed emotion rise up in Nuada. How did a human understand such pain enough to sing about it so convincingly? What if... what if...

A wave of disgust and fury suddenly threatened to swamp him. Red descended over his eyes. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists. The pounding tide of his blood roared in his ears. Nuada snarled something vile under his breath. Muttering the spell that allowed him to leave the sanctuary, the suddenly furious Elf warrior strode quickly from the chamber. The air tasted of hatred and pain.

**.**

Dylan sighed and closed her eyes. Wavelets lapped at her bare skin, and candlelight danced across her face. She allowed her body to float on the surface of the bath water as she breathed.

The song she had sung burned the inside of her mouth, but she'd felt compelled to sing it. It was... a brutal piece, something one of her patients had written after his parents had forced him into the teen psychiatric ward at Saint Vincent's Hospital. Apparently, the youth - a boy named Henry Swan - wrote "violent and disturbing poetry," and had already been suspended for a piece submitted to his high school newspaper.

After hearing the song, and talking to the young man, Dylan had fought to get him out of that place. She knew what mental hospitals were like. For children who knew they were sane, it could numb the soul.

Even kill it. How well she knew _that_.

Sighing, the brunette ducked beneath the water, wetting her hair, and tried to capture the feeling she'd had as a kid. How many times had she pretended to be a mermaid – although a very clumsy mermaid – playing in the ocean with imaginary fish and other, more mystical water creatures? It had been real to her, and bright and brilliant, back then. Not so anymore. Maybe her imagination was deserting her.

Maybe the wolves had devoured it.

At the thought of the wolves, she kicked off the bottom of the tub and thrust through the surface of the water. Gulping air, she let the water half-carry her back to the shelf-seat carved into the wall of the tub. Her eyes stung. Blood from her bitten lip stung her mouth with its salt-sweet taste. Water cascaded over wet skin, dripping hair, upturned face. The current soothed, cleansed. Another sigh found its way into her lungs and out of her mouth.

"When am I going to leave this place?" She asked herself softly, aloud. "Do I even want to?"

Dylan glanced around, blue eyes taking in the huge, candlelit chamber. There was something otherworldly and timeless about this room. About the whole sanctuary. It made her feel safe. If dark dreams plagued her, she remembered nothing of them. No harm – well, very little harm – had come to her since passing across the sanctuary's threshold. The healing magic of the place soothed her pain. Nuada fed her, clothed her, gave her a bed and a place to bathe. If no responsibilities could be claimed by Dylan Myers, she might have asked her rescuer if she might stay in this place outside of time forever.

But she had patients. She had family - John and her sisters. She had her commitments at work and at church. In short, she had responsibilities. So of course, whether she wanted to or not, she had to leave someday. The thought made her heave another sigh.

_I'm so melancholy today,_ Dylan murmured silently, somewhat surprised. _It's my birthday - I'm twenty-nine today, and yet I'm so melancholy. Well, at least the urge to beat Nuada over the head has dissipated, _she added gratefully. That idiot Elf... he insisted on beating himself to exhaustion, barely healed as he was. It made her want to scream. Or rip him a new breathing hole.

"Men are stupid," she muttered, and pulled herself out of the bath.

Dylan had never quite been able to see the invisible servants who attended to her and Nuada's needs, no matter how she strained to catch them. Somehow, in the three hours she'd been in the beautiful, steaming hot bath, her old clothes had been replaced, fresh towels had been laid out, and a particularly fragrant lotion that smelled of hyacinth blossoms and roses in a green glass pot had been left for her use.

She toweled off her hair, dried herself, and slipped on the pale shift the color of rose petals. Somehow, in the time it took for her to pick up the tiered, dark green skirt from the pile of folded laundry, the laces that ran from sleeve hem to elbow of the shift had been tightened and tied by an invisible attendant. Hastily donning the knee-length skirt and the leather vest, she tied it tightly. Then she arched her spine, trying to relieve some of the strain from not wearing a bra. Her back was beginning to have this constant ache near the shoulders – dull compared to the rest of her injuries, but irritating nonetheless. Trying unsuccessfully to ignore it, the mortal glanced at herself in the glass. Dylan always found the clothes in front of the full-length mirror in the bath chamber. Now, when she glanced at herself in the silvered looking glass, it seemed like some gypsy princess out of a storybook gazed back at her.

Her face ruined the image.

Bruises faded out to purple and green still couldn't hide the angry slashes, now a raspberry maroon instead of black, that sliced across her face. Dylan counted more than twenty lacerations to her face. One of them wrenched at the corner of her eye, dragging it sideways. Another slash did the same to her ruined mouth. The cuts twisted her features. Even as she scanned her reflection, the eyes in the mirror were blank and glassy, empty of recognition. Around her neck was a circlet of ugly yellow rosettes, a souvenir from her rescuer's brutal grip. The sight did nothing for the emptiness in her gaze.

_We've been hiding too much,_ her little inner voice muttered. Sometimes, under stress, the battered woman lapsed into her childhood habit of referring to herself in the plural. It was a thing she and John had done since learning to speak. It had taken their parents several years to get them to stop. _Too much time in the bathroom,_ the voice continued. _Need to face reality eventually._

_Not right now,_ she murmured back. _I know it's not healthy... but not right now. I just want to go to sleep. I don't want to deal with it._

_Coward..._

_Yes, I am. Sue me._ _It's my birthday gift to me._

Ignoring the voice as a yawn overtook her, the human sank to the floor and began smoothing the pale-rose cream over her skin. The delicious perfume of summer flowers danced in her nose. If Dylan closed her eyes, it was almost as if she were home, in her garden, among her flower beds and herbs. Chewing her bottom lip – already shredded like ragged bits of silk – to keep from sighing again, she got to her feet and pushed her way through the bathroom door and into the main chamber.

It only took her a few moments to notice the absence of pale amber eyes and a dark, brooding form with moon-white skin. It took her some longer moments to realize that this meant Nuada was no longer there in the chamber. The mortal, eyes wide in her face, pressed her ear to the door opposite the bathing chamber, but heard no movements from within the privy. She began to shake. Sinking to the floor, Dylan stared in numb disbelief at the entryway to the sanctuary, wondering what she was supposed to do now. The Elf was gone. Never in the sixteen days she'd been in this place had he ever left her. Now she was alone – helpless, defenseless, prey for the wolves.

The blood drained from her face. There was no protector anymore. It was only herself, ensnared in the dimly lit stone room that was now a prison. Only herself. No Nuada. Certainly no John. Only herself. The enemy was coming. The wolves prowled. She must not stay out here, in the open. She could not.

Finally, Dylan found it in herself to be able to move. Hastily rising to her feet, staggering a little, she made her way to the bed. When her fingers touched it, the golden quilt warmed her suddenly cold skin. It smelled of wild forests and faerie glens. The scent of an Elven warrior prince. Snatching it up, the human carried it, the pillow, and one of the little books from her last vacation back into the bathing chamber, locking the door behind her.

Wrapped up in the blanket with the pillow between the cold stone of the wall and her bruised back, it took very little prompting for the tired, terrified woman to fall asleep sitting up.

**.**

Wandering the subway tunnels, the Elf prince made his way carefully back to the chamber he usually called home. He had several sanctuaries throughout the tunnels, in case of a need for a place to retreat. Several lairs also, in case he needed to travel or lay low. But he had only one pseudo-home in his exile, a place made extremely comfortable over the last century. The warrior found himself there now. Tension drained out of him as the magical wards woven into the stones washed over him, welcomed him.

Home. He was home. Of a sort, at least. He could relax a bit.

"Nuada!"

The blond warrior jerked around, wincing as the stitches in his wounds pulled at him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he wiped it away. He did not want Wink to see the extent of his injuries. The troll might smell the blood. That was all. He would not know of the sickness spreading through Nuada's veins from the poisonous iron in the human weapons. Would not realize that the dipsa venom had not worked completely out of his system yet, even after almost four moons. And hopefully he would not catch the scent of the mortal woman on his skin.

"How long have you been here, my friend?"

Mr. Wink lumbered up out of the large bronze chair he had been resting in and heaved his massive bulk over to the Elf prince. The troll took in his friend and prince, eyes missing nothing. The loose clothes, the thinness around the Elf's face and the gauntness of his frame, the way the prince limped, favoring his left leg: the silver troll's sharp, dark eye saw it all.

"Since you left. Where in the gods' names have you been? What happened? You go to rescue a human woman and you disappear for more than two weeks."

"Worried, Mr. Wink? I am touched."

The troll felt no compunction about whapping the Elf prince across the back of his head. Lowering his guttural voice to an even deeper growl, Wink grumbled, "Prince or no prince, I will _not _take sass from you. You would do well to remember that I was the one to save you and your sister and-"

"And avenge my mother's death. I know. You have been father, brother, and friend to me when my own family betrayed me. I know, Wink. I am truly grateful for your concern. There have been... complications."

"Complications?"

"The human... she is... different. Not like the others." Upon seeing Wink's disbelieving look, Nuada continued hastily, "Do not look at me that way. This human has taken it upon herself to care for me. She doctored my wounds. If not for her aid, I might very well have perished." He despised the fact that he felt the need to defend Dylan, a lowly mortal, to Wink, his oldest and most loyal friend. "The monsters that attacked her, they shot me with lead and attacked me with iron. She cared for me."

"My prince... she is a _human_."

"She is not like the other humans," the prince insisted. "She has honor. Compassion." Nuada had no idea where the words were coming from. But his honor demanded he defend the mortal woman who had risked her life more than once to save his. He could not let Wink believe that somehow, this human had bewitched him. "She reminds me... she reminds me of Nuala, at times. With her stubbornness, her desire to care for others. It is almost infuriating – you know how I hate that my sister will insist on caring for others when she has an equal or greater need. The mortal woman is just like that. She spent nearly eight hours removing the pieces of iron and lead from my body and stitching my wounds even though she was sorely injured herself and practically swaying with exhaustion."

Now that he was relaying the past events to Wink, he was seeing what Dylan had done with new eyes. It had been more than the Elf had realized until now. How could a human have that much compassion for another creature? Still, the mortal woman confused him.

"Is she a friend, then, Nuada? This human?"

"Don't be disgusting," the Elf snapped, rising to his feet. The prince had only come to tell Wink he was safe. That done, he surely needed to return to the sanctuary. If Dylan tried to leave, things would not go well with her and the golem that guarded the place. "Of course not. But she is different. It is well that I saved her from those men."

"Where are you going?"

"I must go back. She cannot leave the sanctuary on her own without danger, but if she believes me to be in any sort of trouble, do not doubt that she will try to come after me, to help. I will have no harm to her while she is in my care. My honor demands it."

The troll sighed. "You and your honor. You guard it so preciously. Sometimes, it astonishes me that your father cannot see you for the honorable warrior you truly are."

"My father is blinded to many things," Nuada replied, ignoring the sudden throb of pain lancing his temples. "He looks for honor where there is none, and does not see it where it resides. I may be back," he added, changing the subject, "sometime in the next weeks. I have to take Dylan to the human hospital-"

"Dylan?"

"The human," he amended hastily. "I must take the human to the hospital. Her wounds heal while she is within the sanctuary, but I am uncertain what will happen once she leaves. Is it possibly like immortality, obtained in Elfland but lost upon returning to the mortal world? I do not know. I do not want to risk her wounds returning without her being near a hospital. Then I have to remove any trace of her from the sanctuary. You know the laws, and what my father will think if he learns of this."

"Aye, I know both very well. Be careful, my prince."

Dark lips curved into an arrogant smirk. "Am I not always?"

Wink watched Nuada limp away. The troll's heart thumped, troubled, in his breast. The prince had changed in the last sixteen days. Never had he heard Nuada defend a human before. _Never _heard him compare his precious twin to one. There had never been a mortal to survive an encounter with the lethal Elf prince (except perhaps for a child). Now this human woman, this "Dylan," had forced the blond warrior to admit that perhaps not all of the Children of Mud were as evil as he had always believed.

"Your father is blinded to many things, Nuada. But then again, so too are you."

**.**

Dylan shivered beneath the blanket. The rough, red stone bit into her hip and shoulder, but she didn't wake. Instead, the human slept on, caught between the panic of a night terror and the calmer, not so strickening fear of a regular nightmare.

Dreams of pain and screaming. A knife slicing across her face. The sanguine red of clothing beneath sizzling fluorescent lights, scarlet like a woman's blood spilling onto cold concrete. Her dress ripping under careless hands. Flesh bruising. Wolves slavering. Always, always the voice growling in her ear like an animal's, _"We warned you, _puta_. Stay away from Red girls. We warned you not to try and take one of us. We warned you."_ And then the sharp, thrusting, vicious pain tearing inside her and her voice shattering as she tried to scream.

Somewhere, behind all the darkness and the grasping hands, behind the sheet of blood in her eyes and the hell between her legs, was Nuada. He had saved her before. He would save her again.

Maybe.

**.**

The Elven warrior walked quickly. The itching between his shoulder blades, a rare physical manifestation of his uneasiness, was becoming maddening. It was in just such a spot that he couldn't reach around to scratch it. And why was he suddenly so uneasy? The Elf had no idea. If Dylan had tried to breach the wards – if anyone at all, human or otherwise, even Nuala – had tried to breach the warding spells around his sanctuary, he would have felt it, even as backlash. There had been nothing. Yet his instincts told him that danger was still stalking him, or perhaps even stalking he and Dylan both.

"Hail, Your Highness, Crown Prince Nuada, the Royal Exile."

A hearty, hail-fellow-well-met sort of voice called out to the exiled prince, and the fey prince stopped in his tracks, every nerve tingling, senses sharp as razors, muscles coiled and ready to spring. He knew that voice. He _loathed _that voice.

"Lord Eamonn," Nuada replied, and though his tone was cordial enough, his face blanked away any emotion as he turned to look at the Elf in front of him.

The Elves of Bethmoora, the Sons of the Earth, were pale, tall, graceful, with golden eyes and long, blond hair like gold or silver. Not so with Eamonn's kind. They were the Elves of Zwezda, the Sons of the Stars. Their skin was white, like Nuada's kindred, but their tresses were black as midnight, their eyes like gleaming steel, the pupils slitted like a cat's. It was said they were descended from Zorya Polunochnaya, the living Midnight Star. Yet if that were so, then Eamonn betrayed his noble blood with vile thoughts and viler actions. A slimy taint clung to his thoughts and his spirit. It sickened the Elf prince even to be near him.

There were thirteen Elf kingdoms among the countless fae nations, and there were others more antagonistic towards Bethmoora than Zwezda. But there was a special place, both in the most desolate plains of Annwn and in Nuada's heart, for Lord Eamonn.

Hands out in a show of harmlessness that the Elven warrior did not believe for an instant, that midnight-haired Elf grinned at Nuada with unusual warmth and drew abreast of him. Very deliberately, Eamonn took an exaggerated sniff.

"Can I help you?" Nuada demanded icily.

"Oh, no, Your Highness," the other Elf replied nonchalantly, slipping his hands inside the pockets of his black velvet trousers. The prince of Bethmoor despised Eamonn's foppishness (among other things). But the feral-eyed warrior forced himself to focus on his unwelcome companion as Eamonn continued, "It is only that I thought I smelled... but no, I must be mistaken."

A brief slice of unease, sharper than the itch between his shoulders. "Oh?"

"Yes. You see, Silverlance, I could have sworn that as I walked past you, I caught the scent of a... well, it matters not. I was, of course mistaken. After all," he replied to the raising of Nuada's eyebrow. "There is simply no possible way one would ever catch the scent of a human clinging to the Silver Lance."

Only years of living in Elven court kept the Elf prince from flinching away from Eamonn. He ought to have bathed, he realized. Then the scent of Dylan would be gone completely from him. But of course, trying to be chivalrous, he had allowed her to remain unmolested in the bathing chamber. Now one of his enemies had caught the smell of her on his skin. The very idea made the blond Elf want to shudder with revulsion. Instead, he looked into Eamonn's eyes.

"No," Nuada replied. "I do not think there is any way in this world that a human would have reason to come near enough to me that its scent would catch on my clothes. Perhaps you are ill, Lord Eamonn. Mayhap you should see a healer. As for me, I shall continue on my way. Farewell."

"Goodbye, Prince Nuada," Eamonn said. "I hope to speak with you again." And he clapped one meaty hand on the warrior's shoulder. The prince gritted his teeth as nearly a hundred pounds of force collided with the swollen, inflamed flesh around the infected stab wound in his shoulder.

Nuada walked stiffly away, with Eamonn sneering at the Elf prince's back.

**.**

Dylan awoke when the door to the bathing chamber creaked opened. If it had slammed open, she might have attacked, thrown the nearest heavy object at whoever was trying to get in. But instead, it was a silent opening, and there was no sound of footsteps. That told Dylan one of three things: either it was the invisible servants, Nuada had returned, or another fey creature was slowly sneaking up on her.

Since the door creaked open slowly, she had enough time to regain control of her ragged breathing and shake off the nightmare. Enough time to flick her eyelashes just enough to see through them.

When Dylan caught a glimpse of golden hair and black linen, she sat upright.

"Nuada!" Remembering who she spoke to, she added belatedly, "Erm... Your Highness. You're back. I... I was worried."

He nodded to her in greeting, ignoring the sentiment of concern. "I require medical assistance."

Any relief or – dare she say it? – joy the mortal woman had felt upon seeing Nuada's face was eclipsed now by equal parts fear and irritation. Did he have to order her around all the time? Yes, he was a prince, but still! Wasn't he supposed to act graciously? Sometimes the injured warrior could act so much like her twin brother it was strange. But the human's heart thumped in her chest as she saw that the back of Nuada's shirt was soaked. He carefully peeled it off, and she saw the damage.

The flesh around the stab wound was maggot-white, laced with angry, bright amber lines cutting across the dead-looking infected flesh into the rest of Nuada's back. The wound itself was puffy, the scab more like a thin, transparent shell over a well of toxic yellow pus and blood. She saw places where the scab had been perforated, leaking pus and blood onto Nuada's skin. Dylan gaped, struggling against the urge to throw up and the feeling that she was looking at a humongous Elf zit the size of her doubled fists.

"What. Did. You. _Do_ to it?" She demanded, rushing over to him. "You're lucky you don't have, like, gangrene or acute blood poisoning or lockjaw or something!" The human dragged the Elf out of the bathing chamber into the main room, shoving him into the customary chair beside the single table. She grabbed her tools. "You idiot! Prince or not, you should have mentioned this to me way before now! I may just be a stupid mortal, but I'm also the closest thing you have to a healer right now. Moron." Without even thinking about it, the mortal gave him a good whack on the other, uninjured shoulder. "I'm gonna have to cut off the dead tissue. Jeez, this is why you need to do what I tell you-"

"Do you intend to henpeck me," Nuada demanded, fingers curling into a fist against the urge to strike her back, "like some shrewish dwarf wife, or do you plan on helping me?"

Anger burned in Dylan's chest. "Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but bite me." And when she lanced the wound with her silver knife (a gift from a Wiccan girl who said her therapist needed to be more in control of where her energy was going) instead of cutting gently, she sliced as if it were a piece of tough-as-leather beef pot roast. The Elf grunted in pain.

"You did that on purpose." Several _very_ derogatory terms for females tried to jump off his tongue, but applying them to the human would've insulted the rest of her gender.

"You're right," she told him with a furious glitter in her eyes, as if she could read his mind. "If you'd listened to me, this wouldn't have happened. And you _traumatized _it. You hit it on something, didn't you?"

The Elf warrior opened his mouth to defend himself, to tell her of the malicious backslap from Eamonn, but he closed it as she glanced at him and murmured, "You've got to do what I tell you, or you could end up permanently damaged, okay? Please? I'm not kidding about this. I'm only trying to help, but I can't do that if you won't let me. So from now on, I check your wounds every eight hours, got it? And we put Echinacea and everything else on it at those times. I don't want your arm rotting off and I really don't think you do, either. Please, Your Highness."

He could have argued. He _should _have argued. He was Crown Prince Nuada, the Silver Lance, heir to the throne of Bethmoora, son of Balor the One-Armed King of Elfland. He could have won the argument with her. But as she began setting up her tools, he saw a tear roll slowly down her cheek. Dylan would have to hurt him, and the Elf knew she hated to do that. And in that moment she reminded him once more of his beloved twin, just a little.

"Very well," he replied. "I will do as you say... for now."

"Thank you... my prince," Dylan murmured without looking at him.

Silence. And then...

"You are welcome."

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_**Author's Note:**_ _awww, isn't that cute! They're finally getting along (sort of). Sigh. Boys can be so hard-headed sometimes. Although, Eve Dallas from the _In Death _books is sort of the same was as Nuada, and she's a girl, so... yeah. Anyway, let me know what you guys think so far! I love to hear from readers. You guys totally rock! _

_To make it a bit easier, review prompt: _

_1) Who wants to see more of the other 11 Elf nations? _

_2) What do you think they are? Where would they come from?_

_3) What would they look like? Would they be friendly or unfriendly toward Bethmoora? Toward humans? Toward Nuada? _

_I'm really curious to know what you guys think. I of course have all kinds of legends and myths at my disposal thanks to the genius invention of the internet, so I promise not to copy your ideas. I'm just curious as to where you see this going. _

_And of course, I love hearing about what you liked and didn't like, any typos, any content requests (I __**WILL **__do content requests if those requests aren't crazy stupid. Like, no, I'm not going to have Nuada do an Herbal Essence commercial, although he's got the hair for it. And if you make a request, I __**will **__tell you whether I can/will use it or not, and if I can't, I'll tell you why in a PM). Have fun with the next chapter, guys!_

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- "Well? Where _is _she?" is from Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_. Who remembers that scene, where Cogsworth pokes into the study and the Beast, who was all nervous about eating dinner with Belle, is like, "Dude, where's my woman?" And so is the last line with the whole "you're welcome," thing. In D's _B&B_, while Belle is tending to the Beast's wounds from the wolves, she says, "Thank you, by the way. For saving my life." And the Beast looks all surprised and like he doesn't know what to say, and finally says, "You're welcome."

- The thing about "Sister Water" is inspired by a Native American belief (I learned about it in choir and from a book whose name escapes me, as this was more than six years ago) that there is Mother Earth, Father Sky, Brother Fire, and Sister Rain (I think). Something like that.

- The air sprite's name, Ariel, is not named after the little mermaid from the Disney film. She is named after the chief sylph in Alexander Pope's _the Rape of the Lock._ The sylph was originally named Aideen (see below).

- Adine is the name of the fairy who helps the heroes in the old live-action Fox show, _Mystic Knights of Tir na nOg_. She's your typical Barbie-sized winged thing. She's the ancient Irish version of Alpha Five from _Power Rangers_, but less panicky.

- In case you're wondering, the water nymph's name, which is Essa, is actually short for Myrtoessa, who is a crinaeae from Greek mythology, one of the nurses of infant Zeus. She dwelt in a well in Arcadia. The salamander's name is Rashi.

- Odile is the Black Swan from _Swan Lake_. If anyone has seen _the Swan Princess_, she's the old hag who gets turned into Odette (only in a black and red dress, instead of her usual white and green one) so that Rothbart, the villain, can trick the Prince into making a vow of eternal love to the wrong woman (thereby killing Odette).

- Clara is the name of the MC in _the Nutcracker _ballet and the animated film _the Nutcracker Prince_, although I think her name is Marie in the original book. And in the _Care Bears' Nutcracker Adventure_, her name is Anna.

- The Lass is the name of the MC in Jessica Day George's novel _Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow_, based on the Scandinavian fairy tale, "East of the Sun and West of the Moon." In _S&M/I&S_, the MC is never given a name until the end of the book. Her family calls her this one word that means "girl," but her brother, who has traveled abroad, calls her "Lass," instead.

- Henry Swan is the grandson of Snow White in the ABC television series, _Once Upon a Time_ (lol).

- Daft is an old English word for "crazy" or "stupid."

- Zwezda is another name for Zorya, the triple-goddesses of Slavic mythology known as the Aurora. There are three: Zorya Utrennyaya, the Morning Star, who opens the gates to the Sun's (her father's) palace every morning for the sun-chariot's departure; Zorya Vechernyaya, the Evening Star, closes the palace gates once more after the Sun's return. Zorya Polunochnaya, the Midnight Star, holds her "dying" father until dawn comes again. This name (Elves of Zwezda) was chosen because it doesn't really make sense for all the Elves to come from Ireland (which Nuada does, since his name is Nuada). Although Eamonn's name is Irish, he doesn't have to be (kind of like how there are white girls named Nashira, even though that has a distinctly non-caucasian flavor).

- Annwn is the Welsh otherworld, and before Christianity came through Wales, was a really nice place; a veritable land of youth and prosperity. But later it was Christianized into being a form of the afterlife. However, it is said to have been a nice place, though this is severely contradicted by the epic poem _Cad Goddeu _and in _Preiddeu Annwfn_, an early medieval poem found in _the Book of Taliesin_, as well as the story _Vita Collen _and the early Welsh Arthurian tale, _Culhwch and Olwen_.

In _Cad Goddeu_, Annwn is said to be people by hideous monsters. _Preiddeu Annwfn_ tells of Arthur, the bard Taliesin, and three boatloads of men go to Annwn, but only seven return (implying the place is somehow dangerous). _Vita Collen_ implies a demonic essence to the court of Annwn, as Saint Collen vanquished the king of Annwn and his court from Glastonbury Tor - an island near where Avalon was said to be - using holy water. And in _Culhwch and Olwen_, it is said God have the King of Annwn control over demons.

- Lockjaw is the old name for tetanus.

_**Suggested Reading List:**_

- Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_ (I need to watch it again, actually)  
- "Mother Earth, Father Sky" is a beautiful Native America song from the southwest, though I can't remember what tribe it belongs to. But I've got the first two lines at the bottom of this chapter, so you can Google it if you desire.  
- _Mystic Knights of Tir na nOg_ (television show, similar to medieval Irish Power Rangers, minus Zords)  
- _The Swan Princess_ (cute movie)  
- _The Nutcracker_ (ballet - AMAZING)  
- _The Southwestern Nutcracker_ (another ballet, also amazing)  
- _The Nutcracker Prince_ (adorable movie, follows the plot of the original story and only changes the name of the MC)  
- _The Nutcracker_ by ETA Hoffman (the original story)  
- _Barbie in the Nutcracker_ (yeah, yeah - it's actually really good, although the animation is a bit stiff. I think this was their first CGI Barbie film. But they did motion capture to get the dancing right. And Tim Curry plays a great villain, as usual).  
- _Care Bears' the Nutcracker_ (yeah, shush - also cute. And it has Grumpy Bear, who is one of my favorites)  
- _Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow_ by Jessica Day George  
- _American Gods_ by Neil Gaiman (featuring the three Zorya)  
- _Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister_ by Gregory Maguire (excellent retelling of "Cinderella" from the point of view of a surprising narrator)  
- _Before Midnight_ by Cameron Dokey (explores the fact that, while Cinderella was being abused by her stepmom and stepsisters, her dad was around and wouldn't do anything about it. Suspicious? I think so).

.

_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"The Golden Stag!" Since we've brought up Slavic faeries today and we don't do that often. This is a fairy tale from Romania._

_Once upon a time, an old woman told her husband that he had to lose his two children, a son and a daughter by his first marriage, in the woods. The first time, the boy had been playing in the ashes, and the children managed to find their way back, but the second time, the old man succeeded in losing them. In the dark woods, the children could not find water anywhere, until they came to the tracks of a fox where water welled. But the sister warned her brother that drinking the water would turn him into a fox. They went on, and found a second stream surrounded by the tracks of a bear. The boy's wise sister warned him again. At the third stream they found, the sister spied the tracks of a stag and warned her brother again. But this time he was too thirsty and drank anyway, transforming into a golden stag. He carried off his sister in the cradle in his antlers, and made a nest for her up in a tree, where she safely grew up into a beautiful maiden._

_One day some years later, a king's son saw the beautiful maiden and fell in love. He promised a fortune to whoever wooed the girl for him (as the maiden refused to speak or come down from the tree). An old woman saw the golden stag and did not know how to address it, so she lured the girl down by pretending to be foolish with her cook fire, and carried her off to the prince. When the golden stag followed, the prince made as if to kill it, but the sister said that the stag was her brother. So the king's son gave him a fine stable with plenty to eat. _

_They were all happy except a gypsy girl who had been the king's son's favorite before he met the beautiful maiden. She lured the sister into the dark forest and enchanted her, so that the maiden - now a princess - fell into a deep sleep. Then the gypsy dressed herself as the prince's wife and disguised her face before going to the king's son. But the stag knew her at once as the gypsy girl and not his beloved sister. The king's son and his men followed the golden stag into the woods and retrieved the sleeping princess, who awoke at her true love's kiss. Then the prince had the gypsy girl stoned to death._

_._

_**Analysis of a Poem's References:**_ _The song Dylan is singing in the bathtub is actually a poem I wrote. I do a lot of poetry with fairytale motifs. I'm going to dissect the references for you really quick. Enjoy!_

_THE MERMAID WEEPS BLOOD RED PEARLS_

In the original "Little Mermaid," the mermaid's name was Pearl and she actually ends up dying instead of winning the prince (seeing as he's not in love with her and she's only got three days to make him fall for her, which won't work). This introduces the main theme of the poem – things don't always work out.

_WHILE BLUEBEARD BEHEADS HIS LOVELY GIRLS_

In the story of "Bluebeard," this wealthy and powerful man named Bluebeard has this really bad habit of marrying a girl and cutting off her head when she asks too many questions. This is talking about how some girls – cough Dylan cough – don't always get avenged until after they're dead or injured or whatever.

_AND RAPUNZEL'S DECEITFUL BRAID UNFURLS _

_TO LURE THE PRINCE TO HIS DEATH_

In the fairytale "Rapunzel," the witch who puts her in the tower cuts off her hair and uses it to trick the prince into thinking she is Rapunzel. Then the witch shoves the prince out of the tower, trying to kill him. He's only rendered blind and injured, however. This talks about a lot of things – the dangers of love, the blindness of men who don't pay attention, and mistaking friends for enemies and enemies for friends.

_AN ARABIAN NIGHT BURNS LIKE A STAR_

A big part of the early arc in this fanfic is inspired by _1001 Arabian Nights_. Hence why some are the chapters are called "insert-number-here Night." And considering that Shaharazade managed to bear Sharayar a bunch of kids, you know there wasn't just storytelling going on there.

_AND CINDERELLA DRIVES A FANCY GLASS CAR_

I dunno. In my opinion, there had to be a dark side to Cinderella. She was way too sweet, and besides, how else does she get from the ball to her house in less than 12 seconds? The clock strikes the midnight hour. One chime, it's "holy crow, gotta go." By chime twelve, she's home. How? That's what I wanna know. Sort of inspired by _Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister_ and _Before Midnight_, which show the women of that fairytale for something more than shallow, 2-dimensional cardboard cutouts.

_BUT LITTLE RED CAN ONLY RUN SO FAR_

_BEFORE THE BIG BAD WOLF CAN FIND HER_

Red's running from her destiny. The wolf is her soulmate. End of story. See _the 10th Kingdom_ and "Red Under the Moon" by OceanFire9 (on FF dot net, no less) for details. However, this is also talking about how a woman – or anyone – can't run forever because eventually, the bad guys will find you, and then it'll be a choice between dying or kicking their butts.

_SOMEONE CUT DOWN THE FAIRY WOOD._

_CRYING ABOUT IT WON'T DO ANY GOOD._

This is actually talking about two things. One, deforestation. I'm not a tree hugger – okay, I am, but literally a hugger, as in I put my arms around trees to snuggle them; not metaphorically – but I'm not a "burn the forest" type. I like trees. I like the forest. Hence why I identify with Nuada a lot. The second thing is that crying about injustice won't make it go away. You have to fight it. That's the main point to this line.

_AND GOLDILOCKS WON'T DO WHAT GOOD GIRLS SHOULD,_

_BUT SHE DOES WHAT WORKS FOR HER._

This is actually a double reference: one, to an erotic novella called _Goldilocks and the Three Barons_. It's um... well. I forget who it's by, but you shouldn't read it anyway. But that title alone definitely shows that she won't do what good girls should. This line is also talking about how just because So-and-So isn't a "good kid" doesn't mean they're a bad person.

_ODILE HIDES AND ODETTE CRIES_

Odile is the Black Swan in _Swan Lake_. If you ever see _the Swan Princess_, she's the "Fake Odette" in the black dress from the ball. However, Odile isn't a villain. She's more of a tragic figure. This is an homage to _The Black Swan_ by Mercedes Lackey. No one thinks about Odile, really, and no one allows Odette to be weak in any way. It kinda sucks. Hiding and crying are not always bad things.

_THE GOOSE GIRL WEEPS OVER HER MAIDEN LIES_

Does anyone know this story? She cries to a stove pipe. Seriously. A stove pipe. Instead of sticking up for herself, she cries to a freaking stove pipe and talks to the decapitated head of her talking horse! Gah! But Shannon Hale's novel, _the Goose Girl_, makes this make a LOT more sense. Read it. Seriously.

_AND DWARVEN HEARTS SHATTER WHEN SNOW WHITE DIES_

Originally this line was "Willows weep as Snow White dies," because I couldn't figure anything else out. I dunno. "The dwarfs weep when Snow White dies" just didn't flow right. But I fixed it. The original line was sort of an innuendo – when a girl dies, no one really cares. Only the trees will mourn her – maybe. If that. And this new line shows just how broken losing a child or loved can make you.

_AND THE CHILD WON'T LISTEN ANYMORE_

This is referencing many things: lack of appreciation for the beauty of the world; people not having time for books and fairy tales anymore; the epidemic of dying imagination sweeping the country (if not the world).

_DOLLS ARE DYING WHILE CLARA DANCES_

This is actually not a fairytale reference. It refers to _the Nutcracker_ (although that's considered a fairy tale), and the battle between the rats and the toys. The point of this line is that while everyone stares at the pretty thing that garners all the attention, horrors are happening that totally, totally suck.

_SECRETS ARE LOST BEHIND MAGIC MIRROR GLANCES_

While the line above refers to something that is mostly found in high schools, I still think it's a big deal. "Secrets are lost behind magic mirror glances." What does that mean? That the quest to be beautiful, to be perfect, drowns out information that could be incredibly, incredibly important.

_AND THE LASS HAS LOST ALL FOUR OF HER CHANCES_

The Lass is a character in the book _Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow_ by Jessica Day George. It's based on the fairytale "East of the Sun, West of the Moon." In "East/West," the MC gets help from the four winds/four people representing the winds. This line is actually describing an emotion by describing an event – the event where every chance you had of getting to the person you love has been lost to you.

_Looking on this, I've realized this is a very teen-angst poem, which is interesting because I'm not a teenager (older, not younger). However, I still think it applies to a lot of people outside the teen demographic. I hope you liked it, and I hope this analysis was helpful._

_._

_**First Lines of "Mother Earth, Father Sky":**_

_Mother Earth, Father Sky,  
Look upon the land so dry. _  
_With the sky (or maybe it's clouds) and the rain... _  
_(and then something about the plain, but I don't remember what)._


	8. The Last Night, and the First Again

_**Author's Note:**_ _just an FYI about this chapter._ _The flash-fiction collection, __**"Once Upon a Time: Underground,"**_ _covers the time-gap between chapter seven and this chapter. Also,__**OceanFire9**_ _wrote a little side-fic for this fic called __**"And Twice Beneath a Space."**__ The second chapter of her piece, "Seeing You Again," is Nuada's POV on a scene in this chapter. Anyway, enjoy! Love you guys._

.

**Chapter Eight**  
**The Last Night, and the First, Again**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Oaths, Farewells, Life After Magic, Potential Problems, and Blood**

.

.

The mortal woman inspected the healing wound on Nuada's shoulder with gentle fingers. When the Elf didn't hiss or tense, she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Her healing salve and the other doctoring she'd given the stubborn prince were finally working. Mortal medicine worked on the Fayre after all – up to a point. Blue eyes ran along the stitched wound that looked so disturbingly like a ravenous mouth. There were no xanthous lines or discolored flesh, no foul smell or pus. The flesh around the wound was cool and dry to the touch, as well. Now the infection was gone, the wound itself was finally healing. The same for his other injuries. He'd also recovered from the iron fatigue and the poison from the snake bite, thanks to the tisanes she brewed for him. A few more days of mundane care and Elven healing, combined with the magic of the sanctuary, and Nuada would be good as new.

She told him so.

"What did you say?" Nuada asked softly, glancing at Dylan's barely-healing face.

After nearly three months beneath the surface of New York City, hidden away in the fantastical subway sanctuary, the Elven prince no longer felt the sickening sensation in the pit of his belly when he looked into the mortal woman's troubled, nearly-healed face. He no longer found himself wanting to shout at or shake her, draw his sword and spear her through her empty heart. Sometimes, when something she said struck him as amusing, he even managed to smile a little, though he never let her see that. He even managed to call her by name instead of merely "human" or "woman."

_It's progress_, Dylan admitted. _No more veiled death threats_ _or glares, thank goodness. That was starting to get old._

She'd made progress as well. Though the choking fear of discovery, of attack, of yet another vicious rape, burned in her stomach nearly constantly when she was alone, the human could admit that around Nuada, she actually felt safe. He'd made it clear that despite his loathing for humanity, as long as he still breathed and she remained in this sanctuary with him, he would keep her safe from any and all who would even think about hurting her. The nearly-healed mortal woman had to admit that knowing she had a powerful Elven warrior for a bodyguard made her feel secure.

That still didn't stop the nightmares... or the looming dread that eventually she had to leave this place and go back out into the world of men and monsters again.

"I said," Dylan replied, revealing none of that dread, "your wounds are much, much better, Your Highness. The infection is completely gone. The iron-fatigue is gone, too. You've fully recovered from the dipsa venom. At this rate, your wounds should be completely closed in four or five days, a week at most."

"Good," the Elf replied absently, staring off into space. "That is well." His vacant jewel eyes clouded over, obscuring the thoughts behind them. He tapped the chair arm with his fingers while he thought, pursing his lips, barely moving save for the even rise and fall of his bare chest.

Blushing when she realized she'd been staring at him for almost a full minute, Dylan hastily put away her things, avoiding with savage determination even the remotest chance of looking near the vicinity of his face. She didn't want to think about what in the world could make Nuada look that way. The human had an irritating and possibly all too correct idea that he was considering when she would finally be able to vacate the supernatural sanctuary.

"There's something we must speak of," Nuada said suddenly after the silence had stretched near to breaking.

Dylan's muscles coiled and tensed. Shivers crawled up her spine. She knew exactly what Nuada wanted to talk about.

"I have to leave," she murmured, looking anywhere but at the Elven warrior. "Don't I? I have to go back to my own people. I'm not allowed to stay here any longer, am I, Your Highness?"

Nuada glanced at her before returning his brooding gaze to the – apparently – incredibly interesting, unadorned stone wall. After what seemed like a thousand small eternities but was probably in fact approximately ten minutes, the prince replied, "No, you're not."

Sharp Elf ears caught the shuddering, indrawn breath. His hackles bristled. His eyes narrowed to slits of pale golden icebergs. Was she afraid of facing the outside world again? Was she truly a coward after all? The prince felt more than a little foolish that he still attempted to ferret out ways the human in his care could be treacherous or anything less than he deemed she ought to be. As of yet, none of the theories that presented themselves held water. She'd been here for nearly three moons. Surely she should've betrayed her true nature by now. Still... as her face drained of color and her eyes unfocused, a slice of alarm cut across his mind. Was she all right? Was she going to faint?

"Why?" She asked simply. Desperately. "Why must I go?"

The Elf gritted his teeth and stared resolutely at the ground. He felt the waves of pure anguish rolling off her, tiny darts biting into his skin. Such grief and fear would've choked a lesser Elf, forced him to give into her desire. Give in and let her infect his sanctuary further with her iron-laced blood and human stench. But he would not. Goosebumps rippled across his flesh as he focused on her for the first time for more than ten seconds and glared molten bronze daggers.

Dylan didn't flinch. That only served to infuriate him more, though he couldn't have said why. Did this mortal never behave the way humans ought? Why didn't she fear him like the coward she should have been?

"You must go back to your own world," Nuada replied in a tight voice. His eyes had darkened to furious bronze, he could feel it, yet the mortal didn't so much as step back from him. "You are yourself nearly completely healed. Also, you've said I'm very nearly completely well. Therefore, the need for your services is past, and it's time for you to return to your own kind."

"They're _not _my kind," the brunette woman replied waspishly, without thinking. As soon as the acid in her voice splashed her awareness, Dylan cast an apologetic look towards the prince, who merely allowed his mouth to shift into a smirk rather than a stormy scowl. She knew him well enough now to know that tone of voice was no longer enough to incite his wrath against her (usually). Three moons, and the short temper of a hormonal woman during three moontimes, had helped with _that_. And for some reason, he found her disgust with the stupidity and sin of the majority of the human race amusing.

"I don't want to go," Dylan whispered. "Please, my prince... Nuada, I..."

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Don't mortals often say such?" Nuada demanded. "Don't waste your wishes on what you can never attain. Such wishes will never be granted. And you'll remember to use my title."

Dylan bowed her head. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness."

For a long time after that, neither spoke. Nuada brooded in his chair, chin propped on one fist. Dylan gathered her things together with trembling fingers and tears burning in the backs of her eyes. As she moved, she prayed.

_Heavenly Father_, she mumbled in her mind. _I can't do this. I can't leave this place. I'm safe here. How can I leave? How can I go back out there and face everyone? _For once, Dylan was grateful her parents had died in a bus accident after her graduation from medical school. They were the one entity she wouldn't have to face when she finally got home. _What will John say? The girls? Peabody? How will I go back to church? _What if everyone stared at her when she went back? She couldn't stand having them stare at her. The mortal didn't want to think about what the people in her ward were saying about her disappearance. Probably worried out of their minds, but what about when they learned what had happened to her?

_Except they won't, _she reminded herself. _They won't stare, because they know better. And they won't know what happened unless there's a trial and it made the papers, which won't happen because those guys are dead. Nuada killed them._ A flicker of unease, of disquiet. He _had _killed them. Without a trial, without a conviction, in the most horrible way. Why didn't she care? Why was she so easy with this man who could kill without remorse?

_Nuada killed them to protect me, _she reminded herself. _To protect us both. And they were guilty._ _I know it._ _He knew it. He protected me._

_Oh, God... how can I leave Nuada? How can I leave the one person who makes me feel safe? _Which made her feel like a coward. She knew Nuada didn't actually want her there. Only his strict code of honor had strong-armed him into letting her stay until she recovered. _That and he needs me so he doesn't keel over dead,_ the human thought. The idea brought a flicker of a smile to her scarred mouth. _Elven prince or not, he needs to learn to relax and not work so hard._

Dylan moved on to folding the clothes the Elf had given her. The prince had told her icily that she could keep them, since "they stink of human now." _Probably expects me to hock them_. But she would never give up such beautiful clothes... unless, for whatever reason, she could no longer wear them and she donated them to Deseret Industries or Good Will. Or if one of the girls at her church needed dresses for a charity project.

The mortal woman realized she missed the youth service projects and church services. She missed her job. Missed helping young people. Missed John, Peabody, Donovan. Anya and Joyce. Her sisters. Her friend, Peri. Ariel, her secretary. Even Kaye, her old boss from college who was still her good friend. Maybe... maybe she _needed_ to leave. Maybe. She needed to start being useful to people again… even though the thought made her sweat. Made her heart pound like a kettle drum. She'd already missed out on so much that had once been important in her life - celebrating her birthday with her twin; enjoying Christmas with her brother and the people from church; chaperoning the New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day youth dances... so many things. Maybe it was time to leave the world of Faerie behind.

But she didn't _want_ to...

After what seemed like hours of silence, Dylan ventured to glance up from the folded dresses at the Elven prince. "Your Highness?"

Silence.

No sound penetrated the pregnant soundlessness in the magical chamber. Dylan shivered, eyes on Nuada. There was a violence brewing behind his eyes, electric hot, and at the sight of it her heart beat against her sternum as the mortal stared at her immortal companion. His pitch-black lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed, Dylan had no idea what he was thinking, or whether the fae warrior was even thinking about her. The resolution to be strong, to be all right with the decision to leave, slipped away from her like water.

After perhaps fifteen minutes, the human moved to get up, to go somewhere else – maybe that lovely bathtub, one last time; anywhere, as long as she didn't have to see the prince brooding like that – when Nuada reached out and gripped her arm. Her wide blue eyes stared at him. Did he hear the way her heart screamed in her chest from racing so swiftly? Did he know that fear tingled over her skin like static electricity?

"What are you doing?" She quavered. Her mind screamed at her to run, but she couldn't. Not when he looked at her.

He caught and held her eyes, the amber gaze practically burning her. The entrancing gaze of a cobra staring at a mouse. There was so much hidden behind the glacial topaz stare that she couldn't seem to grasp. Was he hiding it from her? Or was it merely her nervousness at being forced – well, no one was forcing her, not really, but she very much wished she could stay within the walls of the sanctuary forever, stay with this man who she knew would protect her, until Hell froze over, until the world ended – into returning to the outside world of mortals?

Nuada had told her that her wounds might return, like the years passed by in a fairy tale for humans, their true age swooping down on them the moment their feet touched mortal soil. Just the thought of it made her heart pump harder. All that screaming hot pain, the shock of it, all at once after being free of it... Her breathing hitched. She couldn't stop herself from bracing for that sick, nauseating agony, though none was to come just yet.

"I'm not surprised you loathe life among the humans, one such as you," the Elven prince told her suddenly. He spoke harshly, gritting his teeth as if the words filled his mouth with a vile taste. Yet the words themselves were kind. Like that night when he'd confessed he regretted being unable to reach her in time to stop her attack. "You're not like other humans. But you cannot remain among my kind. You belong in your world. We must go now."

The Elf pretended not to see a tear rolling down Dylan's cheek. The sight filled him with a sharp, stabbing rage. How dare this mortal woman shed tears when he, the Silverlance, had done so much for her? With a barely suppressed snarl, he turned away and donned his crimson shirt and black tunic. The human didn't glance at him as she packed her large bag and clutched it to her chest. Her aversion to looking at him made that rage cut deeper. She acted as if he were a monster, instead of her rescuer. Her skittishness reminded him suddenly, sharply, of Nuala. Of the rift between them. Rage sliced through him like a knife of burning ice.

And yet... and yet…

Nuada waited patiently – almost – by the entryway to the safe haven for Dylan to gather her courage. Intellectually, the Elf supposed he could understand. The mortal had been horribly abused. Probably, she didn't feel safe outside of the sanctuary. Perhaps she even worried that he wouldn't fare too well without her care. In his mind, the prince understood all this.

But in his heart, he simply wanted the inconvenient human out of his sanctuary. Out of his life. Dylan was a problem. He'd incurred a debt. Well, it had been repaid, he felt. Now it was time for her to be gone. Otherwise... Nuada didn't know what would happen if she didn't leave, and soon. There was simply a nameless sense of dread looming somewhere out on the horizon, and it centered on his contact with the human woman.

Finally, the brunette woman strode over to him, trying to force herself to meet his icy, jeweled gaze. That made it difficult for Nuada to keep his grim expression. Dylan trying to be brave reminded him of a fluffed-out kitten spitting at a large dog - pure bravado, nothing else.

They were shoulder to shoulder then, and Nuada didn't have time to think about angry kittens or the mortal woman's resemblance to them. It was time.

The Elf laid his palm against the stone portal that led to the subterranean tunnels beyond. Voice as cold as he could make it, he told Dylan to do the same. When her trembling hand touched the strangely warm stone, Nuada reached out with his senses and found the guardian inside the stonework. The golem, an elemental of the earth with a deep sense of loyalty and a temper no mortal in their right mind would dare to spark, slowly awoke to Nuada's gentle touch. After all, the prince didn't want to make the beast think they were under attack. Instead, he simply asked the golem if he would open the door and allow them to pass. Grumbly, sleepy acknowledgment made the corner of the warrior's mouth twitch.

As soon as both pairs of feet were on the cold concrete of the subway system, Dylan gave a startled cry and crumpled to the ground. Her head hit the pavement with a sharp _CRACK! _Nuada jerked toward her instinctively and had to fight his revulsion as blood darkened the cream-colored dress the mortal wore. The nearly-healed cuts in her face split like bad seams. Blood gushed. Dark wetness spread in tiny streams from beneath the human's head, slicking the pavement and the dark, frizzy curls.

Snarling under his breath about mortals and the rules of Faerie, the Silverlance hoisted Dylan into his arms and began to run.

Nearly scalding wetness dripped steadily down his arm from the gash on the back of the mortal's head. Her breathing was wet and ragged. A tiny trickle of blood stained the corner of her mouth. With a muttered oath, the Elven prince ran faster. His feet pounded through the subway tunnels. His breath dragged into his lungs. He wasn't quite as well as he'd thought, he realized, as his calf began to burn, his shoulder to ache. Clenching his teeth against the pain in his shoulder from holding the bleeding human, the prince raced down the tunnels until...

"Nuada!"

Only centuries of military training kept the Elf from stopping at the sound of his name. If Eamonn saw him with Dylan in his arms and realized what she was... he didn't have time to think about the consequences.

Footsteps echoed behind him. Two pairs of booted feet slapped pavement. Harsh panting snarled at his back. With a curse, Nuada hefted the barely-conscious mortal and ran as fast as he could. His legs ached, his lungs burned. A stitch crept through his side. A stabbing pain lanced his ankle. What had the human told him? Without proper rest and time to heal, he might do his leg serious injury?

"Silverlance, I see you there with your human pet!" Eamonn's hard voice raged behind him. "I see you with your whore!"

Nuada's blood turned to ice in his veins. He had two choices: turn around, dump Dylan, and kill Eamonn now; or keep running and save his savior's life. If not for the human in his arms, he would most likely be dead now. And if he stopped to take on the Elf behind him, the mortal woman might die before Eamonn could be defeated.

"Come back, Silverlance! Face me like a true warrior! Coward! Coward who ruts with mortals! Turn and face me, coward!" Eamonn called.

Rage surged through the Elf warrior and he snarled his fury, but he didn't turn around. He only ran onward, out of the abandoned subway tunnels and into the dark alleys of the human city above.

The prince of Bethmoora growled as he jogged through the alleys of New York City. His feet led him through dark twists and turns. He skirted the pools of amber light from streetlamps, ran through gloaming shadows, until he found himself hidden in the dark. Golden eyes like a beast's watched the humans in their white coats and many-colored medical scrubs scuttling back and forth. Nuada's eyes cut to the lit sign overhead:

_Saint Vincent's Hospital, Women's Center._

The prince glanced down at Dylan, who gnawed her lip in an effort to keep silent. Her eyes were sunk into dark, violet shadows in her waxy face. The white flesh against the black bruise on her face told him the cracked cheekbone had returned. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. Pain glinted in her eyes like bright stars, cold and far away. Pity tinged Nuada's expression as he scanned her face and felt the iron-laced blood running down his arms and chest from her injuries. Would she survive this? Or was he abandoning her to death? To avoid that death, he'd kept running in the face of Eamonn's insults. Ran until he made it to the surface. Would she die despite that?

"Thank you, Your Highness," Dylan whispered, blinking sleepily up at him. Her vision was beginning to sparkle. She stared at the Elf holding her like a child, wondering why he hesitated. All he had to do was drop her off and she'd be out of his hair forever. Why did he look so worried?

"Dylan..." He began.

"I won't... tell anyone," she promised, with a flash of sudden insight. If she'd been any less exhausted and in pain, the mortal woman might've been a tad irritated. Hadn't she proved herself to this prince already? But then again, she knew the fey never trusted humans, and that it wasn't personal. "I promise, Nuada... I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that upon pain of death, I'll never willingly reveal you or your kind to your enemies. I swear that... I'll do what I've always... done - my best - to care for any Fae... I come across. Don't worry about that."

The Elf almost felt ashamed again.

Almost.

For a long moment, there was silence between them. Glacial eyes scanned Dylan's ashen face. Finally, all he said was, "I shall hold you to that."

"Goodbye, Your Highness. Please... please take care of yourself," the mortal mumbled, her eyes already turning upwards in the slide into unconsciousness.

The prince sprinted to an empty gurney. He heard the human healers talking about a "motor accident" and switching out equipment, but he ignored their talk and laid the bleeding, battered human on the bed. Scanning the sienna-tinged night around him, he spotted a few of the human healers heading toward him. They would reach him in less than a minute. They couldn't see him, shrouded as he was in darkness – only the quiet form on the gurney.

"Farewell, Dylan Myers," the Elven prince murmured, and slipped into the dark.

**.**

At 2:00 AM, almost ninety days since his sister's disappearance in the middle of December, John Myers' cell phone shrilled in the dark, wrenching the government agent from troubled sleep. He bolted upright with a jerk. Scrambling to turn off the alarm that wasn't there, he tumbled off the bed and crashed to the floor. He finally managed to catch the lamp chain and yank it. Where was his phone?

Under the bed! Grumbling under his breath, the young agent snagged the phone and managed to answer it on the sixth ring, right before it went to voicemail.

"John Myers."

For a moment, there was only the tinny sound of someone's voice coming through the speaker on his cell. John sat in stunned silence. It took him several throat clearings to ask, in a choked voice, "You found her? Is she okay?" He cleared his throat again. "Yes, I'll be right there. Yes. Twenty minutes."

He hung up on the receptionist at Saint Vincent's and ran to stuff his feet into his running shoes and grab his wallet and keys off the table by the front door of his apartment. He didn't care that he only wore his baggy, red Nintendo pajama bottoms and _Invader Zim_ t-shirt. So he was a nerd loser with bed hair. So what? Somehow, miraculously, his twin sister had popped up on a gurney outside of the Women's Center at the hospital after being missing for almost three months.

As John scurried out of his apartment toward the building parking lot, he punched his fist into the air and hastily dialed his Uncle Thaddeus.

**.**

Wink had begun to nod off in his large chair when the sound of leather boots treading on stone brought him fully awake. Lurching to his feet, the troll peered into the dark corridor leading from the crown prince's chambers to the rest of the subway.

"It is I, my friend," a familiar voice called. Wink relaxed when the Elven prince strode into the lair, only to stiffen again in shock at the sight and stink of human blood drying on the Elf's skin. "Do not fear," Nuada added. "I haven't been in battle. I've rid myself of the mortal woman." Seeing the dawning anger on the troll's face, the prince added, "I took her to the nearest mortal hospital. When I brought her out of the sanctuary her wounds reappeared. I'd suspected they might. Carrying her brought me into contact with her blood." Nuada sighed, a sound of utter weariness. "Scarcely can I stand the feel of it against my skin. I must bathe."

"Of course, my prince," Wink said, but Nuada didn't wait, merely strode past him. Was the prince limping? And why did his shoulders slump so, as if he carried the weight of the world upon them?

Nuada would've enjoyed a shower – one of the enchantments built into his various chambers scattered throughout the New York Underground created many beautiful, cascading waterfalls in the bathing chambers, and he could use magic to alter the temperature of some. Others had been created to simulate nature. These were bracingly cold, and fish swam in the pools the waterfalls splashed down into. The current lair only possessed the latter. The warrior knew his aching muscles wouldn't appreciate the chilly water.

The Elven prince slid into steaming water in a bathtub of black marble. Black marble walls loomed above him. The ceiling was made of the same dark stone. Everywhere, diamond chips lit from within by magic sparkled and danced, as if tiny stars glittered against the black velvet night. In the crystal-clear water, with a few black candles' flames burning like small suns, it was as if the warrior floated amidst the heavens.

Would the human survive? Nuada didn't know. Without the sanctuary's healing magic, she would've died that first night, even if he'd been in any shape to tend her wounds. He was no healer, no sorcerer. He was a warrior and a prince first, a craftsman second. He understood magic, could use it himself. He knew a bit of soothing magic and some _very_ basic flesh-shaping... but he didn't know how to heal others of such wounds as the ones Dylan had suffered. Perhaps he might send a healer to her at the hospital, one skilled enough to work the more powerful healing magics despite the poisonous metals and chemicals in the place. Surely he knew such a healer.

_Shades of Annwn, what am I thinking? _He demanded when he realized where his thoughts had gone_. What in the name of the gods is the matter with me? Thinking of sending one of my people into danger to help a human?_

But not just any human. This human had suffered so much when she'd done nothing but try to help his kind. Surely... but no. No, she was _still _just a human. There was nothing special about her, other than her care of the Wee Folk. Others over the centuries had done the same, though fewer and fewer as the years wore on. Still, it was nothing new.

_Yet such care she has taken... and such a price she's paid..._

Well, it was only what mortals owed the Folk anyway. After what humans had done to the world, raping it of life and beauty, ruining the earth itself so that none could survive easily there, they owed the Bright Ones much recompense for the damage done. Wars fought, countries ravaged, men slaughtered, women raped, children butchered, poisons spread. So the human woman understood the debt owed to the Fair Ones. All well and good. She knew her place. Mayhap she would teach that place to others.

_I hope, _he thought, surprising himself a little, _that she survives this night, and many others, that she may do so. And so she may keep the vow she gave me, to care for my people. We need such caretakers... for now._

Then he truly shocked himself by thinking, _Don't die, Dylan._ _Please._

**.**

She spent almost three weeks in the hospital. The first night was touch and go – she'd needed two blood transfusions – but by the next morning she'd been stable. They offered to fix her face – _pro bono_, apparently – but she refused. Dylan simply wanted to get out of the hospital that whispered of old memories and get back to her cottage as quickly as possible so she could hide.

Because of the sanctuary's magic, her injuries had mostly healed before reappearing. That healing made it look as if she'd been attacked, allowed to heal, and then attacked again. Since there was no way to explain that to modern medical science, Dylan didn't bother.

In the nineteen days spent trapped at the Women's Center, Dylan slept an average of three hours a night after that first horrible ten hours of morphine-induced oblivion. Three hours was barely long enough to pass into REM sleep for a few brief moments before being jerked back out by the throat from the throes of hellish nightmares. Always she dreamed of the men, the ones Nuada had called "human wolves." Dreamed they rose from the dead, torn and bloody, the decapitated one still headless. They never stopped trying to reach her, trying to pin her to the cold concrete and hurt her again. John slipped her Pepsi to help keep her awake. Sat with her those rare times she managed to sleep. Made sure the lights were bright and that he could comfort without scaring her when she woke in a cold sweat, throat raw from choking on screams.

Sometimes Anya and Joyce visited, but only briefly. She knew they were busy with their own lives and didn't even live in the city. Cards and flowers came from work, from the kids in her church Nursery class, from her special patients who possessed the Sight, from Donovan and Peabody. From Ariel, her secretary. From Kate, the changeling child whose sister Kaye was Dylan's friend and former boss. From Peri and Bean, the sidhe mother and son who lived near Dylan's cottage. From Joseph Pipkin and his group. Even from Doctor Hollis up in Psychiatrics, whom she'd gone to school with. The flowers helped combat the noxious smells of latex and disinfectant with the perfume of lilies and roses.

_Just like Nuada's sanctuary, _Dylan thought, and felt a measure of peace, and a sharp stab of grief. Had she made a mistake, leaving that place of safety? Should she have stayed? Stayed, where she would always be safe, where nothing could ever hurt her? Where Nuada would protect her? _I wish I could see him again, _she thought. _Just once. I... I miss him._

But of course, he never came.

Her sisters visited, though. Once, Dylan awoke from a nightmare of corpses ripping at her red satin dress to see Petra. Petra, usually so cool and reserved, clutching one of Dylan's hands between hers until it almost hurt. Silvery blue eyes met eyes filled with worry. A smile winged between the youngest Myers sister and the eldest. The nine Myers children rarely got along, but Dylan was glad to see her big sister at her bedside. They'd probably end up shrieking at each other like rabid cats a month from now, but it didn't matter. She drifted off again to the sound of Petra humming.

Once, the eleventh day spent behind glass walls and flimsy, white curtains, barred by the chrome rails around her hospital bed, she'd slept for a full ten hours, her body beaten into exhaustion from lack of sleep, inebriating pain medication, and her injuries. She'd dreamed of being chased through Central Park by wolves, heart pounding and screams trapped in her throat, rose thorns slicing her arms and legs as she ran... and of being rescued by a huge, white lion with black-rimmed, golden eyes.

After that, she managed to get five or six hours of sleep instead of only three. Sometimes she dreamed of the lion, and sometimes she dreamed of a huge, ivory-furred hound with bronze eyes that loped at her side and bared its teeth at the shambling demons in her nightmares. But she always woke exhausted despite the sleep.

She also got a bouquet of rainbow-colored carnations wrapped in crinkly, tacky pink foil. Cheap, like the ones the grocery stores sold for Mother's Day. Well, it _was_ nearly the end of February - probably a Valentine's Day leftover. Attached to the bouquet was a card that read "Get Well Soon" in sparkly pink letters on one side, surrounded by hearts. The words _We fixed your problem _in shoddy handwriting were scribbled on the other side. Dylan knew who it was from - Tito, one of her former patients, and the leader of the Rojos. Which meant the attack hadn't been sanctioned. She didn't have to worry about being attacked by them again.

That didn't really make her feel better.

**.**

Lt. Charlotte Peabody came to see her the same day the flowers from Tito arrived. The NYPD lieutenant took a chair at Dylan's bedside and propped her elbows on her knees. Moonlit blue eyes met eyes the color of autumn leaves. Peabody didn't speak. Just waited.

"I can't tell you what happened, Charlie," Dylan murmured.

"Why not? If Tito set it up, hon, you've gotta-"

"He didn't," the psychiatrist interrupted, eyeing the riot of rainbow carnations. "I thought he did, but he didn't. It wasn't sanctioned, and he took care of it. You know how Tito and the other leaders feel about me and the others I work with. Tito wouldn't have done this."

"Then who did?"

Dylan pushed at her hair and tried to only think about the tangles and knots in it, not about what she had to say to one of her oldest friends. She'd been young - twenty-one and in her final year of undergrad - when for her field studies, they'd paired up a young would-be psychiatrist with a young police officer and her senior partner to give both women some hands-on experience with the kids on the streets. One awful, horrible night of pain and grief and coming too late to save a child had cemented mutual respect and affection into a lasting friendship. Now that friendship was about to be tested.

"Members of the Rojos," she said. "Not sent by Tito. It was because I got Lisa into counseling and she decided not to join them. Someone took offense, rallied the Reds and sent them after me. They're..." _Dead,_ she was about to say, but stopped. Peabody was a cop. How to explain this without dividing her friend's loyalties? "Do you trust me, Charlotte?"

The psychiatrist _never_ called the police lieutenant "Charlotte," unless things were deadly serious.

There was no hesitation. Eight years of friendship and shared experience had Peabody saying, "Of course."

"Then..." She swallowed hard. Tried to block out the memory of screams and the glottal, wet sounds of men dying under a golem's rage. Fae justice. She knew it well. Instead she focused on the memory of feral gold eyes and the sound of Elven silver singing through the air as Nuada trained. "Trust me when I say that everyone who should be punished... everyone who's responsible... they've been taken care of. I can't tell you how. I can't, Charlie, I'm sorry. But no one is being put in danger by this. Those men will never hurt anyone again. I promise you that."

"Where have you been the last three months?"

"I can't tell you."

"Dylan-"

Blue eyes flashed as she struggled to sit up and look her friend dead in the eye. "Charlie, I can't tell you. I _won't_ tell you. Okay? I've been somewhere safe and the person there protected me and when I got hurt again they took me to the hospital. That's all I can tell you. Please don't press me. I can't tell you anymore than that. Please, Charlie. _Please._"

After a long, long moment, Peabody took Dylan's hand. Squeezed gently. "Do you remember the night you were brought in to talk to that girl? The streetwalker with the rainbow hair, d'you remember? Stormy, I think her name was. Two years ago. She'd killed a man. Shot him."

Dread and sorrow were a cold knot in Dylan's stomach. Where was Peabody going with this? "I remember."

"She got off on self-defense, do you remember? Because when you asked her why she'd shot the guy, she pulled out a picture of a little boy; the one they found at the crime scene, hiding behind the couch in her apartment. He was four years old. And she looked us both in the eye and said, 'I had to protect someone.' You remember that?"

_I have to protect someone, too,_ Dylan thought. Glacial topaz eyes and a prince's pride, a warrior's honor and a male's snarly stubbornness. Promises given and received on a gurney outside of Saint Vincent's Women's Center. _I have to protect Nuada. I promised him._

"I remember."

Starry blue locked with tawny autumn. They both remembered. They both understood that sometimes there was the letter of the law... and sometimes there was the spirit of it. And Peabody remembered that Dylan understood not only that there was both, but also when to trust in one, and when to trust in the other. So the lieutenant just squeezed her friend's hand again and left to make her report.

**.**

They let her go after giving her business cards for a very good trauma counselor and a five-star plastic surgeon. The minute her brother helped her into his car, she ripped both cards in half and tossed them into the plastic bag he kept hooked around his gear-shift for trash.

"You don't need a freaking plastic surgeon, anyway," John muttered as he pulled into the glacier-slow traffic. "You've never looked more beautiful."

"Makes me wonder what you thought about how I looked before," Dylan replied dryly, staring out the car window at the city. So much violence in that city. She knew that, knew that monsters both human and fae prowled those lonely but never-empty streets. Those monsters had finally managed to catch her in their sick grip again. She'd been lucky to escape. If it caught her, just one more time... would she be able to get away again? Would there be an Elven prince to save her again?

"I always felt lucky that the prettiest of my eight sisters happened to be my twin," John said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Always had a positive effect on my self-esteem. You're going to LDS Family Services for counseling, though, right?"

She nodded. Absently touched one of the sutured knife wounds on her face that pulled so harshly at her features. "Yeah, it's the best. I'll make an appointment sometime in the next couple weeks."

"Any plans to go back to work? I was thinking in a month or two... unless that's too soon," he added, glancing at her. The government agent couldn't gauge his sister's expression, and he wasn't picking up anything from her with the empathic bond they shared. It was nothing remarkable – sometimes he just knew things about her. Once she'd been about to get a swirly from a school bully, and six-year-old John had known something was wrong even though the teachers kept telling him that she'd only gone to the bathroom and she'd be back soon. But now...

"I was thinking of going into work in three days," she replied, though the thought filled her with sick dread. At his look, she added, "Tomorrow's Saturday. That'd be Monday."

"Right, right." But the half-smile curling the corner of her mouth eased some of his tension.

**.**

Dylan felt safe in church – up to a point – because of the crowds, the soothing balm of the music, and because she worked with little children for all but the very first hour. No one could even get close enough to hurt her, in the church building. She even managed to relax enough to visit with some of her casual friends. But outside of church, safety was a relative term.

She never got around to setting up that therapy appointment. Every time she thought to do it, the sudden slicing fear sent her racing to her room, where she'd curl up under her blankets and shiver, tears scalding her cheeks. She always tried to recapture that sense of safety from the underground sanctuary. It never came back.

Eventually John called for her. Visiting with the therapist at LDS Family Services should've terrified her, since Brother Kent was a man, but the moment she walked in, she'd felt almost safe. Maybe because she knew this man – he went to her church. She'd babysat his children.

But there was still that _almost_.

Work was easy, however, because there were three armed security guards outside her office at all times. She worked with a lot of high-risk teens, after all. She'd gone to undergrad school with two of the guards – a burly woman named Natasha, built like a football player, and a former female boxer named Karen. The third, a young Israeli woman named Ziva, had training in Krav Maga. Her personal secretary, Ariel, also had training as a kickboxer: another security blanket.

As the months dragged by and the mortal woman struggled to pull the pieces of her life back together – she started going to women's self-defense classes, and even went back to attending the medieval-style faires often held in Central Park – things began to return to normal. She spent time with her friends and worked with her Sight kids. Babysat for Peri and Kaye. Had a few visits from Renee, her Sight-gifted (and favorite) cousin. Practiced hymns on the piano and, when she had an hour to herself, sometimes just let her fingers glide over the keys and let emotion dictate what sound came out. She couldn't read music very well or play more than one note at a time, but the structureless music helped with the fear a little.

Her free time was also filled with working in her garden, mingling with the fae at the Floating Night Market when called by need or friendship. There was weekly physical therapy, which always left her drained. Twice-weekly, her doctor checked on the progress of her right knee, which had healed incorrectly and so gave her problems. Cortisone shots every few weeks helped a lot, especially when the weather was rough. So did the Vicodin the doctor put her on, but she refused to take the full dose. One pill was enough for her to deal with the pain; anymore made her twitchy and nervous.

Along with the medication, Dylan also got help from a young narasimha healer from the Night Market. While the injured knee would never heal completely, sessions with the healer, Lakshmi, helped ease even more of the pain and stiffness.

The fear was an ever-present shadow in Dylan's life... but with the things she learned in therapy, she ever so slowly learned to work around it. Faith had helped her maintain her sanity in the past. Faith, God, and her twin. Those things helped her now.

And always she thought of Nuada, longed for the peace of the sanctuary, and strove to keep the promise she'd made to him.

**.**

Once, she saw him. Or thought she did. At the Midsummer Faire, with Joyce and another of her casual friends, Anya. The world was kissed by the gloaming, and she remembered the almost-blueness of Nuada's skin under the decrepit fluorescents of the subway tunnels. Reminded of the fiery gold of his eyes when she looked at the burnished light of the sun's last caress of the horizon. Then a strange warmth bloomed in her chest. Awareness tingled at the nape of her neck. Her eyes flicked to the trees.

Moon-white skin. Eyes like molten gold set in darkness. Hair the color of spun starlight. The swirling silvery mist of barely-there glamour hiding him from human sight and Sight. But not _her_ Sight. Recognition hit her hard in the chest and she gasped. The constant gnawing fear, always kept banked but never gone, suddenly receded. He was _right there._ Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. The Elf that had saved her life in so many ways.

She wanted to break away from the humans milling around the faire. Slide between the twilit trees and run into the woods to him. Talk to him, ask him what he was doing so close to mortals, make sure he was taking care of himself. See for herself if that strained weariness remained in those feral eyes. After all, it had been more than four months since she'd seen him.

"Dylan! Come on! You don't wanna miss this!"

Startled, she glanced over her shoulder toward Anya and Joyce, who were waving her over. Realizing she'd let Nuada out of her sight - _and all he needs is a split second to completely disappear,_ Dylan thought with what might've been a sizzle of panic - she whirled back around to scan the trees.

Nothing. Gone. No amber eyes that had seen countless centuries. No shadowed mouth or armor like the darkness made tangible. Only empty woods.

"Darn it, Anya, you owe me for this," she muttered, trying to ignore the shards of disappointment and sorrow scraping inside her chest. Instead, she turned to her friends again and went back to the faire.

Yet despite the testament of her eyes - which, gifted by Sight and blessed by a fear-darrig's favor, should've been able to find Nuada amidst the glamour, if the Elven prince remained to be seen at all - Dylan couldn't ignore the feeling that someone was watching her. Studying her. The odd thing about _that_ was that the sensation didn't frighten her a bit.

In fact, the strange sense of safety she'd felt the moment she'd recognized the prince didn't go away for the rest of the evening.

**.**

New York City in late June wasn't as dark as the Elven prince would've preferred. Where the light of a thousand diamond stars once lit up the night with gentle ambiance, now the garish burning of streetlamps filled the dark. Headlights slashed the midnight blackness. Billboards and advertisements and all sorts of neon and electric lights drove away the fearsome night that the humans feared. A dark hatred filled Nuada's heart as the poisonous light of a passing Chevy truck washed over him. This was what mankind had done to everything they touched – corrupted it, erasing its natural beauty.

Nuada hid in the alleyway, full of garbage and debris, seething. Only rats, cockroaches, and stray cats dared to approach the predatory Elf. With a gentility never shown to the cruel mortals he encountered, the warrior reached down and scratched behind one kitten's ears. The little tom rubbed against his knee-high leather boot, purring.

What was the Elven prince doing here, aboveground, in the city full of foul, pitiful humans and their machines? Even as he stroked the purring beast, Nuada asked himself that very question. He had a destination in mind; of course he did. It would've been foolish to venture among his enemies without a plan – but was it worth it?

Sighing, Nuada slipped deeper into the welcoming shadows, ears pricked and eyes peeled, on the alert for any potential encounters with the humans. Refusing to argue with himself over his decision, the Elf walked onward, long strides towards the edges of the city, where the little parks dotted the landscape. Here the humans had shoved the natural world to the edges of their so-called civilizations, and it was there, nestled among these tiny green oasis, that he intended to go. When he finally reached that place, he sighed again.

_This is ridiculous, _he thought_. I'm not here to see _her_. Why should I hesitate? I wish only to test her word._

The little, old-fashioned house was rather quaint. Carved stone blocks, whitewashed wood and ceramic shingles made up the walls and the roof. Vernal ivy, climbing roses of every color, pale purple wisteria, and white honeysuckle heavy with syrup snaked up the walls, clinging like small children to their mother's skirt. Young fruit and elder trees stood guard at the garden gate and along the fence. Sweet fruit and fragrant flowers and spicy herbs ran wild and happy along the dark, rich soil of the garden. As soon as the Elf pass the little white wood and stone gate, the sweet air surrounded him, drowning out the stench of oil, steel, and pain from the vile human city.

In front of the door – a thick slab of granite on bronze hinges with a brass handle – on the stone step sat a silver bowl filled with creamy milk. Beside it on a ceramic plate lay a loaf of fresh, brown bread studded with nuts and dried fruit. The city pigeons and even the stray cats had already found the food, but others had found the offering as well. Exclaiming to each other in their lilting, chirping language, several young piskeys and a few homeless brownies scooped up tiny handfuls of milk and sipped daintily, not letting even the tiniest drop spill from their fingers.

What kind of human left gifts to the Wee Folk in this day and age? And in real silver and porcelain vessels, to avoid any possible contact with the burning lead and iron or noxious plastic that infiltrated nearly every part of the human cities? For some, like the brownies and piskeys, even touching those human metals could leave scorching burns or make the tiny fae ill. Other, stronger faeries could handle it, but were made uncomfortable. Still others merely found the contamination inconvenient. Only the rare bogle or a fae royal remained unaffected by iron and lead.

At his feet, two of his own piskeys – Iseult and Culhwch – scurried forward and peered in the large, arching window beside the front door. A shiver ran up Culhwch's spine, and Nuada knew something was amiss. He ran to their side, all doubts and irritation vanished like evanescent mist, and gazed beyond the un-curtained panes of glass... to the leanashe looming like a demon over Dylan and the tiny, bleeding beast in her arms.

Inside the prince, a struggle began.

A leanashe attacks a mortal, and what was he supposed to do? He wondered, but already knew the answer: nothing. The humans were the enemies of all fey races. The seductive faery woman was probably avenging a grievance. The leanashe were jealous, easily provoked. Someone like Dylan, knowing all she knew of the Pobel Vean, should've considered this. As wise in the ways of Faerie as the mortal woman claimed to be, no action of hers should've been able to anger one of his people.

The human was of course to blame.

_But Dylan... but she..._

The mortal who'd tended his wounds, nearly killing herself more than once to save his life, now lay in the grasp of a brutal death. This human had stitched his wounds while she bled nearly to death, ignoring her own pain to treat him. She'd braved his wrath to care for the infection brought on by lead- and iron-poisoning, despite his cruel attitude and cold manners. She'd even cleaned his sanctuary, ridding it of the stink of iron-laced blood staining the stone floor. As a child, Dylan had saved one of his people, doing what even some adults would consider too much for someone older and stronger than she'd been then. This human woman had been incarcerated and tortured at the behest of her own flesh and blood for her belief in and protectiveness towards the fae.

Was she truly to blame for the leanashe's wrath?

For the first time in his life, Prince Nuada, son of King Balor, couldn't decide what to do. If he allowed the human to be slain by this fey creature, it was no more than a human deserves. But not this human. Not Dylan, who had a heart of the Old World, without the predatory sins of most of the children of Adam.

Yet he couldn't attack a faery creature to save a mortal unless he knew for certain the faery was in the wrong. It went against everything Nuada believed in. The humans were the enemy of Faerie.

But to let Dylan die, when he could've saved her, after all that had happened... his honor rebelled.

_A prince without personal honor cannot hope to be an honorable ruler to his people, and a dishonorable prince brings shame to his kingdom._

Dylan's words floated back to him from the dregs of his memory. The prince of Bethmoora clenched his teeth and clenched his fist to keep from drawing his lance. He was a Child of the Earth, and a prince. If he used his power, he could enter this dwelling without invitation and save Dylan from the enraged creature trying to murder her. Then the leanashe would stop this stupid assault and he could resolve the problem.

Growling, "_oscailte,_" he kicked the door and the little stone slab slammed inward, startling the inhabitants within the cottage. The tiny, bleeding beast mewed plaintively. The mortal's eyes filled with a faint glimmer of hope... and a nearly overwhelming fear. As for the leanashe...

With a shrieking cry, the vengeful fey woman launched herself at Nuada, claws extended toward his eyes.

"Prince Nuada!"

He was, first and foremost, a warrior, and he was under attack. Nothing could ever change who and what he was. Thus, when the leanashe launched herself toward the son of the One-Armed King of Elfland, Nuada didn't even have to think about what to do. He merely reacted.

In a flash, his pale hand gripped the dark hilt of his lance. He ripped it from the scabbard on his back and unsheathed the glinting blade of star-bright metal. Twirling the pole weapon over his head, he dipped the spear tip and sliced the fey woman's shoulder as he stepped out of the way of her mad charge. She tripped and stumbled. Turning around, her dilated sea-green eyes raked the room for the Elf known as Silverlance. When they clapped on Nuada's wary, tense form, she lunged for him again.

"Stop!" Dylan's voice was tight with fear. It hauled on Nuada's focus, trying to realign it so that his attention was riveted on the terrified mortal. The human woman called to the furious leanashe, "He's the prince of Bethmoora! Stop! Don't hurt him!"

"Shut up, you human filth! I knew my lord was right! This... this _scum_ is a traitor to the denizens of twilight. His blood is _mine!_" The fey woman shrieked the word "mine" and launched herself like a hissing, spitting wildcat at the fey prince. Dodging, he brought up his lance and sliced the back of the creature's thigh, cutting the hamstring. She collapsed to the floor, wailing. Rolling over, she struggled to push herself at least semi-upright.

In an instant, Nuada's boot pressed down hard between her breasts, shoving her to the floor, his spear at her throat. Iseult and Culhwch chittered at the enraged faery on the floor. The leanashe shrieked and hissed at Nuada, but he simply ignored her and turned to Dylan. When he saw the rock clenched in her upraised fist, he couldn't prevent the smirk from stealing over his mouth or his eyebrow from quirking. If humans were only as fast as Elves, the mortal might've managed to brain the faery woman with her stone before Nuada could've restrained her.

Nuada nodded to Dylan, who dropped the rock to the floor and scooped the bleeding beast – the Elf saw it was a small mewing kitten, its eyes barely open for more than a week or two – into her arms.

"Are you injured?" Nuada demanded.

The human woman said softly, "Nothing that won't heal in a couple of days. And Bat's fine. He tore out a couple claws attacking... her," Dylan indicated the fey creature with a nod. "That's why he's bleeding a bit. But they'll grow back. He's young and healthy. Are you hurt, Your Highness?" Her eyes skimmed him from head to foot, looking for any injury he might try to hide from her. But she saw nothing.

"I am unharmed. Now," Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance snarled, looking down at the leanashe. He'd expected the mortal's inquiry into his status. So that she would have no excuse to henpeck him, he'd done his best to remain unharmed. "You, wretch. Why have you attacked me? Twice this mortal identified me. You even acknowledged that you knew me. Why did you persist in your attack?"

The leanashe did her best to spit on his foot. Then she hawked a gob of thick, snotty saliva onto the polished wooden floor.

"How... why... ugh!" Dylan sputters. "Why do people _do _that? Now I have to wash that. What is your _problem?"_

"Prince Nuada is a traitor to Bethmoora and all the Twilight Kingdoms." To the Elf, she snarled, "I wanted to kill you and the creature you betray our kind with. How dare you take a mortal into your bed? It's no better than rutting with an animal!"

For a long, tense, still moment, the Elven warrior wondered what it would feel like to plunge his lance into the leanashe's belly and pin her to the floor like an insect, watching her writhe as she died. He, the Silverlance, bed a human? _Disgusting_. Eyes of glacial bronze tinged blood-red with fury stabbed into the fey woman's face, trapping her gaze. The leanashe saw the hatred overflowing in Nuada's heart. Rage etched lines of darkness and death across his white face. Black lips like dead flesh pressed together, and the faery woman knew the prince struggled against the vile curses waiting to gush forth. Fear slithered into her belly. He would kill her if she pushed him further.

"Who has been saying these things?" The prince of Bethmoora demanded at last. Dylan shivered and held the tiny black kitten a little tighter. She'd only heard Nuada speak so once before – to the men that had attacked and raped her. And _they_ were all dead.

"That's a secret I shall take to the grave," the leanashe spat at him.

"Very well," the Silverlance growled, and raised his spear high to plunge it into the faery creature. He began to thrust downward, when –

"Nuada, no, please! _Please!"_

The prince tensed, the spear halting less than a hair's breadth from the leanashe's chest. Snarling under his breath, Nuada slid his eyes – darkened by hate and rage to sanguine red – to glare at the mortal standing with a kitten in one hand, an upraised stone back in the other. How dare she? How dare she try to stop him from dealing out justice? From defending his honor? Fury simmered in his veins, infusing like poison into his body. His grip on the black-handled lance tightened until his knuckles were bleached the color of bones. He would teach her. He would show this mortal that no human could command Nuada Silverlance-

"Please..." The mortal whispered, eyes beseeching. "Don't kill her. You can't."

"I can," Nuada growled through clenched teeth. "Can, and will. And if you stand in my way, then _you _will die as well."

"Fine," Dylan snapped, setting the kitten down behind her on the floor. Dropping the rock, she stepped as close to the Elven warrior as she dared with the leanashe still lying on her floor. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she couldn't. This was _wrong_. She could feel that, deep inside. If they did this, it would come back to bite them. So despite the fear, she forced herself to challenge the prince. "Then kill me. But that won't change the fact that killing her is wrong, Your Highness."

"She tried to kill you! Are you mad?"

"Maybe." The mortal crossed her arms over her chest. Inside, she just wanted to run into her room and crawl into her closet and hide, but... but... "But shouldn't she be tried for her crime instead of just... just murdered?"

"It wouldn't _be _murder, Dylan. It would be protecting ourselves. You're a human. In the eyes of the Fair Folk, she's committed no crime. In fact, by defending you, it is _I_ who've committed the crime – fighting a fey in defense of a mortal without proof that the faerie was in the wrong. They could drag me back from my exile to have me punished, perhaps even executed for such. Will you condemn me to that?"

The mortal locked eyes with the Elven prince for a long moment. In that instant, something was decided. Nuada nodded once, and Dylan turned to the leanashe pinned to the floor by Nuada's boot.

"Make a choice," Dylan said. She felt sick. What would the creature do? If she chose wrongly... what was the right thing to do? To kill, or not to kill? In battle, that choice was clear. But this wasn't battle. What was right? "Return to your master with a failure, but swearing on the living Darkness not to mention the prince was here tonight, or die by the prince's hand."

The fey woman stared at the mortal in front of her, astonished and a little disturbed. This was the woman who, if her master was right, was the mistress of the crown prince. This mortal, who gave her the choice between a hard, brutal death and an easy one, though she didn't know it. Hate and astonishment filled the leanashe's heart. But more than anything, hatred.

The leanashe made her choice.

Dylan closed her eyes until the fey was gone, and all that remained was Prince Nuada, watching her.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So I realized there was this huge four-month gap and it's like... okay, what's she been doing all this time? We know what Nuada has been doing: training, sometimes sleeping, and trying to find the Golden Crown piece. But what about Dylan? Back to work? Into therapy? Did she have trouble at the hospital? What? So I tried to incorporate that here. You know I love reviews, so make me happy!_

_Also, a __**CHALLENGE!**_ _I would like all my devoted readers to write a double-ficlet, one from Nuada's POV and one from Dylan's POV, set during the time in this chapter where they don't see each other. I want to read them so bad! So let's do it, yeah? Just put "Once Upon a Time Shorts Contest #1" in the summary. I want to see! Pwease?_

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_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _ The leanashe is an ancient Irish mythical monster. Variations of the name include dearg-du, dearg-dul, leannan sidhe, and leansídhe. In Ireland, the leanashe is said to be the muse of poets, bards, and other artists. In exchange for her inspiration, she slowly drains away the artist's life. It is said that those inspired by the leanashe live brilliant, though fairly short, lives. Amy Brown has a picture of the leannan sidhe in her book_ The Art of Amy Brown _(book 1)._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Moontime is the politest, least disgusting term I've ever read for menstruation. It's from _The Black Jewels _by Anne Bishop.

- Deseret Industries is a real-life charity organization much like Good Will.

- A golem (pronounce Goh-Lemm, not to be confused with Gollum, is a stone, clay, earth, or mud elemental from Jewish mysticism, inscribed with a Hebrew symbol that will bring it to life. I expect it was one of those "in case of a pogrom (holocaust), wake this up" type deals in their fairy tale collection.

- Rutting is a word for having sex. It's considered insulting when applied to a man, because it's usually applied to animals, like pigs.

- Nuada leaving Dylan on the gurney in front of the hospital is inspired by one of my favorite episodes of _Gargoyles _(an episode that shows you why you are _**not**_ supposed to play with guns).

- The visual imagery of Nuada as a white lion comes from _Jim Henson's The Storyteller_, in the episode "The White Lion." Originally Nuada kind of reminded me of a sexy, fur-less Puss in Boots (go ahead and laugh) but the dream sequence (not included here) was very similar to Belle in _Beauty and the Beast_ running from the wolves through the woods and being rescued by the Beast. Nuada as a lion fit way better.

- LDS Family Services is a global social service network that deals with all kinds of therapies as well as adoption and family counseling.

- People actually used to leave cream/milk and bread or other treats for faeries.

- The bowl is silver because plastics and certain metals can make Wee Folk ill.

- Piskeys are a type of pixie from Cornwall (pixies themselves being English).

- Iseult is the original version of Isolde (as in _Tristan and Isolde_). The story of _Tristan & Iseult _is set in Cornwall. As the piskeys are Cornish, I figured it's a good name for a female piskey.

- Culhwch in mythology is the son of Cilydd ap Celyddon and Goleuddydd; he's cousin of Arthur Pendragon and the protagonist of _Culhwch and Olwen_ (the earliest of the medieval Welsh tales usually, but erroneously, referred to collectively as _The Mabinogion_). It was a sufficiently alien name (not to mention Welsh, which the Cornish often employ) for the other piskey.

- The Twilight Realm is another name for the world of Faerie.

- _Pobel Vean_ means "little people" in Cornwall. Another name for faeries.

- "Puttock" is a word from medieval times that means "slut."

- The kitten, Bat, is a cameo from one of my favorite stories as a kid, "A Puma and a Panther." I can't remember who it's by, but it's in the anthology _Catfantastic II_. The so-called "puma" is named Pumpkin and the "panther" is named Bat.


	9. Book 2 Cheese, Apple, Bread

_**Author's Note:**__ Enjoy the chapter! Love you all!_

**Chapter Nine**  
**Cheese, Apple, Bread**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Visitations, Beliefs, and Stories**

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"What are you _doing_here?" Dylan whispered, taking in the prince in his dark green silks and brown leather belt, vambraces and boots. When topaz eyes widened, dusty gold brows lifting, the mortal hastened to add, struggling for Old World formality, "I mean... I'm honored by your presence, Your Highness." She dipped a curtsy, made awkward by the bundle of mewing fur twining between her legs and the twinge of pain in her right knee. "But I had no reason to look for your coming. Why have you come?" She paused, swallowed. "Am I to die, then?"

If she was, then all right. She didn't fear death, only the pain that invariably came with it; but the Elven warrior would make her death quick and painless – his honor demanded that much. Then she wouldn't be trapped in this world anymore. The pains and sorrows of mortality would be gone, and she wouldn't have to be afraid anymore.

"If I intended to kill you," Nuada said coolly, "I would've simply allowed the leanashe to do it for me. Why do you think I would slay you? Have you broken your promise to me?"

Dylan opened her mouth, ready to bite off some snippy remark – hadn't he learned yet that she was trustworthy? Why had he let her live these past four months, if he didn't trust her? – when she saw the faint smile curving one corner of his black-lipped mouth. And his eyes... they weren't bronze with fury anymore, but pale as yellow diamonds. Could it be... that the son of King Balor was jesting with her? She tried to remember the months in his subterranean sanctuary while they'd both recovered from their injuries. Had the Elven prince ever cracked a real smile (one that didn't involve him mocking her)? Not that she could remember.

"You know I haven't," she said, hiding her bewilderment behind civility and a blank face. "Anyway, you're welcome in my home, Your Highness. Sit, please."

Nuada sank gracefully into a large, brown leather armchair as the human woman who continued to baffle him put another log on the fireplace and sank onto a cushioned stool near the hearth. Automatically, Dylan had mimicked the positions she and the prince had often found themselves in during their time in the sanctuary – he in a chair, she practically at his feet. Before it hadn't bothered him, but now it made him uncomfortable. She wasn't a servant. She wasn't his equal by any stretch – she was human, with burning iron in her blood and a hole in her heart that nothing would ever be able to fill – but Dylan Myers was no one's servant.

"How... have you fared, since last we met?" He asked awkwardly.

Dylan smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been well, thank you." She made a point to speak politely, faintly imitating Nuada's speech patterns. Things were different, now that she was no longer his healer and he no longer her patient. She wasn't comfortable around him, not at all. What surprised her, though, was that although he made her nervous, he didn't frighten her in any way. "My wounds have all healed," the mortal woman continued. "I have to walk with a cane during cold or wet days, though."

The Elven prince frowned. "A cane?" His eyes registered the new calluses on her palms, then darted to the gleaming wooden cane leaning against the hearth stones. "Why?"

"I broke my patella – my kneecap." Dylan frowned, chewed her lip, not meeting the glacial amber eyes of the crown prince of Bethmoora. "I sort of remember falling – I tripped and smashed my knee into the pavement. It hurt, but it didn't _feel_ broken. Of course, I'd never broken a joint before," she added wryly, making a face. "So what would I know?"

"You've broken other bones," he said. It wasn't a question. His eyes roved over her face, a trifle pale as memories of the night they'd met tried to surface. The human sank her teeth into her bottom lip and nodded.

After a moment, she continued, voice trembling and slightly raspy, "It was just a hairline fracture, but the way it healed after I left your sanctuary means it will pain me in bad weather and it's really stiff when I sit in the same position for too long. And apparently stairs are my new worst enemy," she added with a slight smile.

"Willow bark tea will help with the pain," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I use it when..." Realizing what he'd been about to say, he stopped abruptly and looked away from her, into the fire. This human, so fey-like in her emotions, in her compassion for others, was dangerous. He had to remember that. She'd helped him, saved his life on multiple occasions, cared for him in his illness, and they were allies – of a sort. That didn't make them friends.

Still... it was such a small thing to tell her...

"Yes?" Dylan murmured, tilting her head to the side. Several dark curls fell across her face, hiding her expression but revealing her brilliant blue eyes. The paleness of her skin was stark against the darkness of her brown hair, even in the golden firelight. "You use it when?"

"When my arm aches during snow storms. I took a barbed arrow through it when I was young."

If she'd offered pity – pity from a _human!_ Revolting! – he might've forgotten the history between them and attacked her. However, she merely stroked the little black kitten cradled in her arms and said softly, voice companionable, "That must've been very painful, Your Highness."

He shrugged, disliking the sense of comradeship tugging at him. Nuada had only come to check that Dylan kept her promise to him to aid the Fair Folk of New York City. Seeing the vicious leanashe ready to slaughter the human who'd proved herself more honorable than – bitter, sickening thought – some Elves he knew, such as Eamonn, had turned the reconnaissance foray into a rescue mission and social visit.

Faery law was very definite on politeness. Dylan had offered him a chair – he had to take it. And now that he'd sunk into the thing and propped his boots on the velvet-covered footstool in front of it, his muscles – sore from weapons' training, tired and worn from the very last vestiges of illness – told him in no uncertain terms that if he attempted to rise anytime soon, they would be unhappy.

"Warriors suffer many such wounds," he said, frowning into the fire. The Elven prince didn't wish to look at Dylan, at the expressive blue eyes that reminded him of those nights when she'd woken in the underground sanctuary, sobs stifled to hide her fear from him. He didn't wish to see the fire dancing in her eyes. He frowned more fiercely. "It is the way of things."

"A-are you thirsty?" A sliver of old fear pierced her heart when she saw the way Nuada's eyes had darkened to bronze as he stared into the fire. "H-h-hungry? I have fresh apples from the tree in my garden, and cheese from the Farmer's Market. I have somewhat fresh milk, too – it's only from this morning –and I made bread when I got home from..."

She'd been about to say "my therapy appointment," but let the thought trail away instead. The mortal knew there was nothing wrong with needing therapy – she was still plagued by hellish nightmares of the attack on the nights when no slumber-fae stayed beneath her roof. Despite the semi-weekly visits from the local Wee Winks to give her sweet dreams (and a few bakū from the East Village to eat her nightmares), there'd yet to be an end to the new night terrors, and the old ones that stank of childhood memory had never been eradicated.

And she never took the subway anymore. Her brother drove her around, or Ariel, her private secretary, did. The smell of disinfectant always made the mortal sick now, after her stay in the hospital. Any sort of cleaning solution did, so she'd bought potted roses and lilies and scattered them throughout the cottage to remind herself of the smell of the fayre sanctuary. She'd had new bronze and brass bolts put on the heavy granite front door, but that still didn't ease the feeling of being hunted, stalked. Her counselor had used words like "shell-shocked" and "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Words that, as a youth psychiatrist, she was familiar with.

Of course she needed therapy. Dylan knew the only reason she hadn't run back to find Nuada after enduring her days in the hospital was the strength she'd gained from relying very heavily on her faith.

And, she reminded herself with a slight inward smile as brittle as glass, because she didn't remember where the sanctuary actually _was_. And because trying to get there would have taken her through the concrete labyrinth beneath the city, and the wolves would have... would have...

"Bring the apples and the cheese," Nuada said, breaking through the thin shell of fear. One glance at his pale eyes and the wisps of panic vanished like mist on the breeze as memories of where she was and who she was with returned. The Elven prince continued, "I will show you... something. Bring the bread, as well. I... have brought drink to share with you." That wasn't entirely accurate; he'd planned on bringing the stuff back to his underground lair, not sharing it with a human. But as his father often said, it was dull to eat without drinking, or vice-versa. "Bring two cups."

Surprised, Dylan went into the kitchen to get a pair of polished wooden cups, the small basket of apples, the wheel of sharp cheddar cheese in its little cloth sack, and the small loaves of bread she'd made to give the local Wee Folk. Since nursing the demi-merrow back to health as a child, she'd always done her best to leave milk and bread for the Faerie Folk whenever possible, as organic and lacking in chemicals as she could manage. She knew from experience that the bread would be fine. The "lesser" Fae couldn't handle as much contact with "human metals" and chemicals as a fayre like Nuada could. She hoped the apples and cheese would do, as well.

The human woman carried everything back into the living room and stared at Nuada seated in front of the hearth on her handmade, red and gold rag-rug. A small bottle sat on the floor beside him. When he saw her staring, the prince gestured imperiously for her to sit on the floor across from him. He plucked an apple from the basket and pulled out a small knife from the leather belt at his waist, which he used to cut a slice from the shiny red fruit.

A frisson of fear slithered up Dylan's spine as the light glinted off the blade – _phantom pain burning across her face, a pain-bright edge slicing repeatedly across her unprotected mouth_ – but then the crown prince of Bethmoora proceeded to show a mortal woman how to make roasted apple and cheese sandwiches. The crackling fire, the cadence of an Elven voice, and the sheer nonthreatening quality of his movements calmed her suddenly-racing heart.

Dylan fought to hide her surprise as Nuada explained what to do. While in his subterranean sanctuary, she and Nuada had shared meals often enough, but usually in absolute silence and with no real interaction. She'd often eaten seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, while he'd lounged in the chair. The current meal was mostly silent, punctuated only by brief comments from the taciturn prince, yet the feel of the situation was different. That tiny curve of the mouth had returned to Nuada's face, and he was much closer to her than he'd ever been before, except when she'd been doctoring his wounds... or that first full night, long ago, when he'd pushed her hair aside to witness for himself the grief and pain reflected in her eyes.

The human took a bite of the sandwich. She'd never had cheese and apple slices together before, but surprisingly, the sharp cheddar went well with the crisp, sweet apples. And the wheat bread was just the right neutral flavor to blend the two. The mortal made a small sound of surprise, glancing up at Nuada.

"It's good," she mumbled behind the hand covering her half-full mouth.

"Give me your cup." He poured a very small amount of golden liquid into the wooden vessel. Dylan brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled sweet and sparkling-crisp, like freshly-pressed apple juice, but...

"This isn't alcoholic, is it, Your Highness? Or enchanted?"

Nuada shook his head, though she could tell he was puzzled. Dylan only shrugged in a silent _bottoms' up_ gesture, and took a sip, smiling when the delicious liquid flowed across her tongue and made her taste buds tingle. It was like swallowing down the moon, or melting into the ocean surf at dawn. The life essence of spring, the warmth of summer, the sweet spice of autumn and the sharpness of winter. Life and magic and joy.

"Wow. That stuff is... wow." She realized she felt giddy and blinked. "Sure that stuff's not alcoholic?"

"It isn't; humans may drink it. There's a brownie in your cottage," the Elven prince said suddenly. He'd realized the place where the leanashe had spit on the floor was shiny and clean again. Not only that, but his boot had somehow been polished while he was unaware.

Dylan jolted in surprise and scanned her home. "There is?" She cried, her eyes darting to potential hidey-holes. "Where?"

"He hides from you; he knows you've the Sight. But this cottage is one of the few places the Fair Folk can come and live comfortably." Nuada nodded toward the brass kettle on the hob and then gestured around the living room. Not a scrap of iron, lead or steel to be found in the place. All of her fixtures were brass, copper, bronze or silver. She'd done it on purpose, the prince knew, to make a sanctuary for the Tylwyth Teg and their ilk. The walls (and he suspect the foundation) were not concrete, but actual quarried granite held together with mortar. The pipes in the walls were copper and brass. Even the nails he'd spotted in the timbers of the ceiling were made of brass, titanium, and hardened wood instead of iron.

It was just like her to live in a place like this.

He smelled no cleaning chemicals, only the sharp undertaste of vinegar on the air that only a preternatural nose would pick up, masked as it was by the spice of herbs and the perfume of roses and lilies. Did she use vinegar to clean? Most humans would've found the scent unpleasant, but it only served to remind him how this extraordinary mortal had dedicated her life to helping the Bright Ones.

For the first time since meeting her, the prince considered Dylan's fate when he discovered the location of the third Golden Crown piece and brought the Golden Army to life. Would he go out of his way to keep her safe from them? And she spoke fondly of her twin brother. Nuada knew what it was, to live without the constant contact from your other half. He didn't know if his sanity would hold, if Nuala were ever slain. Their bond was such that it seemed unlikely. And that was if he didn't die himself. What would her brother's death in the coming war do to the human who had saved him?

He could not afford to think about that now. His people needed to be freed of mortal oppression. Even his alliance with Dylan, forged out of desperation, honor, and mutual need, paled dramatically in comparison to the importance of waging war on humanity to free the Fayre before it was too late to salvage his people's lives. If he saved two humans, two who had done all in their power to help his people...

Even considering the idea surprised him. He owed Dylan's brother – John, she'd called him – nothing at all. But he owed the mortal woman seated beside him, munching an apple and cheese sandwich and sipping Elven drink. She'd saved him over and over again, had tried to save him tonight from the leanashe. Her, he would not allow to die.

But what of her brother? Would his death drive her mad? And what of her sisters?

"I suppose I'm lucky mo duinne didn't try to take my eye out," Dylan said, breaking him from his dark thoughts.

He arched one slender eyebrow at her. _Mo duinne,_ she'd said. "You know that story, then? And where did you learn the Old Tongue?"

"Gaelic?" The human shrugged. "High school and college. In order to get into a university, I had to take two years of a foreign language. I was still in the institution at the time, but it was state law that they had to educate us (if we 'behaved,' which by then I did, usually). One of the teachers they brought in had studied Irish history, specifically, and the Gaelic culture, and taught me the language." She shrugged again. "My parents were certain I'd never master it enough to pass the final exams, so they made me take Spanish, too, but I just couldn't get the hang of Spanish for some reason. I flunked that horribly and passed Gaelic. It's been quite useful in dealing with a lot of the Folk," she added, "which was one reason I wanted to take it. When I got out of the institution and went to college, they offered Gaelic, and in order to get into medical school, I needed a four-year degree, which also required two years of a language. I ended up minoring in Gaelic culture and mythology."

"Minoring?" Nuada asked, his mind buzzing with the strange words. Before his moons-long stay with Dylan in his subterranean sanctuary, he would've balked at showing any possible indication of ignorance to a human. Now, he munched an apple and waited for her explanation. The prince didn't realize, but Dylan did, that this meant he actually trusted her – a little bit, at any rate.

"In college, the main thing you study is called your major. For me, it was psychology – how the mind works – and medicine, so I could be a psychiatrist. You're also supposed to study something else, though not as much, and that's called your minor. So I mainly studied to be a psychiatrist – a healer of the mind and heart – and to keep from going crazy myself, I studied the culture and language of Gaelic Ireland and Scotland, so I could learn more about your people." Smiling now, her expression wistful, Dylan added, "I never wanted to forget the Fair Folk, or what they'd done for me, what they'd shown me and taught me. Your people have enriched my life in so many wonderful ways, my prince. It's the least I can do."

And she'd never wanted anyone to experience the things she had - being locked up, tortured, slowly poisoned over more than a decade because she Saw things others never could. Fairies. Faeries. The fae. That was why she'd decided to become a psychiatrist; so she could prevent such a thing.

Even with that drive, even with the help of the Hidden Folk in return for her help, she wouldn't have been able to do it, wouldn't have been able to maintain a grip on her sanity and not only survive, but thrive, if not for five things: sheer desperation, the fact that her twin brother needed her when she got out of the institution more than she'd ever needed him while inside it; government aid in getting through eight years of school in seven and getting a job at an already-established practice, not to mention putting her cottage together, because she was John's sister and John was their golden boy for what he'd managed to do at only twelve years old; help from her Uncle Thaddeus when things go desperate; and lastly (but most importantly), relying on Heavenly Father's aid to get her through the grief and pain and fear and that one hellish year...

Remembering where she was, her smile became rueful and she rubbed a spot under her chin as she added, "And yes, Your Highness, I know the story. 'Which eye gives ye sight o' me, human?'" Dylan intoned, her voice dropping an octave. Nuada glanced at her sharply, realizing she'd heard the question before, because she'd mimicked a fear-darrig's Scottish brogue almost exactly. Her next words confirmed it. "I've _lived_that story."

For a fleeting moment, Nuada thought about giving her the mark of Bethmoora – a small thing, visible to any fae. The peaceful Eildon tree, Bethmoora's crest in peacetime, it would shine through mud, paint, cosmetics, blood, or any other earthly cover-up, visible only to the Bright Ones and those mortals with the Sight. It could only be given or removed by magic, by one of royal blood. If he gave her that mark, she wouldn't have to worry about having her eyes plucked out, or being blinded by the swipe of claw or talon, for having the Sight.

She'd seen a fear-darrig. How had she survived such an encounter with the fearsome Scottish bogle?

But no, he thought, watching the way she moved to follow his example with more apples, cheese and bread. No, she was mortal. While he didn't feel the choking revulsion he once had in her presence, it didn't change the fact that Dylan had iron in her blood. He wouldn't give a _human_ a mark of safety. As one who had lived with the Sight for nearly thirty years, she could take care of herself.

_Take care of herself..._

Had she killed the bogle? It would've been in self-defense, perhaps, and a very one-sided fight, but... Fury rippled through him at the thought of any human laying malicious hand on one of his people, much less slaying it.

"How did you escape the fear-darrig?" He asked coldly, watching for signs of deceit. Would she lie to him? If she did, would he know? The crown prince of Bethmoora didn't understand why, but the idea of pulling the information from the mortal woman's mind didn't sit well with him.

"May I please tell you another time?" Dylan whispered, staring into the fire with sightless eyes. He could tell from her voice and gaze that she was no longer in the cottage with him; her mind had wandered back through memory to the meeting with the bloodthirsty fear-darrig. She rubbed at the strange, pale scar at the top of her throat, as if stroking a protective talisman. "It's a rather long tale, and, if it pleases you, Your Highness, I don't want to tell it tonight. It was pretty awful. If you truly wish it, I would of course be honored to tell you the story, but I fear the words weigh heavily on my heart along with my weariness. I didn't kill him, but the story is difficult for me."

The Elven prince stared at her, marveling. She had the tongue of a courtier! Where had she learned to speak with such courtesy, picking her words the way jewelers picked precious stones? He remembered what she'd said about honor, back in the underground haven, and how he'd wondered where she'd learned such wisdom, such slyness, how to twist her words into such complicated knots. Now, he stared at this human, feeling a buzz of irritation and puzzlement as she deftly evaded answering his question.

Yet, he also remembered a human, _this_ human, waking in the dark, her fear so great it threatened to choke them both, as the dregs of nightmares rolled away from her mind and she pulled herself back to reality. The absolute terror in her eyes had left him stricken. That fear had dragged memories of Nuala, watching as a little girl as their mother was raped to death, into the forefront of his mind. He didn't want to taste that fear ever again.

"Some other night, then," he said gruffly.

"Thank you," Dylan murmured. Bright blue eyes flicked to his face, scanning his expression, before darting back to the flames. After several moments of heavy silence, she asked suddenly, "What can I do... to make the brownie come out?"

"You would force him?" The crown prince of Bethmoora demanded, glaring with eyes like amber ice from black sockets. The heat of molten bronze began creeping in at the edges of his eyes, but Dylan didn't flinch away from his ire, merely shook her head.

"I don't want anything to be afraid of me. I would never harm mo duinne," she added softly. "I don't want him to feel like he can't show himself."

_Mo duinne_, she'd said again. Gaelic for "my brown one." He'd only needed to tell her the brownie had attached himself to her home, and she'd taken the little fey into her heart. He shook his head. She was mortal, he could smell that sharp tang of human metals from the blood in her veins, but she didn't behave the way humans did. She was kind – he'd seen the bowl of fresh and the still-warm loaf of bread on her porch steps. What mortal thought to leave sustenance for the Little People in this day and age? And in the city, full of burning metal and noxious gas!

"Why do you live here?" He demanded suddenly.

She blinked, startled. "Pardon?"

"You've settled yourself in the one speck of nearly-pure land in the middle of this filth-ridden mortal city, creating a haven for those who fear the touch of iron and smog." He shook his head. It wasn't admiration – not for a human – but it held incredulity and exasperation in equal measure. "Why? Why settle here, in this gods-forsaken city of mortal filth?"

The smile the mortal woman gave the crown prince was sad, so very sad. He'd seen sorrow that deep before, of course – on the faces of dryads who knew the human poisons were killing their trees, on the nymphs whose waters were slowly fouled by toxins, on his sister and father as their people were thrust further and further into twilight and death. Where did such sorrow come from in a human?

"I moved here as soon as I finished college, so I could build this place, because I know the Gentry are running out of space, if they're not out of room already. Humanity has pushed them to the very edges, cracks, and crannies of the world. They need a safe place, at least the small ones. I'm sure something like a fragglewump can take care of itself," she added, smiling crookedly, and Nuada remembered what he'd thought of Dylan only minutes before: _she can take care of herself_. Did the human envy the Fayre who were strong enough to care for themselves?

"I know a lot of fae adapt to the iron of the cities. But the small ones," she continued, "the Wee Folk, like mo duinne, and the others who come to my door for milk and honey-baked bread, for porridge and cream... they're the only ones who can fit in such a small space as this. They're the ones who can't survive this city unless they can find a place to regain their strength. I try to provide such a place. Too many of your people have already faded from this world."

He shook his head again. "Are you certain you're mortal?"

She laughed. It wasn't shrill, like the cackling he heard from many mortals, or tinged with hysteria, as her past laughter beneath the subway had been. He realized with a start that he'd never heard Dylan laugh this way before.

"I might have a trace of Faerie blood from a bazillion generations ago – probably lots of people do, from before humans were all such dunderheads," the mortal woman added, smiling wider, "but for all intents and purposes, my prince, I'm human. I'll even be totally honest and tell you not all my food is natural. I'm a slave to this gorgeous tomato bisque they serve at this restaurant about ten minutes away. It's my favorite food. And I adore French toast with powdered sugar and strawberry syrup."

"Really? Tomato bisque?" He understood that, though "French toast" eluded him. Toast made in France? Did they do it in some special way?

"Yeah. Sorry. Even I'll eat processed junk, though not often. Once or twice a month, maybe. Usually ice cream when I'm depressed. I'm definitely human." Dylan sighed, frowning. "I'm not even psychic. At least..."

"Yes?"

"There's a slight connection to my twin brother, John." Dylan noticed Nuada stiffen, and fought her own reaction of flinching away from him. She ought to trust him by now. The blond warrior wouldn't hurt her, especially for such an innocuous comment. Even if he had a fiery hatred of the name John, he wouldn't hurt her. Ignoring the sudden intensity in Nuada's eyes, she went on, "Once, he fractured his skull and I got a headache, but it wasn't a migraine or anything. The same thing happened to me later, and he got a headache. And I found out after I... after those men... those wolves..."

She trailed off as memory rose up, dark and threatening, teeth bared and ready to sink into her jugular. She drew a swift, sharp breath.

Nuada saw her eyes go glassy, saw her sight turn inward, away from the safety of the present and back to the agony of that night in the empty subway. Her breathing went shallow, her chest barely rising with each ragged breath.

Bile rose in the prince's throat, but he swallowed it down and said, softly, "After you met me. After you saved us." It galled him to remember he'd been rescued by a human, but he knew the words were exactly what Dylan needed, and the horrified and horrifying expression on her face sickened him.

She shook herself, gasped once, and her breathing picked up again. The color returned to her cheeks. She nodded, slowly at first, then more decisively. "Yes... yes. After you saved me," she said. He noticed she put the weight of heroism on his shoulders, as if she'd done nothing that night. "I found out that John had suffered muscle cramps and fatigue while I healed. But it's nothing... nothing strong, usually. It's not quantifiable. We can't read each other's thoughts or find each other when one of us is missing. I failed all the tests my parents put me through."

"Tests?"

"Some humans test their children for psychic ability. My theory is, mortals all have a bit of a telepathic connection to each other – hence why we have things like mob mentality. I studied the idea of a general race consciousness while I was in college."

Nuada stared at her. The Fair Folk had such a thing, a subtle linked consciousness, but humans? He'd never considered that perhaps humanity's racial cruelty and darkness might stem from this "mob mentality" Dylan spoke of. Could it be something in their blood that made mortals so vicious? Then what of humans like Dylan? Were they not part of this mentality? Perhaps there were other mortals like this strange human, who somehow managed to slip the shackles of the racial consciousness of humankind and save themselves from the holes often found in mortal hearts. Maybe such humans could be manipulated into fixing up pieces of the world now, before he woke the Golden Army. Save the Fair Folk from having to wade through so much filth and refuse.

"But the tests are for other things – clairvoyance, foresight, empathy," Dylan continued, oblivious to his thoughts. "I don't have anything strong enough to justify any kind of training. Only my telepathy registered above a speck, and they tested that until they figured out it was just a connection to John. My parents were concerned about that," she added, "because none of the other girls had it, and they were all twins. They thought maybe it... meant something about us." The revolted look on her face told Nuada exactly what she meant. "But the people at the labs said that kind of connection was more common with fraternal than identical twins, especially if they weren't the same gender."

"Have you anything besides the Sight and your connection to your brother?"

As if those two things were somehow insignificant. The Sight in a mortal wasn't as rare as it had been before Nuada's exile, to be sure, but in those ancient days, there had been perhaps twenty or so million humans on the planet. Now there were nearly eight billion. But to find the Sight in an adult, who wasn't mad with the things she saw, and wasn't unduly afraid of the Fair Folk... Insignificant, such a thing surely wasn't. And a connection to her brother was strangely fey-like in a human, especially as no other child in her family had such a gift. Did the woman have a fairy godparent? Such things were incredibly rare in this age of poisonous cities and murderous humans spreading like vermin, but not totally unheard of.

"A lot of the time I feel... prompted. I'll remember things at just the right time, or get the sudden urge to go somewhere or speak to someone, and later I find out something awful would've happened if I hadn't. But that's not my doing."

"Who is it, then?"

"That's God."

Nuada scoffed. So, proof that she wasn't as fey-like as he'd expected. She'd forgotten the old gods, as well. While even some fae followed the Christian deity known in the Twilight Realm as the High King of the World, that fact had always baffled and annoyed the prince. He knew that that God was real, but He was a God of the humans, not the Fae. "Your Christian God takes no interest in mortal affairs. The Bright Ones who still reside in the supposed Christian Holy Land can attest to that."

Dylan popped the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth and drew her knees up to her chest. Chin on her folded arms, she asked, "You mean, because of things like the Crusades?" When the prince nodded, she sighed, and the fey-like sorrow returned to her eyes. "God had no hand in that, or in any other war for land in the East. He interferes as much as He has promised to when His children let Him." Dylan sighed. "Once I turned to Him, my life improved a lot. It made the last years in the institution much easier to bear. Without my faith, I wouldn't be the woman I am. I wouldn't have been able to do the things I've done."

The crown prince of Bethmoora shook his head. "How can someone who has suffered what you've suffered, who defends my kind against mankind, believe in a deity that advocates the extermination of those who aren't like you?"

Eyes wide and guileless, she said, "I don't believe in a deity like that."

He frowned, tilting his head to study her more closely. "But you are a Christian." Not that all Christians believed such things; the fae followers of the Star Kindler, the High King of the World, didn't. But humans twisted everything until it was about hunger and destruction and hate. Even religion.

Dylan smiled, a wry smile, as if she were remembering some secret joke. "A lot of Christians wouldn't agree with you, Your Highness."

"Why is that?"

She raised her eyebrows and smiled wider. Her smile was twisted by the five scars slicing across her lips, but not ugly or unpleasant. Merely childlike. With an almost wicked glint in her eye, the mortal said, "I'm Mormon."

"What is that?"

"A sect of Christianity, but many don't consider it such." Her gaze turned inward, and a shadow passed over her mutilated face. The comment, and her expression, filled him with questions, but he knew pushing a woman like this for information wouldn't yield entirely successful results. Dylan pushed her thick hair back and mumbled, "I'd rather not talk about it, if that's all right with you."

"You think I'd despise you for following the Star Kindler," he hazarded, fighting back a surge of irritation. The Elven prince wasn't on even footing where this mortal was concerned, and it left him sitting uneasily in his skin, as if the world were not quite aligned properly with the rest of reality. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he concentrated on keeping his expression neutral and his tone casual. His honor did not allow him the recourse he would've otherwise preferred – using his abilities to rip through Dylan's mind. After all she'd done for him, she deserved better. Still... it galled him to have to dance around her mortal sensibilities when he wanted answers _now_.

"I wouldn't make suppositions about the Fair Folk, but Christians generally don't pay much respect to the Lords and Ladies."

"True enough. But you do."

Her wry smile left an odd feeling in his belly. She said, "Most fey could squash me into people-pulp by batting their little gossamer eyelashes at me, Your Highness. I've known that since I saw _Sleeping Beauty_as a kid. I don't want to risk their wrath if I can help it." A lift of the shoulder in a shrug. "And most of them are nice enough."

"_Sleeping Beauty?_"

"A fairy tale. The Germans call them _märchen_. I had a choice of language arts and literature avenues in college and post-grad school, so I pursued fairy tales. It was easier than obscure Brazilian literature, for example."

"_Märchen_. Stories of those who reside in Faerie."

Dylan nodded. "Roughly translated, yes."

"Tell it to me." The Elven prince smiled, a small smile – barely a quirk at the corner of his mouth – when Dylan's mouth dropped open and her eyes blew wide. Obviously she hadn't expected the request. "Tell me this story, this... 'Sleeping Beauty.'"

"I'm no bard or minstrel, Your Highness. I'm not very good at telling stories. And the story would take a long time, to tell properly." She gestured almost helplessly, mentally reeling. He wanted her to tell him a story? A simple human fairy tale? Why? The idea made her head hurt.

"Then I will return tomorrow, and the next day, until the story is finished."

"But... the one who sent the leanashe! Won't they use such visits against you? What if you were tracked, or someone attacks you on your way here?" She didn't add, _What if someone lies in wait for you here?_ The only reason the leanashe had been able to get into her cottage was because the faery woman had feigned being injured, and Dylan had told her to come in so the mortal woman could aid her in any way possible. Once across the threshold, the soul-sucking Bright One had turned on her. Now the mortal knew to be on guard.

Dylan watched Nuada as he smirked, the epitome of smug masculine pride.

"I've been a warrior for more years than your religion has been on this earth. You were witness to my injuries at the hands of mortals, but that was only because I was using an unwieldy weapon, I was ill, and the cowards used guns. The fey don't use such contemptuous things. I wouldn't be too worried over my being injured. Now, tell me this tale, or I will not be pleased."

_Ooh,_the mortal thought_. And Prince Prissy-Pants returns. Not good. I'll end up dealing with an angsty Elf_. Aloud, all she said was, "There are many versions of this tale, my prince. Which would you like to hear?"

"Many versions?" When Dylan nodded, Nuada said, "Very well. I demand a story with magic, the fey folk. It must have humor, romance, and adventure. I do not wish to hear a story of a princess who falls in love with a prince after one look and they live 'happily ever after.' That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And it cannot begin with 'once upon a time,' either."

"I know such a story. I'd have to read it to you, though."

"Go, then, and fetch the thing if you have it."

Dylan got up and went to one of the rosewood bookcases lining the living room walls. Nuada could hear her mumbling, "MacDonald... McCaffrey... McKiernan... ah, McKinley! _Beauty_, no. _The Blue Sword_, no... _Deerskin_, that's not it... where is..._Rose Daughter_, no... should be right... oh! There you are. _Spindle's End_."

He didn't watch her take her seat in front of the fireplace, only listened to the soft, almost soothing swish-swish of her skirts on the stone floor and the shush-shush of her leather slippers as she walked slowly back to his side. She settled herself in front of the hearth with a rustle of skirts and the soft hushing noise of someone turning a page in a book. Nuada leaned back and waited.

_"The magic in that country was so thick and tenacious that it settled over the land like chalk-dust and over floors and shelves like slightly sticky plaster-dust (Housecleaners in that country earned unusually good wages). If you lived in the country, you had to de-scale your kettle of its encrustation of magic at least once a week, because if you didn't, you might find yourself pouring hissing snakes or pond slime into your teapot instead of water."_

Dylan fell into the familiar cadence of Robin McKinley's words, remembering as she read how the story was supposed to go. First a bit of exposition on the country itself, and how fish supposedly didn't exist. Remembering the author's words on the subject of water, fish, and swimming made her mouth curve into a grin that Nuada, not privy to her thoughts, marveled at. It was the most carefree expression he'd ever seen on her face. Then the next words came, and he wondered if perhaps she were grinning because of the book.

_"It didn't have to be anything scary or unpleasant, like snakes or slime, especially in a cheerful household – magic tended to reflect the atmosphere of the place in which it found itself – but if you want a cup of tea, a cup of lavender-and-gold pansies or ivory thimbles is unsatisfactory. And while the pansies – put dry in a vase – would probably last a day, looking like ordinary pansies, before they went grayish-dun and collapsed into magic dust, something like an ivory thimble would begin to smudge and crumble as soon as you picked it up..."_

So the night went on, and the words came like the scent of apple blossoms, or the _rush-rustle_ of pine needles as a stag picked his way through the woods. Nuada turned and watched her, watched the firelight dancing across her hands cradling the book, creating shadows beneath her eyes and at the side of her nose, in the hollow of her throat. Memories of his mother and sister, sweet memories of reading before the fire on cold winter nights, made his heart ache, but a strange contentment settled over him as well, easing the pain in his heart. Dylan's voice lulled him, a gentle drone unfolding a story unlike any mortal tale he'd ever heard.

Thus the night passed.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _so it has been a long time, my loves. I haven't done any work on this fic in... what, a year? I hope the magic is still here. This is sort of like the exposition into the next arc. I hope you like the chapter, and I hope it's still believable. Review?_

_**Copyright Issue:**_ _Robin McKinley has requested that her fans not write fanfiction using her books. I assume this means, using her stories and worlds and such. I quote two paragraphs from the beginning of her "Sleeping Beauty"_ _novel,_Spindle's End_, because it is one of the most unusual and splendid fairytale retellings I've ever read and I think it would take uniqueness to intrigue Nuada. No disrespect or copyright infringement was intended._

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_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _Pixies. Pixies (also Pixy, Pixi, Pizkie, Piskies Piskeys, and Pigsies as they are sometimes known in Cornwall) are mythical creatures of folklore, particularly concentrated in the areas around Devon and Cornwall, suggesting some Celtic origin for the belief and name. They are usually depicted with pointed ears, often wearing a green outfit and pointed hat. Sometimes their eyes are shown as pointed upwards at the temple ends. These, however, are Victorian Era conventions and not part of the older mythology. In modern use, the term can be synonymous with fairies or sprites._

_They are often ill-clothed or naked, though they have a preference for bits of finery, such as ribbons and scraps of pretty fabric. Some pixies steal children or lead travellers astray. This seems to be a cross-over from fairy mythology and not originally attached to pixies. Thomas Keightley observed that much of Devon pixie mythology may have originated from fairy myth. Pixies reward consideration and punish neglect on the part of humans. By their presence they bring blessings to those who are fond of them. Pixies are drawn to horses, riding them for pleasure and making tangled ringlets in the manes of those horses they ride. They love exploring the countryside and all manner of places._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Cheese, Apple, Bread" is a parody_ _of the title "Snow, Apple, Glass," which is a short story by Neil Gaiman. Probably inspired by Tanith Lee's "Snow White" adaptation "Red as Blood," Snow White is actually the bad guy. She's some kind of succubus or something. Anyway, both "Red as Blood" and "Snow, Apple, Glass" are really good, scary shorts, although one has a happy ending and one doesn't (not telling which)._

_._

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- The main chemical ingredient in aspirin comes from willow bark.

- Dylan's house and the way it's put together is inspired by three places, one of which I've been to, and two of which I've seen/heard of. The Globe Theatre in London, England is made of stone, wood, straw, and mortar. It's made in the same way the original was put together back in the 17th century - down to the wooden pegs instead of metal nails. The only "human" metal I saw in the place was the wire-mesh they use to hold the thatch (yes, thatch) down so it doesn't blow away, probably because it's super hard to find enough thatch to thatch the entire top of the wall (Globe Theatre has no roof).

The other two places are houses of people my dad actually knows. In Sedona, there was a man who lived in a house entirely powered by wind, water, and solar power (which is amazing). His house was made of red sandstone like the red rocks found in Sedona. In Flagstaff (I believe), there's a man whose house in built into the side of a mountain and is made of timber and stone (no concrete, no cement, nothing). It is entirely "green," and actually made the news. Combining these three places, I came up with Dylan's cottage.

- I read the thing about invitations when I was studying witchcraft as a kid (middle-school age). The books I read warned of being very careful about calling on fairies to help you with magic because they would always come, but they're fairies, and therefore dangerous.

- Yōsei is the Japanese word for "fairy/fairies." This usage in this chapter specifically refers to Japanese fairies. See also: Bright Ones, Kindly Ones, Shining Throng, Wee Folk, Hidden People, Faeries, Fee-Faire, Fayre, Tuatha De, Tylwyth Teg, Aos Si, Sidhe, etc.

- Baku are good Japanese "beasts" (probably faerie animals) that devour nightmares.

- Wee Winks: as far as I know, there's no such thing as a Wee Wink. I created them based on the story of Wee Willie Winkie, who looks like a little boy in a nightshirt and cap carrying a candle. I believe (I may be remembering incorrectly) that Wee Willie Winkie has connections to sleep and dreams. In this universe, the kiss of a Wee Wink is supposed to bestow sweet dreams.

- I chose the name Ariel for Dylan's secretary NOT because of Disney's _The Little Mermaid_, but because of the sylph-like air sprite from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_. Ariel's last name is Smith (after the air-sprite driver in Mercedes Lackey's "Cinderella" novel, _Phoenix and Ashes_).

- The phrase "shell shocked" was used to describe a lot of WWI and WWII veterans. This term described men who suffered what would later be called PTSD, or "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

- People actually did (and still do, in some places) leave milk and bread, or porridge or bowls of honey or other nice things, out on their doorsteps for the Faeries who might come by. An explanation in some parts for why the stuff never actually got eaten was that faeries don't "eat," per se, but absorb the "virtue" (the nutrients) and the goodness from the food, leaving the physical stuff behind.

- The cup is "polished" wood because non-polished wood usually leaves splinters, which are bad. For all you detail-oriented people, the thing was sanded (with actual sand, not a sander or sand paper) just like in the olden days, then polished and painted with a natural walnut stain to prevent splintering. But that's too much information for the actual text.

- When I say "lesser" Fae, I mean little things without much super-power, like brownies, gnomes, will-o-the-wisps, etc. "Greater" Fae would be, like, Elves or woodmen or mermaids or something like that.

- A rag rug is a rug made of braided/knotted rags or cloth scraps. They were really big in the 16-19th centuries. I used to know how to make one (we learned on this field trip to a Colonial America reenactment place; they taught us to make rag rugs, weave on looms, card wool, spin thread, and even churn butter) but that was more than 10 years ago and I've forgotten how to do all but the carding wool and the churning part. =(

- Because Dylan is LDS (Mormon), she can't drink alcohol, tea, or coffee (which is why she asked). And only an idiot accepts a drink from a Faerie without making sure it's not enchanted first (seeing as how you're not supposed to eat or drink while in a faery hill).

- Brownies are Scottish household faeries who do the housekeeping in exchange for gifts or treats – usually honey, milk (or other dairy products), or bread. They usually only work at night and do not like to be seen. It is said humans with the Sight can see them, but some brownies possess the ability to remain invisible even under the Sight. If the gifts given are referred to as payment, the brownie will get angry and leave. He will also leave if he is abused. An angry brownie will become a boggart (wrecking the house, souring the milk, etc), but if appeased in some way, can return to being a brownie again. Never, ever, ever thank a brownie; it will be forced to leave whoever thanked it, no matter what it wants to do.

- I have a special place in my heart for the fear-darrig. Originally the fear-darrig was called a "Draigh." Draigh is LA Knight's crappily remembered spelling of "dearg," another name for the fear-darrig, which is a Scottish bogle that feeds on fear unless pissed off. Then it eats you. A dearg will invite you to sit at its fire (or similar thing), and if you accept, will ask you to tell it a story. If you refuse to go to its fire, if you refuse to tell the story, or if it doesn't like the story you tell, it will cook you and eat you (while you're still alive). If it likes your story, it will bless you with luck and stuff. Also called a far darrig, fear darrig, far dearg, and fear dearg.

- _Mo duinne_is a Gaelic endearment that means "my brown one."

- Dryads are Greek tree nymphs.

- Naiads are Greek fresh water nymphs (oceanids being saltwater nymphs). There are different types of naiads based on what they are bound to: crinaeae (fountains and wells), eleionomae (marshes), pegaeae (springs), limnades (lakes), potameides (various types of rivers), etc.

- That tomato bisque is served at Mimi's Cafe. The French toast is from IHOP.

- Clairvoyance is the psychic ability to see things that are happening far away. Precognition is the ability to see things in the future (foresight) and retrocognition is the ability to see that which has transpired in the past (hindsight as applied to psychic ability). Empathy is the ability to sense other people's emotions (receptive empathy) or influence them (projective empathy).

- LDS doctrine states that they (we) believe the Holy Ghost prompts those with whom He abides when they're in danger or there is something they need to do, either to help themselves or to help others.

- The Lords and Ladies is another term for Faeries, especially in England and Ireland.

- Although the Disney film _Sleeping Beauty_, to which Dylan is referring, is different from the original story, it still showed me when I was... gosh, 17, that pissing off a faery is a bad, bad idea.

- Germans actually refer to the standard faery tales like "Snow White," "Cinderella," and "Rumpelstiltskin" as _märchen_. It actually means "those who reside in Faerie" but I wanted to use both definitions.

- George MacDonald (the MacDonald Dylan skips over when looking for _Spindle's End_) wrote _The Princess and the Goblin_and _The Princess and Curdie._

- Anne McCaffrey, respectfully known as the Dragon Lady, unfortunately died a few years ago. But she wrote tons of books about psychic ability, about dragons, and even one about King Arthur. Her first book as far as I know was _Dragonflight_, the first book in _the Dragonriders of Pern_series. I also recommend _Dragonsong_(first book in _The Harper Hall Trilogy_) and _the Rowan_(which is book one in a quintet).

- Robin McKinley is one of those fairytale writing goddesses. Married to Peter Dickinson (that charming gentleman who wrote _A Flight of Dragons_and stars in the animated Rankin Bass film of the same name), she has written many retold faery tales: _Beauty_("Beauty and the Beast"), _Deerskin_("Donkeyskin"), _A Door in the Hedge_(multiple), _A Knot in the Grain_(multiple), _Rose Daughter_("Beauty and the Beast"), and _Spindle's End_("Sleeping Beauty"), as well as two anthologies about elementals (_Water_and _Fire_) and two books about very strong female warriors (_The Hero and the Crown_and _The Blue Sword_). I discovered _The Hero and the Crown_when I was seven/eight, and fell in love with her books.

- The thing about the fish and swimming is that, according to the people who live in "that country," fish don't exist, but are in fact imaginary water beings. Anything that says it's a fish is actually something else turned into a strange water being. Swimming is considered highly dangerous in this country as well, and anyone who does it is labeled stark raving mad. And apparently water in this book conducts magic incredibly well.


	10. Steadfast

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Being of the Day_  
_Skill Poll_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I know, it's been like, forever! I'm so sorry I've taken so long with this chapter. But guess what? I write original fiction too and my current YA novel has been picked up by a literary agent! Revisions are killer (but fun) and so I haven't had a lot of time to work on any fanfiction at all. And I have a gazillion to work on, so... yeah._

_Plus I'm doing this thing called Young Women's Personal Progress (it's a program the LDS Church does for girls – and now for women – who are twelve and older. If you complete all the requirements, you get a Young Women's medallion. I've already got mine, but it's one of the older ones, and they came out with new necklaces and new requirements semi-recently, so I'm doing it again to get a new one. After you get the medallion, you can get this other thing called an Honor Bee Charm, which I also want. And for all you young ladies, you don't have to be a member of the Church to do the program – but it's lots of fun, so anyone who's super religious, Christianity-wise, should totally do it [I say Christianity-wise because there's a lot of reading from the Bible and stuff about Jesus]). YWPP takes a lot of effort (some girls it takes years and years, depending) so that's eating up my time, too. I make a lot of spiritual videos as part of it, too, if anyone wants to go to Youtube and watch them. My Youtube name is NightmareDolly._

_But here is a nice long juicy chapter for you – more than 10,000 words (not counting author's notes) with thickening plots and lots of action. Since I type about 1500 words an hour, that's more than 6 hours of writing just for you guys. Hope you enjoy!_

_**Secondary Note and Dedication:**_ _in memory of the great __Mako__. Some know him as the voice of General Iroh from _Avatar: The Last Airbender_. A few might remember him from _Faerie Tale Theatre's _"The Nightingale." Any fans of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles will know him as Master Splinter from the CGI film, _TMNT_. But I know him as the Wizard from _Conan the Barbarian_. The words Dylan reads in this first scene were given to him to narrate in the film in addition to his role as the wise sorcerer. He was a brilliant actor, and had a cool voice. Unfortunately, he passed away in 2005, though I didn't find out about that until a couple years ago. And I didn't know he was the Wizard until a few weeks past. So this chapter is, in part, dedicated to him. He really did have an amazing voice._

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**Chapter Ten**

**Steadfast**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Faith, Story Telling, A Baby, Consequences, and the Price of Honor**

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Nuada returned every night as the moon began to rise for more of _Spindle's End_. Dylan always made sure to have fresh fruit and bread ready for the prince's arrival. Always made sure that her paperwork and reports were finished by moonrise. She even began rearranging her appointment-schedule at work so that she could go to physical therapy, doctor's appointments to check out her bad knee, and counseling during the day instead of in the evenings, leaving her free whenever the Elf prince arrived for the next part of the tale. But now the story was over.

Late summer rain drummed softly, musically against the cottage's shingled roof. The wind sang against the eaves. Warmth from the hearth and the cheery light of the sweet-smelling beeswax candles pushed any of the dreariness away. The cottage was a safe haven against the elements and the late July night. Seated on the wooden, cushioned stool before the crackling fire, candle-glow and firelight caressing her face, Dylan stared at the flames with her chin cupped in both hands. Amber flames reminded her of half-feral amber eyes. With the book finished, the story ended, would the prince come back again?

In the silence in the warm cottage, Dylan's ears managed to catch a rustling sound outside the brass-bound granite door. A sliver of fear pierced her heart. She turned slowly. Her fingers groped for her cane lying beside the hearth stones. Why didn't she own a weapon, even after all this? Because she couldn't bring a gun into the house. The iron and lead could hurt the brownie who took care of her things and any other of the lesser Fair Folk who came to her when they needed a sanctuary away from the human metals and poisons of the city. Tasers were expensive, and besides that, she didn't know how to use one. And the metal and plastic might also be too toxic for the Wee Folk. She had pepper spray, but it was in the bag hanging from a hook by the door. Why didn't she have a knife, a dagger, anything? Because she was confident that the Kindly Ones would protect her. What did that say about her? That she would allow the Little People to sacrifice themselves for her safety.

The mortal resolved then and there to learn how to fight with a knife. She could get a ceramic one or something, so the brownie wouldn't be hurt by the steel.

If she lived long enough to get her hands on one. Since the person – or creature – on the other side of the door might be something intent on killing her, she wasn't too certain about survival.

The courteous knock on the door made her jump. For a moment she smelled the sweet, crisp scent of wildness and forests, and the sudden pang of fear just as suddenly faded away. Nuada. She knew it was the crown prince of Bethmoora the moment his knuckles touched the stone door. At once any uneasiness fled. It still startled her, that she felt so safe with someone – a member of the dangerous species known as male, and one of the fickle and oftentimes murderous fae – who could kill her without breaking a sweat. But she did.

Heaving herself up, Dylan limped to the door and opened it.

Feral eyes like living gold searched the upturned face and Nuada frowned. The human looked pale, her face pinched. There were the faintest traces of bruising under her eyes, as if from tiredness. Didn't mortals know how to take care of themselves?

"Hail and well met, Prince Nuada. You honor me with your presence." Stiffness in her bad leg made curtsying awkward, so she bowed.

The Elf prince brought two gutted, cleaned and plucked pigeons wrapped in a shimmering cloth that seemed to repel dirt and blood and prevented the usual stink of blood or the spread of gore. The two birds were spitted and placed over Dylan's crackling hearth. As the juices sizzled and the skins crisped, the mortal realized this was the amber-eyed prince's way of saying, "thank you," for the story.

Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

With glacial topaz eyes studying her, the mortal picked daintily at the meat. It took everything in her not to tear at it. She'd never tasted anything so juicy or delicious. These weren't New York pigeons, or if they were, not the rangy, disease-riddled ones in Central Park and the surrounding city. But of course they weren't. Nuada wouldn't eat something like that. For one thing, the iron in the blood (while it wouldn't make him sick) probably made the meat taste bad to him. Which meant these birds were magical and probably came from a faery market - the Troll Market in Brooklyn, maybe, or the Floating Night Market in Manhattan.

The pigeons were cooked just so, that even without seasoning or even salt the meat almost seemed to melt in her mouth. Dylan focused on eating with all the manners her mother had taught her as a child before she'd abandoned etiquette in the sterile darkness of the institution.

Unlike Nuada, who wrapped the bones inside the shimmery, glass-colored cloth and stowed it somewhere when she wasn't looking, Dylan fed the bones to the fire. She knew from experience that calcium – and bones, if they were small enough to burn properly – made pretty colors in the flames.

The awkward silence that stretched between the mortal women and the regal Elf prince tightened his shoulders with tension. With the story now over, they had nothing more to talk about. Watching the flickering, tinted flames with distant blue eyes, Dylan drew Nuada's gaze again, though she did nothing but stare at the fire, a gentle and almost affectionate smile on her silvery-scarred face while she stroked the purring black kitten stretched out near her feet. Any unease remained hidden.

This human never failed to send a surge of confusion and, oftentimes, irritation through his blood. What mortal could gaze so lovingly at the beauty of a well-laid fire, at least without the sort of broken mind that exalted in setting fire to innocent animals and homes? But there was nothing broken or evil in Dylan's mind. The Elf prince knew that. There was only the simple enjoyment in the warmth, the light, the dancing flames.

"What do you do during the day?" Nuada demanded suddenly. His thoughts left a distinctly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his belly. The human woman turned her dreamy eyes, pulled in odd ways by the scars on her face, toward the Elf prince. "Do you spend all your time reading fairy tales?" Part of him bristled at the thought of such laziness in her. And deceit, as the mortal gave the impression of industry and dedication to hard work. But a smaller, quieter voice inside him reminded him of flagstones scrubbed clean of iron-laced blood, torn and bloody shirts washed and carefully mended. Laziness seemed so far removed from the human woman Nuada almost felt foolish for suspecting her of it.

Almost.

But Dylan shook her head. "Well, I have doctors' appointments a lot and physical therapy twice a week for my knee. And I'm a youth psychiatrist. Been doing it for almost five years now. If a young person between eleven and twenty has a cracked or broken mind or heart – or if their parents think so – they come to me for soul and heart healing."

Eying her suspiciously, he demanded. "And how do you heal them?"

"Sometimes things are very bad," the mortal murmured. Sorrow crept into her eyes, but it wasn't the heavy sadness for a lost race. This was almost a maternal melancholy, a mother's worry for her children. It, too, sent a shaft of discomfort through the prince. Humans should not have been able to feel such emotion. How could she?

Dylan added, "The chemicals in the body – they called them humors in the Old World, in olden times – can sometimes become unbalanced. There are certain things the brain is supposed to spread in the body, to make the mind work right. Often in young people, those chemicals aren't in balance and their parents think they need medicines to balance them back. Sometimes they do, but I try very hard to keep that from happening. Medicines for the brain can be hard on the young. Because the body and the mind are changing as one grows up, those chemicals aren't balanced anyway, and the medicines can do more harm than good. It's hard to figure out if there's a real problem, or just the side-effects of growing up."

"And if you can do it without the medicines?" The thought of anyone being forced to take the noxious, poisonous chemicals most humans considered "medicine" made his belly churn.

"Then I talk to them. I try to help them discern what it is that's making them so sad or frustrated or angry. It is very hard to be young, Your Highness, no matter what your species. Fae or human, I doubt the change from child to adult, coming into a world that in some ways is so similar and yet so very different from the one you've been living in as a child, is easy. Taking some drug that sends your emotions into a tailspin can't possibly be helpful."

Dylan thought of the nasty, chemical undertaste of drugged food, the sting of poisonous, lying needles in her veins, and fought a shiver of memory, an echo of fear. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She wasn't a teenager anymore, or a young college student with a fractured mind. No one could make her go back to being that way ever again. She'd beaten her addictions long ago. _All_ of them. But she imagined she could still taste the bitterness of the prescription painkiller she'd swallowed before Nuada's arrival. She shoved the thought away and focused on what they'd been talking about.

"Growing up," Dylan added, hiding her thoughts, "is the hardest of alchemical transformations."

How often had he thought the same thing? An adult for countless centuries now, he still remembered the hopelessness and great expectations of his youth. The need to fight and defend. The desperation to love and be loved. The undying quest to protect his people, the court of Bethmoora, his family, his sister, and to honor the memory of his mother, to earn his father's approval and the approval of his father's friends... even the approval of a burly silver cave troll who'd rescued a terrified Elvish princess and princeling from mortal monsters... all these things had seemed to fill him up until his heart almost burst and his skull threatened to fragment.

It had seemed that very few of the Pobel Vean had understood this feeling. Nuala had. Their empathic and telepathic connection, the bond of twinship between them, had guaranteed that. Mr. Wink, though already fully grown at the time, had also understood. Who would have thought that a human woman could understand it as well? It made no sense. And yet he could see the acceptance, the knowledge, in those silver-washed eyes.

After swallowing once, gaze never leaving her face, he asked yet again, "Are you certain you are human?"

The wry grin that spread across the scarred face was slow to unfurl, but warm and self-deprecating. "I'm very sorry, my prince, but I am of Adam's flesh and Adam's bone, a daughter of Eve and a child of the High King of the World," Dylan replied, with a shallow lift of one shoulder in an oddly graceful shrug. "Which is good, because this way, as a human, I can make a haven for your people when they're in danger of fading. You might be surprised at how expensive it is to live plainly in this modern world, in this city, but that's where most of my money goes. You'd like the Amish, I think. They manage to live free of most of the modern poisons and machines, but it's hard for us normal folks."

"Amish?"

Dylan explained to the prince about those mortals who, in devotion to their Christian God, lived with horse-drawn buggies and candlelight and homegrown food, eschewing machinery and processed food and electricity. How they delighted in hard work and good, tilled earth. How even the mortal's own religious leaders told their followers to emulate the Amish in their precepts of industriousness, forgiveness, charity, and unconditional love.

Nuada frowned. Why had he not heard of these mortals before? Were they anything like this woman who refused to pollute her home with human metals and toxins and chemicals? Was anyone like this human? And what kind of mortal leaders told their followers to be forgiving, to love unconditionally? The blond warrior could not remember ever hearing such things from men of power and standing in the mortal world. But he knew that Dylan was not lying about this.

"Is it that you are... what was it you said? Mormon? One of the Star Kindler's people?" He asked, and she nodded. "Is that why you care so much for such things? Helping my people?" If a mortal could be good, Dylan would have been. It was truly a shame that she possessed the curse of humanity – greed, cruelty, evil. Even if she'd succeeded in burying it deep inside where it would never take strong root, which it seemed she had, it was still there. But was she that way because of her devotion to the High King of the World? Or because of the torments her parents had inflicted on her as a child?

"I think... I think because I'm a convert to the Church, and because I converted as a teenager – I was fifteen – I think about things relevant to its precepts more than some other Church members who were born into it. And part of that..."

She trailed off, staring into the flames. Nuada throttled back the urge to shake the rest of it from her. The prince hung on her words because she chose them with such thoughtfulness and care, but that made the waiting all the more frustrating.

"Part of that means that I understand... I know that God gave me the Sight for a good reason. He only gives us gifts if they are needed to bless others. Which means I don't have the right to refuse to use it. I _have _to use it. I'm supposed to do something with the Sight. The only thing I can think of, is that God gave me the Sight because the Fae need me, need the place I can create for them. It might just be one faerie, or a hundred, or a thousand over the years before I die of old age or murder or whatever will kill me. But if God wants me to do it, then no matter how difficult it is, it's doable, and I am honor-bound to do it. Obeying His will became my duty when I decided to convert. I keep my promises, Your Highness."

"How do you know?" Nuada demanded. Hearing the mortal woman speak of honor, of duty, with none of the defiance or sullenness exhibited by humans fulfilling an oath, made the blood hum under his skin. She only sounded... content. Accepting. The quiet joy beneath her words confused and irritated him. Why did this human never do what the Children of Mud were supposed to do? "How do you know if a thing is doable, just because your Christian God wants you to do it?"

"'_And it came to pass that I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them,_'" the mortal said with the resonance of someone quoting something. The dreaminess was gone from her eyes, the trace of self-mockery from her lips. Instead there was a calm, quiet acceptance in her expression.

With another of those slow, slight lifts of one shoulder, she added, "Nephi was only a boy, maybe about seventeen years old, when he said that. He risked torture, death, and betrayal to obey the Lord. He didn't know how he was going to accomplish what God had set for him to do, but he knew that it was possible. There had to be a way, or the Lord wouldn't have commanded it. Ever since I first learned about the Church, I've wanted that kind of faith and strength. He was a kid, just like I was when I first read that scripture," she said, and there was wonder in her voice. "How can I not be as brave as that, especially now that I'm older? I'm not going to be shown up by a kid." The wry smile was back. "And since I've managed what I've managed," here Dylan gestured to the house, without a scrap of steel, chrome, lead, or iron, "I'm obviously doing _something_ right."

For a long moment, there was a soft silence, touched only by the crackling of the hearth fire. Nuada stared at her. Faith in her Christian God. A desire to be truly good, to overcome her evil human nature and be something more. She could not be entirely human. She _couldn't _be. No human understood and accepted the truth of the unfillable hole in their hearts, much less strove to conquer the curse of it. How could she be human? And yet the stench of iron in her blood told him it was so.

Then the mortal broke the silence by asking, "Would you like to start another book, Your Highness? I know another story you might like."

She met his eyes. Soft, misty dreaminess turned blue-gray eyes into twin pools of silvered glass. Nuada tilted his head, that slightly feral movement Dylan had seen him do when he was thinking strange things about her. Firelight danced across one knife-sharp cheekbone, the thin scar across his face, the star-gold hair. The delicate point of one ear peeked through the silvery-blond strands; more strands shone bright against the Elven warrior's sable tunic. _Light and shadow_, the mortal thought suddenly. _All that's best of dark and bright meet in his aspect and his eyes_.

Time suddenly seemed suspended. Dylan wondered what the prince was thinking. The prince could not seem to grasp the thoughts pushing through his mind; thoughts of iron-laced blood and eyes like twilight and stardust, compassion where none should be and the way her voice painted pictures behind his closed eyelids when she read aloud to him. He couldn't focus on such thoughts while they crashed against each other in his mind. There was only a willingness to let go of those thoughts and simply study that silver-scarred, blue-eyed face in the still and silent timelessness.

A knot in the burning wood made the fire crack sharply. Neither of them jumped, but Dylan realized she hadn't blinked for a while. She let her eyes close. They stung from lack of moisture. Nuada found his thoughts slowing, returning to normal. He blinked. The human woman no longer smiled, but there was nothing in her expression that spoke of fear or disquiet. Only a calmness, a quietness.

"Fetch the book, then," the Elf prince commanded. Unease slid icily through his belly. What had just happened here? "Read me another story." He toyed briefly with the notion of saying "please" and dismissed it. She was only a human, strangely fey-like or not. Such trivial courtesies mattered not.

The leather-bound book Dylan plucked from the tall, black shelves was small, thin and short, with the image of a muscled warrior in fur and armor holding a massive sword aloft, the image pieced together from bits of different-colored woods, metals and furs. A woman in slender, beautiful armor knelt beside him, looking up at the hero, made from the same materials. Then Dylan pulled open the book and caressed the yellowed page with a gentle, loving fingertip. She gave a swift glance at the Elf prince, smiled, and then began to read.

_"Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars. And thither came Conan, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth beneath his sandaled feet._

_"And know yet further, O Prince, that in that half-forgotten age, the proudest kingdom in the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming West. And this same Conan ruled from the throne of Aquilonia as Conan the Great, the mightiest lord of his day. And many were the tales spun about him as he was in his youth, wherefore it is now difficult to perceive the truth amid the many legends."_

Nuada grinned. This was almost – not quite, but almost – like hearing the first-year student-bards telling their epic tales in his father's court as a boy. First-years would never be allowed to perform for the king without possessing musical or bardic genius, but for the amusement of the prince and princess? Absolutely.

Now, Dylan's voice painted images of glittering cities, gleaming glass spires, mighty warriors in fur and boots wielding wide-bladed swords, and a world as yet unpolluted by the filth of modern humanity. It was almost as if the mortal woman had been in those distant days. Her eyes devoured the words even as her lips lovingly shaped them.

_"Privileged was I, Kallias of Shamar, above all my brethren amongst the scribes of Aquilonia, to have heard from the lips of my king, Conan the Great, the story of his travails and the high adventures that befell him along the way to the summit of his greatness. Here is the tale as he told it to me in the later days of his reign, when age had laid its fell hand upon him, albeit lightly..."_

**.**

_(Three weeks later...)_

**.**

Dylan staggered at a run through the subway, fear turning her sweat and breath to ice. Horror coiled sickly in her belly with every jarring step. She'd left her cane, how could she have left her cane? Bolts of pain shot through her bad leg as she stumbled forward. In her arms, the baby fretted and twisted. Probably trying to get away from this woman with iron-laced blood smearing her skin, Dylan thought sympathetically. Poor thing. But she couldn't afford to stop and shush the child, didn't have time to really comfort it. She didn't know if the Elf spattered with blood had seen her or not, but if he had, she couldn't stop until she found Nuada.

But the mortal woman had to stop when she reached a patch of concrete stained dark with old blood. Images, sensations, and emotions pressed down on Dylan like groping, squeezing hands, and for a moment – for an eternity – she felt a huge, immovable weight pressing against her and something tearing inside her as icy cement burned her back and blood ran down her throat, choking her...

_"No!"_ She yelled, shaking her head. The baby shrieked in her arms and began wailing pitifully. Panic stabbed at Dylan, but she shoved it aside; looked around at anything other than that dark stain of blood on cement and jiggled the baby as she struggled to keep moving. "It's okay," she whispered against its tiny, delicately-pointed ear. "It's all right. Hush now."

_Nuada,_ she thought as desperation spiked her pulse. _Nuada, where are you?_ _Heavenly Father, I have to find him!_

The hair on the nape of her neck suddenly prickled and she whirled to stare back the way she had come. Her heart struggled to beat. Fear slid icily through her veins like poison. A brief warmth flared in her chest as cold spread down her back. Without understanding quite why, Dylan knew she had to get out of sight. Right now.

With a silent prayer, she climbed laboriously down onto the subway tracks, choking on the rising edge of hysteria. Where to go now? Whatever was coming couldn't see her now, but if it decided to peer over the edge, it would be all over. A tear managed to squeeze out when she thought of what would happen if the thing stalking her found her. What was it? Why did it want her? Could it be... the Elf she'd seen?

There had been so much blood and the stench and taste of death had grabbed her by the throat, choking her. But she had seen the dark-haired Elf as he drove a glittering blade deep into a pregnant human's body.

Not Nuada, she thought as she crept along the edge of the tracks. Thank heaven, not Nuada. But the crest embossed on the Elf's chest, the three stars around a flaming sun, smeared with blood, had tugged at her memory. Uncovered enough that she knew he had rank, court connections, power.

With realization had come a desire so strong she'd nearly staggered with it - a desire to see Nuada, to slip back into the sanctuary with the weeping infant in her arms and stay there until he told her what to do. She'd never had to deal with a Fae that killed humans for pleasure. And it had surely been for pleasure, because before the woman... before the knife plunged into that belly ripe with child...

The baby whimpered and sobbed. Tiny fists flailed and tiny tears leaked out. Dylan fought the urge to cover the child's mouth. What if that hurt it? But the little thing had to be silent or the monster slowly making its way toward them would hear its cries and then... then it would be over.

_Heavenly Father, help me! _She prayed desperately, fighting back hysterical tears. _I've never had a child, I don't know what to do! I've only been in Nursery a few months and I..._

_Nursery._

How did she make the children in her Nursery class grow calm? Calm enough to listen, calm enough to pay attention to her lessons? Music. Even though she struggled with keeping in tune, anytime she sang the kids in her Nursery class would fall silent and listen, sometimes even sing along. Some would even snuggle up to her. Even the shyer, more high-strung children responded well to the music. Their own mothers sang them the same songs.

"_I am a child of God,_" Dylan sang on a voice that was barely a whisper. The baby subsided its weak wailing and sniffled. Its warm little body was limp with exhaustion. _"And He has sent me here; has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear..."_

_Nuada,_ she thought as she crept along, _where are you? How do I find you? Help me._ As she hurried along the tunnels, panic threatening to send her into cardiac arrest, she prayed, _Heavenly Father, please help me find him._

And above, not far behind, something hunted her.

**.**

"Your Highness! Your Highness!"

Nuada glanced up from his book as a brownie scuttled across the threshold of his current room, fear radiating from the little creature like heat from a fire. The brownie's high voice quavered and tears of fright glistened in her eyes. She flung herself against the stone floor at the Elf prince's feet and sobbed desperately, trembling with shocking violence for one so small.

Wink glanced at Nuada, who frowned and laid his book on the small wooden table beside him. Kneeling, he lifted the tiny brownie with very gentle hands. The brownie covered her face with her own small hands and continued wailing. Wink grumbled about "pipsqueaks" and "caterwauling" but the prince ignored him. He held the wee fae close to his chest and murmured soothing words in Gaelic until her sobs had quieted. When she was calm, Nuada said, "There now, _mo bheag amháin_, my little one. You are safe here. What is it? What has frightened you so? I vow no harm will come to you while you remain in this chamber."

"A human," the brownie choked out. "She stinks of death and violence. Blood smears her skin and marks her footsteps – human and the blood of a greenman. She carries a halfling child through the tunnels. She is running away with the babe."

Rage, usually kept banked, flared to life in Nuada's breast. Had the disgusting Mud Woman, whoever she was, butchered the wood faerie and taken his child? Nuada's hand was laid alongside the hilt of his lance before the brownie had time to see the fury and hate darkening the usually pale yellow eyes to red-tinged molten bronze.

Nuada carefully laid the little faerie on his table. "Where is this human?"

The brownie told him. Nuada rose to his feet and laid his lance across one shoulder. The Elven warrior stalked toward the lair's entrance, rage in every line of his body. Before stepping across the threshold into the human realm of subway tunnels and concrete mazes, he turned back.

"Take care of our little friend, Mr. Wink. See she is fed and given something to drink. I shall return shortly."

As the prince sprinted into the tunnels, Wink sighed. He'd have to draw the prince a bath, then, or the regal Elf would track blood all over the place when he came back.

**.**

It was near. The monster hunting her was closing in. Dylan was limping badly now, every step an agony. Her knee throbbed and screamed. Blood patched the ice cold concrete every time she put her feet down, though she didn't know it. If not for the baby, snuggled against her breast, she might have simply lain down and given up, let the monster take her. But if she did...

_For your mortal spawn,_ the blood-spattered Elf had hissed, hacking at the tall, antlered man who'd yelled at the pregnant woman to run. Blood fountaining up into the dark, the stinking death-blood slick and dark under the moonlight, and the Elf had snarled, _For your filthy, half-breed abominations._

_Don't think about it,_ Dylan commanded herself. _Don't think about it._ With a Herculean effort, she forced herself onward. Her arms ached. She wasn't used to holding anything this heavy for this long. Her feet hurt – she'd raced out of her cottage like an idiot, without defensive spray or even shoes, to the sound of screams and the bellowing of an angry stag. Her feet had to be bleeding by now. Still she strove to ignore the pain as adrenaline pumped and terrified desperation drove her on.

Nuada saw her stumble, bang her bad knee against the concrete at the edge of the track. Saw the teeth sink into her lip to hold back the cry of pain. Saw tears leaving tracks through the blood and grime on her face.

Saw how she cradled the tiny babe in her arms, protecting it from any damage when she fell. Because of that, she scraped her arm against the rough cement. More blood smeared her skin, soaked her linen shirt. The Elf prince realized it was the one he himself had given her to sleep in when she had been staying at the sanctuary. The loose white shirt was stained with patches of crimson and maroon now, as was the pale blue skirt tangling around her calves. There were even smears of blood on the baby's face.

But the child was unhurt. The rage simmered, but it was no longer a hot spear prodding him onward. He was calm again, calculating. Had Dylan finally shown her true colors? Was she all that he had originally believed her to be? Let him show himself to her, and let her show him the truth.

When the Elf stepped in front of Dylan, it was all she could do to stifle her scream. For just a moment she'd seen long black hair, silver cat-slit eyes, moonbeam skin glowing with a sickly bone-white light as the knife drove down and wrenched up and ripped down again...

Then the familiar firegold eyes pierced the moment of terror. Dylan's eyes took in the long hair like palest gold, the thin scar across the bridge of the nose and slicing across the sharp cheekbones. Fey-pale skin and black lips, scarlet-rimmed amber eyes and the silver-tipped black lance. Her heart slowed its racing and her fear vanished as, without thinking, she shifted the child and threw her free arm around Nuada, burying her blood-smeared face into his broad chest and breaking into wild sobs of relief.

Nuada was so stunned by Dylan's embrace – a human! A human touching him! _Embracing _him! – that at first he didn't register her words. There was only the trembling weight of her against his chest, the heat of her tears soaking his shirt, the shackle of her arm around his body. He smelled her humanity, the blood on her skin and above that, the stench of woman's fear. Beneath it all, there was the fragrance of lilies and roses. Perfume? No, her shampoo. Then Dylan's words pierced his astonishment.

"I was so scared, there was so much blood, I didn't know what to do, I don't know what to do, he was going to kill the baby, he killed them, oh, Nuada, he killed them and I couldn't stop him, I was so scared, I thought he was going to kill us both, I tried to find you but I didn't know where you were, and something's _after us–"_

His heart thudding fiercely against the cage of his chest, hands shaking and eyes wide, he gripped Dylan by her narrow shoulders and jerked her away from him. The wild, tumbling curls of her hair slid against his knuckles like warm silk. He fought back a shudder. A human _embracing _him! He pressed down on the riot of emotions churning in his belly and stared at the mortal who'd had the audacity to lay hands on him without permission. What he saw disturbed him.

He'd only seen Dylan truly weep once before, though she had shed a tear for his pain at other times. But once before, only once, he had seen how she sobbed, not because he had shouted at her, not because of the pain of her wounds, but because his words had reopened old emotional scars barely healed. Yet even then, raw hysteria had never edged her sobs, never roughened her voice and sent her heart racing. And even her worst nightmares of what had inflicted those emotional scars only ever set her to a bout of quiet crying that she swiftly suppressed. Never this terrified weeping. What was this, then? Cowardice? Or justified fear?

An idiot wouldn't have missed the desperation in her silvery blue eyes. They roved over his face, searching his expression. Probably she wondered why he'd forced her away from him. Her arm curled protectively around the sleeping halfling child, which snuggled against her breast, one tiny fist curled against her heart. The sight sent a pang through him, though he could not have said why. Memories of his mother, perhaps? Half-thoughts of Nuala with a child of her own? Dylan held this babe as if it were _her _own, one hand now curling around to cradle the fragile skull, and that sent an odd unknown feeling coiling in his belly.

Before his thoughts could confuse him further, he tightened his grip on Dylan's shoulders, fingers biting into the flesh until a tiny flash of pain flickered in her eyes. Good. She would know he was deadly serious.

"Where did you get the child?" He demanded in a low voice. The mortal swallowed and swiped at the tears and blood on her cheeks. "Answer me," he commanded. Fought not to shake her. "Where did you get it?"

Dylan took a gulp of air, closed her eyes. Images of a dying man and a screaming pregnant woman flashed across the backs of her eyelids. Blood spilling. Soaking the silk beneath the Elf's armor. So many sounds in her head. A baby crying. A madman's laughter. A woman's pleas to spare her child. The bellowing of angry deer in the woods and the howling of trees caged by concrete and iron.

"I'd just come home from physical therapy," she said softly. "I heard screams, a man shouting. The cries of..." She looked into Nuada's eyes, saw the suspicion there. Was surprised by the flicker of hurt it put in her chest. "My phone was dead, so I couldn't call anyone. I... I ran to see what it was. A woman was crawling toward a basket on the path, near the trees I was coming through. A man wrestled with another man. One had long, black hair and the other had curly, red hair with antlers. A, a greenman, I th-think, or a woses. The moon was full so I could see okay. And I saw the knife and..." Dylan choked, clutched the child to her. The sleeping baby stirred, and pressed more firmly against the human woman. "The other man killed the greenman. There was... blood. A lot of blood. Then he killed the woman. While he was busy with the woman, I grabbed the baby and ran."

"You grabbed the babe and ran... here?" Nuada demanded, incredulous. "Why?"

Dylan's eyes glistened – fear? Hurt? Disbelief that he did not understand? Tears? – as she met his gaze and said, "I was running to you."

"To me?" He echoed.

"I knew she would," a coldly amused voice called. Nuada instinctively hauled Dylan behind him and raised his lance as Eamonn, soaked in blood both fey and mortal, hopped down from the concrete lip overhanging the subway tracks. Crimson soaked the white silk of his shirt and stained the gray leather trousers and vest he wore. The stench of death rolled off of him in noxious waves. When the glaring overhead lights glinted off the blood-smeared crest on the Elf's breast, a crest of three stars surrounding a rayed sun, Dylan yelled, "It was him! Nu– Your Highness, he was the man who killed the baby's parents!"

"Very true." Triumph sparkled in the silver-shined eyes as Eamonn approached and bowed mockingly to Nuada. "An acceptable loss so that I could be sure of the truth." With a bitter smile, he added, "I must say, I was surprised you of all people would take a mortal lover, Your Highness."

The crown prince of Bethmoora choked on insult and fury. Dylan sputtered, "L-l-lover?"

_That's what the leanashe said,_ she remembered suddenly. _She accused Nuada of sleeping with me._ Was Eamonn the one she had called "master?" Why did the accusation keep coming up? And why would it matter if he had been doing – what did John call it? The sweaty pretzel – doing the sweaty pretzel with her? She'd talked to tons of Kindly Ones who had more orgiastic one-night stands to their names than Lady Gaga. Having lovers wasn't against Faerie law – even human lovers.

_If anyone ought to be objecting, _Dylan thought, feeling the weight of the golden medallion around her neck, _it should be me._

One of Eamonn's razor-thin black brows arched. "Do not try to tell me you are not the prince's latest whore, human. I saw the way you threw yourself at him moments ago, even covered in gore as you were. You simply could not wait for him to bed you. At least the prince," he said _prince _like a foul word, "had the decency not to take you while you reeked of the dead."

Dylan fought for words, for something - anything - to say, but all she managed to get out was, "Ew."

"Eamonn," Nuada growled, his grip on the black haft of the lance tightening until his knuckles bleached white as bone. "You go too far."

"Actually, I haven't gone far enough. My spies already know about your little..." The dark-haired Elf curled his lip in disgust. "Dalliance. Even if you killed me, which would be a very stupid move politically speaking, news of this would reach the court of Bethmoora. It would most certainly reach the king and princess, if it has not already. While there is no law per se against dallying with mortals, this would not look good to your supporters, would it? You claim to fight for the lives and livelihood of our kind, then see fit to sport with one of our enemies. A common-born mortal slut. You are _sickening!"_

Nuada did not speak. Everything had become clear. He didn't doubt that Dylan spoke the truth – Eamonn had killed a woodman and his mortal woman in an effort to catch him and Dylan out. Probably frustrated that the only thing the prince did in her home was eat and listen to her read, Eamonn had set this up to get so-called proof – and witnesses – of their supposed dalliance.

And Nuada didn't doubt that there _were_ so-called "witnesses," who could twist the truth to suit them, and to slander him. While there was nothing to Eamonn's accusations, the dark Elf was absolutely right – it would be a serious issue for the crown prince of Bethmoora. Especially because his father would summon him back to Bethmoora for an explanation. And he would have to explain that he had only been protecting the mortal woman from the pack of human wolves intent on hurting her. Dallying with humans, associating with them, was not against Faerie law – but killing humans without severe provocation was, and Nuada had killed the men who had raped Dylan.

And he could say nothing. His honor forbade him from revealing Dylan's ravishment to anyone. A gentleman never tells, wasn't that the human proverb? In Faerie it was considered dishonorable to reveal that sort of trauma, something so disfiguring and horrifying, without permission. In the Twilight Realm revealing such weaknesses was dangerous at best, and oftentimes fatal.

So he could say they'd meant to attack her, that he had known they would do her harm, but his father would not believe him for the very same reason he would summon Nuada in the first place – Balor knew his son despised mortals and wanted to see them all slaughtered. Under normal circumstances, he would never have rescued a human from mortal attackers.

While it was true that most Fae could not tell lies, that did not necessarily hold true for the older, stronger Fair Folk, especially royalty, and Balor knew that. The king of Elfland refused to see that his only son would never sully himself by speaking falsely, and thus would expect Nuada to be lying about his reasons for associating with Dylan. His father would consider the butchering of those human wolves an act of war, a break in the treaty between the Shining Ones and mortals. Nuada would be punished, perhaps even killed for what he had done in defending a human.

_One life for several,_ he thought bitterly, lowering the lance. Eamonn did not mean to fight him this night. The Elf of Zwezda had already won this battle. And fighting him now, with Dylan and the babe so near, could prove very dangerous. Eamonn was nearly equal to the warrior prince in fighting skill.

"Wait," Dylan said slowly. Nuada shifted to keep her behind him, shielded from the other Elf, but the infuriating mortal managed to shove past him to stare at Eamonn. Since Eamonn made no move toward her, Nuada remained still. Any protective moves he made would simply give his enemies more to report – or provoke the dark-haired Elf to attack. "You butchered a man and his pregnant wife..." Dylan choked on her fury, on the sudden spill of hate and horror roiling in her gut. "To get Nuada in trouble with his father? _What is wrong with you?"_

Suddenly Eamonn, moving with preternatural speed and grace, stood in front of her. Dylan turned to shield the baby from him as Nuada whipped his lance up to press the lethal point beneath the other Elf's chin. Politically savvy or not, he still owed Dylan a debt for saving the babe.

"Stay away from them. _Both _of them," the prince snarled when Eamonn reached out to touch Dylan's neck. Dylan shifted away from Eamonn, backed up behind Nuada until the reek of death no longer clawed at her throat. The dark Elf's silver eyes locked with Nuada's bronze ones.

"Let me look at the human, Silverlance, and I might hold back my spies."

A fresh wave of rage washed over the Elf prince. Eamonn was acting like a mortal. Let him get closer to Dylan? He probably meant to slay her then and there to silence her. Slay the unarmed human woman like the cowardly dog he was. Besides, the prince had no doubt the other Elf was lying. Another petty human trick. Through gritted teeth, Nuada snarled, "You can see her just fine from where you are."

Eamonn's slow smile curdled Nuada's belly. The dark Elf murmured, "I want to _touch_ her. I promise I will not damage your plaything."

"And I promise," Dylan muttered, "that if you keep talking about me like I'm not here, I'll make the prince hold the baby while I put my foot up your butt."

To both of their surprise, Eamonn laughed. The sound was low and violating as it slid over Dylan's skin. Nuada, seeing the revolted look on her face, tensed, ready to drive the lance through the other Elf's throat if he moved. But Eamonn held up his hands in a gesture of no-harm and stepped back, still laughing.

"She has spirit, I'll grant you that much. I can easily see why _some _might want her in their bed, even if she is a Mud Child. Let me examine your whore, Prince of Bethmoora, and I may keep what I have discovered to myself. I will not damage her or the babe in any way this night, I swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things."

Before Nuada could say anything, Dylan had shifted the baby so she held it upright against her side with one arm. With her free hand she pushed the spear's glittering tip away from Eamonn's throat. Defiance burning in her eyes, she tilted her chin and glared at the dark-haired Elf. She knew about the Darkness That Eats All Things. Hadn't she, terrified the powerful Elf prince would kill her, made Nuada take that oath once before? Hadn't she herself made that vow when the pale Elven warrior had left her on the hospital gurney five months ago? She knew it was the strongest vow a Faerie could make. Forswearing it could – would – get you killed.

_He won't hurt me, _she reminded herself_. He swore it on the Darkness. And even if he hadn't, he couldn't hurt me if he wanted to. Nuada would kill him first. _Of this, the mortal woman had no doubt whatsoever.

Eamonn stepped forward and gripped the human woman's chin hard enough that whiteness stood out against the flesh around his fingers. She didn't so much as flinch or even look away. Blue eyes like rain-swept lakes bore into Eamonn's. Yes, he could see why Silverlance, weak-willed and pathetic as he was, had succumbed to this human's wiles. There was a fey quality to her eyes that belied the stench of humanity oozing from her.

But despite the eyes, the humanity remained. And her face! It looked like a man's back after a flogging. Thin, ridged scars crisscrossed cheeks, chin, lips, forehead, even her crooked nose. Some of the scars were thick and dark, some slender and pale. They twisted her features, dragging at the corner of one eye, the opposite corner of her mouth. By all the gods, how could the prince _stand _it? How could he stand bedding this... this _thing?_

The revulsion was strong enough that he was not gentle about turning her head from side to side. She made no sound of pain, though. Only the tiny, tiny lines at the corners of her eyes crinkled in the slightest wince. He was hurting her... but not damaging her. A very fine line. A faery lie.

His grin was malicious and taunting when he asked, "What is it like, human, to bed one of the Fae?" He called her _human _the way another might say "cur."

Dylan's eyes were cold and, she hoped, regal as she stared the dark Elf down. She slowly lifted her left hand and tapped the golden medallion around her neck. "Do you know what this is?"

"It marks you as a child of the High King of the World," Eamonn replied. "One of the Star Kindler's get."

"You know of the Star Kindler and His ways?"

The Elf rolled his eyes. "Your whore is not only common, Silverlance, but stupid. Of _course_ I know of the Star Kindler. Do you think me ignorant?"

Now Dylan splayed the fingers of her left hand. In icy, deliberate words she demanded, "Fine, then. Do you see a wedding ring on my finger?"

"No." He frowned. "What has that to do with anything?"

"'_For I, the Lord God, delight in the chastity of women_,'" Dylan spat. Nuada watched her, stunned. Was she not afraid? He would have said no if he did not know her better, had not seen her in similar situations before. Her voice was strong as she recited the words from memory. Incredulity made her gaze burn hot as she raked her eyes over Eamonn's face, studying him as she demanded, "Do you honestly think I would break one of God's highest laws, prince or no? If I ever willingly lie with anyone, it will be after I've been sealed to my husband for time and all eternity in the Temple of the Star Kindler by the power of His priesthood."

There was a burning in her chest, hot and strong, pushing the words out of her mouth. "You insult me, you insult His Highness, and you show your own ignorance and disgrace yourself with your words. How dare you try to entrap Prince Nuada? You will never be a tenth the Elf, a tenth the man, or a tenth the warrior he is." Icily now, she said, "At least he understands the concept of honor."

Eamonn's grip on Dylan's chin tightened until her eyes were wide and shining with unshed tears of pain. Still she did not cry out, and Nuada did not move, only watched them both with enraged feral eyes. Finally, Eamonn released her and stepped back. He made a big show of wiping his hand on his blood-soaked trousers as if he'd touched something filthy.

"I would not say such things if I were you, little human whore. None of Adam's blood understands honor. The hole in your hearts can never be filled. Neither does the crown prince of Bethmoora understand honor, or he would not choose so lowly and vile a bedmate." To Nuada he said, "I make no assurances as to whether the king learns of your deviancy, Your Highness." The acid in the other Elf's voice as he addressed the prince could have stripped paint. "I find I am not pleased by your whore."

"I'm not pleased by you, either," Dylan snapped. Cruelty edged Eamonn's smile as he inclined his head toward her in a mocking gesture and she held the baby a bit tighter. The human woman's grip jolted the baby from sleep with a miserable wail.

"Take care of the child while you have her. And perhaps I shall visit your little cottage amidst the green some night, little human toy," Eamonn said, and he reached up to trail leather-gloved fingers over Dylan's vulnerable throat before dropping them to the gold medallion around her neck. She jerked back, making the baby cry louder. The simmer of fear and loathing in her gaze made the dark Elf smile. "Perhaps I shall endeavor to learn what the mighty Silverlance sees in bedding a loathsome mortal woman... for the sake of curiosity. And perhaps I will show _you_ what it is to be had by a true warrior." With a sardonic bow towards the Elf prince, Eamonn turned on his heel and sprinted away.

Nuada's low, feral growl shuddered over Dylan's skin. She turned to him with wide, beseeching eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, and bowed her head. "I didn't know you would get in trouble for... I didn't know I'd get you into trouble or I would have thought of something else, I swear. I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"He hurt you," the prince growled. Dylan's head flew up and she stared at him, confused. "When he grabbed you, he hurt you. I could see it in your face, but you said nothing. Why?"

"What would you have done if I'd said something?"

Only an idiot would have called Nuada's expression a smile. "Gutted him."

"Well, I appreciate that," and strangely, she actually did. It gave her the oddest urge to laugh against the shuddery relief rippling under her skin and stealing her breath. "But I don't want you committing murder because some Elf boy grabs my face too hard. Even if he did threaten to rape me." Let him try. She'd gut him herself. No man would ever touch her against her will again. Never again. _Ever_. "But what about you?" She frowned, jiggled the baby to soothe it. It kept crying, though the volume died a bit. The crown prince watched the human woman and the halfling child with a strange feeling in his belly. "Are you really going to get into trouble for this?" Dylan asked.

Nuada shrugged, shortened his lance and sheathed it across his back. "Many of the Bright Ones who support my... dislike of humans–"

"Oh, you can say, 'hate,' Your Highness," Dylan informed him with a just the barest hint of sass and a quirk of her lips. If she could speak to him that way, she was not horrendously traumatized by Eamonn, then. Nuada found the thought both relieved and pleased him. With a sardonic lift of one eyebrow, she added, "I can tell how you _really _feel."

"Clearly I do not loathe all humans entirely, or you would certainly be dead now." Why was she smiling at his words? They had held undercurrents of jest, of self-mockery, but not for her ears. Only for his own. Perhaps she heard him better than he'd thought. "But many of my supporters will consider this a betrayal. They will not understand what has happened..." The baby's wails picked up, and the Elf prince sighed and held out his arms. "Give me the child."

Dylan blinked. "What?"

"Give her to me," Nuada said impatiently.

Dylan quickly handed the halfling baby over to the prince, who cradled the infant in suddenly gentle arms and looked into the little red face scrunched in discontentment. He murmured softly to the child in Old Gaelic, the words flowing off his tongue like liquid silver. Dylan found she could only understand snatches of the monologue, but it was enough to warm her heart: _poor child... your family will not die in vain... do not weep... find rest in Bethmoora... it will be a haven for you... I will protect you until you find sanctuary..._

But it wasn't just the words. There was a tenderness on the Elf's face that made Dylan wonder suddenly if Nuada had children of his own. A wife, perhaps. Or even just a fey woman who loved him, since marrying a prince might be dangerous in the Faerie Realm. It was certainly dangerous enough in the human world.

"You know babies," she said wonderingly, though there was a strain in her voice that had Nuada glancing up at her. Dylan slowly and carefully levered herself down to the concrete ledge beside the tracks, stretching out her bad leg. The Elf winced inwardly at the sight of the damaged knee swollen to twice its normal size. Dylan began kneading it with firm presses of her fingers. Her lips twisted in pain, but she didn't stop. "I don't know why I'm surprised about that," the mortal added. "It's not like I know you're a childless bachelor or anything."

"Stand up," he ordered, ignoring her words. She gave him a pitiful look, but obeyed, leaning heavily against the wall. He gave the infant back to her, murmuring, "Do not drop her, or I shall be very displeased."

"I wouldn't–" She began, then gasped when the prince scooped her up in his arms. "Whoa. Um... what are you doing?" She asked. Nuada was surprised by the lack of vehemence in her voice. If anything, she sounded half-asleep. He could feel her weariness pushing at him. "I can walk," she protested.

"You are tired. And walking on that knee could damage it even further," Nuada said. Dylan was warm and limp with exhaustion in his arms. Her head lolled onto his shoulder and he found, much to his surprise, that the warm breath tickling the side of his neck and jaw did not reek of rotting meat and chemicals like most humans. Instead he smelled the cool sharp scent of cinnamon mingling with the sweet crispness of parsley on her breath. Her head was a gently warm, almost reassuring weight on his shoulder. _Very much like a sleeping babe_, he thought. Aloud he said, "Come, we visit my sanctuary so that we may see to the child. Then we will return to your home. After, I shall find someone to care for the little one, someone who can take her to my father's hall."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Dylan mumbled. "I'm sorry I'm so tired. I ran as fast as I could to get here and I'm not used to carrying babies." One hand caressed the cap of thin, silky curls on the baby's head. The infant was cradled in the cup of Dylan's body made by the way the Elf carried her. "And I'm sorry my leg's busted," she added. She knew she was babbling and couldn't seem to stop herself. She'd been up since dawn, woken by nightmares, and it was now well past midnight. The events of the evening only added to the exhaustion. "Shouldn't hafta carry me. Sorry. We have to stop meeting like this – danger lurking and blood everywhere. And sorry I got you in trouble."

"Eamonn has been looking for a way to 'get me in trouble,' as you put it, for several centuries," Nuada grumbled. Despite the grumble, however, a smile teased the corners of his mouth. Did the human know she sounded half-drunk when she was coming down off a cresting wave of fear and adrenaline? "At least this way I need not worry about hiding my connection to you. He never meant it when he said he would reconsider."

"Oh." A wealth of sourness in a single syllable. Had she truly believed he would? No human could have such faith in the word of another... could they? Yet Dylan had such faith in _him_, to run so far in search of him when danger threatened.

"Dylan. What you did. It was..." What to say? Brave? A human did not understand bravery. Commendable? Also inapplicable to humans. What, then? "It was well meant. I... was..." His jaw tightened. He could not say grateful. He could not express gratitude to a mortal. He could not feel gratitude toward a human.

"I'm sorry it didn't work," Dylan murmured dejectedly, saving him. "I should've made him swear to keep quiet. Sorry."

They walked through the tunnels in silence, veiled by glamour as the night passed. After a long time, Nuada whispered, "No need." But by then, Dylan and the baby were both sound asleep in his arms.

**.**

Wink stared when the prince he had known since Nuada's childhood strode in carrying a sleeping mortal spattered with blood, who served as a living cradle for a halfling baby that burbled in sleep. The brownie cheeped like a small bird and ducked behind the troll's leg as Nuada came in and laid the slumbering woman on his own bed, despite the blood smeared across her skin and the reek of iron and humanity seeping from her body.

"Who is _that?"_ It was all Wink could think to say. He knew _what _it was, and the why of her presence seemed to hinge on her identity. He noted with almost scientific approval that she curved her arms to support the sleeping bairn and cradle her close to the human's breast.

"Dylan," Nuada murmured.

The great, silver troll blinked and looked at the mortal with new eyes. This blood-splashed, injured woman was the one to bring the crown prince of Bethmoora back from the brink of death, using human medicines? Somehow he'd expected her to be... taller. Prettier. Less scarred. Less human looking. Stupid, he knew... but he'd never seen a healer with a face like a traitor's bare back after a flogging. Little wonder, then, why Nuada had felt compelled to save her. Was the babe hers? But no, the brownie had said she was running away with the bairn.

The crown prince caught the troll's eye, then knelt before the brownie. "My thanks, mo duinne, for the information that this human wandered our tunnels. I am most grateful. She shall be attended to shortly. Do you have a safe place to go?"

"Yes, Your Highness." The brownie bobbed curtsies to the golden-haired prince as she stepped back. She knew a dismissal when she heard it. "My nest is not far. My thanks to you." And she scurried away almost as quickly as she'd come. But Nuada was turning back to the sleeping human before the tiny faerie had disappeared from sight.

"What is it the Fates want me to do with you?" He said softly, gazing down at her. At the way she cradled the burbling, oblivious baby in her arms, though she slumbered too. Fear and the ebb of adrenaline, relief and the fresh spike of terror at Eamonn's appearance and words and threats – it had all been too much for Dylan, especially after she had worked all day. Nuada knew most humans attended their places of employment at least eight hours a day. The prince had a feeling that this particular mortal spent much longer healing the broken minds and hearts of her people's young ones. "The Fates... or the gods... or the Highest of all gods... what is it they want of me? What does He want of me?"

"My prince?" Wink grunted. The prince did not hear or, if he did, did not acknowledge the troll. Instead, he brooded. About Eamonn – nothing to be done there. Only to wait for the summons from his father, and to pray. He almost scoffed. As if prayer would do anyone any good. And he brooded about the child – where to take it. To Nuala, who knew many of the ladies at court and many of the common women. Nuala would know what to do with the bairn. But Nuada knew his twin sister would not be happy to see him. She was never happy to see him anymore. Had not been since before his exile.

And he brooded about Dylan. About the way relief had flared in her eyes when she had recognized him tonight. The way she'd thrown her free arm around him, sobbing. Her tears had seemed to burn his skin. His hands had trembled at the shock of her embrace. Revulsion... and yet... if revulsion, why had he not struck her? Thrust her more strongly away? Something other than firmly but carefully place her away from him. What emotion had gripped his belly as her scalding tears soaked his shirt and her sobbing breath warmed his skin? Not disgust. Not hatred. Shock, yes, but more than shock. Something fierce and burning inside him.

The need to protect her. She had been in fear for her life, for the life of the halfling child. That fear had been hot enough to make her relieved tears burn. Sharp enough to cut away all of her common sense and let her throw her arms around him. Actually embrace him. Even as they'd trudged through the tunnels, both of them bleeding and a kiss from death that first night of meeting, she had not been that afraid.

"Or maybe she had," he said aloud, "and hidden it. Then why show it now? Why let me see her fear instead of hiding it from me?"

"Because something has changed," Wink said, startling the prince from his thoughts. "She must trust you now. More than she did before, at least. Else she would not show weakness to you now, unless the fear was greater this time. Was it?"

"No," Nuada said slowly. "Equal, but no greater. I would almost say less. As if... as if she knew there was danger, but that she would be all right, no matter what happened to her."

"She trusts you, then."

_Trusts me. By the shades of Annwn, why? _The Elf prince wondered. Shook his head. Now was not the time for this. "Wink, fill a bowl with water and bring me a cloth. The child is filthy and needs to be cleaned at least a little. The human blood might make her ill. And summon a will-o-the-wisp to me. I wish to send a message to my sister."

"I will clean the baby," the burly troll mumbled, approaching the recumbent form of the sleeping mortal. "I still remember what it takes to bathe a bairn." But when the troll tried to scoop up the infant from the slumbering arms, Dylan's grip tightened and she made a soft sound of distress. Upset marred the usually sleep-smoothed features. "My prince. She won't release the child."

Nuada's gaze caught a flicker of motion the moment before Dylan's eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Silvery blue eyes like the sea after a storm zeroed in on Wink's whiskery, tusked face of pale blue, leathery flesh. Nuada tensed, waiting for the human to scream or attempt to get away from Wink. Would she hurt the baby in her panic?

Instead, Dylan sat up slowly, shifting the child in her arms. She peered up at Wink with calm eyes and made a series of harsh, almost boar-like grunting sounds. Wink's jaw dropped in astonishment. Then the troll threw back his head and laughed. Nuada had understood what Dylan had said in the gruff, though strangely formal language of the cave trolls. Although it had been with much more flowery words, as Trollish was often very verbose, she'd basically pleaded, _"Please don't eat me."_

"You neglected to tell me your human spoke the Troll tongue, my prince," Wink said, thick chest still rumbling with amusement.

"I did not know," the prince said softly. To Dylan he added, "Where did you learn to speak Troll?"

"I can't speak Troll. 'Don't eat me' is about the only thing I can say besides making a rude comment about your friend's tusks and trollhood, and I don't want to do that. I like living." Dylan didn't flinch when Wink bellowed another laugh, but Nuada saw her blink rapidly several times. Then the giant faerie clapped the mortal on the shoulder, albeit more gently than he would have done to his prince.

"Are you certain she is human?" Wink asked. "I almost half-like her."

"Sometimes I wonder," Nuada muttered. "Give the child to Wink. He will care for her until I return."

"Where are you going?" Dylan couldn't repress the spike of fear that shot through her at the thought of Nuada leaving her here. She wasn't afraid of the troll. She just didn't like being without the Elf prince in any of his magical homes. The mortal had always felt safest when the prince was in the sanctuary with her. Safest, seated before her fire reading tales to him.

"I am taking you home."

**.**

He left the cottage without a word, a silver-edged shadow in the night. Dylan stared at the open doorway where only a moment before the tall warrior had stood. The prince had been unwilling – unable? – to meet her eyes before vanishing. The mortal couldn't stop the frisson of fear that shivered up her spine as she wondered if there were things about tonight that Nuada wasn't telling her.

Bat stretched up on his hind legs, put his front paws on her good knee, and meowed loudly, startling her. Darn it, the wind was getting in while she stood woolgathering. The mortal shook her head and forced her feet to move. Dylan carefully shut the heavy granite door. As the latch clicked, as she bolted the many locks, only two thoughts pulsed through her mind: _Be careful, Nuada._

_Heavenly Father... what do I do_ _now?_

**.**

A couple months passed, and Nuada did not return.

She filled her days with patient appointments, counseling sessions at a teen's shelter and at the local juvenile detention center, late-afternoon dinner dates with John, a few awkward shopping trips with Francesca, sessions with her Sight-kids. Physical therapy, both with the mortal Dr. Vaughn and the narasimha healer, Lakshmi, to help combat the damage done in the long flight through the subway.

At the doctor's office a couple weeks after the encounter with Eamonn, Dylan got a new prescription for her bad knee. At her psychiatrist's office, she received a renewal of the prescriptions she'd been "taking" for the last ten-odd years. Considered, as per usual, which of the various pharmaceuticals were more likely to be addictive, which ones she could afford to let rot in her medicine cabinet, and which ones she would actually have to take in order to actually be able to function. She took none of the anti-depressants or anti-anxiety meds. Unfortunately the Vicodin was not a medication she could throw out; without it, every step was a small piece of torture. Still, she continued to merely take one pill instead of the prescribed dosage of three. She didn't _need_ medication to get through her life, darn it. Not after what basically amounted to four months in rehab as a young woman in college. She could handle it.

Dylan talked on the phone with Anya and Joyce about whether they meant to go camping in December (Joyce-the-snow-fetishist said _yes_ while Dylan and Anya emphatically said _no_). Her older sister Gardenia surprised her by inviting her to the Halloween party the older woman was throwing at her house. The psychiatrist promised to try and be there. Both Petra and Gardenia invited their younger sister over for Thanksgiving in a month or so. Dylan accepted, though she was fairly certain those invitations would be redacted before the actual day.

None of these things helped to ease the nervousness growing day by day, night by night. With every moonrise, Dylan's hope for seeing Nuada rose, only to plummet when he didn't come. She would wait with her favorite book, _Once Upon a Winter's Night,_ which they'd agreed to start now that they'd finished _Conan the Barbarian._ She waited for a knock at the door. Waited for that sudden sense of awareness that told her the Elf prince was there.

But in the end, he never came. Dylan always fell asleep curled up on the huge armchair in the living room, sucked into exhausting nightmares fueled by memories and worry for the Elf prince. She would always wake in the middle of the night to the realization that another night had passed without word that the feral-eyed warrior was safe. Then Dylan would trudge to her room and fall asleep on her bed, struggling to ignore the growing fear skittering up and down her spine like insect legs.

She prayed for him, morning and night. Feared for him. What if that other Elf managed to hurt him? So she prayed for some word, some sign. There was nothing. She kept waiting. Kept praying. Kept fearing.

_Nuada,_ Dylan thought every night as she drifted off to sleep. _Nuada, where are you?_

**.**

When the summons came, nearly three moons later, the Elf prince was almost grateful. For nearly three months he had stayed away from Dylan, even though she had promised to read him something called _Once Upon a Winter's Night_. The tale had sounded interesting, and the mortal's enthusiasm and affection for it had tempted him. But if King Balor's messenger were to find Nuada in the home of the woman he supposedly sported with, it would only cause problems for him.

Instead, he spent the now-empty nights training. He went through the various _kata _and _taolu _he'd learned over the centuries, as well as other fighting forms, and practiced against Wink with swords and lances and – at Wink's insistence – war axes. It had been his lack of skill with the heavy weapons that had gotten him into this mess in the first place, the troll had pointed out, and Nuada had been forced to accede his point.

Finally, only a few days ere Samhain, as he and Wink bowed to each other, sweat dampening flesh and silvery blond hair, the summons came.

"Crown Prince Nuada, Heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, Exiled One, Eldest Scion of the One-Armed King of Elfland." The voice that addressed the Elf warrior could have frosted glass with its iciness.

Nuada turned toward the speaker and cocked his head. Wink knew that if Nuada's human saw the prince's face at that moment, she would have described him as feral, alien. _And_, the troll thought, _if I don't miss my mark, beautiful_. He knew the mortal was of the rare sort to appreciate the unearthly beauty of the Kindly Folk.

"Who are you?" Nuada demanded, though he already knew. "What is it you want?"

It was one of the rare black centaurs from the desert plains of the continent the humans called Africa, the Elven-ruled fae kingdom called Nyame. The warm firelight from the hearth flickered and danced over flesh like polished ebony and a black-striped white hide. When the centaur smiled, light glinted off of strangely sharp teeth. He carried no sword, only twin long-axes across his back and crossed, white leather bandoleers sporting small throwing daggers over his chest. He clapped a fist to his heart and bowed at the waist to the prince.

"I am Enitan MacBrannagh, of the King's Messengers. I hereby summon the Exiled Prince to return to Bethmoora, to the Golden Throne of Balor, the One-Armed King of Elfland, for trial on the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal."

Nuada fought the shock of pain that burned through him, fought to shove it down into the dark where none could feel it or find it, not even Nuala. But Wink saw, just for an instant, the vicious hurt and the utter shock that Balor could accuse his son of such crimes. Then there was nothing but cold acceptance in the colder eyes of the seemingly-indifferent Elf prince.

Of course the king would see it that way. Nuada understood that. Glamoring a human or even another faerie into submitting to him and allowing him to bed her was rape according to the laws of the Fae, and of course that could be the only way he would choose to bring a mortal to his bed – by trickery and deceit. And because he must, of course, have some sort of vile plan for this human that involved pain, torture, emotional distress, and eventually a bloody and agonizing death, that fell under "deviant cruelty" and "plotting to murder."

_Will you never think well of me, Father? _The words brought a cold fist of soul-pain slamming deep into his belly, though he gave no outward sign of it. He only stared unblinkingly at the messenger.

"I will come tonight, at full moon-rise." Now the prince smiled. There was no amusement in it. "If I am to be slandered and abused by my father's court, I should look the part of the Exiled Prince, should I not?"

Enitan fought the urge to back away from the prince. Though the words seemed to be nothing but the resignation of a man giving himself up to justice, there was something in the Elf's eyes that raised the hair on the centaur's back. He knew, suddenly, that nothing he did would make the Elf arrive sooner than he had agreed to. Trying to force the issue would only get him killed.

"I will give the king your answer," Enitan murmured. With his fist still pressed against his heart, he bowed and backed up until he could turn around and gallop away, eager to escape the icy hatred in the prince's gaze.

"My prince," Wink began, but one look from the Elf warrior silenced the burly troll.

"They will not kill me for this, Wink," the prince replied after a moment of tense silence. "Try to break me, yes. But they have tried before, and always they fail. I do not fear this trial."

"You need only tell them the truth–"

"The truth will avail me _nothing,"_ Nuada spat suddenly, and the nearly-mad fire of pain in his eyes burned like the molten gold heart of a star. "Nothing. I need only endure. It has always been enough. It will be enough now."

The Elf prince did not see the brownie that had stood near the entryway skitter off. But Wink did, and wondered why she had come and where she was going now.

**.**

Dylan fought against the urge to pace as she tried to pore over _Esther_ in _the Old Testament_. It was one of her favorite stories, and she had to read it for one of her Integrity Value Experiences. Usually she felt comforted by the profoundly moving story of a young girl – based on the historical setting, she couldn't have been more than sixteen or so – who risked death to protect her people. A comforting tale, like a favorite bedtime story pulled from the shelf and dusted off, to be heard one more time. But not tonight. Despite the purple colored pencil and gel pen beside her, ready to highlight and box important or relevant bits, she couldn't seem to focus.

_It's nearly time for Nuada to come,_ she thought, then reminded herself that the Elf prince wouldn't be coming tonight. It had been more than two months (almost three, as October was nearly done) since that headlong race to find the prince amid the subway tunnels, a blood-spattered madman on her heels and an orphaned baby in her arms. Despite herself, the mortal found herself wishing Nuada yet again would come just to show her he was all right. Had that bloodthirsty Elf – what was his name? Eamonn? – managed to hurt him? Was everything okay?

Maybe doing the write-up for the experience in her journal would help. With an edgy sigh and a shove at the unrestrained curls falling into her face, she pulled out the four-inch black binder that served as her current journal (her last one being a gray binder of the same size) and flicked the rings open so she could pull out the paper. Somehow, writing with a gel pen on the first page of a stack of paper gave her a strange sense of peace. The soft scritching of pen nib on paper, the scent of ink, and the cushioning of the stack of blank pages ready to be filled usually soothed her. Dylan shuffled the papers until they were even with each other. Pushing at her hair again, she clicked her pen.

Bat took a casual kitten-swipe at it, and she bapped him lightly on the nose. The black kitten flopped over on his back and waved his little paws in the air, desperate to take down this heinous offender. Dylan laughed and poked him in his pudgy belly. The cat mewed in outrage, baring tiny white teeth as sharp as needles. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to catch hold of the pen, until his gyrations rolled him off the table and onto the floor with a _plop_. Bat glared up at Dylan before rolling into a ball and closing his eyes in disgust.

Her momentary distraction gone, Dylan began to write in her journal.

_"In the Book of Esther, Esther's uncle (actually he's her cousin) Mordecai shows his integrity when he refuses to worship Haman, even though the King has made it the law that everyone has to bow down and worship this guy. Because Mordecai is a Jew, he cannot worship any gods but Yahweh. He's standing up for his beliefs as well as the law he has promised to obey before he agreed to serve the King._

_"Integrity and honor are important because if you don't have them, how can anyone trust you? Although honor and integrity are not the same thing, they're closely linked. Integrity is a part of honor. If you lack honor, why should you choose to speak truthfully? And if you speak falsely, you dishonor yourself. Lying is considered dishonorable. And without integrity, if you vow to stand for something, why should anyone take you seriously? They won't say, 'Your honor prevents you from speaking falsely.' They'd be like, 'You're a big, fat coward who wouldn't know honor if it jumped up and bit you on the butt. We don't trust you as far as we can spit.'"_

Ugh. It wasn't working. If anything, all the thinking about integrity and honor made her think about Nuada even more. She remembered Nuada deliberating as to whether to kill her, thinking and testing her by her words. What had she said to him?

_A prince without personal honor cannot hope to be an honorable ruler to his people and a dishonorable ruler brings shame to his kingdom._

Rapid tapping at the window wrenched her rudely from her thoughts. Frowning, she pushed up from the table and limped toward the window. A tiny form pounded small fists against the panes of glass. When Dylan drew close enough to discern the shape, she realized it was a _very_ upset brownie.

She flicked the three locks on the windows and drew them open. "Come in, mo duinne_,_ if you mean me no harm, and be welcome."

The diminutive creature, draped in flashy scraps of fabric she'd probably scored from the local streetwalkers, scurried inside and began chattering agitatedly in Old Gaelic. Dylan struggled to keep up, but the little thing was chirping and squeaking so fast she grasped maybe one word out of six. Finally she threw up both hands and cried, "Wait, wait! Hold on. Slower, please."

"She says the Exiled Prince is in danger," a soft, lisping voice said from Dylan's elbow. She squeaked and tried to whirl to see who was speaking, but her bad leg buckled. Only the wall's presence kept her from collapsing. As she blinked and tried to right herself, the mortal saw another brownie, this one clad in a simple brown homespun shirt and trews, push back a tangled mop of black curls and blink pupil-less black eyes at Dylan. "I am Becan, your hearth sprite. And the prince, the one who used to visit – he is in trouble."

Dylan stared at the two small fae for a long moment before letting herself sink to the floor, where she could get a little more comfortable. Fear was a living, breathing animal in her stomach, in her chest. The mortal couldn't let it have control. Taking a deep breath, she looked to the little creature that had slipped in through her window.

"Tell me everything you know."

**.**

Wink paused outside the corridor that would lead to Balor's Hall. He glanced once at the strangely silent Elf prince at his side. Nuada only stared straight ahead, glacial topaz eyes locked on the vast double doors shrouded in shadow. Between the two warriors and the doors were several hidden Butcher Guards and, more than likely, that sycophantic little toad, the Lord Chamberlain.

"Both my heart and my feet are heavy at this parting, my prince," Wink grunted in the Troll Tongue. He knew the court toadies would not stoop so low as to learn the tongue of the silver trolls. "Every instinct warns me of danger and hidden treachery."

"I know it," the prince replied in the same tongue. "Eamonn will do his best to see me shamed this night. I am prepared for him."

"Should we not have told... the human woman?" Something in the Elf's gaze warned Wink against using the mortal's name. "Surely she would come and defend you from these charges. She would tell your father the truth."

"The truth avails nothing in Balor's court anymore. Humanity's poison has oozed too deeply into our world and our people. And even if she _did _come..." But no human would ever do such a foolish thing. Not for one his people. Not even Dylan. And if she did... "They would say, as they have already said, that I use my Elf magic to beguile her, to enchant and deceive her. They would not believe her to be in her right mind. And besides, I was not given leave to bring her. To come before the king of Elfland without summons can be a death sentence, with no respect to mortality or magic, rank or status, unless the king gives his pardon. My honor prevents me from endangering her thus."

With a sigh, the burly troll glanced toward the moon cresting the horizon. As the last sliver of iridescent celestial orb glided above the horizon line, something icy settled over Nuada and he let out a breath.

"It is time. Goodbye, my friend. Wait for me as agreed."

Wink fought against the steps he wanted to take after Nuada, who strode slowly toward the double doors and the silent, waiting Butchers. Instead of following after his prince, he turned away and trudged back to the corridor where those not summoned who had an interest in the Court proceedings were ordered to wait.

**.**

Dylan limped through the dense forests of Central Park, scanning the night-shadowed brush for the one she sought. Becan and the other little brownie, Brighid, scurried after her. The mortal knew there were Hunters in the Park. She just had to find them. And once she did, she had to convince them that it was in their best interest to help her.

_Nuada, you moron,_ she thought as rose thorns lashed her arms. The small fae following her had no trouble dodging and crawling through the small openings in the brambles. _Why didn't you tell me you'd need an advocate? You absolute and complete_ moron!

Once she was deep into the woods, well off the path and far away from the garish electric lights the city lit after sunset, she stopped and took a deep breath. All around her were the scents of pine resin, crushed ferns, the musk of forest creatures, and the sweetness of night air purified by the Bright People. She took it all in on a breath, and let out her fear and irritation on another breath. She had to give herself over to what was right, and pray God's plan for her didn't involve dying that night.

Dylan closed her eyes and said, softly, in very formal Gaelic, "I am a daughter of forest and mountain, desert and plains, stars and the deeps. I follow the High King of the World, the Lamplighter of the Moon, the Star Kindler; I am a follower of the Son of the King. I am the High King's daughter, and I ask a Hunter to come to me, for I have need this night. I ask not for myself, but for another, and I ask in the name of the Atoning Prince, the Holy One of the Lost Tribes. I speak truth."

Becan and Brighid stared at the mortal, surprised at the lyrical, ancient words spilling off her tongue. The words held the cadence and intonations of a prayer, and the expectation and utter serenity on Dylan's face reminded Becan of how she looked while saying her morning and evening prayers in her living room every day.

Dylan opened her eyes as the foliage ahead of her rustled softly. She held out one hand, thinking, _Please, Heavenly Father, let this be a Hunter and not some kind of freaky flesh-eating forest goblin or __a satyr or __something._

A large stag, antlers many-pronged and so tall they seemed to be brushing the sky, stepped out of the forest green and approached her sedately. Liquid gold eyes like the heart of summer captured hers and wouldn't let go. Dylan knew what the Faerie stag was searching her eyes for – the truth. If she had spoken falsely, he'd disembowel her with his rather impressive rack of antlers. If she spoke truth... well, at least he'd hear what her request _was_ before disemboweling her with his rack of razor-sharp antlers.

When the golden-furred stag bowed his crowned head, Dylan lowered her hand and bowed back. When she'd straightened, there was no stag in the middle of the woods. There was only a man, with curly tawny hair tinged with streaks of green and auburn, and eyes like liquid sunlight just before sunset on midsummer. That same massive set of antlers thrust through the lion-gold curls.

"Why do you call a Hunter, mortal woman? It behooves us to answer the prayers of those with light in their hearts because of our fealty to the High King of all life. But I have done all that is required of me. What is it you wish? If it offends me, there will be a price."

_He's going to rip my guts out, _Dylan thought frantically. _No way will he agree to this, he's going to rip my guts outs, I'm going to die, and then– __**shut up!**_ She mentally slapped herself. _Get a_ grip. _Just have to make sure I speak carefully. It's not like I haven't had tons of practice with the prince._

"I require assistance in coming to the aid of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor. What I ask is only so that I may prevent him from coming to harm." Heart pounding, fear-sweat slicking her palms, she cast the woodman a beseeching look. "I must get to the Court of Bethmoora, but I do not know the way, and I have to hurry. They're going to do something horrible to him. I owe the prince a debt. He shouldn't have to suffer because he showed me compassion."

Brighid chirped in at that point. Dylan supposed the brownie was backing her up. _Heavenly Father, I hope so._ The passage of time itched over the mortal woman's skin as she waited for the Hunter to speak. She hadn't actually made her request because she had to know if he even believed what she was saying. If he didn't, and she asked him what she planned, he'd literally unspool her intestines from her body before trampling her to death.

Molten gold eyes pinned her. She tried not to blink. Tried only to think of Nuada. Brighid didn't know what would happen to the Elf prince once he got to this so-called trial – she refused to take the name seriously, since the Elf warrior couldn't even take Wink with him as a witness for his side – but the brownie was married to a domovik, and had learned how to sense the emotions of the Bigger Folk. There had been a black morass of feeling and sensations swirling around Bethmoora's crown prince, emotions that had made the brownie fear very much for him. Something was going to happen to him, something bad. Not fatal – at least, the brownie didn't think so. But something terrible. And that was what she'd told Dylan.

"You speak truly. What is your request?"

_Here we go,_ Dylan thought, praying silently that she wasn't about to feel the rough, dagger-sharp prongs of the golden Gentry stag. Aloud, all she said was, "I need a ride to the Golden Hall of King Balor, and your kind are the fastest things in Central Park."

Those liquid eyes flashed. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the belly cut.

**.**

"What troubles you, my sister?" The Elf prince was acutely aware of Wink's absence and the Chamberlain' and guards' presence at his back as he strode down the corridor toward the doors. He deftly slaughtered the wisp of hurt in his chest when his sister refused to meet his eyes. He spoke softly, for her ears alone. "You cannot even meet my gaze."

"I do not know you," she said coolly. Her long, black skirts shushed over the stone floor as she glided forward. His sister wore black and white this night. Black for death, white for mourning. Did she expect their father to execute him tonight? What would happen to her if Balor _did_ attempt to execute him? "It pains me to see a stranger looking out at me from my beloved brother's face, so I do not look."

Nuada could feel his sister's grief and disappointment, though she tried to shield herself from his mind. She truly thought him a monster. Thought him capable of the crimes their father suspected him of. It would have incensed him if it had not left a bleeding hole in his heart. He wondered, in a distant way, if this was the feeling that fed humans and their viciousness, their evil and greed and pride. This pain, this sense of deep loss threatening to choke and smother.

_Dylan does not allow such dark feelings to infect her, _Nuada thought, vaguely surprised that the thought had even occurred to him. But he let it continue to unfurl in his mind, wondering if his sister could hear the thought. _She has suffered much, yet the hole in her heart is very small. How does she manage such a thing?_

"You think me guilty, then?" He asked, giving nothing of his thoughts away. The prince already knew the answer, but there was a sudden burning in his chest, a fierce need to _force _Nuala to admit that she did not trust him, did not care for him or love him anymore. Thought him a vicious beast capable of rape, murder, and other atrocities. If that was what she felt, he wanted her to admit it, not dance around it like a courtier. And if she did not believe it, he wanted her to stop behaving as if she did.

For a fleeting moment she met his eyes. Winced. Looked away.

That was answer enough. She half-believed it. Almost had herself convinced of his guilt. Was even closer to convincing herself that she did not _want_ to believe it, but he was not fooled. His sister wanted a reason to condemn him. She could not rightfully condemn his desire to protect their people, so she would find something else. And she would not look into his mind to find the truth for herself. His twin sister considered her brother's mind a filthy and loathsome trap, to be avoided at all costs. Just that knowledge had the strength to steal his iron control long enough for the pain in his chest to unfurl, just a little, before he quickly smothered it again. He would not let his beloved sister feel that kind of pain.

Before he could speak again, the doors to his father's Hall swung inward. The rich, amber light caressed Nuada's face. Sweet scents and perfumes wafted on the sudden breezes. Soft, chiming music lilted on the air. And the Elf prince could not stop the leap his heart gave when he saw his father's face, nor the way it plummeted sickeningly into his belly when he saw the condemnation, anger and despair on the noble features. In fact, he saw himself condemned in every countenance that would look on him, save one.

Eamonn's eyes glinted with smug satisfaction as he watched Nuada approach without Wink, and without weapons.

_Dylan, _Nuada thought, surprising himself again. _She has never looked at me this way. Not even when I had her by the throat and meant to kill her. She never looked at me as if I were an animal, or a criminal. How strange that a human thinks more highly of me than my own kin._

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in a ringing voice. As a boy, that tone had been enough to make the young Elf prince's spine snap straight and his shoulders square at attention. Now it only saddened him. "You are here to be tried for the charges of deviant cruelty toward, and the violent murder of mortals, as well as the rapine of and conspiracy to murder another mortal. Do you have anything to say to these accusations?"

For just a moment, he considered explaining. His father would believe him. His father would understand. After what had happened to his mother, rape was the only thing that could ever provoke Nuada into defending a human. It was the one thing he would _never_ stand for.

Then he thought of Dylan: shouting a warning as one of the human wolves moved to attack him; forcing him to let her aid him in getting to safety; removing the bullets and stitching his wounds even as she shivered with pain and swayed with blood loss; mending his clothes and scrubbing the bloodstained floor of his sanctuary; trying to protect him from the leanashe; toasting apple and cheese sandwiches before the fireplace; the steady sound of her voice as she read her favorite tales to him; her arm flung around him in relief and welcome and a release of terror as she sobbed into his chest, knowing she could weep now because he was there and she was safe.

The one thing that would save him was the one thing he could not say. Everything else was meaningless. To share pain, vulnerability, heartache... it was forbidden among the fae to do so without express permission. Sharing weakness could get you killed in Faerie. He would not dishonor or endanger Dylan thus. Would not offer up her few weaknesses as coin to buy his pardon. He could not deny the charges, though his honor chafed him, demanding justice. Demanding truth. He knew there would be neither. Neither would avail him.

"No," he said calmly, tonelessly. Revealing nothing. "I have nothing to say."

Nuada caught a flicker of grief in his father's eyes. For himself, his pain? Or for the pain that would be inflicted on his sister? Nuala stood rigidly beside him, her hands clamped tightly before her as she stared past her brother, as if he were a mirage she knew wasn't real. Then Balor stood. His voice was heavy with weariness and quiet anger when he spoke.

"Silverlance, you have broken the treaty with the humans by your actions. Even a prince may not transgress the law of kings. I will not give you death, Crown Prince, and deprive myself of both my heirs in one night. I will, however, see you punished."

The Elf warrior closed his eyes. Braced himself. The words were still like a blow to the belly.

"Two thousand lashes by iron."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, guys, that's 14,000+ words for the actual chapter, 27 pages on my word processor (cuz I love you so very, very much. I did everything in my power to pump this out for you before my hubby got home from work, since I'm uploading at my In-Laws' house, where we do our laundry, after he gets home). So yeah. Nuada in trouble. He's not going to die by 2000 lashes, seeing as how he's an immortal Elf and stuff, but boy-howdy is that going to hurt super hecka bad. And yeah, it has the potential to kill him – heck, shock alone might do it. Then again, it might not. It depends on how quickly he heals. We'll see how it turns out in chapter 11. As for the number of lashes – I got that from _the Sharpe Series_. Richard Sharpe, MC, was supposed to get 2000 lashes (can't remember what for, and yeah, that would have totally killed him) but luckily only got... 200? 150? Something like that. He was still in crappy shape afterwards._

_Since I churned out this humongous chapter for you guys, can I have some humongoid reviews? Preferably not the ones that say "omg I love this story so effing much squee Nuada the sex luv his abs write more." I don't think I have any of those, but I like to know what specific things you guys like. Please mention at least one thing in the chap that you liked a lot._

_So, for those who don't know what to say, here's a __**review prompt**__:_

_1) Give me four things you absolutely loved. It doesn't have to be about Nuada/Dylan; it can be about Wink, or Balor, or heck, even Eamonn (our current favorite psychopath). Any four things you want - tell me about 'em. Tell me what they were, and why you loved them._

_2) Was there anything you didn't like? Any typos, flaws in the chapter, anything? Was anyone OOC? If you're thinking Nuala, please read "The Important Thing About Nuala" in chapter 14, which explains any discrepencies._

_3) Was there a song this chapter (or this fic) makes you think of? Like, for my beta, the song "Chemicals React" by 78violet (or Aly&AJ, I can never remember which) always makes her think of Dylan and Nuada. For me, I have several, but one of them is "The King of Elfland's Daughter" by Heather Alexander (only switching the genders). So is there a song you think is totally appropriate for this chapter, or this fic?_

_4) What do you like best about this fic so far? What do you like least?_

_5) Who do you love more, Red or Abe?_

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_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the green man! What is a green man (or woman)? A green man is any kind of vegetation god or faerie creature. Some kinds of green men/women are: dryads, Elves (in some cultures and stories), the horned gods in mythology such as Pan, Herne the Hunter or the hunting god Weiryn (sp?) in _the Immortal Wars Quartet _by Tamora Pierce, a woses, goddesses of spring or even summer, sometimes fauns or faerie deer (enchanted deer who can take on either animal or an Elf-like male form, but with antlers) or any kind of forest-affiliated Fae being. There's all kinds of modern and ancient stories about them. What is a woses? If you ever see carvings (mostly in Europe) of men's faces with leaves coming out of their mouths, those are woses. They're another type of vegetation deity or creature._

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_**Skill Poll:**_ _hey, how many of you guys are good at making videos? You know, like the kind they put on Youtube? I have crappy vid making equipment on an even crappier computer. I can't make decent videos for _Once Upon a Time _even if I wanted to (and believe me, I so want to). Can I get any of you awesome possum robots to make a vid (or twenty) for my fic? I know all you die-hards out there would probably love to see a video (or heck, even just artwork) for this fic. Surely, even if you can't do it yourself, you know a guy? Or know a guy who knows a guy? Please? I am so incredibly desperate for this. I would __**LOVE**_ _to see artwork and/or videos for my fanfic. Who's willing to help me out? Anyone who sends me any kind of vid or art gets a shout out, and a mention in the blog I'm going to be starting soon. So please!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Steadfast" by Nancy Kress is a retelling of "The Steadfast Tin Soldier," by Hans Christian Anderson, set around the time of the French revolution. The Steadfast Tin Soldier has always been a symbol of honor and courage, as well as love and devotion (in the story, the poor tin soldier is one of a set of toy tin soldiers, but he is damaged. Despite this, he manages to fall in love with a beautiful ballerina paper doll and she loves him too. An evil toy wants the ballerina for himself, and sets it up so that the tin soldier gets knocked into the stove. The ballerina throws herself into the fire after him and they die, which is depressing, but the story is supposed to be about honor, courage, love, and devotion). Disney's _Fantasia 2000 _has an animated short of this story with a much happier ending. The story "Steadfast" is found in the anthology _Black Swan, White Raven.

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- _Spindle's End_: for those of you unable to read continuously, _Spindle's End _is a novel by Robin McKinley based on the story of "the Sleeping Beauty." I've recently reread it, and it's pretty awesome. Hence why Dylan read it to Nuada. It's not your typical "princess falls in love with prince at first sight, happily ever after, the end" story, which is why I thought it appropriate for an Elf Prince with an appreciation for good storytelling.

- Elves being herbivores versus omnivorous: in some universes, Elves don't eat meat (like in _Eragon_), and it some (like in _the Lord of the Rings_) they do. I figured even if I had Nuada eat meat as well as grains, greens, and fruit, it should occur to Dylan that he might not.

- Children of Mud: in the _Artemis Fowl _series, the Fae refer to humans as Mud People and Mud Men. I thought Children of Mud sounded a bit more... in the adult literary genre.

- The quote about "I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded" is from 1 Nephi 3:7, in _the Book of Mormon_. Since Dylan is Mormon, she would know that scripture off the top of her head. A lot of LDS people do – it's one of those verses that's referenced a lot.

- The book Dylan is reading from at the end of the first scene is _Conan the Barbarian_. I figured from the prologue that it would be appropriate for Nuada.

- Nursery is the name for the LDS Sunday School for children ages 18 months to... I believe it's 3 years old. You learn all kinds of neat things in there (as a teacher, I mean. I've never been in Nursery as a child. But I read through the Nursery teaching manual for fun because it's got great ideas for dealing with unhappy children at home, too, in a positive and uplifting manner).

- "I Am a Child of God" is one of the few Primary songs (Primary is Nursery kids up to kids who are 12 years old) that's in the adult hymn book as well. Because it's a Primary song, it's pretty simple and easy, so emotional duress won't affect Dylan's ability to sing it, and sing it softly. And babies like to be sung to and cuddled, especially when they're upset.

- No, Nuada really can't mention Dylan being raped. It would be dishonorable because in the world he comes from, women are taught to protect their honor (aka virtue, aka chastity, aka don't let guys rape you) and sharing the fact that Dylan had been thusly dishonored would be dishonorable in and of itself. And the one thing about Nuada that makes him so redeemable (besides the second thing, which is his love for his people) is that he clings to his honor until the very last moment. I think Guillermo Del Toro made a good move in that he didn't have Nuada die until the minute he gave up his honor (trying to stab Hellboy in the back).

- Dark elf: an Elf with dark hair. Not a species' name or anything; merely an adjective to describe the fact that, unlike Nuada, he has black hair and not blond. Not to be confused with the Döckálfar, the Dark Elves of Scandinavian myth, who are often freaky looking. Will probably make an appearance later.

- I've mention the Darkness That Eats All Things before, but just a refresher: it's the living darkness that eats oathbreakers who swear by its name and swear falsely. I read about it in a _Meredith Gentry _novel (by Laurell K. Hamilton). Don't read them – they are literally just leprechaun porn. Not very entertaining unless you're looking for glow-in-the-dark sex with otherworldly beings. But she did a lot of research, and I don't doubt that there really was such a thing in mythology as the Darkness.

- The quote Dylan makes to Eamonn about chastity is also from _the Book of Mormon_. It's Jacob 2:28. That scripture is one of the ones used to teach LDS girls about chastity while working on Virtue Value Experience #1 for the Young Women's Personal Progress, so it would stand to reason she has it memorized.

- "I would not say such things if I were you." Yes, boys and girls, that was a reference to _the Princess Bride_. I was watching an episode of _In Plain Sight _with my mother and one of the guys on the show sends secret messages to the girl he loves using movie quotes from various films, including that one.

- "Give me the child." Also a movie quote. Gotta love _the Labyrinth_. Especially since you have a blond Fae asking a dark-haired girl for a baby in both this fic and that film. Woot.

- The thing about spring peas – even if you don't like peas (I hate them), fresh peas straight out of the pod, straight off the vine are so good. I was very surprised. Although if you hate the squishiness of peas (I do), eat them one at a time. And you can eat the pods, too. Also very good.

- Bairn: not sure if that's the Gaelic word for baby or the English word with a Gaelic accent, but it means baby or child.

- Madoigna: a Gaelic word meaning "my brown one."

- _Once Upon a Winter's Night _by Dennis McKiernan is the first book in a quintet. Apparently he's famous for his _Mithgar _novels, which I've never read, but I like his _Once Upon a Season's Time _series (that's what I call it – _Once Upon a Winter's Night, Once Upon a Summer's Day, Once Upon an Autumn Eve, Once Upon a Spring Morn_, and _Once Upon a Dreadful Time_). The first four books are fairy tales retold, but in a very unique way. Imagine you took a tape recorder with you through a time machine to medieval times, recorded a bard telling one of those multi-night epic fantasy stories, then popped back into the modern time and transcribed everything on the tape onto paper. That's how the first book reads. He loses it a bit as you go through the series, but by the end of book one I loved it so much I didn't care. Anyway, it is a retelling of "East of the Sun, West of Moon" set in France's Faerie Realm (although the MC is from someplace way far north; imagine a French bard talking about Scandinavia or somewhere like that). It's awesome and I love it. It's also a book written in a style I think Nuada would like.

- Kata: sequences of martial arts moves to help the body learn muscle memory and to teach form, speed, and focus (the moves Nuada was doing in the beginning of _HB2 _– those were from a kata, although probably a made-up one).

- I figured the Throne would be golden because the Army and the Crown are golden, and everything in Bethmoora in the film seemed all autumnal and golden.

- Black centaurs, as portrayed in this fic, are inspired by the black centaur from _the Neverending Story _by Michael Ende. If you've seen the original film, there's a black guy who says the Empress wants to see Atreyu (one of the 2 MCs), and Atreyu pops up and the guy's like, "Not Atreyu-the-Child! Atreyu the Warrior." Turns out both Atreyu's are the same person – oops. But that black guy is supposed to be a centaur, they just didn't have the technology at the time to do it.

- The name Doyle means Darkness.

- Does Nuada have glamor? I was under the impression every Faerie had it, so yes. He just strikes me as the lance-type versus the glamor-type.

- The story of Esther is that Esther was picked by Ahaseurus, King of this huge empire, to be his queen, because she was a babe (interestingly, Luke Goss, the guy who plays Nuada, played Xerxes - they got his name wrong - in _One Night With the King_, which I believe is based on that story). The King fell in real love with Esther, too. Her cousin, Mordecai, was a gate-keeper for the King and discovered a heinous plot to kill him, which he relayed to Esther, who told the King. So it was written in the King's chronicles that Mordecai saved his life. Then, this dude named Haman got a promotion, the King declared everyone should bow down and worship Haman, but Mordecai wouldn't because he was Jewish and the Ten Commandments say, "Thou shalt not worship any other gods before (Yahweh)." Haman was ticked off, and convinced the King that the Jews were evil and refused to obey his laws and they all had to die. Mordecai told Esther to plead with the King for the Jews (which had the potential to get her killed, since anyone who came before the King without being summoned and didn't win his favor was killed). She went to the King, he loved her so much he was just glad to see her, and she told him she was Jewish and all about Haman's plan and the King changed his mind and everything was happy, the end. Oh, yeah, and Haman was hanged on the gallows he had built to hang Mordecai, and Mordecai got Haman's old job.

- For Young Women's Personal Progress Integrity Value Experience #3, you have to read the entire _Book of Esther _in the Bible as well as other scriptures (_Esther _only has ten chapters) and then write in your journal how the people in the reading showed integrity. There's other things, but that's the thing relevant to reading the Scriptures.

- Dylan has purple colored pencils and gel pens because purple is the color for the Integrity YW Value.

- I figured Dylan's Brownie ought to show up sooner or later.

- Becan: the name of the kid in _the Irish Cinderlad _by Shirley Cimo, based on Douglas Hyde's Irish Cinderella story, "The Bracket Bull" and Sara Cone Bryant's "Billy Beg and His Bull." Apparently Cimo's version sucks. Haven't read it, though, so I can't make a decision. It's a picture book, though, so reluctant three- and four-year-old readers, have at it.

- Brighid: the Irish goddess of fire, the hearth, and home crafts. An appropriate name for a Brownie, I think.

- If you want to know about the thing Dylan says to get the Faerie stag to come out, message me.

- Hunters are inspired by "Hunter's Moon," a short story by Patricia McKillip in the anthology _Green Man: Tales From the Mythic Forest_. Although the antlers are just because I think guys with antlers are hot.

- Domovik: basically, the Russian version of a brownie (Brownies being generally English/Scottish). Vivian Vande Velde has a "Rumpelstiltskin" story in her book, _the Rumpelstiltskin Problem_, that involves a domovik.

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_

- _The Book of Mormon_ (had to say it)  
- _The Blue Fairy Book_, compiled by Andrew Lang (in fact, all the _Fairy Books_)

- "Calling" by LA Knight (it's not on fanfic dot net, but it will be soon. Probably by the time you read/reread this list. A myth-punk retelling of part 1 of "Orpheus and Eurydice," as most people only know part 2)  
- _Conan the Barbarian_ (the book, not the new movie that's coming out; everyone should see the old film at least once, but skip the sex scene)

- _The Forbidden Game Trilogy_ by LJ Smith (a trilogy about a Döckálfar who fell in love with a human girl. Warning: does not end happily for the Elf.)

- _The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest_, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (it's an anthology, all about green men and woses and stuff)

- _The Labyrinth_ (great movie; too bad David Bowie doesn't look like that now)

- _Outlander_ by Diana Gabaldon (learn lots of Gaelic words in that one; has time travel, water-horses, and magical standing stones)

- _The Princess Bride_ by William Goldman (movie's good, too)

- _The Rumpelstiltskin Problem_ by Vivian Vande Velde (some of them are romantic, some are sad, and some are just hilarious)

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"The Water Lily and the Gold-Spinners" (I was looking for "Rumpelstiltskin," but since I'm on an internet-lacking computer, I couldn't get it. So instead, we have a less well-known fairy tale about someone who spins gold. This is found in Andrew Lang's _Blue Fairy Book_)._

_Once upon a time in far-away Estonia, in a hut hidden deep in a forest, three beautiful maidens who knew the language of the birds spent each waking moment weaving gold flax into yarn. An old woman supervised them, collecting every finished thread. She left them only for short journeys, always leaving a full slate of work along with the warning to keep their eyes on their work, and to speak to no man; otherwise the gold would lose its shine and great misfortunes would follow._

_During one of the old woman's absences, a Prince was separated from his hunting party, and wandering in the forest, came across the hut. The elder maidens hid from him, but the youngest sought out his company. Days later, when the King's search party found the hut, the Prince and maiden sat before it lost in conversation. The Prince promised to return for the maiden, who went back to work at her neglected wheel. Sure enough, the bright thread was now dull, just as the old woman had predicted. Terrified, she was convinced that misfortunes would come. Soon enough, the old woman came and with one glance at the tarnished thread knew everything. The youngest maiden managed to send a message to her Prince through a raven. The Prince came to her and carried her off to marry her._

_The old woman was enraged and, as she was secretly a witch, promptly cast a spell. She conjured a magic ball, which flew by the maiden as she was held by the mounted Prince crossing a bridge. Whirlwinds cast her from the Prince's arms and into the river. Though he tried desperately to dive in after her, the poor Prince was restrained by his men. Weeping and lamenting his love, he returned home._

_A year later, visiting the spot, he saw a yellow water lily in the river and heard a voice sing a forlorn song about being bewitched and forsaken. Puzzled, he went on through the forest to the hut and consulted the other two gold-spinners, who insisted that the flower must be their sister. The Prince slept the night in the gold-spinners' hut, having a magic cake for his dinner secretly prepared by the eldest sister. In the morning, as he rode off, he realized that he too could understand the language of the birds. In this way he learned that the Wizard of Finland could help him free his love. Through the birds, he contacted the Wizard. _

_The Wizard, in the form of an eagle, agreed to tell the Prince how to save the gold-spinner on the condition he free the other two as well. The brave and honorable Prince readily agreed, and the Wizard instructed the Prince to stand on the river bank, smeared with mud, and say, "From a man to a crab." Once he became a crab, he was to swim to the flower, cut its roots, and rise with the lily to the surface. Drifting with the current, he was to ascend a large stone and say, "From a crab to a man, from a water-lily to a maiden." This would save his love._

_He did as the Wizard instructed, and the maiden was restored, more beautiful than ever and dressed in magnificent robes and jewels. Now, although to the Prince only hours had passed in fulfilling his mission, he learned that ten days had gone by and the King and Queen were at church, weeping for their supposedly dead son. The Prince and maiden arrived at the church and were married on the spot. In their happiness, the Prince forgot his promise to the Wizard to free the other two maidens. A graveyard crow upbraided the Prince, "How could you forget the sisters? Must they spin gold forever?" _

_Chagrined, the Prince rescued the pair. The eldest this time made up a poisoned cake instead of an enchanted one, which the old witch ate upon her return. The Prince and his bride and her sisters lived quite happily, recovering fifty wagon loads of the gold thread that had been hidden away by the witch._


	11. Hunter and Hemlock

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter in the Author's Note**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Creature of the Day  
References Made in the Chapter  
Suggested Reading List  
Fairy Tale of the Day  
Reader Review Responses_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, my beta is back to reading this fic (she's been busy) and this, along with the success and cliff-hanger ending of the last chapter, compels me to try and get this chapter out before the end of July. Since I'm writing this author's note on June 27, and my line edits for my YA novel are going to arrive tomorrow, I don't know how easily this is going to be managed. But hopefully I'll get this chapter out on time. I hate leaving people hanging because I know just how strenuous it is as the reader to hang. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter._

_Oh, and I made some changes to chapter 10. _=) _If you care._

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**Chapter Eleven**

**Hunter and Hemlock**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Shooting, Speed, Sacrifice, Slaughter, and Sin**

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John shook his head once, trying to dislodge whatever was pushing against the inside of his skull. Flickering specks like Technicolor midges swarmed in front of his eyes, but he tried to ignore them. He was in the middle of taking a test. If he didn't pass, he wasn't going to get _this_ job, either. After everything he'd been through, after everything that had happened in his life, if he didn't get this job, John Myers thought he might just give up and resign himself to a life as a hermit. Working for the Feds, knowing there was more to the job than the pitiful security details he was getting, sucked.

_Six years of my life lost to a freaking dimensional black hole, _he thought_, and I pop out with my twin sister eighteen years old and fresh out of the Nut-House from Hades while I'm still twelve and scrawny and pasty as a dead fish, half-chewed up by the monsters twiddling their thumbs in the hell dimension. Then I spend two years in Shambala after graduating from high school, which is a fantastic place to chill after the rigors of academic torment, and I don't age a day. But I miss my sister's graduation from medical school. And the whole time_, both _times,_ _it feels like something's trying to drill its way into my skull and I can't concentrate on breathing, much less anything else. Just when I think the problem's gone, it comes back when I'm trying to test into the MIB._

What was it Dylan was always saying? _God will test you to the breaking point; He expects you to keep your promise to deal with it and pull through_. Well, the twenty-one-year-old government-trained psychic genius knew this was going to be his breaking point. If his sister's... whatever... was messing with his head again, he was going to have some words with her.

_Not that it's her fault,_ he reminded himself as he scribbled an answer to a quantum calculus problem on the paper. He felt eyes on him and glanced up. The other men, all of them older and in various military uniforms, were staring at him. They all had the allowed calculators and scratch paper out. John realized he'd been zipping through the doctorate-level math problems despite the cobwebby feeling in his brain and the sparkles around the edges of his vision. He ignored the others and went back to the test.

_It's totally not her fault that the shields are down between us, _he continued silently as he penciled in another answer_. After what happened to her – and she still won't tell me much of anything, other than she was saved by one of _Them – _we've been keeping the connection blown wide in case she needs help again. Those gangsters aren't going to quit just because their buddies got killed. They're still going to be pissed at her for what she did._ _Even if their leader says to back off, they might not._ _I know it's been almost a year, but still._

And wasn't that the crapshoot of the world in a nutshell? A gang of thugs wanted his sister raped, beaten, or dead for helping a Hispanic girl get off suicide watch and get the help she needed.

_Why don't they go after the kid's teachers or guidance counselor? They're the ones who sent the kid to Dylan. Why not go after __**them**__?_ John wondered, feeling the hot bubble of anger in his chest whenever he thought about his sister's slashed and bleeding face, the broken ribs and cracked skull, not to mention the worst of it all... but he wasn't going to think about the worst of it. Couldn't, remembering what had happened to her in the institution, too. Otherwise he'd never grow calm enough to keep working. Instead, he was going to focus on his math test.

The mental midges flickering around his head kept buzzing and sparking as he bulldozed through the rest of the questions. His chest was beginning to feel tight as the single door pushed open and a tall, dark-skinned man in a black suit and tie walked in and eyed them all emotionlessly.

"All finished?" There were some mumbled negatives from a few of the assembled testers. "Too bad. Everyone who finished, follow me. Everyone who didn't, nice knowin' ya. See ya around."

John followed the suit, intensely aware that some of the Marines and Navy guys who hadn't made it through the entire test were shooting jagged-edged looks at his back and muttering. He ignored them – he'd had a lot of practice in high school at ignoring people, since everyone knew his sister had been "a complete lunatic who believed in fairies" and they'd made sure _he_ knew it. Ignoring the tightening in his chest, too (was Dylan having a heart attack? Nah – she was healthier than he was), he followed the black man into a well-lit room with cardboard cutouts of buildings and tracks on the floor for pop-up targets to zip around. The black man handed the six men each a police-issue 9 mil.

"Nine bullets," the suit said. "Don't waste them." The lights dimmed. Faux street lamps bloomed brightly in the shadows. And then thick, white smoke filled the room and noise exploded around them.

Sirens screeched. Women screamed and babies wailed in panic. Dogs barked frantically as monsters zipped around and roared. Strobe lights flashed like exploding stars, adding to the eye-searing confusion. Gunshots boomed. Bullets whizzed past John's ear. Heart hammering, he struggled to keep his hands steady as he searched for a target. He hadn't been prepared for _this_! The quiet shadowed hunting grounds of that alternate dimension he'd been trapped in were nothing like the chaotic, riotous hell all around him.

A sudden flash of gold across his vision. The bellow of a furious and angry king stag. Pain burned a path across his upper thigh, near his hip. A hollow weakness flooded his right leg. His knee buckled and he nearly fell. As a dark, tawny shape hurtled toward him, the bell-like roar of fury ringing in his ears, he brought up the gun and fired once before everything went black.

**.**

A flash of fury in golden eyes like liquid sunlight. The bellow of a furious and angry king stag. Dylan tried to throw herself backward as those wicked antlers lowered and thrust toward her. A hollow weakness flooded her bad leg when she put her full weight on it as it twisted under her. The damaged knee buckled and she nearly fell. Something heavy and muscular lunged past her. Pain burned a path across her upper thigh, near her hip. She turned to yell at the brownies to run, to get away so the Hunter would only hurt her. The saliva dried in her mouth and her voice faded to a croak as a dark, tawny shape turned and hurtled back toward her. A bell-like roar of fury rang in her ears.

Stinging pain scraped the insides of her thighs. Something huge shoved between her legs and for a moment fear blanked her mind, turned her eyes glassy and throttled the scream in her throat. Her mind shrieked. Not again, not _again_! It couldn't happen to her again! Never, _never, __**never**__!_

Then she was suddenly weightless, being flung through the air. The silvery moon burned down into her eyes and her hair whipped around her face. And in that breathless moment of fear and floating, before terror could force breath into her lungs or a scream out of them, she was seated on a broad, velvet-smooth back flexing with powerful, ridged muscles. The sharp prongs of a stag's antlers cut black swathes out of the pregnant, white moon as the Hunter, in deer shape, galloped through the thick trees of Central Park toward Bethmoora.

Dylan knew she was supposed to thank the faerie stag, but she couldn't get enough air into her terror-restricted lungs. Everything was swimming. She thought she caught sight of a red-haired troll the size of a small dog, holding a purple thing full of glowing flowers, sitting under a bridge talking to a blond teenage girl, but she didn't get a good look at either of them as the stag galloped by. Sparkles burned against the edges of her vision as she shook her head and tried to come back to herself.

_Nuada, _she thought desperately, and the fear eased a little, to be replaced with determination_. I have to get to Nuada. I have to help him before something awful happens to him. Heavenly Father, please let me get there in time. I don't know what's going to happen, but please let me get there in enough time to prevent it._

Heat suffused her chest, and she felt the softest pressure on her back and shoulders and against her ribs, as if she were being embraced. Comfort stole into her heart. Dylan closed her eyes and nodded once. No matter what happened, God's hand was in it. It would all go as it was meant to, as long as she tried everything in her power to do what was right.

_And that means getting to Nuada as fast as I can, _she reminded herself, but all she said aloud was, "Thank you, Sir Hunter!"

**.**

"Bare your back, Crown Prince," King Balor commanded. Not Nuada. Not even Prince Nuada. Merely "Crown Prince." Nuada fought to kill the stab of grief biting deep into his belly. There was no emotion in the king's voice, in his ancient gaze, on his withered face. And Nuala still refused to look at her twin. Her usually moon-pale face was tinged a sickly gray in anticipation of the flogging, and her eyes were shadowed. She gave no other sign that she was even aware of what was happening.

Nuada refused to look away from his father's golden eyes as he withdrew a leather thong from his pocket and tied back the thick mane of his silvery blond hair in a horsetail. Then he carefully pulled off his black leather vest without breaking eye contact. Nuada would not give Eamonn the satisfaction of looking at the dark Elf to gauge the triumph and smug satisfaction on his face, or give Nuada's father the reprieve of conscience by not gazing indifferently at the old king. In his own eyes Nuada held reproach for what his father did to him, and for what his father was allowing to happen to Nuala. Balor could not continue meeting his son's eyes, and looked away.

He handed his vest to the court page who stood ready to take it. The young woodman had the green-streaked bronze and golden curls of a Hunter, and thrice-forked antlers peeping above his hair. _Only seven years old_, Nuada realized, _and forced to watch a_ _man_ _being flogged_. The child was pale, unusual for the sun-kissed forest faeries. The crown prince gave him a smile and a short, courteous bow. The boy's resin-colored eyes widened, but his color began to return a little.

_If I behave as if this is nothing to me, _Nuada thought as he pulled off and carefully folded his black tunic and shirt and laid them in the boy's arms, _he will be spared for a little longer. _He laid his silver-etched black leather vambraces atop the pile of clothing with that same casual air. The Elf knew there was nothing he could do to mediate the effect of seeing anyone stripped to rib bones and muscle by an iron-tipped whip, but the child had looked as if he might faint at any moment.

The prince drew a breath through his nose, blew it out slowly through his barely-parted black lips. Breathed carefully to keep his heart from stuttering at the thought of the whip slicing through flesh to find bone. He had been struck with a whip before, as a child and as a youth. Less often as an adult, but it had happened. Few other weapons of the Old World had ever hurt him so badly, and the healers had usually seen to him fairly soon afterward to mend those wounds. He still bore some of the scars to this day. But there would be no healers rushing to his aid this night. Only two thousand iron-tipped lashes, and the warm blood soaking his trews and running down his legs like water to pool at his feet. A delirium dream of pain and betrayal. A waking nightmare.

And there were the whipping posts. Such beauty in the silvery beams as thick as an Elf's calf and inlaid with gold-washed script in Old Gaelic. But Nuada knew the silvery sheen came from the burning iron, and the elegantly scripted Gaelic words were curses on those having their backs laid open by the whip. Iron chains reinforced with magic so that even he, the legendary Silverlance, could not break them, hung from the tops of the posts. It would burn when those shackles were clamped around his wrists.

He strode past the whispering courtiers, every step slow and measured. He never took his eyes from his father's empty countenance. He wanted to find Nuala's gaze – in the past, when he'd suffered a well-deserved strapping for disobedience, his sister's eyes had been all the comfort needed to make the pain and humiliation bearable. But he could not look away from Balor, and even if he had, Nuala would not have returned his gaze. There was no emotion from her now. Only a vast and nearly unbearable void, empty and cold, where warmth and love and peace should have been.

Nuada did not flinch when the shackles clicked shut around his wrists. Did not so much as bat an eyelash as the iron against his skin began to tingle, then itch, then burn. Even as the pain radiated up his forearms and he smelled the sickly meat stink of burning flesh, he showed nothing. He only stared at the One-Armed King of Elfland.

It was Eamonn – Eamonn, who had raised the charges against Nuada – who took up the whip with its thin, spiked iron tip. As accuser, it was Eamonn's right to determine who inflicted the prince's sentence. The Elven warrior knew that the dark Elf would never pass up the opportunity to do it himself.

Metal scraped across the inlaid marble floor as the dark-haired Elf moved into position. Nuada wanted to close his eyes, wanted to let his mind seek sanctuary in memories, but where would it go? Thoughts of his father, of Nuala, made his heart bleed as if from a wound. Thinking of Wink would only make him long for his friend and servant, long for the one who knew he had honor, knew he would never sully that honor with base acts of cruelty and evil. And he could not afford to long for anyone in this moment. He had to stand alone, or fall for all to see.

_I wish I had heard that story, _he surprised himself by thinking. Already his body was bracing for the brutal crack of the whip. _The one Dylan wanted to read to me. "Once Upon a Winter's Night." Father will not allow me to go back to her. _He thought of silver-washed blue eyes scanning pages yellowed with age, and the scarred mouth forming the words as she read aloud before the fire_. I wish I could have heard just one more tale._ _I wish I could've had just one more night of peace._

Then the whip came down across his back. Nuala screamed.

And the whip came down again.

Again.

And again...

**.**

_Keep going. You must hurry._

Dylan heard the voice of the Spirit, calm but earnest, in her ear as clearly as the clip-clop of the faerie stag's cloven hooves on the flagstone courtyard. The Hunter slid to a halt and dumped her unceremoniously on the hard, icy stones. The impact jarred her bones, and she barely saved her head from cracking on the hard ground. When the mortal tried to stagger to her feet, her bad knee buckled and she fell to the ground again. Frustration buzzed under her skin and the sick taste of fear clogged her throat as she struggled to push herself up. Darn it, she'd forgotten her cane! Didn't matter; she _had_ to hurry! She _had _to get to Nuada!

She heard the clanking of metal and the shuffling of very large feet, and a familiar boar-like voice grunted, "Dylan!"

The human looked up and met the dark, shocked eyes of the silver troll that had been in Nuada's chambers the night she'd met the dark-haired Elf known as Eamonn. Some of the panic eased back a fraction. Finally getting to her feet, she rushed forward. "Mr. Wink! Thank goodness. Where's Nu– I mean, the prince? I have to find him! Where is he?"

"What are you doing here?" Wink grunted in the Troll tongue. Dylan, unversed, blinked and whispered, "Um... what?" _Oh, crud, _she thought_. Now would be a great time to randomly receive the gift of interpreting tongues. _But no such luck. She couldn't suppress the brief flash of disappointment.

Grumbling under his breath – if Nuada found the mortal here, the Elf prince would be furious – the troll gestured to the Hunter, who was moments away from bounding back out of the courtyard and returning to the Park. "Stag-man," he commanded. "I am the valet of Prince Nuada Silverlance, the Crown Prince of Bethmoora. In his name and for his sake, I demand you translate my words to this mortal, for the woodmen are gifted with the language of forest and mountain Fayre."

The faerie stag pranced toward them and bowed low, his nose scraping the flagstones. Then he was in the form of a leather-clad man with towering antlers once more. "As you wish, Troll."

Dylan had to step back when the burly troll swung back to her. The fury on his face couldn't entirely mask his concern, but he still presented a frightening visage. His concern was strong enough, however, to nearly overpower her natural caution. "What are you doing here, woman?" Wink demanded.

When the stag had translated the gruff words, she replied, "I know about the prince's trial. A brownie told me. Those charges are absolutely ridiculous. He needs an advocate, someone who can stand up for him. I can do that."

"Do not be ridiculous, yourself. Coming before King Balor without summons is a death sentence. They will draw and quarter you, and that is if you're lucky. Besides, you are nothing but a human – what do you expect to accomplish?"

Dylan paled at the thought of being ripped apart limb from limb by four wild horses. Her gorge rose, but she forced it back down with sheer determination. _Think of Esther_, she thought. _Esther didn't let the fear of death keep her from doing what's right. Neither did Mordecai, or Rack, Shack, and Benny. I can do this. I_ have _to do this – I owe him my_ life.

_But Eamonn... _She trailed off as a sudden urge to be sick grabbed hold of her. _Heavenly Father, Eamonn is here! He's here, I can't, he's going to... I can't do this, I can't. Help me, God, please._ _I can't do this._

Wink was saying something to her, but he was rumbling and grumbling so quickly the Hunter hadn't had a chance to translate yet. Suddenly the words to one of her favorite hymns played through her mind: _The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes; That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, I'll never, no never, I'll never, no never, no never forsake._ And she remembered something John had told her once, as well. _Superman isn't brave. He's indestructible. Batman's the brave one, because there's no guarantee he'll make it._

_Okay, _Dylan thought - to herself, to a Higher Power, she didn't know. _Okay. I can do this. I can_ do _this. _Aloud, she said, "At least someone will be there for him." She felt a moment of half-hysterical amusement when Wink's bristly troll eyebrows rose up nearly to the top of his forehead and he stared at her as if she were mad. "Everyone deserves an advocate. I was told he won't defend himself. If _he _won't, _I_ will. I owe him at least that much."

_Hurry, _the voice insisted. Dylan fought against a grimace. Battled against the fear trying to throttle her. The Spirit was telling her to move it, _now,_ but the troll was standing in her way. He was too large to push past, and even if she could have, she couldn't outrun him on her short human legs, especially with her bad knee. She could only reason with him. And all the while she stood there chattering away, time was passing and her urgency increased. She needed to go _right now_.

"Nothing you say will help him. They'll think you beguiled, glamored. You should go home, human. It is dangerous for mortals to wander the paths of Elfland unattended."

Heat blossomed in her chest and threaded through her knee, easing some of the hurt. _You must go_ now.

"I'm not unattended," she replied airily, and stepped around him, heart in her mouth and her belly doing back-flips. "_You're _with me." Dropping into a more serious tone, she added, "And I will _never_ just go home and abandon him. Let's go."

"You'll only make things worse for him!" Wink cried, but the stag didn't bother to translate. The mortal was obviously beyond listening. If she hadn't been so infuriatingly stubborn, the troll might have admired her for her persistence in trying to save his prince. _They're both mule-headed as dwarves_, he thought, growling to himself and following after the woman. _T'is a shame she's mortal; she's just like him._ _Although he is going to murder me for this._

_You must run, _the Spirit insisted_. Hurry._

With a sigh, a spike in her blood pressure, and a mental, _Yes, Sir, _she started sprinting, ignoring the tiny darts of fiery pain shooting up her bad leg with every step. Wink shambled along beside her, haranguing her in the language of the silver cave trolls. With a watery, lopsided smile, she waved an apology and struggled onward.

**.**

Was that sweat or blood trickling down his face? Or maybe the phantom echoes of Nuala's tears? As fire burned through his back and straining shoulders, Nuada realized he could not tell. He'd bitten through his lip to keep from crying out after the hundredth stroke. Nuala was a sobbing heap in their father's arms at the top of the dais where the king's throne rested. Healers surrounded her and the king, who would not be parted from her. Balor had eyes only for the princess. It was as if the Elf tied to the whipping posts were no kin of the king's at all, much less his only son.

For a fleeting moment, the Elf prince wished his father would hold him the way he cradled Nuala, just one more time. How long had it been since his father had embraced him? More than two thousand years.

When was the last time his sister had held him that way? Since Nuala had clung to him over two millennia ago and wept, begging him not to go into exile. His father had refused to embrace him then. Refused to speak to him at all, not even to bid him farewell.

But no, he realized, barely noticing the way his body shuddered from another crack of the whip. Six hundred strokes had left his body numb with shock, unable to truly process the pain. No, someone else had embraced him just as fervently. Recently. Weeks ago. A warm arm around him and a tear-stained face pressed against his chest. Sobs against the silk of his tunic. Dark brown curls tickling his neck and chin. Joy and relief pouring out of the woman clinging so desperately to him as she trembled and wept into his chest.

_Dylan, _he remembered_. Dylan embraced me then. So glad to see me. Always so glad to see me..._

Always so glad. Whenever he came to her door those fey-like blue eyes lit up with true happiness and she would smile at him in a way no one ever had, as if he had somehow made the stars shine brighter simply with his presence. She would smile whenever he spoke during their conversations about faith and faerie tales, loss and life. Even when she was obviously tired from her work, obviously worn or sorrowing, Dylan always had that quiet joy when he was with her. She _always_ welcomed him. Only Dylan.

The seven-hundredth stroke would have driven him to his knees, but the chains at his wrists held him – barely – upright. Now he hung from iron chains that yanked his arms high over his head until he could scarcely breathe from the pressure on his chest and the pain in his back. He had seen a man crucified once, long ago, in the Middle East. More than two thousand years ago. Such a long time. As the iron shackles wrenched at his arms and shoulders, Nuada imagined the weight of that man's body dragging at his arms had felt much like this.

A whisper of cowardice urged him to confess, to tell what had been done to Dylan. If he told his father, the pain would stop. Nuala would not look at him as if he were a stranger. As if he were some sort of monster. She might even freely link with him once more, as they had as children. His father would embrace him again, weep for the agony inflicted on him. Would perhaps even look at him with pride and joy again, not despair and melancholic love. Eamonn would look like a fool for his accusations. Nuada's supporters would be dissatisfied, but even they would understand that the prince would only stand for so much towards humanity. He would still be in exile, but the agony would end. He would be allowed to hear _Once Upon a Winter's Night_. He could have the haven that Dylan had tried to create for his people. Everything would be all right.

But he might shame one to whom he owed a debt. He would be surrendering to an enemy, playing Eamonn's vicious game. His father's opinion of him might actually plummet even further in the face of such a revelation. And he would lose the one thing he had left. He would lose his honor.

_No, _he thought as his shoulders screamed from the strain and his blood flowed_. I will not sacrifice my honor thus._

_Will you not, Silverlance? _Eamonn's voice hissed through his mind. _Will you not? Such a hypocrite. Such a self-righteous, pious, martyred_ hypocrite! _You have already eschewed your honor by bedding that filthy mortal whore._

Nuada's fists clenched around the iron chains. The metal seared his palms and fingers, but he welcomed this new pain. Welcomed the distraction and the way the metal shifted under his furious grip. How dare Eamonn speak to him of eschewing honor? Of whores and hypocrisy? The midnight-haired Elf would die for this. One day, not soon but one day, the dark Elf would die.

_Tell me, Silverlance... what was she like, the little human slut? In bed, I mean. Oh, _and now Eamonn chuckled_. But why should I ask you? I can simply pay her a visit and find out for myself. In fact, I think that is exactly what I shall do._

The bleeding Elf's grip on the chains tightened until the metal cut his hands. The whip bit deep into his back. Black fury flooded beneath Nuada's skin as Eamonn shoved vile images of himself with Dylan into the prince's mind. Images of the helpless mortal weeping and struggling as Eamonn took his sick pleasure with her in the subway tunnels, in the king's hall, in Eamonn's sithen, in Dylan's idyllic little cottage at the edge of the park. In Nuada's sanctuary, in Nuada's own bed, atop the golden quilt his mother had made for him before her death. And always there was blood and pain, Dylan's tears and the stink of musk, a mortal's terrified and agonized screams.

_Monster! _He raged while the phantom mirage of the human woman pleaded for Nuada to save her. _A fháil amach óna! Get away from her! Touch her, touch any woman that way, and I will gut you like the cur you are! You're no better than a human! Feicfidh mé tú a mharú mé tá tú i dteagmháil lei!_

_Oh, you'll kill me if I touch her, will you? _Mocking laughter raked at Nuada's belly. _You can do nothing to me, Silverlance, _Eamonn said coldly. _I will enjoy your little plaything, as you have. Then, when I have tired of bedroom games, I will dispose of her and find a better toy._

And now there was another image: Eamonn spattered with Dylan's blood as he hurt her with blows and blades, and after he was finished, his hands tightened around her violet-bruised throat and she could not fight him. The sight of her pushing feebly at the murdering fae sent a lance through Nuada's heart. In the dark Elf's twisted fantasy, the mortal died underneath him, still weeping, still crying silently for Nuada to help her.

The prince thought of Dylan: those tense three months in the sanctuary as she struggled to recover and to aid him; being shocked at the way she'd recovered in the nearly four months since her attack, when he saw her at the summer faire; watching her slowly let go of the ghost of the trauma and the vicious fear in the short months that she'd read him her favorite tales. He thought of his mother, dead from the vile pleasure of mortal men. And when a single tear, a tear of sickness and shame – he owed her a debt! He was supposed to protect her from harm! Protect her from Eamonn! He _owed _her! – a sparkling, diamond-sharp tear of impotent fury and agony from the whip dropped from golden lashes to roll down Nuada's cheek and mix with his sweat, Eamonn laughed.

_Weep for your whore, Highness. I will take her, use her, and kill her, because you sullied your supposedly-spotless honor with her. She will die cursing your name. Think on that as I flay the flesh from your bones, Silverlance. Beidh mé ag a ghearradh amach do chroí thar._

The words, spat in the Old Tongue, were like a knife in the chest. _I will tear out your very heart. _Eamonn thought he _loved_ Dylan. He would rape her again and again and torture her in every possible way until she died of it... because he thought Nuada loved her.

The thought of an Elf bedding a human would have been enough to sicken the prince, but to see any Elf, any faery other than an ogre or goblin or other such nightmare-bogle committing rape... beneath everything, under the rage and the disgust, Nuada grieved for the infection humans had spread into his people. The sickness and evil. And he grieved for the pure evil in Eamonn's soul that drove him to attempt to destroy someone merely because the dark Elf thought they were loved by his enemies.

Eight hundred strokes brought the haze of oblivion to him, but it was no reprieve. Even in those brief moment of half-unconsciousness as he hovered near fainting from the pain and shock, he saw Eamonn with his hand tangled cruelly in Dylan's dark curls, the back of his other hand striking that fragile human face. The black bruises against her pale, scarred skin struck Nuada's heart like blows.

And there was more, always more to Eamonn's cruelty. He proved then that he was not ignorant in the ways of sadism and torture. Wooden leg presses to crush delicate human bones; a scold's bridle, that hideous human device of pain that ruined a woman's mouth with iron spikes and forced her to choke on her own blood and screams; the dark Elf even resorted to pressing bare mortal flesh against shards of amber-hot glass and red-hot metal. There was no end to what Eamonn could think to do to Dylan; no end to the pain and torment he had in mind. Nuada could hear the mortal's wrenching sobs; tasted the desperation of her tears on his tongue. Or was that his own tears he tasted on his lips?

No. Blood and sweat, but no tears. He would not cry for Eamonn. That single tear had been for his mother, for the reminder of what she had endured before her death. He would shed no others.

But when the glassy fog of shock faded from him, nine hundred lashes from the iron spike of the whip brought the tears of pure pain streaming unwillingly down his cheeks as blood dripped from his bitten lip. Nuala no longer screamed. Elven healers surrounded her, pouring their magic into her body not to heal, but to prevent as much of the damage from inflicting on her as possible. When had that happened? When Balor realized Nuala could not last against the lash?

But because of the iron whipping posts, the iron chains, the iron spike of the whip, Nuada would not be healed by his connection to his twin. Once he was unchained, perhaps then. But not before. His blood would continue to run.

A thousand strokes and he was limp in his chains, barely conscious, head lolling. Blood from his bitten lip mingled with the sweat and tears. His back was a sheet of dark golden blood ribbed by white bone. Everything hazed before his glassy eyes and all he could think was, _I might have been wrong, Wink. They might just kill me for this. Eamonn just might manage it. _And then Eamonn would... then Dylan...

_- Broken bones and blood  
A woman's terrified screaming  
The thud of blows against bruising flesh  
Mother? No, Mother!  
Someone else sobbing, calling his name  
Nuala? Dylan? Who...  
No one would come, no one would end it  
Hollow snap of breaking bone  
Muffled screams  
And then nothing  
His mother dead; Nuala! Dylan!  
Empty silence, echoing in his skull-_

A colossal boom reverberated through the Hall, shattering the flashback. People gasped and cried out in surprise. The prince tried to turn his head. Could not. Everything hurt. Could it not simply end now? If nothing else, let him die with his honor intact. Let there be no more pain.

"Nuada!"

That voice... so familiar. Special. Why so special? Not Wink's voice. Not Nuala's. Mortal. A mortal voice. A woman. Was it... Dylan? No, not Dylan. She could not be here. Could not get here. Did not know of this bloody and heartbreaking night. She was home, safe. Far away from Eamonn. Far from his perverse, too-human lust for blood and women's flesh. Far away. Where she should be. Bethmoora was no place for a defenseless human woman.

"_No! Nuada!"_

And then large, strong, familiar hands were lifting him, holding him upright, careful of his ruined back and shoulders, uncaring of the blood soaking his trousers and hair. Something wet and cool dripped onto his upturned face, washing away some of the blood. When he blinked, managed to focus, he realized he recognized the woman looking down at him with terrified and heartbroken eyes. Recognized as silver-washed blue eyes like an autumn lake shed tears of grief over him. Tears that should have been shed by his father and sister. Mortal tears.

He could not speak as her tears washed the blood from his skin. Could not tell her that the touch of her trembling hand against his cheek was like cool soothing snow against the fiery pain burning through his wounds. He could not even whisper, _Do not cry. Please, do not cry._ But he could hear the way her voice shook and nearly broke when she whispered his name, pleading, "I'm sorry. I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm so sorry. Nuada, please don't die. Please be okay. Please."

Mortal. Human. Rescuer. One whom he owed. One who tried to be more than she ever could for his people. The one Eamonn wanted, because he believed her to be Nuada's lover. But he would never let the dark Elf hurt her. Not that way. _Never. _He would protect her from the vile, silver-eyed Elf if it cost him his life. His honor demanded he protect her.

_Dylan._

**.**

She'd nearly been too late, she thought again as she struggled with the heavy iron chains shackling the prince's wrists. As she fumbled at them, she snarled at the white-skinned man crowned by a rack of antlers and wearing a golden torc, "How _dare _you! He didn't do any of those horrible things you said. How could you _do _this to him? If you've killed him, you'll pay. I swear you will. You monster, let him go! Unchain him _now!"_

The Butcher Guards – who'd been knocked aside by an irate stag-man who'd been strong-armed into helping an even more irate troll – surged forward, but the pale, golden-eyed man on the dais held up both hands. The hooded warriors stilled, intrigued to hear what their king would say.

"Who are you?" The pale man demanded. "How did you come here? Wink, what is the meaning of this?"

"She is the poor, beguiled human Nuada has been manipulating, Your Majesty," an icy voice, dripping with false compassion, explained. Dylan froze, anger and terror thrumming through her. She turned her head very slowly to see Eamonn holding the whip wet with Nuada's blood. Eamonn's white tunic was speckled with dark gold – the blood of a Bethmoora Elf. "His influence over her has forced her to come here to save him despite how he abuses her. If it were not so," Eamonn added, and his eerie cat's eyes fixed on Dylan's face, "she would have to be put to death for entering the King's hall without Your Majesty's summons. But mercifully, she is under the prince's vile spell."

_I'm not stupid, _she thought, meeting his gaze unflinchingly_._ Her panic screamed at her like a fire-alarm, but she focused on the Elf bearing down on her with his gaze, and the other Elf in Wink's arms. _If I tell the truth, I'll be killed. That explains why I wasn't invited, and why Wink was out there_ _instead of in here. _The mortal woman glanced at the troll, who only had an eye for his liege lord.

Nuada was barely conscious. His back was a sheet of dark golden blood, and blood pooled at his feet. Smears of gold so dark it almost looked red marred the white skin of his arms, streaking downward from the glittering shackles around his wrists. Dylan had the feeling that if they didn't free him soon, things were going to get very bad for the Elf prince. _But first, to clear up a little misunderstanding._

_They will kill you, _a voice hissed in her mind. Her eyes widened and she stared at Eamonn. His silver gaze bore into hers like a spike_. If you speak the truth to them, they will most certainly kill you slowly, horribly, and painfully, you stupid human tart. And if they do not,_ I will. _I will shatter every bone in your-_

_Ever read the Book of Esther? _She thought back at him. She would not show him her fear. Would not show him how much she wanted to run and hide and never come out again. He blinked, and she fought the bleak, vicious smile tingling behind her lips_. Go kiss a pig, fairy boy._

"I am not beguiled or under glamor. I can't _be _glamored," she added, shooting a look of pure loathing at the dark Elf. "I was licked by a fear-darrig when I was nineteen." Tilting her head back, she indicated a spot under her chin – a tiny, silvery circle, like a scar, where her Adam's apple would be. "Prince Nuada's not my lover, either. I am a child and servant of the Star Kindler, a follower of the High King of the World. _Someone _here ought to know what that means. Now get him out of these stupid chains and fix him before he goes into shock and dies!"

"The sentence has been given," a tall, box-headed faerie with strange eyes and long fingers protested. Dylan fought against the urge to dislike him on sight. She didn't know him, and besides, the Lord expected her to love everyone, since He did. Even people who argued with her. That didn't mean she didn't want to punch the guy in the face. "He must receive the other thousand lashes."

"Which one of you guys is King Balor?" Dylan demanded. "I'm assuming it's you." She nodded to the pale man on the dais. "Since you're the king, you can retract the sentence and pardon His Highness. Especially since the charges laid against him are false."

"They are _not_!" Eamonn shouted. "Do you deny that the prince killed several humans in the subway tunnels a little more than eleven moons ago? You were there, were you not?"

_Crud_, Dylan thought. Aloud, all she said was, "I was there and yes, he did, but–"

"Did he not claim it was in your defense?" The gray-eyed Elf continued over the mortal woman's protests. "That he supposedly killed these humans to protect you from their attack? Is that not what he told you?"

"No, that's what he _did_. Any idiot standing there could've–"

"You see, Your Majesty! If not beguiled by glamor, than her simple human brain merely cannot conceive that a beautiful creature like one of our kind could possess such deceit and evil as to lie to her. The crown prince would never rescue a human unless he had a more dire purpose in mind for her. He used this poor mortal's situation as an excuse to butcher other helpless humans–"

"They were _not _helpless; they had _guns!"_

"And then forced himself on her in deception using his power and beauty, stealing her virtue and honor–"

"Ex_cuse _me?" She looked at Wink, wondering if she were the only one in the room to catch the foul stench of the dark-haired Elf's mendacity. Steal her virtue and honor? Was he still trying to say Nuada had raped her? Or tricked her into sleeping with him, anyway? Didn't these idiots remember what it meant when a human said they followed the Star Kindler? It had probably been a long time since they'd dealt with a Latter-Day Saint, but still! The Fair Ones were supposed to have long memories! "I follow the Star Kindler! I don't sleep around with people!"

"But he is not 'people,' but the crown prince of Bethmoora, possessing the perfection of form of the Royal House–"

"Oh, good _grief!_" For the first time, Dylan wondered if they were going to lose not because of Eamonn, but because of the stupidity of the Fayre who were nodding in agreement to the garbage he spewed.

"And he did all this with plans to further abuse her, and eventually to kill her, all because of her human blood–"

"Is that why you killed the woodman and his wife?" Dylan shouted over Eamonn's loud voice. The dark Elf fell silent. The venom in his quicksilver gaze had the mortal woman stepping closer to Wink, pulse racing, fear screaming through her veins. The stag-man they had come into the hall with them stepped between Dylan and Eamonn, velvet-furred head lowering so the lethal tips of his antlers pointed at the gray-eyed Elf. "Because you wanted to 'expose' Prince Nuada as a bad guy?"

Eamonn took a step toward her. She must have made some sound because Nuada stirred in Wink's arms. The faerie stag spread his four powerful legs and snorted contemptuously at the infuriated Elf.

"I would not say such things if I were you, human," Eamonn growled.

"It's true, though." The mortal turned to the King of Elphame. "Your Majesty, Prince Nuada saved my life. The men he killed were..." A shudder raced up her spine, and for a moment she couldn't seem to force herself to go on. There was the phantom pain of something tearing inside, the burn of fluorescents against her eyes, and she nearly screamed. _Help me!_ Then she thought of the Elf prince lying in a fog of pain in Wink's arms, thought of mercurial golden eyes that shifted with the Elf's mood. She squared her shoulders. "Those men were rapists and murderers, criminals and nothing more." The court gasped, but Dylan went on. "Nuada didn't torture them or play with them. He dispatched them as quickly as possible, then got me to safety. He allowed me to stay in his healing sanctuary until I had completely recovered. Then, when it was time to leave, he escorted me to the nearest mortal hospital."

"Majesty, if she was completely recovered, why take her to a mortal hospital?" Eamonn demanded. Dylan began to open her mouth, and the Elf shouted, "Because she is _lying_, Sire! Or because the prince hurt her, and she is covering for him out of some sense that she owes him, a twisted idea the crown prince has obviously planted in her feeble human mind–"

"Will you _shut __**up**_ and let me _talk_?" Dylan shouted, incensed and terrified. She was barely glancing at Eamonn now, but at Nuada, his silvery horsetail dripping the blood that had soaked into it onto the floor. Stunned, Eamonn's mouth actually snapped shut. "Cheese and crackers, I can't say the sky is blue without you screaming Elvish conspiracy. Shut _up _already. Look," she added to the king. Her voice took on a pleading note. "Your Majesty, can't we settle this after we unchain Nuada? _Please. _If I'm wrong, or I'm lying, or whatever Eamonn pulls out of his hat next, then..." She trailed off, then whitened as a thought – an awful, terrible, horrifying thought, one that just might convince them – popped into her head. "If what I say isn't true, then I will take the rest of Prince Nuada's punishment."

Eyes like blood-tinged molten bronze snapped open.

"N-no!" Weakened by blood loss, hoarse from holding in his cries of pain, Nuada's voice still rang with authority. "No... Father. _Please_. Ten hundred lashes... a hundred lashes... would kill..."

"You shut up, too," the human woman snapped, but the look on her heavily scarred face as she gazed on the Elf prince arrested Balor's attention: desperation, horror, worry, fear, and all the protective instincts of a mother lioness.

And as for the prince... there was a fierce, almost desperate stubbornness in the sharp feral features as he struggled to get out of Wink's hold, to attain his feet.

"And don't you _dare_ try to stand up! You're dying," Dylan added, folding her arms beneath her breasts. "You're not the only one allowed to save people. Besides, if he wants to, the One-Armed King could have me executed for popping in here uninvited anyway. So, you've heard my offer, Your Majesty. What do you say?"

"_No,_ Father-"

"Be _quiet! _Or I'll dump you on your butt in front of everybody. Wink will probably help me, too! Now shush!"

King Balor stared at the scarred woman who spoke the Old Tongue so fluently and met his gaze levelly, never flinching from the alien eyes of antique gold. He would have sworn she was completely unafraid. This mortal would risk her life... to save his son? His son, the Elf who despised humans and would see them all slaughtered in their beds? Why? And yet, Nuada had just pleaded for the punishment to be given to him and not the human, for fear it would kill her. What had happened between his son and this woman? What if... what if she was, in fact, his lover? Was it possible Nuada was _in_ _love_ with the human?

Nuada stared at the human who stood so brazenly before his father, offering her life – yet again – for his. He had thought himself beyond surprise when it came to Dylan, but she had managed to shock him one more time. Somehow she had found out about the so-called trial – _one of the Wee Folk must have told her_, he thought – and made her way here, risking her life to come before the king to plead for him.

And now she offered her life once again, merely so that he might be unchained. She would risk coming before Eamonn, as well – surely she had known that, after their last encounter with the dark Elf. The prince remembered her terror at the thought of the human wolves returning, and marveled that a creature who possessed no understanding of courage could yet be so brave. Or perhaps foolhardy? For the mortal had come to the so-called trial anyway.

If his head had not been swimming and his body screaming in agony, he might have grabbed her by those narrow shoulders and shaken some sense into her. But in Eamonn's presence he could not afford to waste his strength. Not after the sick tortures he had seen in the dark-Elf's mind.

Eamonn seethed, his blood-speckled, white-gloved hand still holding the iron-spiked whip. Dylan watched him from the corner of her eye, in case he got any ideas, but she kept her main focus on the king who would decide if she lived or died – and if Nuada lived or died.

_Please, Heavenly Father, _she prayed. There was a sick, acrid taste on the back of her tongue - fear, or the rising urge to throw up? _Please don't let this all have been for nothing._

"Unchain him," a softer, sweeter voice commanded. A woman nearly identical to Nuada, though lacking the darkness to lips and eyes and with softer features and a slight kiss of healthy peach to her flesh, glided forward, only slightly hampered by the tall green-shrouded Elf helping her to stay upright. "I will test the truth of her words, Father."

_She said "Father," _Dylan thought. _So_ this _is Nuala. _Nuada had mentioned his twin once or twice, but the entire time she'd stayed in his sanctuary he'd kept the painting of her veiled. The human woman had only glimpsed it a couple of times when Nuada had gazed up at it with some deep and tortured emotion etched across his face, thinking the mortal asleep.

_I don't like her, _she realized, blinking once in surprise as the Elf princess swanned down the steps of the dais toward her. A clanking sound told her they'd unchained the battered and bleeding Elf prince from the whipping posts, but Dylan didn't look away from the approaching princess. She and Nuala watched each other with measuring eyes that missed nothing. _I don't like her because she stood there while they whipped the flesh from Nuada's back and she didn't try to help him. Did she even speak for him at the trial? Brighid said Nuada had said she wouldn't. That no one would, not even his father. What kind of king _does _that to his only son?_

Then she remembered the story of Absolem, from the Old Testament. She couldn't remember whose son he had been specifically, but he'd been the rebellious son of a king of Israel, a son who had tried to take his father's throne and started a civil war in the process. The king's armies had fought against his, and defeated them. Absolem had been killed in the battle. But instead of rejoicing over his victory against an usurper, upon hearing the news the Israelite king had wept and lamented, "O, Absolem, my son. My son, Absolem. Absolem."

Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She'd cried enough on the way to Bethmoora. _All right. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. I'm sorry, Heavenly Father, _she prayed silently. _I will do my best to give them both a chance. I'm very... fond of Nuada, but that is no excuse. I will try to be less judgmental if You bless me thus. And, _she added as Nuala stopped in front of her, pale yellow eyes piercing, _if You'll bless me that she won't rip my brain into itty bitty pieces, please._

"Give me your hand." The princess's voice had a strained quality to it, as if she had been screaming recently. Dylan obeyed, placing her palm against the Elf woman's outstretched one. She thought she heard Nuada make a sound. Such a sad, sad sound. But he couldn't have. He'd never shown that kind of emotion in front of her before. Injured and half-dead or not, Dylan doubted he was about to start doing it now, either.

"They raped you," Nuala whispered, her voice soft with horror. Dylan jerked, echoes and memories burning her thoughts, but didn't draw her hand back. Couldn't. Because Nuada needed her to do this. King Balor could hear his daughter's words. The mortal was pretty sure all the Gentry in the Hall, with their preternatural senses, could hear. "Over and over again. Pain. Blood. Fear. So much violence. They cut your face. Struck your flesh and tried to break your bones. Ripped you apart with blades of flesh and steel. You thought you would die. You _prayed_ you would die, if only it would end and there would be no more pain. Then... a savior. A silver angel like an avenging star. The white beast of a faery tale."

Nuala fought back the tears clinging to her long golden lashes. Shame and misery were like acid in her belly. _This _was why Nuada had saved the mortal – to spare her the atrocities committed upon their mother. Even with humans, her brother shunned rape. Slaughter, he embraced. Violence and butchery and vicious cruelty were as nothing to him in the face of his hatred for the children of Adam. But never, ever rape. The very thought of it hurt him like a soul-wound. She, his twin, the other half of his soul, should have known that.

And then...

"So much pain in both of you. Such terrible wounds. You are a doctor. A healer of mind and soul, of the heart. You know medicine. You helped each other because both would die otherwise. He took you to his sanctuary. You doctored his wounds. Fought the metal sicknesses and the poison in his body with leaf and herb. He owed you a debt. A debt of honor. That is why..."

But _why_, Nuala thought bitterly, why hadn't her brother _said_ anything? Explained?

_He thought you wouldn't have believed him, _Dylan said softly. _Because you wouldn't have. _

Nuala's eyes widened. _You speak to me with your thoughts?_

_Well, you_ are _kind of reading them, Your Highness, _the mortal replied, and showed her the conversation with Brighid and Becan. Showed Nuala that her twin brother knew her as well as, if not better, than she knew herself. Made certain, without malice or rancor, that Nuala knew she had been very, _very _wrong to doubt the crown prince's sense of honor and justice_. I know no mortal as honorable as Prince Nuada. Except the Prophet and the Son of the High King, but I don't actually _know _the Prophet, just _of _him. And the Son of the High King is not mortal._

_You don't understand, _Nuala protested_. He hates humans. He wants your people dead._

_No, _Dylan replied gently but firmly_. He wants your people_ free_, and humans being dead is the only way he can see it happening_ _right now. He hates us for what we have done, and maybe we deserve it. I know humans have done some pretty crummy stuff. But he does not seek to kill us out of hate. He's desperate. He clings to his honor and tries to help a race who will not help itself. That's probably how God feels often enough, come to think of it. You all have accepted the end of your people. He hasn't. He _won't_. He_ **can't**_. And neither will I._

In Nuala's mind flashed a thousand images and sensations – the burning pain of electricity coursing through a young body; delight as nixies and asrai frolicked in a moon-washed river; pulling filth and debris out of that same river time and time again, aided by a little boy with the same face and hair as the child-version of the woman whose mind Nuala now wandered; the burning cold, enchanted kiss of a grateful gancanagh under a golden Samhain moon, while his morgen sweetheart swam through the clean-again waters; nursing a kobold covered in burns from scalding water back to health, carefully spoon-feeding it grits drizzled with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon from a wooden bowl and spoon; poisonous chemical lies stinging as a needle pierces a child's vein and she screams that she does believe in faeries, she _does..._

A final image, one that stole the very air from Nuala's lungs: her brother, seated in a comfortable brown leather armchair before a crackling fire, his boots on a low wooden stool and a black kitten in his lap. The creature purred contentedly as nimble Elven fingers scratched behind one ear. And across from him, the golden glow of the firelight illuminating her scarred face, sat the woman whose mind Nuala now scanned, reading aloud from a beautiful book bound in green leather with a silver shape stamped on the cover, with _Spindle's End _glittering on the spine in silver leaf.

_How is this possible? He would never... he cannot..._

And now Nuada's mind in hers, his touch as light as a sylph balancing on the surface of a pond, mingling his memory with the woman's – _Dylan_, Nuala thought. _Her name is Dylan _– until she knew every detail of those nearly two moons' time of reading: apple slices drizzled with melted cheese on thick pieces of fresh bread; watching the human lay out fresh milk and bread or other victuals for the Wee Folk; the comforting and musty scent of old books; a sparkle to the air whenever the resident brownie went to work cleaning in the living room. Over it all was the warm, mellow hum of the mortal woman reading aloud by the stone fireplace.

_Sanctuary, _Nuala realized. Nuada's thoughts instantly cried_, No, a barely pleasant obligation, _but his twin sister felt the echo of affirmation beneath his denial. The crown prince of Bethmoora enjoyed the human woman's company. He felt... not secure. That was not the flavor of emotion the princess was getting from him. Not safe, but... welcome. He felt welcome in the lowly human cottage amidst the green_._ And _he_ made the mortal feel safe. Ten, nearly eleven moons' in each others' lives and this was what had come of it.

_He has given me a chance, _Dylan murmured as Nuada, exhausted and distracted by the burning in his body and the near-humiliation of a troll – of _anyone_ – cradling him like an infant, withdrew from the bond. _He gave me a chance, and he might learn to give that chance to others. You should not shun him as you do, Your Highness. He's lonely. He misses you. It hurts him._

There came into the Elf woman's mind an image of an underground sanctuary, Spartan at best. But she recognized the quilt in various shades of gold on the narrow bed and the portrait on the wall above the hearth. She knew it was her portrait, though heavy velvet curtains covered the painting. Knew it, because in this memory Nuada stared up at it with such longing and loneliness etched like grief across his face.

_You do not understand, _Nuala replied. _You are only human. His love for me is... dangerous._ _Most fae love dangerously, especially royals. He is in love with... someone he should not be. That love is dangerous as well._

_It's obsessive, you mean. _There was sorrow and sympathy in the words. Understanding. But oddly, no anger or disgust or any of the other emotions Nuala expected from a human discussing a love that, with only a little more provocation, could border on madness. _I'm a psychiatrist. I have experience with obsessive love. When the mind is whole, such a thing only comes when all other affection is redacted. And believe me, the prince is quite sane. I simply think... I think he is tired of fighting himself, and the rest of the world. So out of exhaustion and loneliness and grief, he chooses not to fight himself and what those emotions bring out in him anymore. Give him time._

_I have given him more than two_ _thousand years. I can no longer bear to wander his thoughts. They are full of violence, hate, death. Recently it has been less, but it still poisons him. I cannot..._

_When the two of you came to this world from before mortality, _Dylan said, _you didn't come to be brother and sister for a thousand years, or even two thousand. You came to be brother and sister until the end of everything. The end hasn't happened yet, Your Highness. It's not going to be here for a very, very long time. Don't give up on him. Everyone has trials they must face, some until death. He is one of yours, and you are one of his. It will work out eventually._

Nuala pulled away from the somewhat disturbing mental contact and dropped her hand, which ached fiercely. How long had she been in the woman's mind? Everything hurt from the phantom flogging she'd received, and the healing had taken more out of her yet. She was dizzy and her fingers were numb when she came to herself and saw the entire court staring at her and the human. Everyone, in fact, but the human herself, Nuada, and the troll who held him. The troll and the mortal had eyes only for the prince now. And the prince was deathly pale and unconscious.

That woman... Nuala had never touched a mind like hers. Serene, yet determined. Kind, yet not naïve. A mind that should have been chained 'round by the bleak, hopeless fear that came in the aftermath of rape – and the fear _was_ there. It was, but nowhere near as sharp as Nuala had expected. And wherever the princess found the fear, there was always memories of Nuada to push it back. Memories of _Nuada,_ who should have terrified the mortal.

This human struggled to always speak and think kindly of those around her, struggled desperately to be humble, yet strove to convince herself she was capable of the things which the Star Kindler had called her to do. And she was deeply devoted to her Christian God, and to obeying the two greatest commandments He had ever supposedly given to humans: to love her God with all of her heart, might, and mind, and to love everyone else the way she believed her God loved them – totally and unconditionally.

"She..." Nuala croaked. Choked on her shame. The wet-eyed Elf princess cleared her throat and tried again. "The human speaks the truth. Eamonn is a liar and a murderer, Father!"

Dylan realized something was wrong the moment Eamonn grinned, his smile like a knife in the dark. The Elf's bright grin widened when understanding filled Dylan's mind and she opened her mouth to shout a warning. Before she could get the words out, he lifted the whip and yelled_, "Attack!"_

Dylan jerked her head around to see what had to be at least a hundred black-haired, silver-eyed Elves draw blades and follow the vicious Elf's order. As the hooded Butcher Guards lunged into battle, the mortal turned away from the fight and focused on Nuada and Wink. "We need to go," she said tersely to the looming troll. "He is in absolutely no shape to fight!"

"Come with me," Nuala commanded, and grabbing Dylan by the arm, hauled her toward the dais and her father, who was drawing a fabulously gargantuan sword that the human dimly recognized as a claymore. Nuala led the human and the troll behind the dais to a small, inconspicuous door set far back along the wall. She pulled her sleeve back and waved one hand. The golden bracelet on her wrist glowed and the etchings on the metal twisted sinuously. The door clicked open and Nuala pulled Dylan through. Wink kicked it shut after he'd wiggled through as well, careful not to jostle the injured prince.

Nuada stirred, and Dylan paused to glance at him. Color – if one could call that moony, amber-tinged whiteness a color – was slowly returning to his face. Even as she watched, the flesh began to regrow along the Elven warrior's shoulders and back.

_Any minute now, _she thought a little frantically. She wanted to touch the prince, reassure herself that he was actually breathing, but was afraid of hurting him. _Any minute, he's going to pop up and start kicking butt. I'm okay. We're okay. Everything's okay._

"_Come," _the princess hissed. She drew a slim Elvish sword and continued down the long corridor. "You will wait in my chambers until he is conscious. Let him decide then what to do." They hurried down a series of twisting hallways until they came to a rowan-wood door etched with silver Elvish script. Nuala used her bracelet again to bring down the wards around the door, flung it open, and shoved Dylan inside. Turning to Wink, she ordered, "No matter what malice you bear against me for this night, protect them both with your life. I know you would do it for my brother, but do it for the human as well. She is very special, that one. Her soul is like unto us, though she is so very human. In her my brother has found some solace. Guard her well."

Wink didn't reply. This so-called princess did not understand the concept of loyalty, of love, of service. Let her give her orders. He would guard his prince with his last drop of blood, and the human girl too, for what she had done to save Nuada.

The troll went into the chamber and shut the door in the princess's face. He heard his prince's sister hurry off down the hallway again, back toward the fight. Wink looked at Dylan, who understood the silent admittance that she was now in charge.

"Lay him on the bed," the human ordered in a voice that barely quavered. "On his stomach, please." Wink complied, impressed that the mortal had yet to fall to pieces. But then, if she were one to panic, she wouldn't have been able to heal the prince's wounds that long ago winter night. Dylan scanned the damage to the Elf, still horrific even with the healing that had already taken place. "How is he healing so fast when the whip was tipped with iron?"

She'd seen the thing: a horrible, metal spike glinting a sickening crimson-tinged gold with the Elf blood on its vicious tips. It actually reminded her of the spear hanging above Nuala's bed – a long, golden-wood shaft tipped with a wicked-sharp point that looked like iron... but it couldn't be. Could it? She shook her head and told herself not to be stupid. Of course it wasn't iron. Iron killed faeries.

_But the Spear of Light was made of iron,_ she remembered suddenly. _Iron from the heart of a star, forged by the Tuatha dé called Brighid and_–

Wink made wiggling motions with his fingers and clapped his hands, jolting her from her thoughts. Then the troll pointed at the door and made a crude female shape in the air. The human had to think for a minute before remembering what she'd asked him.

"Nuala... was healed by magic?" Dylan hazarded. The troll nodded and pointed at Nuada, miming ripping off the iron shackles. "And because Nuada isn't chained by iron, the healing is affecting him too?" He nodded. "Because they're twins?" Another nod. "Huh. Good to know. Ugh," she grumbled, focusing once more on the brutal damage in front of her. Strangely, it helped to combat the fear that was a living, breathing, choking thing inside her. "I don't have my medicine bag. There's nothing I can do for him except..." The mortal trailed off and glanced at Wink. "Go... guard the door or something, please. I can't have you looking at me while I'm doing this – it's weird." The troll cocked his head and Dylan sighed. "I'm going to pray." Her throat tight and her hands shaking, she added, "It's all I can do."

Puzzled, the troll shrugged and thumped over to the door. Let the human pray, then. She was a follower of the High King of the World. Strange that humans believed in the Highest of the gods, but didn't believe in the lesser ones. Perhaps because the lesser gods were more like very powerful faeries than gods, and humans needed powerful deities to protect them. Or the humans had simply forgotten. Or there was another reason. Many humans did not believe in the Star Kindler, either, come to think of it. Not truly. But Dylan claimed to be His servant and child, so obviously _she_ did.

The human knelt with some difficulty at the foot of the bed. It was almost as if she could feel every trickle of blood oozing down Nuada's ribs and soaking the velvet coverlet on the princess's bed. She shuddered and shoved the thought from her mind. When she couldn't concentrate and she needed to pray, she tried to remember the first twenty or so seconds from a hymn – purely the instrumental part. If she thought about the words, the song would get stuck in her head until Doom's Day. Now she heard the beautiful, haunting strains of "Be Still, My Soul." Immediately her shoulders relaxed and most of the tension drained out of her. She bowed her head.

"Heavenly Father," she whispered softly.

She knew Wink could probably hear her, which made her uncomfortable since this was a private prayer and you weren't supposed to make those public. But she also knew that Nuada needed to hear a voice speaking, to help him wake up, and Wink couldn't be the speaker since he had to stand by the door and make sure nothing got in and tried to kill them. The odds of anything even finding them were slim, but Dylan felt loads better with the troll standing guard.

"Heavenly Father," she repeated. "Help me. I know I'm supposed to tell Thee what I'm grateful for first and thank Thee for my blessings – like, I'm grateful we got there in time and I'm grateful we're not dead – but I'm really, really scared right now. I'm scared for Nuada. He's hurt so badly. He's healing, but I..." Panic and dread made her voice break. Her fingers tightened on her arms until it hurt as she fought to keep back the sob clawing at her chest. "And Eamonn," Dylan murmured when her voice no longer quaked, "is launching a full-scale assault out there in the Throne Room or whatever that place was. Please don't let anyone die if it's possible. If not, please don't let their deaths be horrendously painful. Let them be quick.

"And please let Nuada wake up soon. I always feel better when he's nearby. He's very strong and very brave, and he's a skilled warrior. Please protect him if he goes into the battle. And please protect Wink. I like him and I don't want him hurt, either, if it's possible. Please protect Princess Nuala and King Balor as well. I know Nuada loves them and his heart would be broken if anything happened to them. And..."

She steeled herself to ask what she knew she must. "Please, if there's a way to end this without Eamonn being hurt, I hope it happens. If not... please let it be quick. He is my enemy," and oh, was he her enemy. She remembered the sight of Nuada, bleeding and barely conscious, chained by iron, and had to swallow the salt of grief and unshed tears before she could go on. "He is my enemy," she repeated through clenched teeth. Anger pulsed through her almost like pain. "But what I want is not the point. The Lord said to pray for our enemies. So I ask for Thee to have mercy on Eamonn.

"And please, please help Nuada to wake up soon." Now her eyes stung and her throat ached from holding back tears. Dylan had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. "I just want him to tell me he's all right. And I say this in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen."

"I am all right," a hoarse voice croaked, and Dylan's eyes shot open. They locked with eyes the color of weak lemonade. Her heart leapt. She drew a ragged breath and failed to fight the sting of tears.

"Nuada?" She glanced at Wink, who had turned to watch the prince. "He's awake!" She turned back to the Elf warrior. His harsh, pained breath ruffled tiny mounds of velvet coverlet in front of his shockingly white face. "How much pain are you in, Your Highness?" She asked, trying to pull on her professionalism like armor. Despite herself, her hand shook as she laid the back of it against the Elf's clammy skin. Still slightly in shock. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst."

He arched one knife-thin eyebrow. "Fifty." Why was she touching him? Why were there tears rolling down her cheeks? He'd heard her praying for him – praying! – and was unsure how the whispered words made him feel. She had pleaded with her God to protect him and Wink, and his sister and father. But she had also prayed for the High King of the World to show mercy to Eamonn. Compassion? Or stupidity?

_Mercy or idiocy? Bravery or foolishness? How is this even a question, when she is human?_ He wondered. _She should not understand mercy or bravery. _Yet everything she did spoke otherwise.

"Fifty? Ouch," she mumbled. "Increasing, decreasing, or staying the same?"

"Decreasing," the prince mumbled, and shifted onto his elbows. His breath hissed through gritted teeth. "Increasing. Much." He allowed himself to fall back to the bed. "I must wait a bit longer to rise. You..." Those pale eyes darkened almost to bronze. "You should not be here, human. How dare you come here? Why did you come?"

"To save your lily-white arse," Wink grunted in Troll, but Dylan didn't understand that.

"You shouldn't have come here alone, Your Highness," she said.

"_You_ should not have come here _at all_."

"You may be a prince," she said, sitting back. Why couldn't she keep the stupid grin off her face? And her tears wouldn't stop either, no matter how many times she swiped at them with the back of her hand. Why was she so happy the stubborn jerk was awake, anyway? Especially since the first thing he did upon waking was complain, and the second thing was verbally abuse her. "But _you_ are not the boss of me. When the Lord commands, I obey, remember?"

"Your Christian God told you to crash a private engagement?" When she just looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, he sighed. "It is dangerous for you here, human. You should not have come... but... it was well meant." And that, Dylan knew, was as close as the Elf prince was ever going to get to telling her "thank you" for rescuing him. She wondered absently if the words were even in his vocabulary. He never said "please," either, come to think of it.

"I know it's dangerous," she informed him, getting to her feet. As always after praying, the tips of her toes were numb. "Eamonn's currently attempting to stage a coup out there. Your father and sister are kicking his butt along with the Royal Guards, if said butt hasn't been kicked already."

"_What?"_ Nuada shoved himself upright and tried to slide off the bed. Dylan lunged for him and, after a moment's hesitation – where to grab without hurting him? – grabbed his scarred bicep to stop him from getting up. She nearly lost her grip when he flexed the muscles in his upper arm and prised her fingers apart. "Release me at once, mortal."

"Don't you _dare_ pull this high and mighty stuff with me, Elf boy," she snarled. _Out of one potentially lethal situation and into another one_, she thought giddily. What if he decided honor could go hang and he stabbed her or something? Actually, stab her with _what_? He was unarmed and half-dead. And even if he hadn't been, threat of death or dismemberment had never stopped her when it came to Nuada before. "Can you at least wait to get up until I can't see your ribs through your gore? It's kind of gross. Not to mention you're still weakened from the iron and lead sicknesses from before! And the poison! Your immune system is a little tired, still. Your Highness, _please_!"

"There is no honor or valor in hiding in my sister's chambers while she and my aged father battle _my _enemies!"

Dylan wanted to put her hands on her hips, but they were busy hanging onto the Elf's biceps. "Ever heard the phrase 'discretion is the better part of valor?' Hmm? And Eamonn's _my _enemy, too." She thought of Aldonza, who'd said the same thing to Don Quixote, and ended up getting gang raped by those enemies after the half-mad, aging knight had defeated them. A frisson of fear slithered down her spine. "Wink!" She yelped at the troll. "Help me! Make him stop! Your Highness, you are too badly hurt to even _think_ about fighting yet!"

"Do you intend to henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife?" Why was she so pale? Surely after stitching his gunshot wounds all those moons ago, the sight of his flayed back had not turned her into a coward? Yet she _was _a human – perhaps it had.

"Will you stop asking me that when I'm making you behave? What do you have against dwarf wives, anyway?" She demanded. He twitched out of her grip and managed to get to his feet, only to stagger and fall back onto the bed. The world swam around him and his vision went white for a moment. Blood roared in his ears. "Oh, okay! No, you don't." Dylan laid her hands gingerly on his shoulders, carefuly of the lashes, to keep him from trying to rise again. "You can't even walk, Nuada. Please! Stay still, just for a few minutes... the healing stopped." The mortal blinked, gaping as the healing lash marks began to unknit. Fresh blood came, soaking the blankets. "What? What's happening?"

Nuada didn't respond. She glanced into his gray-tinged face and saw his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. A wash of suddenly ice-cold air frosted down her spine. Fear froze her breath. _Oh, no._

"Nuada?" She touched the hollow of his shoulder where it met his neck, feeling for his pulse. It was slow and thready, but there. His eyes flickered open. They were back to being as pale as lemon water, and his color was fading again. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Dark magic... and something... something in the blood..." His fists clenched. He struggled to catch his breath using lungs suddenly gone tight, as if his chest were being gripped by a massive fist. The rowan-wood door rattled. Dylan, Nuada, and Wink turned toward it. The troll met the prince's golden gaze and nodded. Nuada groaned as he shifted position. "Hold them... off, Wink. I... cannot fight. Slow-acting... poison on the iron," he managed to grind out from between gritted teeth. "Eamonn..." Nuada tried to stand, and slid bonelessly to the floor when his legs buckled. Dylan shot to the ground beside him.

"What do I do?" She demanded, shoving at her hair. The door shuddered when someone banged against it. As ice filled Dylan's chest, she knew it wasn't anyone good. There was a flash, and the human tasted the starlit sweetness of magic on the air. At least the door was warded. "Do you know what kind of poison it is? Does it have an antidote?"

"He's going to die, little whore," a familiar, taunting voice called through the door. Wink growled. Nuada closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain tore the breath from his lungs. Dylan began to tremble. Eamonn continued, "Give up and open the door."

_Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, _Dylan thought with no little hysteria. "Nuada... tell me what to do. Nuada? Please."

"Submit to me," the vicious Elf continued, "and I just might save him. I have the antidote with me. One drop will save the pathetic, worthless life of your lover, little human slut. Otherwise, Bethmoora will have no sovereign ever again."

Nuada jerked and his eyes flew open. His mind reached out, seeking his sister's thoughts. When he touched only blank emptiness, the first shards of fear pierced his heart. Was Nuala... dead? And his father... dead as well? Or merely unconscious? Maybe sealed behind a warding circle. There were so many things that could explain the void. But... had Eamonn killed them? If so, how was he still among the living?

"Let me in, you stupid tart," the dark Elf snarled. "Now! Or he dies, and his blood is on your hands!"

When Dylan shifted as if to go to the door, Nuada grabbed her arm. Even the small movement sent waves of nausea churning in his belly. Pain spiked his temples. "Do not trust him," he gasped out. He coughed hard enough his entire body shook. He tasted blood. "Eamonn lies."

"I know that," she said softly. "But he also tells the truth, when it suits him. I'm only going to talk to him, Your Highness. I'm not opening the door. It's just..." She cleared her throat and gave him a self-deprecating smile. "I'm so scared right now I can barely croak. He won't be able to hear me from here."

She stood behind Wink – she wasn't stupid – and thought, _Heavenly Father, right now I feel like Moses. Please help me to be a little more like Aaron. I'd feel way, way better about that. Thou_ _madest_ _my tongue, so Thou_ _canst_ _do whatever Thoudesireth_ _with it. If Thou and the Lord_ _want me to sound like a spineless, gutless moron in front of Eamonn, then I guess I'll just have to live with it. But I really hope that's not the plan, because I'm scared to death. In the Lord's name, amen._

"Eamonn," Dylan called. "What did you do to the prince?"

"Concerned about your lover, human?" The Elf was sneering at her, she could hear it even through the door.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just answer my question." She glanced at the Elf slumped against his sister's bed. Sweat had dampened the loose strands of his silvery blond hair to his forehead and neck. The blood still seeped from the now open lashes on his back. And was that a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of Nuada's mouth? Struggling to keep her voice even, she added, "What did you do to him, Eamonn?"

"A little powdered hemlock, a little oil of mistletoe, some essence of belladonna, a little ground mandrake root. Nothing too dangerous. Oh, and human pesticides from an aluminum aerosol can. I believe your kind call it... Raid?"

Dylan couldn't stop herself from clapping a hand to her mouth. She staggered back a step. Poisonous plants and Raid? Maybe if Nuada had been human and she could have taken him to a hospital, they could have done something. But not here. Not cut off from everyone who might be able to help except a burly troll and a mortal psychiatrist. _Oh, Heavenly Father, what do I do? What do I_ do? _He's going to die. That will kill him. This can't have all been for nothing, it can't have._

"What... what do you want in exchange for the antidote?" Dylan hated that she could hear tears in her voice. If she could, so could the silver-eyed Elf intent on Nuada's inhumation. And she knew Eamonn didn't have the antidote – or, on the off-chance that he _did_, would never give it to them. If Nuada somehow survived this night, the first thing on his agenda once he was back up to scratch would be to hunt Eamonn down and kill him in a very painful manner. But if... _if_ there was a chance she could lure Eamonn into such a position that someone – Wink, maybe, or the faerie stag, if he still lived – could threaten his life, he might give up the antidote or the recipe for making it in exchange for his life. She was reaching (that was a _big _if, huge even – _**colossal**_) but she couldn't just stand there and watch Nuada die.

"Well, besides the head of that disgusting troll on a spike, the crown of Bethmoora, and the death of your precious lily-white prince... I want to hear you scream and feel you dying under me as I take my pleasure in you."

Something slick and chilling slid through her stomach at the thought. She felt sick, bile rising in her throat, and she was certain she would've thrown up if not for Nuada's grunt of effort as he struggled to get to his feet again. He made it to his knees, leaning heavily on the bed, then was taken by a shuddering, hacking cough that seemed to rip out of him. Blood, thick and far too dark, seeped between his fingers when he covered his mouth with one hand.

_What am I supposed to do? _She wailed silently. _I don't know what to_ do! _I don't have the priesthood, I'm not married to a priesthood holder – I can't give him a blessing of healing! What am I supposed to_ do?

Nuada collapsed against the bed again. Fresh blood spattered his chin, neck, and chest as he coughed. Through hazy eyes, he saw Dylan cover her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. And somehow, strangely, distantly, he heard the fragile, desperate prayer, _Heavenly Father, I'm really scared. Help me, please. Please. I'm scared._ _I have to save him. How do I save him?_

"Let me in, human," Eamonn called. "Let me enjoy you, and let Nuada watch. Then I will give him the antidote."

"Why is it always Mormon girls who have to put up with this crud?" She wondered bitterly, trying for a bit of levity to combat her rising hysteria. "If I were Lady Gaga, for example, I'd have no problem sleeping with ten Elves intent on screwing me blind! The killing, not so much, but still."

_Don't think 'why me,' though, _she reminded herself, fighting the fear so she could think at least semi-clearly. _Because I already know the answer. The answer is, you can handle it, you agreed to it, and for whatever reason, it's needful. Someone might learn something. It might even be me. And don't say 'I hate my life,' either, _she added, _because I don't and that would be a lie. _

"I just hate _this _part," she said aloud.

She glanced at Nuada. His entire body was shuddering violently. Sweat slicked his skin. Pain twisted his features. Fresh blood continued to seep from between his dark lips, staining the deathly pale skin with dark gold. A sob caught in her throat as she realized she really didn't have a choice. Not unless she wanted to watch the Elf prince die right in front of her.

Dylan stepped past Wink. When he reached to grab her, she froze him with a look. "This will buy us a little time, hopefully. I will make him swear an oath, and I will swear an oath, and maybe Nuada will be okay. Your job is to protect him, not me. Do your job."

She heard Nuada struggling to get to his feet, or his knees even. When she looked at him, she saw him trying to drag himself toward her along the edge of the bed. Fury and desperation burned in his bronze eyes. Her heart hurt to see the proud Elf forced to practically crawl, and she almost backed down. But when Nuada had to stop to cough up more blood, she knew she couldn't.

_Dear Heavenly Father, _she prayed silently as she approached the door_. I'm about to do something I know is a sin – willingly give myself up to be used sexually. But I'm doing it to save Nuada's life. He has saved me so many times, and I owe him. And I promise Thee, I'm almost definitely not going to enjoy this - unless Eamonn is part gancanagh, in which case I make no promises. I'm sorry, but I can't see another way out of this. Please protect Nuada and Wink. Please let this work. Please forgive me for what I'm about to let happen. And please... when I die... when Eamonn kills me... please don't let it hurt too much._ _But whatever happens, I know Thy_ _hand is in it. Thy_ _will be done, in Christ's name, amen._

"Dylan!" Nuada's voice was choked by blood and pain. "Dylan, no!"

Against every instinct, she ignored him.

"Eamonn! Swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that you will give Nuada the antidote and spare his and Wink's lives if I come out to you. In return, I swear, on that same Darkness, that you will not be punished for what you will do to me."

"Very well, human," Eamonn replied after only a moment. "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that if you come out to me, and give yourself to me, I will spare the lives of the troll called Wink and the crown prince, and the mighty Silverlance will receive my antidote."

Something zinged in her chest – the Spirit, warning her that all was not right with that promise. But she didn't know what was wrong, couldn't see where there might be a loophole for the evil Elf to hurt the prince or the troll. And they didn't have much time. She laid her hand on the door handle.

"Wink!" Nuada gasped. He'd heard every word of that silent prayer. She knew Eamonn meant to rape, torture and kill her! Yet she was going out there anyway, to buy them time, to save his life. His honor demanded he stop her. The debt he owed her could never be repaid, not now, and yet the stupid human continued to throw herself between him and harm, him and death. He was a warrior, he thought as pain racked his body. He accepted the inevitability of harm and death. And apparently, so did the human woman about to sacrifice herself for him yet again. "Wink! Do... do not let–"

Before he could give the order, she had the door open. Dylan shot him one final look - a look of fear and regret both, mingled with melancholy and farewell. He felt that look down to the marrow of his bones. And then she'd stepped out into the hall, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Wink groaned. She was gone. That human, the healer who had saved his prince five times now, was gone.

Nuada stared at the door as agony burned in his belly and blood dripped onto the carpet with every hacking cough. He had failed. She was gone. Dylan was gone. Eamonn would hurt her - viciously, violently, until his twisted appetites were finally sated - and then he would butcher her. And he, Nuada Silverlance, had failed to protect her. His honor hung in tatters. He had failed. Eamonn had succeeded in shaming him. And Dylan... Dylan would...

_Dylan..._

Suddenly, from the other side of the door, she began to scream.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, so never mind. It's not even July yet. Go, me! Two chapters in less than one week! How's that for awesome? And this chapter is more than 12,800 words long, not counting any author's notes or anything like that (counting all the author's notes and stuff, it's 17400+ words). So go, the sheer and brilliant awesomeness of me! And yes, I leave you with another cliff-hanger. Gotta keep you guys coming back for more. But don't expect this all the time, 'cause I can't make any guarantees. _

_So, Nuada is suffering from awful, awful poison that will undoubtedly kill him without an antidote, Nuala and Balor may very well be dead, and Dylan is up for the ravishment chopping block yet again. And most importantly, we still don't know if John got that job working with MIB or not. Okay, sarcasm aside, what did you guys think of the new chapter? Liked it? Loved it? Hated it? I'm totally scared because I'm not sure I pulled off the flogging and Nuada being poisoned thing. I hope I did. Please tell me if it worked. And I struggled with Wink letting Dylan go, but she's right – his job is to take care of Nuada, not her. If it comes down to her or Nuada, Wink will always sacrifice her to protect the Prince._

_I would like reviews – lots of them. I love reviews. And this way I know what to ease back on, what to keep pushing, blah-blah. What you like, what you don't like, etc. This fic is for you guys, mostly (and for me, too) so I want it to make you guys happy-ful. But this is also my first foray into adult Christian fiction that isn't sweet inspirational romance, so please keep that in mind. Anyway, so reviews for LA?_

_**And don't forget, everybody:**_ _email Harper Collins and tell them you want to see more Alice in Wonderland and faery books. In fact, tell them you'd love to see those two things combined into one. You can contact them at their website, just Google the name "Harper Collins Publishing." With the next chapter, for all you lazy peeps out there, I'll have the actual email address posted here. And anyone who does this and provides proof (once you send the email, then go to your Sent folder and forward me the email you sent to JaenelleEbony at Aol dot com, subject: _We Want Alice in Wonderland and Faeries! _or words to that effect; do not copy the emails to me when you send them because HarperCollins will be like, "Who is this Jaenelle person?" And my agent has my email address, so it might come out that I asked you guys and things will get complicated, blargh) but anyone who does this and provides proof for me will be mentioned on my acknowledgments page in my book, _Glass _(which, later on when published, if you buy a copy and send it to me, I will totally sign it for you). Get your friends to do it, too! We'll all be in on the conspiracy! But don't tell HC I sent you. _**=) **_And anyone who chips in gets their choice of cameo in this fic or a spoiler privately messaged to them (on the condition they __**don't share **__said spoiler). And when I say spoiler, I mean you can ask me any questions about the fic (you're limited to 3 questions per person, tho) and I will answer truthfully._

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_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the spriggan. Spriggans were grotesquely ugly, found at old ruins and barrows guarding buried treasure and generally acting as fairy bodyguards. They were also said to be busy thieves. Though usually small, they had the ability to swell to enormous size (they're sometimes speculated to be the ghosts of the old giants). Certainly their disposition was poor, and they caused mischief to those who offended them. They sent storms to blight crops, and sometimes stole away mortal children, leaving their ugly changelings in their place. There is a story of an old woman who got the better of a band of Spriggans by turning her clothing inside-out (turning clothing being as effective as Holy Water or iron in repelling fairies) to gain their loot._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _The chapter title, "Hunter and Hemlock," is inspired by two things. One is "Hunter's Moon," a short story by Patricia A. McKillip found in _the Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest_, an anthology edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (yes, they are, in fact, amazing women). Since Dylan rides on a Hunter and relies on him and Wink to get her to Nuada, I thought it worked. The second inspiration is the novel _Fire and Hemlock_, by Diana Wynn Jones (author of _Howl's Moving Castle_), which draws on the legends of "Tam Lin" and "Thomas the Rhymer. "Tam Lin" involves a woman going to save her true love (a human knight) from the evil designs of the faerie queen despite serious dangers. In Holly Black's _Tithe_, another version of the story, it's actually a pixie-changeling girl who wants to save Roiben, a pale-skinned, silver-haired Elf knight (oh, gee; see, that description sounds so familiar...). Also, since Nuada gets poisoned with hemlock, it fit._

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_**References Made in the Chapter**_

- John is actually trying to get into the Men In Black, yes. And yes, that _is_ Agent J.

- The thing about John getting sucked into a time-warpy pocket dimension is because I made Dylan 29 and his twin, then saw the first HB film again after posting chapter 9. Turns out, John's like, 27 in the movie, which takes place 3-4 years _**after **_the beginning of the fic, so I had to figure out a way for John to be 27, even though Dylan will be, like, 35. I got the dimension idea from _Pandora's Hearts _(it's an anime/manga).

- The Technicolor midges I got from _Spindle's End_. Apparently magic, love, and other intense magical things (like having babies) makes magical midges pop up around people.

- Shambala is an Asian version of Eden (paradise garden, not origin of mankind); another version would be Shangri-La.

- Mormon doctrine states the mankind has come to Earth and mortality to be tested to the utmost; to the breaking point. God won't test you past that, but it will be up to that point. Doctrine also says that everyone agreed to their individual tests and trials before coming here.

- The troll talking to the blond girl is Stanley from _A Troll in Central Park_, one of my favorite Don Bluth films. He's really small, has tufty red hair, and wears a purple hat that often can be used as a bag. The girl is a "grown up" Rosie, who is one of the two human MCs in the film (she's like, 1 and a half in the movie, though).

- I got the shirt thing and attitude thing Nuada does from two books: _Outlander_ and one of the _Sharpe_ books (can't remember which one). In _Outlander_, the hero, James Frasier, gets flogged twice. Even though his shirt is a biological hazard due to being in a dungeon forever, he takes it off very carefully and folds it like it's his Sunday shirt instead of this nasty rag, as a show of defiance to the guy who's going to flog him. In the _Sharpe_ book, Sharpe's sergeant gets flogged, but he's being really nice to the drummer boys and chatting with them while it's happening (they're like, 9) to show defiance to the guy flogging him and to make the kids feel better.

- Nuada's wish to hear one more story... I can't say if it was or wasn't inspired by Arwen in the film _Return of the King_. In the film, as she's dying at Rivendell, she says, "I wish I could have seen him one last time." That whole thing – Aragorn seeing her that way, her _being_ that way – really stuck with me. It was just so sad and heartbreaking. But I don't know if that's what inspired Nuada thinking about Dylan at that moment or not.

- Message me if you want to know who Nuada saw getting crucified. Heck, it might have actually been Xena (she got crucified, like, 4 times or something).

- Rack, Shack, and Benny are the Veggie Tales© characters representing (and my nickname for) the men Amrach, Meshack, and Abednigo (I don't know if I spelled those right) who were told they would be cast into "a fiery furnace" if they didn't worship a golden idol. They didn't worship it (being Jewish), and got tossed into the furnace, and survived without any damage. In the Veggie Tales film, though, it was a giant chocolate bunny.

- A sithen is another name for an Irish faery mound or faery hill. Here it means Eamonn's home.

- The thing about being licked by a Draigh – that's LA's ill-remembered spelling of dearg (I was kinda close); but anyway, that's actually inspired by something from _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_film. A hobgoblin spits in Jared and Simon's eyes to give them the Sight.

- The mark of the Draigh's licking her kind of looks like the touch of an angel from _the Mortal Instruments _series, but I promise I wasn't thinking about that when I wrote it.

- Mendacity is just a fancy word for bull$#!%, but I don't like to use cuss words unless they're "damn" or "hell" used not as profanity, but as an actual... um... correct usage. Like "You are forever damned to walk this Earth" or "she descended into an ice cold hell of pain and fear," that kind of thing.

- When Balor talks about Dylan speaking "the Old Tongue," he just means Gaelic, since most people in Ireland and Scotland now speak English.

- I made the Healers wear green because in Wicca and Neo-Paganism, which is very earth-based, green is the color of earth magic and healing.

- Although the story of Absolem is in the Bible (and it's depressing as crud), I actually first found reference to it in _Ender's Game _and _Ender's Shadow _by Orson Scott Card. Interestingly enough, Mr. Card is also LDS (Mormon).

- Dylan feels bad about not liking Nuala for the same reason she mentions when the Chamberlain is arguing with her: in the Bible, Christ said "love thy neighbor as thyself." The LDS Church has a hymn (very simple, and sometimes they do it in Sign Language, too) called "As I Have Loved You" that goes "As I have loved you, love one another." That means everyone, not just other Mormons. That's actually a commandment, and the way it's supposed to work (though often it doesn't) is that when you break a commandment, you're sorry about it. Technically by Dylan not liking Nuala (especially since she wasn't even there when Nuada was being flogged and doesn't know for sure what happened) she was breaking that commandment, and she felt bad. Doesn't always work like that, but one of the reasons I made Dylan LDS is because I'm trying to show how it's supposed to work.

- "The white beast of a faery tale" - I don't know if you guys remember, but in chapter one, Dylan refers to Nuada as a "beast" in opposition to the "wolves" who are attacking her.

- Nixies are Germanic river mermaids; a male nixie is called a nix. Nixie is also spelled "nixe."

- Asrai are an English water faery, similar to mermaids or nixies. Timid and shy, between two to four feet tall (though some people say they are taller), they look like beautiful maidens or children, with webbed hands and feet. Their beauty is so great that if an asrai is seen by a man he will immediately want to capture her (which is the asrai's biggest fear besides the sun, which will kill them instantly. If even a bit of sun touches them, they die and turn into a pool of water).

- A gancanagh is a male faerie from Ireland who seduces women; their skin secrets this highly addictive crud, so that a woman will quickly become literally addicted to their touch. Those women usually pine away and die or kill each other fighting over a gancanagh. One kiss from a gancanagh who means no harm probably won't hurt if you're young enough, though, since he won't give you another one (which would really get you hooked).

- Samhain is the old name for Halloween. It's the solar festival that falls on October 31st.

- Morgen: a Welsh water sprite.

- Kobolds are a type of sprite that lives in various places (houses, mines, or boats); the one Dylan was taking care of was a house kobold (a German Brownie – Brownies being Scottish). Supposedly kobolds became extinct by the 18th century because people kept trying to see them, which makes them ditch whatever house they're in. One way to tick off a kobold (why would you want to?) is to dump water on it, which is what happened to the poor thing Dylan had. Their favorite food is grits (ew). The thing about the honey and cinnamon I got from Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Sandry's Book_ by Tamora Pierce. In _Tithe_, the Elf knight Roiben only eats white bread with honey sprinkled on it when he spends the night at the MC's house (she living among humans). The three girls in _Sandry's Book_ are showing their guy roommate that porridge tastes good with honey, when one of the ladies in charge of the cottage they live in says, "Well, if we're being _fancy_," and introduces them to cinnamon (which she grows, being a plant mage).

- A sylph is a Western-style air faery, originally deriving from Paracelsus' alchemical explanation of air elementals (Paracelsus is one of the most famous alchemists in history). In modern usage, especially due to the ballet _La Sylphide_ (in English, "The Sylph," not to be confused with _Les Sylphides_), sylphs are considered more fairy than elemental. Typically they are the standard image of a fairy – a tiny, slender girl with gossamer wings who flits about. The faeries in Disney's _Fantasia _during the Tchaikovsky songs "Waltz of the Flowers" and "the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" look like the typical sylph, although they are not.

- All of Dylan's dishes and utensils are made of wood (carved with bronze or silver carving tools) or porcelain, to avoid metal contamination in her house.

- Aldonza is the female lead in the musical version of the novel _Don Quixote_, which is called _The Man of La Mancha_ (the main guy being from La Mancha). The character Aldonza is actually a kitchen maid/prostitute, but because Don Quixote is a little whacko, he thinks she's a princess/noblewoman named Dulcinea. There's actually a song where she tells him what her name is and he says that he accepts the test of finding her true name or whatever and then sings about how she's really Dulcinea and the angels sing her name and stuff. But later, this group of men try to attack her and Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho, end up saving her by knocking most of them around. They figure it's not worth it and go somewhere else. Well, the crazy but lovable knight plans on ministering to his enemies and binding their wounds because "that's what knights do," apparently, but Aldonza knows he's gonna get hurt if he tries, so she promises him she'll do it in his place, saying, "They were my enemies, too."

He lets her, since she asks so nicely, but those guys aren't so badly hurt that they can't overpower, beat, rape, and kidnap her. They eventually leave her on the side of the road after gang raping her again and Don Quixote finds her and tries to help her. Then she sings the song "Aldonza," where she's basically telling him, "I'm the bastard daughter of a prostitute and Joe Shmuckitelli, not an aristocrat, and if you want me to 'love you,' you'll have to pay for it – I charge X amount of money. Stop being so nice to me – how am I supposed to remain hard and cold and uncaring when you're so kind and loving to me? Get lost." But the song ends with him saying, "Now and forever, thou art my lady Dulcinea!" And then she screams "No!"

But the musical ends a bit more happily. The guy dies, being old and stuff, but at his funeral, Sancho's all sad and says, "He is dead. My master is dead." Aldonza says, "A man died. He seemed a good man, but I did not know him. Don Quixote _is not dead_. Believe, Sancho. Believe." And when he calls her Aldonza, she says, "My name is Dulcinea."

- For those who don't know, "Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin" is from "The Three Little Pigs." My favorite version of that is the _Faerie Tale Theatre_ episode, with Billy Crystal as the Pig with the brick house and Jeff Goldblum as Buck Wolf. Seriously, you guys have GOT to watch it. Great music, and the wolf is hilarious. And the Skank Pig is funny, too.

- Little known fact about Moses: he stuttered. His brother, Aaron, was actually the one who did all the talking, basically interpreting for him (kind of how this girl I know, her brother has Down Syndrome and it's hard to understand him, so she translates what he says because she can understand him. He's nice – I danced with him at my wedding).

- Hemlock is super poisonous, historically so. Socrates, the Greek philosopher, drank it (he had a choice of killing himself or being executed).

- Mistletoe is actually poisonous if you eat it or if it gets in your bloodstream. So don't eat it.

- Belladonna is also poisonous, although in the old days women used to use it as a cosmetic (along with arsenic).

- Mandrake root actually exists, and not only is it poisonous, but if you burn it, I've heard the smoke is poisonous, too.

- I first saw the concept of aerosol being toxic to the Fae in _Ironside_, by Holly Black. Corny (aka Neil, as he goes by in that book) squirts a... a hob? I think. Squirts him in the face with hairspray or something. But Raid is poison, so I figured having it be poison mixed with aerosol (also poisonous, did you know? Is why you shouldn't spray whipped cream right into your mouth from the can) from an aluminum can would be a triple threat.

- I got the insult "lily-white prince" from _Saving Nuada _by Gwenfarr, I must admit. I'd never associated Nuada with lilies before that, but it fits if you really feel that kind of contempt for him.

- The Priesthood, according to Mormon doctrine, is literally the Power of God on Earth, given to worthy male Latter-Day Saints. Why men? You'll hear lots of answers, and different versions of those answers, but this is the one I hear a lot: men need the Priesthood as a binding force, keeping them on the straight and narrow as they stay worthy to use it (you lose it for sinning, like cheating on your wife and stuff), and this binding and directive force is necessary for men to become as righteous as women naturally are. Any specific questions about that, feel free to message me.

- I have no issue with Lady Gaga (other than some of her songs, like "Born This Way" and "Judas," offend the Spirit). In fact, I am a HUGE fan of her songs "Edge of Glory," "Bad Romance," "Telephone," and "Poker Face (NightmareDolly Remix)." I just couldn't think of anyone off the top of my head who was famous, other than her or maybe Madonna, who might sleep with ten people at once. *shrug*

- Dylan doesn't say "why me" because there are lots of Conference Talks (General Conference is every April and October, in the first week of those months) about how you're not supposed to do that. The answer is always the same for everyone, anyway, and it's exactly what Dylan says: because you can handle it (maybe not alone, but you can handle it), because you agreed to it before coming to this life, and because it is necessary. Generally it will teach you or someone else something they need to learn.

- Okay, the prayer Dylan says before walking into the hall. There's not, like, a precedent for this, but basically, she is being forced to let Eamonn do whatever to her because if she doesn't, Nuada will probably die. In my opinion, forcing someone to have sex with you by threatening the life of someone else counts as rape, and the LDS Church does not believe someone who is raped committed sexual sin. However, because Dylan is _choosing _to go into the hallway, she's basically just covering all of her bases. She knows premarital sex is a sin, and she's going to let Eamonn have at her, but it's for a good cause, so please no smiting, that sort of thing.

- Actually, Dylan saved Nuada nine times (1 – when she alerted him to the gangster sneaking up on him; 2 – when she helped him get to the sanctuary so that the bad guys' reinforcements didn't come upon a highly injured Nuada and kill him; 3 – when she removed the bullets; 4 – when she healed him the first time he ripped his stitches after she threw the bottle at him; 5 – when she got rid of the iron sickness in his blood from his injuries; 6 – when she let Eamonn examine her on the chance he wouldn't spill the beans about their "dalliance;" 7 – when she popped up at the trial to testify for him; 8 – when she offered her life for his so they would unchain him; and 9 – just now, when she walked out the door) but Wink doesn't know about numbers 1, 4, 5, or 6. So it's five for him. But she's really racking up the points here, huh?

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_**Suggested Reading (and Viewing) List:**_

- _Disney's_ _Fantasia_ – specifically the Nutcracker sequences (I'm partial to the Arabian goldfish and the Chinese mushrooms, myself)  
- _Faerie Tale Theatre_ – all of them, but specifically _the Three Little Pigs_ and _the Princess and the Pea_, which possesses great lines such as "I am the Crown Prince! Heir to the throne! I am dashed nearly divine! Of course I know what I want! A plague on both your houses!" and one of my favorites, "You've infected my milk!"

Also, _the Princess and the Pea_ has the BEST love-confession ever in the history of faery tales IMHO: "I want someone who's kind and gentle and... and fun! Someone like... well... well, someone just like you! Oh. Oh, I say..." Just a warning: it's a comedy, and the Prince and the King are a bit... um... mentally deficient.

- _La Sylphide_ (everyone should see a lesser-known ballet sometime in their life)

_- Men in Black _(unless you're afraid of cockroaches)  
- _The Mortal Instruments_ by Cassandra Clare (another fanfic author who got discovered and published – her novels are fanfiction for Holly Black's _Modern_F_aerie Tale trilogy: Tithe, Valiant,_and _Ironside_. _Valiant_takes place at the same time as _City of Bones_. Look for Val and Luis – or Dave, I always mix them up – in _City of Bones_, and look for Clary and Jace in their freaky carriage in _Valiant_).

- _The_ _Nutcracker_ (awesome! Based on a fairy tale by ETA Hoffman)

_- The Return of the King _(book and film)

- _Sandry's Book_ by Tamora Pierce (1 in a series of 10 – _Sandry's Book, Tris's Book, Daja's Book_, and _Briar's Book_ have alternate titles in some countries)  
_- The Sharpe Series _by Bernard Cornwell(there are like, 20 books or so. Start with _Sharpe's Tiger)._  
_- Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow _(for one version of Shambala)  
- _The_ _Southwestern_ _Nutcracker_ (Drosselmeier looks like Zorro, the Nutcracker fights a Coyote King, and we have Copper and Rattlesnakes instead of Arabian Coffee and Chinese Tea; there are other differences, but I saw it when I was 14 so I don't remember it all).  
- _The Spiderwicke Chronicles_ by Holly Black (the movie is, IMHO, lame)

_- A Troll in Central Park_

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"Udea and Her Seven Brothers" (just because it's the only story on my computer from _The Grey Fairy Book_)._

_A man and wife had seven sons. One day, the sons set out hunting and told their aunt that if their mother had a daughter, to wave a white handkerchief, and they would return at once; but if a son, a sickle, and they would keep on. It was a daughter, but the aunt wished to be rid of the boys, so she waved a sickle. The daughter, Udea, grew up not knowing about her brothers. One day, an older child taunted her for driving her brothers away, who were forever roaming the world; she questioned her mother and set out to find them. Her mother gave her a camel, some food, a cowrie shell about the camel's neck as a charm, and two servants, Barka and his wife, to take care of her. On the second day of Udea's journey, Barka told Udea to get off the camel so that his wife could ride in her place. The mother was close by and told Barka to leave Udea alone. On the third day, Barka again told Udea to let his wife ride the camel in her place, but the mother was now too far away to hear and command Barka. Udea called out for her mother to no avail and Barka threw the girl to the ground. The wife climbed onto the camel and Udea walked on the ground, her bare feet cut up because of the stones on her path._

_One day, they passed a caravan, where they were told of the castle where the brothers lived. Barka let Udea ride the camel to the castle, but smeared her with pitch, so that her brothers would not recognize her. However, they accepted her without question. Her tears of joy left white marks on her face. One alarmed brother took a cloth and rubbed the mark until the pitch was gone. The brother asked her who had painted her skin black, to which she would not answer, in fear of Barka's anger. She finally relented, describing the treatment she received during her travels. The seven brothers were outraged and beheaded both Barka and his wife._

_The brothers went hunting for seven days, instructing Udea to lock herself in the castle with only the cat who grew up in the house. She would follow the cat's advice in all matters and eat nothing that the cat did not eat. They returned, and found her well. The brothers then told her of the castle elves and pigeons, who could be called to fetch the brothers in case Udea was in any danger. The pigeons had seven days worth of food and water left by the brothers during each hunting trip; Udea asked why they did not have her feed the pigeons daily, because the food they had laid out was old after seven days. They agreed and told her any kindness towards the pigeons would be considered a kindness towards themselves._

_On the brothers' third hunting trip, Udea was cleaning the castle and, forgetting her instructions for a moment, found a bean and ate it. The cat demanded half. Udea said she could not, because she had already eaten it, and offered one hundred other beans. The cat only wanted the bean that Udea had eaten. To punish the girl, the cat put out the fire in the kitchen. With no way of cooking, Udea climbed up the castle, saw a fire in the distance and left to find its source. She asked for a lump of burning coal from the elderly man tending the fire, but he was in fact a cannibal and demanded a strip of blood from her ear to her thumb in return. She bled all the way home, and did not notice the raven that had followed her back until she came upon the castle door. Startled, she cursed the raven, hoping to startle it as well. It asked why she would wish harm to one that had done her a favor. It flew off, taking with it the dirt it had used to cover her trail of blood. The man-eater followed this path to the castle and broke six doors in six nights, intending to attack and eat Udea. On the last day, with only one door in place, she sent a letter to her brothers with the help of the castle pigeons. The brothers immediately came home and trapped the man-eater in a burning pit._

_As the man-eater burned, only one of his fingernails was left behind. It was blown towards and stabbed Udea under her own fingernail. She collapsed, lifeless. Her brothers put her on a bier and the bier on a camel, and set it off to their mother. They ordered the camel to avoid capture and stop only when someone said, "string." During the journey, three men chased after the camel, but only when one said that his sandal string was broken did it stop. The man took Udea's hand and attempted to pull off her ring. This motion freed the man-eater's fingernail from her hand, and she woke up full of life. The camel returned her to her joyful brothers, and all the siblings set out to see their parents once again. On the fourth day of their reunion, the eldest brother told their parents of their aunt's treachery and the adventures they encountered._

**.**

_**Reader Review Responses:**__Also, a shout out to all my reviewers over the last 2 years (this fic has officially hit its 2-year anniversary as of June 23). I should do this more often, but I never think about it. I'm way sorry, guys. I'm responding to whatever review you left last._

_**Dementia**_ _(my first reviewer ever!): sorry to offend about the wolves. I needed a pack animal, and the description was inspired by that line in "Instructions." Cookie for you as my very first reviewer for this fic!_

_**TheBlackPages:**_ _I have added the warning at the beginning of chapter one, and I will try my best to update sooner. As for the rating of T versus M... from what I understand, M means "mature," as in 18 or over. I'm not sure how I feel about the fic being rated M. I don't have any cussing (I went back and took out the three cusswords I'd put in previously), and there isn't going to be any actual consensual sex as far as I've plotted (which, I'll admit is only to the next chapter, but even if there was, I'd gloss over it). Granted, there is the rape scene (which, after getting your review and talking to my beta, I __**have**_ _toned down). For me, in my opinion, this is an OT (Older Teen) fic. However, I am going to take a vote on it, so I'm going to ask everyone at the end of the chapter what they think. That is the best I can do. But I do appreciate your concern and I'm glad you told me how you feel. I want to make my readers as happy as possible. And two out of three of the issues ain't bad. Oh, and thank you very much for the congrats/good luck and the lovely review!_

_**Captain Zombie**__: thanks for the congrats. Who's the other fic author? I might want to read their fic. Is it _Saving Nuada _by __**Gwenfarr**__? 'Cause I've read that one. And I'm glad I could open up the characters in a new way for you._

_**Lorien13**__: I love you, dear. 'Nuff said._

_**xxyangxx2006**__: I'm glad you gave it another chance and I'm glad you read it in one sitting because that is one of my goals as a writer! And I'm glad you enjoyed the latest chapter. That always makes me happy. And yeah... whippings... not so fun. Poor Nuada!_

_**Nan**__: never give up on my fics unless they get sent to the Zeta or Zathura Vortex (check my profile for explanation). Or unless I die, in which case my husband will post a final AN on all my chaps saying that (or someone will). Anyway, I've just had a lot going on. And a lot of fics (sigh). I can't seem to limit myself. And yes, _Spindle's End _is so awesome!_

_**WhenNightmaresWalked**__: that is one of the BEST compliments I've ever received, ever in my life. Thank you. I am very, very honored._

_**Cantata**__: Woot! As for not putting the notes/numbers in, you should read my LXG fic, "Harper of My Heart." On second thought, no you totally shouldn't. Never. It's one of my worst bits. Pure Mary-Sue crap. And I put random author's notes in the text, sigh. But it has a fond place in my heart for some reason. 'Nother big huge sigh._

_**OceanFire9**__: the Draigh thing comes out eventually. And I've always wanted to be a twin, lol. Also, geekiness excused (though I don't really watch TV so I have no idea who those people are). Without geekiness, where would the world be?_

_**Lorelei**__: oh, no! Don't do that! Lol, but I'm glad you're excited._

_**Devillsjustice**__: that is also one of the BEST compliments I've ever gotten. I love these "one of the best fanfics I've ever read" or "one of the best Nuada/OC fics I've ever read" compliments. I love you guys so much!_

_**Slythwolf**__: You know you're my only bad reviewer. I'm not sure what that says about either of us (other than you're in the minority)._

_**CharlotteDacre**__: I don't know what "erudition" means, but I am loving these "best" compliments. I've had three so far. I love you guys! And just fyi, I actually created Dylan around both the Mary-Sue Litmus Tests and Nuada's character. Since you've complimented the development between them and their characterization, I've done my job right. Yay!_

_**MoonDemon36**__: awww! You thought it was adorable! It was inspired by _Disney's Beauty and the Beast_._

_**Gyreflight**__: I love your pen name, btw. Is pretty. And thank you so much for the awesome compliments. I do try. As for the instincts vs. certainties thing, I've studied a lot of romance novels over the years, and the best ones are always when you think the relationship is finally making progress... and then one of them is like, "No chance, no way – I won't say I'm in love (sha-la-la-la-la)!"_

_**AriannaMalfoy**__: yay! Not a Sue! Yay! I've written Sues on purpose before (_Five Queens and a Joker_, for example) to see if I could do it where it wasn't annoying as crap and total lame-sauce, but I wanted a non-Sue this time. It helps that Dylan is almost 30, I think._

_**ReinamarieSeregon**__: yay, classic bedtime feel! Go, me! That's what I was going for._

_**DiscordPattern**__: yeah, I love that line, too, lol._

_**SesshiraRayu**__: another "best" compliment! That's four, now! Wootness! As for the length, I'm aiming for chapters of 8-15k because I love, love, love long fics, but hate, hate, hate short chapters. Don't know why chapter 2 was so blasted short. Blech._

_**Put the Fun in Dysfunctional**__: oh, you'll see more of John. How would you feel if your twin suddenly started having an Elf Prince over at her house all the time? Hehehehe..._

_I love you guys and all your awesome reviews (especially the long ones)! Keep it coming and I'll try to keep pushing out chapters of this between chaps of other stuff (like my novel). If you're fans of _Alice in Wonderland _(or of faeries or of me personally), you should write emails to Harper Collins telling them you want to see more books about any of those three things – _Alice in Wonderland_, faeries, or LA Knight. __**I'm more likely to get my book published that way**__. =) And since you guys live all over the place, they'll know by your IP addresses that it's not me or my fanclub or whatever the heck._


	12. Sweet, Bruising Skin

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's notes and important reminders  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
.

_**A/N: **__Okay, I hate leaving people hanging because I know just how strenuous it is as the reader to hang, so I've tried to have chapter 12 up quick. So, three chapters in 1 week. That's pretty good. Especially since I didn't know if I could get 2 chaps up before the end of July and it's not even July yet. Still, I'm a little hazy on this chapter, so I need some feedback. Not sure if it's up to snuff. What do you guys think? Hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know if there's any problems._

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the Fir Bholg (as we will see one in this chapter, yay). In Irish mythology the Fir Bolg (Fir Bholg, Firbolg) were one of the races that inhabited the island of Ireland prior to the arrival of the Tuatha dé Danann (the Tuatha dé didn't get there until everyone else had). In far antiquity the Fir Bolg were the rulers of Ireland (at the time called Ériu) immediately before the arrival of the Tuatha dé Danann. The King of the Tuatha dé Danann, Nuada, sued for half the island for his people, but the Fir Bolg King, Eochaid mac Eirc, refused. They met at the Pass of Balgatan, and the ensuing battle - the Battle of Mag Tuired - went on for four days. During the battle, Sreng, the champion of the Fir Bolg, challenged Nuada(__**!**__) to single combat. With one sweep of his sword, Sreng cut off Nuada's right hand. However, the Fir Bolg were defeated and their king was slain by the Morrígan, though the fierce efforts of their champion Sreng saved them from utter loss. The Tuatha dé Danann were so touched by their nobility and spirit they gave the Fir Bholg one quarter of the island as their own. They chose Connacht and gained a new king, Aonghus mac Úmhór, before passing out of legend._

.

**Chapter Twelve**

**Sweet, Bruising Skin**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Faery Lies, the Nature of Antidotes, Inheritance, Truth, and the Price of Vengeance**

.

.

She knew the instant she saw Eamonn, the sick grin spreading like a disease across his cruelly handsome face. Icy understanding chilled her to the marrow. Dylan took a step back. Her hand automatically reached for the door handle, but she stopped herself. He couldn't... wouldn't! Even Eamonn wouldn't risk certain death at the ravenous appetite of the Living Darkness.

But then the dark-haired Elf's grin twisted. Madness and triumph flared in his eyes.

"Thank you, human, for breaking the ward around the door. It had to be opened from the inside for us to get in, you see."

Dylan turned to run back inside but suddenly Eamonn was there, slamming her bodily into the cold stone wall with bone-crunching force. Fear clawed at the mortal's stomach as the Elf pressed himself against her back. One gloved hand held her thin wrists above her head at a nauseatingly painful angle. Her shoulders burned and she tasted blood where she'd cut her lips on her teeth. Her bad leg threatened to buckle.

"You said you would spare them!" She cried, twisting and struggling against his hold. She realized then that the one time Nuada had grabbed her by the throat, he hadn't been using anywhere close to his full strength.

When the human tried to bring her heel down on Eamonn's instep, to force him to let her go, pain radiated from her striking foot up her leg to briefly numb her bad knee. He slammed her into the wall again. Stars flared and went nova in her head. "That actually hurt, you little bitch." His fist planted in the middle of her back. She choked on a scream. "I hope that did, too."

Once she could breathe around the pain, she gasped, "You swore! You can't do this! You swore on the Darkness!"

"And _I __**will **_spare them," he said. His breath burned against her ear. His fingers bit deep into her wrists. "But my warriors and my master hunger for the death of the lily-white prince. I will take the human somewhere less... conspicuous," Eamonn added to the Elves and other fae in the corridor. "I don't want anyone inconvenient to hear her screaming. The rest of you, do as you planned: follow Gwydion and take down the troll. Watch out for that metal arm of his. Remember, aim for the toes. Sreng... you can handle Silverlance, can you not?"

A red-haired Elf with strangely long, muscular arms and blazing eyes like blue stones grinned and nodded. Unlike the other Elves, he wore no armor and only carried a sword, nearly as tall as he was. She knew that sword from her college classes: _Claiomh Solais_, the Sword of Light, one of the Four Treasures of the Tuatha dé. No one could escape it once drawn from its sheath, and no one could resist it.

_No... oh, Heavenly Father, no. Please, please, no! He'll kill Nuada with that! How did he even_ get _it?_

"You lied! You said you'd give Nuada the antidote!" She twisted and brought her foot down hard on his instep again.

He growled in pain between clenched teeth, but didn't loosen his hold. A well-aimed fist to the small of her back made stars explode behind her eyes. Pain hummed a brutal symphony through her body as his fist connected with her kidney again.

Dylan screamed and sagged against the wall. Only Eamonn's grip kept her on her feet as her knees quivered. Breath shuddered as she tried to force it into her lungs. "You lied... how..."

"What better antidote than death?"

"Monster," she whispered, fighting the nauseating pain. A hollow heat burned in her lower back. Sucking in a breath, Dylan snarled, "I name you oathbreak-"

She yelped when, with only a casual slap against her arm, he dislocated her wrist. Dylan fought to turn around so she could kick him, so she could break free, anything, but the furious Elf planted his hand on the back of her head and shoved once, quickly; almost gently. For him. The rough stone of the wall ripped cuts in her skin. His stone-hard palm pressed harder, and pain exploded inside her skull. She literally felt the bones creaking under the pressure. Was he going to crush her skull right there?

He tightened his grip on the back of her head. Dylan couldn't stop the whimper that crawled out of her mouth. From behind her, the other Fayre in league with Eamonn laughed and made jokes about the feisty human slut.

"How many times must I tell you, human?" Eamonn shifted slightly, and something cold and hard pressed against the clasp of her bra through her shirt: the pommel of a small blade; a dirk or sword-breaker, maybe. Sweat stood out on her face as the round pommel, the size of a duck egg, slid down her spine to the small of her back. "I would not say such things if I were you." He smashed the metal pommel hard into her spine. She screamed as fire flared through her back, followed by a sickening numbness. Eamonn pressed his lips to her ear. "Do you know what I could do to you with this, human? I could cut you into little pieces with this and feed them one by one to your precious prince." His chuckle was like the scrape of steel against bone. "I might just do that, actually, when I've finished playing with you."

_Don't panic_, Dylan practically pleaded with herself, but the tears were coming now, free and unencumbered. She couldn't stop herself from weeping quietly as Eamonn continued to hiss vicious promises in her ear. The pommel slid down further to rest against her tail bone. The human stiffened. Fear choked her into absolute silence. If he hit her there... if he cracked or smashed the bone there...

Then Eamonn hauled her around and slung her, now kicking and screaming, over his shoulder and turned away from his men. "Kill them. But take your time with the prince. I want him to 'enjoy' every minute of his death... and hers."

Everything in the mortal went still. She sucked in a breath and screamed. "Wink! Wink, it's a trap! _It's a trap!_"

Eamonn cursed and threw her to the ground. The initial impact silenced her. Her skull smashed into the floor with a brutal _crack_. The air exploded from her lungs. Brilliant multicolored fireworks burst in front of her eyes. After a moment, she tried to sit up and the room spun sickeningly. _Oh, no, _Dylan realized as blood trickled from one ear. _Concussion. Bad one. Really... really bad._

She tried to get up again. Something that felt like the broadside of a semi smashed into her face. Pain exploded in one cheek, and she felt blood drip down her face and soak into her hair. Dylan groaned and tried to roll over, tried to get away from Eamonn and go to the troll and the Elven prince behind the door. Eamonn growled something about humans clearly not getting the message and planted his foot in her ribs. Two of them gave with a vicious _crunch_ under the force of his kick. She screamed again and fell in a heap on the floor.

The furious Elf grabbed her by one arm and settled for dragging her down the hall. His fingers bit deep into her skin. She could feel the bones in her arm grinding together in his grip. Dylan twisted and screamed, struggling to get away, even as the agony inside her skull intensified. Dizziness and nausea threatened to knock her unconscious, but she kept struggling. Panic had her in its grip, choking her, ripping at her insides. She knew if she passed out now, she would never wake up. Tears poured down her face. Terror flooded through her as she was dragged further and further away from Nuada and Wink.

Just when Eamonn began turning the corner, Dylan heard a door slam open and the infuriated roar of a silver mountain troll.

**.**

Wink flung the goblin-forged metal hand at one of the Fir Bholg while he flung a Tylwyth Teg across the room. He stood between Eamonn's warriors and the barely conscious Elven prince, determined not to let a single one through. Nuada struggled to rise, but every time he made it so much to his knees, the room began to spin and the blood roared in his ears. Dylan... he _must _get to Dylan. Must stop Eamonn from hurting her further.

And if she were already dead... no. No, Eamonn wanted to take his time. The dark Elf did not wish only to use her and then kill her. He meant to torture her, to hurt her in every way possible, for a _very_ long time. He would not slay her out of hand.

_Nuala_, he thought, called with heart and mind and magic. Was she truly dead? He found only void, only dark emptiness. But then... why was he not dead? How had he survived the felling stroke? No, she was only out of reach. She had to be out of reach... or refusing to answer him. _Nuala... help me. The human... I must save her. Help me, Sister._

_Nuada? _Sweet magic inside his skull. Immediately he could feel the healing magic being continuously poured into her, feel as it flowed into him through their connection. _Brother?_

_Sister, the human_. He grabbed the blood-stained blankets and tried to pull himself up. His pride raged at the Fir Bholg and other Fayre allowed to see him so weakened, but his fury superseded his pride as he thought of the vile images the dark Elf had shown him when Eamonn had been flaying the flesh from his back. _Nuala, Eamonn has taken the human. He means to butcher her. Help me... _Nuada managed to attain his feet, despite the throbbing in his skull and the lancing pain in his chest. He hacked and coughed once more. Spat blood. _I cannot fight him alone. He has poisoned me. Help me, I beg you._

_Poison?_ He felt his sister's sudden stab of fear, then a rush of magical healing energy. The pain in his skull diminished slightly. Blood was still a salt-sweet tang in his mouth, but his lungs no longer felt as if gripped by a giant's fist. The princess added, _Nuada, take what aid I can offer and draw your sword!_

_I cannot,_ he replied, staggering as he pushed away from the bed. His back and shoulders burned. His chest ached and his belly churned from the poison. Only the magic infusing his body enabled him to stay on his feet. _I have no weapons. I surrendered them when I entered. They knew..._ you _knew I would come armed. You wanted to be sure I would not kill my accuser._

_Then take the Spear upon my wall! It is yours by right! You are the eldest!_

Nuada glanced at the long-shafted throwing spear high on the wall. Elvish runes of inlaid gold glinted around the edges of the razor-sharp point, spelling something in Gaelic. The Spear of Light. _I have not the strength to reach it_, he realized when he tried to leap for it and only managed to take another stumbling step. _The poison is still too strong in my blood._

The Elven prince felt his sister's shame and grief, knew she blamed herself for his condition. He ignored her. He did not wish to hurt Nuala, and there was no time to comfort her. He needed a weapon he could reach. Something that could stand against-

Wink roared in pain, and Nuada stumbled forward. The silver troll had fallen to his knees, clutching his hand of troll flesh. Dark blood oozed between the metal fingers clutching his injured hand. A large sword glinted in the fire- and candlelight, slick and dark with Wink's blood. The Fir Bholg who had cut the troll turned to Nuada and grinned. Beneath the coating of blood, runes gleamed in the light. Fury was ice-cold in Nuada's veins as he recognized the Sword of the Tuatha dé. Lost before the forging of the Golden Army, it would have been part of the prince's inheritance. Now a filthy Son of Dela wielded the might sword shaped of pure star-metal and tempered in Brighid's Forge. The thought nearly choked him.

"That belongs to _me_," the prince growled at Sreng. Rage and magic fueled him as he stepped forward. "I will have it back."

"You will die, Silverlance," Sreng said. Was that _joy_ in the faerie's voice? "That is all you will do: die. None can withstand the Sword of your people."

"Except the Spear of Light!"

Sreng shouted in alarm as Nuada turned to see the little brownie from the subway tunnels and another brownie – the one from Dylan's cottage, he realized – hanging from the wall tapestries and lifting the heavy Spear with strength and magic. Gathering his strength, the Elf lunged forward as the Spear fell. It landed in his outstretched hand. Nuada heard the thunder of racing feet. He whirled, swinging the Spear underhanded, and brought it up to clash against the long blade of the Sword. Shock reverberated up Nuada's arms. Pain screamed from his back as the Sword pressed down on him. His chest burned, but he did not allow himself to double over with the hurt, only choked on the blood in his lungs and fought for breath.

"Help Wink if you can, Brighid! Becan!" Nuada shouted, and shoved the Sword back from him. He lunged, thrusting the Spear-tip toward Sreng's belly, but the Fir Bholg smashed the weapon aside.

Sreng tried to slice at Nuada's belly, but he was at a disadvantage with the huge sword, even though the Elven prince was slow and weak from the poison. As Nuala continued to pour healing magic into him, the prince's speed increased and his reflexes sharpened. Adrenaline burned in his blood as he fought. Sweat slicked his skin. But his heart was calm and steady in its beating as he blocked the Sword's attacks and slashed at the Fir Bholg with the Spear.

Wink was getting to his feet. Already his troll hide was covering the vicious wound dealt him by the red-haired Fir Bholg. The blasted Elf of Eirc had managed to cut off the tip of his little finger and big toe! A troll's toes were their most sensitive part; very much like being struck in the genitals for a human male. But the gravelly troll skin was forming to protect the wound and stop the bleeding. And in the meantime, he could still handle these pathetic traitors. Nuada seemed to be improving. Somehow. The silver troll shook his head and broke a dark-haired Elf's neck with a sharp twist. Perhaps the so-called princess was aiding him in some way. It mattered little right now. They needed to finish this fight and get to the human woman before that coward Eamonn managed to fulfill whatever twisted fantasies he had in mind.

Someone slashed at the back of his thigh and Wink stumbled. As a sword hurtled toward his unprotected face, several heavy glass pots of cosmetics flew through the air and smashed into both blade and blade-wielder, knocking the attack away. Wink saw a brownie - a boggart? - conducting flying cosmetic dishes and candle holders towards the attackers as if he conducted a symphony. One of the warriors rushing at Wink suddenly flipped onto his back, and the troll realized a second brownie had used magic to pull the rug out from under the attacking fuath's feet.

The troll roared in triumph as he slew the last of the attackers, the Tylwyth Teg known as Gwydion. Then Wink turned toward Nuada, locked in combat with the Fir Bholg man wielding the Sword of Victory.

"Forget me, old friend! You must save Dylan! Take the little ones with you!"

"I will not!" Wink bulldozed toward Sreng, but one of the chairs from Nuala's vanity table flew into the air and cracked the Fir Bholg across the back of the head, followed by several heavy vases and clay pots full of flowers. Blinded by water, earth, and plant matter, Sreng did not see the blow that sliced across his chest, or the second slice that severed the tendons in his left hand. He dropped the Sword from suddenly limp fingers and began to step back, still blinded by the dirt from the potted plants. Nuada twisted and thwacked his enemy once, bone-jarringly hard, on the side of the head where the jaw met the skull. The blow dropped Sreng like a stone.

"You did not kill him, Your Highness," Brighid called as she hopped from the vanity's white marble counter. "Why?"

"To slay one who cannot see the blow coming is dishonorable, if it can be avoided," Nuada wheezed, struggling for breath. His back screamed at him that it _hurt_, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the ache in his shoulders and the burning tightness in his chest. All would ease in time. Nuala had promised not to abandon him while he searched for the human woman. "Though not so when necessary. Still, I could not leave him conscious. The guards ought to find him." The prince shifted the Spear and willed it to retract, as his lance did. The ancient weapon complied. Next he bent down, ignoring the shriek of half-healed wounds ripping back open, and hefted the Sword. It shrank even as he touched it, until it was the size of a standard longsword. He had always preferred the weapons of Briton.

"Come," he commanded in a strained voice. "We must save Dylan."

Both brownies scurried over to the pair of warriors, raced up Wink's legs, and settled themselves on his broad, gravelly shoulders. "To my mistress!" One of the brownies, eyes flashing red as a boggart's, raised one tiny fist in fury and determination. "Save her from the Zwezdan Elf scum!"

Nuada almost smiled.

**.**

"Oathb-" The crack of Eamonn's hand across her face knocked the words from her mouth. The human struck the wall hard enough she cried out. Blood dripped into her eyes. She slid to the floor, but managed to open her mouth and choke out, "Oathbr-"

"If you attempt to say that word one more time I will shatter your jaw," Eamonn snarled, and Dylan's mouth snapped shut. He grabbed her by the throat, enjoying the flutter of her frantic pulse against his palm as he yanked her to her feet. Blood dribbled from the cuts his blows had left across her mouth and cheek. The rough stone walls had left raw scrapes across the exposed skin of her forehead and even her wrists and arms. Her bleeding hands scrabbled at his wrist in a vain attempt to force him to release her. He tightened his grip and she choked. "Ah. That's better."

Maybe he should just kill her now. It would be so delicious to watch her struggle for air as he slowly squeezed the breath from her lungs. And then he could show Nuada every moment: how she would weep as she died, the way her eyes would bulge from their sockets and she would struggle like a trapped insect against his merciless hold. Nuada's pain would be so _good_ then.

But it would be so much worse for the Silver Lance if he took the little whore to the prince's bed first. Eamonn cocked his head and studied the mortal. She was not ugly, per se. It was the scars that made her so hideous. She stank of humanity, but he could live with that. And if he could project each moment into Nuada's mind as the Elven warrior died and the pathetic human bled out beneath him...

"Coward," she gasped out.

His silver eyes latched onto her face. This. _This_ was why he wanted to throttle the life out of her. Why was she unafraid of him? _Why?_

"_What_ did you say?"

"Coward!" Dylan tried to scream it, but the last syllable ended in a gurgle as Eamonn's fingers bit deep into her throat.

"I wish I had more time," Eamonn said on a sigh. The blood was roaring in Dylan's ears. Her heart hammered. Her lungs screamed. Air, she needed air! She couldn't breathe, couldn't... "If I could chain him to a wall, perhaps, and force him to actually watch what I do to you... maybe that would satisfy me.

"I could shatter the face he loves so much into pieces if I had the time. You would not look at me with disgust then. You would not be able to look at anything beyond the blood in your eyes. Then I would crush every bone in your body until the shock of it, the awful sickening agony of it, stole the life from you. As you lay dying I would do everything in my power to rip the heart from Nuada's chest. Then I would make him watch the life fade from your eyes and hear your final breath rattle in your chest. And I would finally see the proud and mighty Silverlance broken."

He smiled at the tears that welled up in her too-fey eyes.

"But unfortunately, I don't have the time." A dispassionate gaze of icy silver swept over her features as he relaxed his hold once more. "How can he stand to rut with you? A human. It is a betrayal of everything he stands for. And you... you're disgusting. A filthy mortal whore. You're not even pretty. It is _revolting_."

"We're... not... having sex," she coughed out as she slid to the floor. Gasping, she clutched her throat. Any movement made her head throb and her bones ache. Every breath sent red-hot shards of pain through her body, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. The human coughed again. Covered her mouth and kept hacking. Something bright red splashed onto her hand: blood.

_He punctured my lung,_ she realized. _When he threw me down and broke my ribs. I'm dying._

Strangely, the thought didn't frighten her. In fact, she hadn't been frightened since Eamonn had dragged her up the stairs and into a bedroom. Inside of her had only been a strange and dazed calm, except when the dark Elf spoke of Nuada. Then there had been sharp grief like a knife. Fear, but for _him,_ not herself. Maybe she was in shock, since the thought of dying only served to make her sad.

_I wish I could__'__ve done more, but... I guess it's time._ Would she live long enough for Eamonn to actually get around to torturing and raping her? Maybe if she kept him talking, he would forget what his purpose in kidnapping her actually was.

"Why... do you hate him so much?" There was a tickle in her throat. Should she cough and try to hack up more blood, clear her lungs and give herself more time? Or let the blood pool and drown her? "Did he steal your girlfriend or something? Sleep with your sister? Turn you down when you asked to sleep with him? What?"

The traitorous Elf's boot slammed into her side. A muffled _crunch_ and a sheet of burning fire made her scream and scramble to get away from him. Pain swamped her. Raked at her. Eamonn kicked her again in her bad knee. Something shifted painfully. Shocks of pain exploded up and down her leg. Dylan fell onto her belly on the floor and struggled instinctively to remain conscious.

"First of all, he is a traitor for swiving with a human like _you_." He toed her sharply with his boot. Pain turned her vision white for a minute. She struggled to stay afloat in a storm of fire and nausea. "Yet even before that, I knew the rule of Nuada's line had failed. He is just the next piece of proof saying such. His sister is spineless. He ruts with mortals. His father is a gutless coward who betrays the Faery races to humans day after day! And when it was obvious Balor no longer deserved to be king, Nuada should have risen up and slain his father! Taken the throne! Made amends to the Hidden People on behalf of the royal families. Instead he sulked off into exile like a spoiled child and left us to fend for ourselves. I and my master have had enough of Bethmoora's royal line and their empty promises."

She couldn't breathe. Each breath stuttered in her lungs. Made her head scream with the agony in her skull. Every beat of her heart brought her closer to death. And all she could think of was, _Please, God, my gracious God... please don't let Nuada die. Please. This can't have been for nothing. Please, the world needs fae like him. Please..._

"I want to test something, human," Eamonn said suddenly. "Renounce the High King of the World. Tell me you are not His servant. I might let you go." Dylan couldn't get enough air to say, "No, you wouldn't," but it was in her eyes, on her face. The Elf grinned. "I might. You never can tell."

She shook her head. His boot stomped down on her foot – she'd lost her tennis shoe somewhere. She found she had enough breath to scream when her toes crunched under the blow. She struggled to push up to her hands and knees, or even just drag herself along on her elbows. Anything to get away from him. Eamonn reached down and hauled her up by one arm. Her head snapped around on her neck. Pain shot up and down her spine.

Bleary eyes focused on a painting on the opposite wall. A painting of Nuala. Then she saw the weapons hanging from the walls. Dylan blinked and realized through the fog of burning agony where she was: Nuada's room. Eamonn would torture and rape her here, in Nuada's room, on Nuada's bed, to hurt the Elven prince. To shatter him.

_No..._

"Deny your God, mortal, and I shall spare you."

"N-no..."

He jerked his hand in a sharp twist. The bone in her arm snapped. She screamed again, choked on more blood. Eamonn's gentle smile could've cut to the bone. "I know what I can do, since I seem to be running out of time. Before I kill you, I might just..." He grabbed her free hand and laced his fingers with hers. Touched her thoughts. Surrounded her consciousness with his mind. Found music playing in her head and prayers running frantically through her feeble mortal mind: prayers for Nuada, for the troll, for those who fought Eammon's people. Prayers for herself. "Oh, how very touching. So sweet. But I much prefer _this_."

And as he showed her everything he hoped to do to her - the shattering of her bones like glass, blood flowing hot and red as he cut into her with blades of flesh and metal, and always the reminder that when it ended, Nuada would die with shame coiling in his belly, with grief and guilt burning through him, and Eamonn's knife in his heart - all of it surrounded her mind with the vicious waking nightmares, and Eamonn thought, _Well, if Nuada isn__'__t yet dead, he will certainly hear her screaming._

**.**

Nuada froze when an agonized scream echoed down the stairs.

_Danu's mercy_...

Then the images slammed into his mind, so vicious and brutal he staggered with them: Dylan, always Dylan, hurt, bruised and bleeding, screaming, sobbing, struggling to escape Eamonn. Blood stained her lips, soaked her clothes. The prince recognized his own room at his father's palace, recognized the crimson silk sash the dark-haired Elf used to tie Dylan's hands together. Something was wrong with her chest; only one side rose and fell as she gasped for breath. Her bad knee was swollen to twice its normal size. And her bare foot was a mass of sickening purple and white bruises.

As Nuada struggled to free himself from the vile images, Eamonn struck Dylan across the face. She spat crimson from between bleeding lips. Eamonn hit her again. Her head snapped viciously to one side. The dark Elf strode over to the weapons rack against the far wall and snagged an ebony _hanbō_ from its place. Hefting the short staff, the Elf went back to Dylan and smiled. Caressed her bruised face with the end of the staff.

"Arms or legs, sweetness?"

The terror in those silver-blue eyes was like ash in Nuada's mouth. Dylan whispered brokenly, "Don't... please... please don't show him."

"Arms or legs? Choose, or it's both."

The mortal's chin dropped to her chest and she whispered in defeat, "Legs."

"Ah. We'll make you a little mermaid," Eamon said cheerfully. "Just like the human tale."

The dark-haired Elf of Zwezda raised the ebony _hanbō_ and brought it down hard across Dylan's shin. Another scream ripped out of her mouth. Screams and sobs. The _hanbō_ came down on her leg again.

_Stop! Eamonn! Leave her alone!_ Nuada jerked himself free of Eamonn's grip and hauled himself up the steep stone stairs. His wounds were almost healed thanks to his sister, but the poison still slowed him and made it hard to fight. He knew he would have to recover from that before he had any hope of battling Eamonn. The dark Elf was nearly as skilled of a fighter as Nuada himself. Yet he _could not wait!_

_Come and get her, Silverlance. Maybe you'll arrive before I finish._

_Monster._ He would kill Eamonn. Forget honor. Forget chivalry and justice. He would cut Eamonn down like the sickening dog he was, even if he were unarmed and helpless. The Zwezda Elf would die this night.

The screaming abruptly stopped.

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Perhaps he'd been too rough with her. Eamonn wondered about that, as the mortal was staring up at the ceiling with vacant blue eyes. Blood trickled from both nostrils and one ear. Smeared the flesh around her mouth. Her breathing was shallow and wet. The Elf remembered vaguely that all of that was bad as far as humans were concerned. Ah, well. He would still have to finish her off. It would not do for Nuada to arrive in the nick of time to heal her of the damage. Though just in case, he'd leave a little surprise for the both of them...

"I wonder who suffered more," the Elf whispered, lightly caressing the human's face. She did not even flinch when his fingers grazed the bleeding gash on her cheek. "You, or him? After what happened to his mother the queen... I can only imagine how much it hurt him to see _you_ in the same dire straits. If he is not in love with you yet, he's close enough that killing you this way will make me _very_ happy. He'll carry the horror and guilt of her death and yours until I finally put an end to him."

Suddenly the human swallowed and blinked. She dragged in a ragged breath. Her eyes cleared, focused. "You're... an idiot."

_What? How is she still conscious?_ Aloud he demanded, "What do you mean?"

"It's not... love... that makes him... hunt you this way." She tried to take a breath and choked on the blood in her lungs. Coughed and hacked. Crimson stained her mouth and chin. Finally she managed to gasp, "You're a... traitor. Take... me out of... the equation, and he'd still... hunt you down like a dog."

Fury burned in his chest and he grabbed her hand again. Laced his fingers with her. Fitted his fingertips to the black bruises he had left in her fragile human flesh. Pressed until bone shifted under his grip. "Watch your mouth, little whore. I am no traitor. He's the traitor! For loving you. For loving a human slut. _I am no traitor._"

"Yes you are." The human coughed again. Made sure to spit blood on Eamonn's cheek. Somehow, the rage in his eyes didn't frighten her. "You're a traitor... and a coward-"

He tightened his grip on her hand until he felt bone splinter and then hurled every vile, despicable, vicious thing he had ever planned for her into her mind. Eamonn battered against her consciousness as he made her think he battered against her body. Delicate bone crumbled beneath his grip as his fingers tighted further around her hand. Silver-washed blue eyes flew wide. Went glassy again. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Bruises bloomed like black roses against her skin. Faded. Exploded into vibrant, violent color once more. The human began to choke on the blood in her lungs.

And _still_ it was not enough! Nothing he did to this human whore would _ever_ be enough until the lily-white prince was on his belly like a worm, begging for mercy! Eamonn surrounded the mortal's every thought with the horror and violence he wanted to inflict on her. Made sure she tasted the blood; felt the pain of blows raining down on her like hell; felt things breaking and tearing inside her as the dark Elf brought all of his strength down on her; understood the despair of impending, brutal and bloody death. Made sure she realized Nuada was _never_ going to save her.

Then he added to the illusion. Built an image of Nuada, bleeding and dying, chained to the wall by iron, watching everything Eamonn did to his human slut. He showed her Nuada weeping; Nuada struggling against spiked iron chains that burned and seared; Nuada fighting those chains and the Fomorians, Fir Bholg, and other Fayre who savagely beat him; he fought them to reach her as Eamonn inflicted every possible torture and degradation on the fragile human, as he literally tore her slowly apart before her lover's eyes. He heard the mortal screaming desperately for help deep in her own mind. Relished the sight of the silent tears streaking from sightless eyes down her bruised and battered face.

Then and only then did he wrap his free hand around her throat and begin to squeeze for the last time. His fingers bit deep into her throat. He felt the delicate larynx begin to give beneath the pressure of his throttling grip.

A troll roared on the other side of the bedroom door. Eamonn's concentration faltered for an instant and the door ripped off its hinges and flew over the shoulder of an enraged silver troll. In an eye-blink the dark Elf released the nearly-dead human and grabbed his sword. He dodged the furious troll's blow only to come face to face with Nuada, who drew his own Sword. Eamonn swore when he recognized the Sword of Victory, last seen in the hands of Sreng.

"Yes," Nuada snarled. "It is mine now, as it should be." The Elven prince thrust and lunged for the other Elf, but Eamonn dodged and ducked, weaved and bobbed like a jackrabbit. He knew his own blade was no match for the Sword of the Tuatha dé. His only hope was to make his way to the door and run. He would return another day to finish the lily-white prince.

"I would not tarry long with me, Silverlance," Eamonn called, doing a backflip out of the way of Nuada's strike. "Your whore lies dying even as we speak." And in his mind, the dark Elf called mockingly, _Why did you not tell me her lips taste of strawberries and mead? Feel like paradise?_ _I would have paid her a visit all the sooner._

"_Liar!_ She lives!" Infuriated, Nuada thrust again. The tip of the Sword slid across Eamonn's leg, slicing a line across the leather trews that welled up and bled dark silver. "I'll have spilled your heart's blood before the night is over. I will have your head on a spike for what you have done to her."

Wink looked between his prince and the mortal. Although badly bruised and bloodied, she looked alive. There was no sign that Eamonn had fulfilled his promise. And yet... the ghostly color to her flesh, the vacant look in her eyes... Wink moved to her and stared down. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Only one side of her chest rose and fell with her breath. The human began to choke. The troll hastily turned her on her side as blood bubbled up from between her slack lips and spilled onto the bed. Dylan coughed weakly.

"Nuada! There is no time! Leave him!" Wink roared. "She is dying!"

The pale prince jerked involuntarily toward his vassal and the mortal. In that moment of distraction, Eamonn slammed his dagger hilt-deep in Nuada's side. As the blond Elf stumbled, the dark-haired Elf wrenched the blade free and ran. Nuada fell to his knees.

"Nuada!" Wink's voice, and Nuala's. The prince looked up to see his sister rushing into the room followed by a bevy of Elven healers. He climbed to his feet and stumbled toward Dylan prostrate on the bed. Nuala went to his side. "Eamonn, did he-"

"No time," the troll interrupted the princess. "She needs healing, and so does the prince."

"I... I am well enough, Wink," Nuada mumbled, pressing a hand to his side. Nuala had yet to restrict the healing magic pouring into him. He would be fine. But Dylan... He stared down at the human on the bed; _his_ bed. Eamonn would have raped her in _his_ bed. Sickness coiled in his belly along with the nauseating pain. Nuada's mind felt filthy, and memories of his mother's death blurred into the vicious images of Dylan that Eamonn had spilled into his skull. Had he been in time, then? Had he preserved his honor? Saved her from that fate? As long as she survived, his honor would remain intact. As long as she lived...

But how had Eamonn known the taste of Dylan's lips? Something cold clenched hard around the prince's heart at the thought of the traitorous faerie laying his own mouth upon the human's. Tasting the blood on her lips. Stealing a kiss from her. _I will kill him even more slowly for that._

"I... feel... stupid," Dylan gasped, and Nuada jerked in shock. Consciousness had returned to her gaze and she was struggling to breathe more deeply. "Really... really... stupid. All that... pointless." The mortal hacked blood. "Sorry... Your Highness."

"You tried to save my brother's life thrice this night," the princess said gently as the healers began working on the human. Nuala glanced at her brother, who glared at the human with furious bronze eyes. "That is _nothing_ to apologize for," she added firmly.

"He lied... stupid... Eamonn... should've known..."

"Stop talking," Nuada snapped suddenly. The room was spinning. His side was on fire. He could still feel the phantom of the blade as it drove deep into his side. "Save your strength. As for Eamonn... truth is beyond him. Rest now. We will discuss your stupidity after your wounds are seen too. Idiot human. If you ever attempt such a thing again, I shall kill you myself."

"Uh-huh... ow. Broken ribs... punctured... my lung... really bad concussion..."

"I told you to stop talking. Must I silence you myself?"

Impossibly, Dylan smiled at him through bloodstained lips. Lips that Eamonn claimed tasted of honeyed mead and strawberries. When he snarled at her in irritation - this was _not_ amusing! - she actually managed a weak laugh, though it was choked by pain and wet with the blood in her lungs. "Good to see... you're okay. Ish."

For just a moment, an odd shaft of warmth pierced his cold fury. Still so concerned for him, even through all of her pain. "Dylan..."

The hand that was not black with bruises and twisted by violence reached out and lightly touched the prince's wrist, near the half-healed iron burn. Tears dripped slowly from the corners of her eyes to soak the blood-stained blanket beneath her. That gentle touch burned hotter than iron. Her wobbly smile hit him like a blow. "It's okay."

Nuada shoved away from the bed. He could not bear to see the relief in her eyes. Could not bear to see her attempting to comfort him when she lay battered and bleeding among the blankets. And maybe if he left her, she would no longer desire to chatter on like a magpie. Maybe Eamonn's words would not echo in his skull like a curse.

The prince took two steps and stumbled. His feet suddenly felt strangely large and heavy. He tried to walk on. Staggered. Fell to his knees.

_"Brother!"_

The wound in his side burned and throbbed, as if someone were thrusting hot needles into his side. _More poison_, he thought fuzzily as the world began to fade. He heard his sister yell his name, and Wink roaring for one of the healers. And as he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed, for the first time in a long time, that Dylan would survive. His honor demanded it.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, this chapter doesn't feel quite right to me. I'm not sure why. Maybe because Dylan and Nuada don't get a lot of together-screen-time? I don't know. Not that it's bad... feels like it should be longer, though. Bloodier. More dramatic. Or that might be the old me from before I converted to the LDS church (back when most of my favorite movies involved surviving near death and then having sex). I don't know. I don't like that it's so short, either. About 5 K words, not counting author's notes and stuff. Less than half the length of the previous chapters. Or I might just feel funny because of the heat. Ugh, hate summer. So, so bad. Anyway, if you guys like it, let me know._

_1) Did I miss something you wanted to see?_

_2) Did I keep a tight enough lid on the gore? Or too tight a lid on the gore?_

_3) Is there any problems you can see with this chap? 'Cause my beta is still on chapter 2, so she won't get to tweaking this chap for awhile. Let me know what you lot think. I love the reviews I get, especially when you tell me specific stuff you liked. I love, love, love it. So awesome! Helps me know what I'm doing. And I feel the love._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Sweet, Bruising Skin" is a short story by Storm Constantine, found in the anthology _Black Thorn, White Rose. _It's actually about a demon-possessed homonculus in the role of the princess in "the Princess and the Pea," but another reworking of that same fairy tale mentions how gruesome it is that the king wants a wife who will bruise from a pea through twenty mattresses. What does he wanna do, beat her every night? Anyway, there's a bit of a correspondence here, with the whole Eamonn/Nuada's-bed/beating-the-crap-out-of-Dylan thing. So yeah._

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_**References Made:**_

- Gwydion is a character from Welsh mythology, and an ally/comrade of King Math of Wales, who had to keep his feet in the lap of a virgin when not in battle (I don't know why). Gwydion's sister was the second virgin selected.

- Sreng was the champion of the Fir Bholg in Irish mythology (though not the king that being Eochaidh). When the Fir Bholg went to war against the Tuatha dé Danann in the First Battle of Mag Tuiredh (when they were fighting for governance of Ireland) Sreng was chosen to fight their king Nuada. The Fir Bholg are not the Fomori (though they may be related that isn't clear in mythology). The Fomori were already in Ireland when the Fir Bholg arrived. Another name for the Fir Bholg is the Children of Dela.

- Claiomh Solais: one of the four Treasures of the Tuatha dé, the Sword of Light, also called the Sword of Victory. The others include the Cauldron of the Dagda, the Spear of Lugh, and the Stone of Fal. The sword is also called the Sword of Nuada, but since it's being used by someone else right now, that wouldn't really make sense here. It will get this name later, though.

- A dirk is a Scottish dagger, one-edged and about a foot in length (sometimes it's a cut-down sword blade on a dagger hilt). Many Scottish dirks have a smaller eating knife and fork (once forks began to be used) in compartments on the sheath. The hilts are usually carved from dark wood such as ebony or bog oak, and the pommel is set with a cairngorm stone. Usually also worn with a smaller Scottish knife known as a sgian dubh, worn tucked into the top of the hose when wearing a kilt.

- A sword-breaker is a sturdy dagger with slots on one side like the teeth of a comb. Those teeth can catch the blade of an opponent's sword and hold it, giving the dagger-wielder a chance to counter-attack. It's uncertain whether they can actually break a sword, but that's what they were called. A type of weapon known as an off-hand weapon one to be used in conjunction with a single-hand sword.

- The Fir Bholg were the fourth group to live in Ireland (after the Nemedians and before the Tuatha dé).

- Tylwyth Teg here means just a Welsh faerie.

- The Spear of Light is another name for the Spear of Lugh, one of the four Treasures of the Tuatha dé. However, we're not going to call the Spear the Spear of Lugh for a reason that will be revealed later. It's exciting, I promise. In this fic, both the Sword and the Spear will change size depending on the wielder. This was inspired by the sword in the book _the Kingdom of Kevin Malone_. Kevin's sword can go from being a pocket knife to a full-out broadsword.

- Child of Dela: see the thing above about Sreng.

- Brighid is the goddess of the hearth, of fire, poetry, and smith-craft. She also has two sisters, also named Brighid (weird). Her father is the Dagda (similar in some ways to Odin, Thor, or other All-Father gods) and she is the wife of Bres, the Fomorian. That's not quite the history she'll get in this fic if she shows up (since Bres will)... at least, not so far as I've plotted. But maybe.

- There are only a few instances in literature I've read where a brownie goes boggart (meaning, gets super ticked of) but in most of them, the brownie uses their powers to throw stuff and break things. I figure something that can throw a kitchen full of pots and kettles could be useful in a fight.

- Wink growing his skin back is inspired by the character Orc in Michael Grant's _Gone _novels (really awesome books, but not if you're squeamish).

- I got that jaw-shot from _Terrier_, by Tamora Pierce. Beka, the MC, uses it to knock someone out (she's a cop, and isn't supposed to kill people).

- Briton is an old name for Britain. The longsword is generally European, as it was used in a variety of places, but the Scots and Irish normally used claymores and shorter swords. Long swords (not the longsword, but longer swords) were normally used by the aristocracy.

- Swiving is another word for screwing, an old word from like, the 18th century and earlier.

- The hanbō is a 35-inch wooden staff used in Japanese martial arts. It could totally break someone's bones, as it was often used as a defense weapon against the katana, the famous Japanese sword.

- Okay, I didn't get the "arms or legs?" scene from anywhere, but it does bear a striking resemblance to this one scene in _Queen of the Darkness_ by Anne Bishop. In that book, one of the secondary characters gets poisoned, and there's no cure. But the MC can draw the poison out of either her arms or legs, which will pretty much cripple whichever limbs she decides to sacrifice. So before they start, the MC leans in and asks the girl, "Arms or legs?" But that wasn't an inspiration for that situation. I just think those crappy, have-to-choose-between-two-agonizing-torments scenes are good.

- The thing about denying your God. Latter-Day Saints (and I'm pretty sure Christians in general) aren't supposed to deny being Christian for any reason whatsoever, even upon pain of death and stuff. Now, IMHO (and from what I understand from church), if you lack the strength to be able to hold fast in that kind of situation, you won't be asked to do it. But Eamonn knows she's not supposed to do that, and he's just screwing with her mind.


	13. Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, my lovely fans whom I love so very much! New chapter here, on the Celtic holiday of Lughnassad. First day of August, it's the holiday between the Summer Solstice and the Autumnal Equinox (unless you live in the Southern Hemisphere, in which case it's the holiday between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox). An appropriate day for an update, I think, as Lughnassad is named after Lugh, the guy who became King of the Tuatha De after the Nuada of Irish mythology. Also the guy from which the word "leprechaun" is theorized by some to derive. Ya learn something new every day. _

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_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _Leprechauns! Fun facts about them - they were once thought to be the tallest of those faeries which dwelt within sithens (faerie mounds). Originally, they wore red, not green (as red is said to be the color of solitary fae, and green the color of "trooping" fae, like Elves). Their gold was said have been stolen from where it was buried by mortals during wars. If you catch a leprechaun, it will grant you three wishes in exhange for its freedom (not its gold, as most people think). They love practical jokes. Their main occupation is making and mending shoes. Close relatives of leprechauns are the fear dearg of Scotland and the clurichaun (a drunk, night-time cousin of the leprechaun). I think I'll have a "Mythological Being of the Day" in all my chapters. _=) _So go back through the old chapters to check them out._

_**Something You All **__**MUST**_ _**Read:**_ _speaking of support, one of my lovely reviewers, __**OceanFire9**__, has this __**AMAZING **__short (it's only 600 words or thereabouts) for Little Red Riding Hood called __**"Red Under the Moon." **__It literally stole my breath. It is one of the most beautiful pieces of literature (yes, I call it literature, I don't give a fig how long or short it is) I have ever read in my entire life. It is such a beautiful, lyrical piece. It floored me. Ocean, how old are you? If you're less than 30, I'm shocked dumb, because it had a maturity to it that surprised me, but also an astoundingly young voice. It was just... I could rave about it for days. So all of you guys, go check it out! It's fantastic! And leave reviews for her!_

_**REQUEST:**_ _everyone who reviews, please give a shout-out to my hubby, Lord Dragon Claw. He cleans the three litter boxes in our apartment (we have 4 cats). He's so fab. I loves him. So everyone be like, "Go, Lord D!" Or something like that. _=D

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**Chapter Thirteen**

**Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Healing, Enemies, Idle Hands, a Princess Who Cannot Believe and Plots Accordingly, and a Prince Who Makes a Choice**

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It felt as if she were floating on silver clouds or flying between the stars. Pinpricks of light swirled across her vision. She heard someone speaking, as if from very far away, and a sound like a boar snuffling through forest underbrush. There was something wrong with her chest. It felt heavy, as if someone were pressing very hard on it. Her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. When she tried to force them, a sharp lance of pain speared her through the chest. She tried to draw breath. Couldn't. Coughed hard. Felt like her chest was ripping in half. Tasted copper on her tongue.

"She is fading," a far-off voice snapped. "There is too much blood. We must clear her lungs. _Quickly!_"

Dylan felt hands pushing and prodding her. Was she on her back? She couldn't feel her body to tell. But then how could she feel the people poking at her? _Elven healers, _she remembered. _Is that their magic shoving me around? _

A slight pressure on... what part of her was that? Slowly her body was coming back to her. The human could feel her toes and fingers tingling with fading numbness. As the pins and needles eased, she realized that it almost felt as if someone were holding her.

There was a strange sucking sensation and the heaviness surrounding her lungs began to ease. That strange feeling of being surrounded by light and warmth slowly faded, leaving behind a feeling of security and peace. Even as the healers continued battering her body with their magic – and that was exactly what it felt like, as broken bones realigned and shoved back into place, as bruises darkened by old blood were blown back to health with Elven power – she felt as if someone were cradling her with pure love.

_Who's holding me?_ She wanted to ask, but she still couldn't feel her face to move her mouth. _Who is that?_ Peace unfolded in her chest and it was almost as if someone were whispering _I am here. _She knew this presence... this Presence...

_No one is holding you, Dylan_. A familiar voice, musical and silvery and very, very kind, distracted her. Princess Nuala. _The healers are working to draw the blood from your lungs. One of the healers is repairing your broken ribs. That is what you feel. Only the healing._

_No, that's not it. Be quiet, I can't think,_ the human wanted to protest. It wasn't just in her chest, it was everywhere. It felt nice, familiar as the back of her own eyelids. But the princess was still talking, distracting her, and tiredness crept closer, adding to her confusion. Did she dare sleep? What if this wasn't real tiredness, but death? What if, by letting oblivion take her, she were giving herself up to dying? _I should fight to live... shouldn't I, Heavenly Father? People need my help. The Pobel Vean... and John... the kids at work..._ _Nuada..._

_It is all right to rest, Dylan,_ Nuala said. Her voice was very... Dylan almost couldn't figure it out. Tender? Why would an Elf princess feel tenderly towards her, of all people? And couldn't the Elf be quiet for five minutes so she could figure out what was happening? The combination of magic and mental chatter made her feel drugged and slow. _If you sleep, the healing will progress more quickly. Do not fear._

Exhaustion washed over her, dark waves of tiredness breaking against her mind like ocean surf. She felt the Elves moving her around, felt them poking and prodding her body, but whatever warmth surrounded her didn't diminish in any way. Her mind sluggishly tried to process that. Tried to think. Who was it? _What _was it? The warm, familiar feeling was very gentle and subtle.

Then, a sudden realization.

_Oh. _Feeling slightly dumb, she actually smiled. Or thought she did. With her face numb, she wasn't sure if she was physically smiling or not. _It's the Spirit. I'm sorry. Thank You for being here with me. I feel way better now. Like, a lot better. Though kind of stoned. For some reason I thought it might have been Nuada,_ Dylan thought, drifting. Fading. Sliding almost fully into sleep. _Not Nuada, though. Better. _More sleepily still, _Though I kinda wish it had been him. I hope he's all right. I hope..._ A momentary flash of panic. One of the healers barked something about her blood. _Did Eamonn... Nuada... is he dead? Did he make it? Heavenly Father..._

A deep sense of peace and safety flowed into her as the panic faded, replaced by that same familiar warmth in her chest. No more pain, no more fear. Everything would be all right. Everything was fine. If she died, then... well, it was time. She had done what she was meant to do in this life, and now she could finally come home. At least it wouldn't hurt, which had been more than she could say before falling unconscious. But Nuada? If he died, then that was what Heavenly Father wanted for him this night. If he survived, then _that's _what God wanted. Either way, all would be well. But if she died and he lived, or he died and she lived, she would miss him.

_I just wish I could have seen him... talked to him... thanked him... one last time..._

Then she knew no more.

**.**

Princess Nuala stared at the human slumbering peacefully in the large, open bed, a childlike smile on her scarred face. She'd been under the healing sleep since Thursday night; nearly two full days. Now that the healers had reduced the swelling in the mortal woman's body from Eamonn's blows, Nuala could see the myriad of thick and thin raised lines criss-crossing Dylan's face. Nuala knew they were the result of the attack that had brought her brother and the human together. In reading the mortal's thoughts, the princess had seen that she wanted to keep the disfiguring scars, despite the way they twisted the otherwise pretty features into something lopsided and ugly.

_Why?_ Nuala wondered. _Why does she choose to bear such scars? _The pink and white and silver puckered lines slashed across cheeks and forehead, across eyes and nose, even across what would have been a generous, full-lipped mouth. One scar dragged at the mortal's eye, forcing it into a somewhat lopsided position. Another pulled cruelly at the corner of her mouth. Her nose was also crooked, with a flat space along the bridge. _She must have broken it once_ _or twice. _Yet she has never attempted to rectify these disfigurements. _Is that how she won Nuada's heart?_

"No mortal could ever steal my heart from you, Sister." Nuada's voice was cold, yet strangely tender as he limped slowly into the room. Wink shambled behind him, peering over Nuada's head to catch a glimpse of the sleeping human. "You are my twin, my other half. Do not fear – my love and loyalty are ever yours."

The Elf princess shuddered at the intensity of her brother's voice. The seeds of madness were still rooted deep within him. Yet as much as she wanted to deny it, Nuada spoke the truth. They _were_ two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. They were lost without the other. And there were none who could ever take his place in Nuala's heart. He was her only brother; her only sibling. She loved him more than almost anything. But that did not mean she was comfortable around him. Not anymore, at any rate.

_Don't give up on him. Everyone has trials they must face. He is one of yours, and you are one of his. It will work out eventually._

Dylan's words from two nights past reverberated through Nuala's mind as she watched her brother struggle to walk. Bandages swathed his torso – mementos from the flogging, and Eamonn's final dagger strike. The bandage over Nuada's side was stained with a small spot of dark golden blood. The princess could not help but admire the way her brother, even injured, moved so gracefully. _She_ did not move so, even with her Elven poise. It was his martial arts training that gave him such fluidity, and she envied him that.

The dim light of the setting sun painted the undyed linen trews Nuada wore with all the colors of twilight and fire as he came toward her. The Elven warrior stopped at Dylan's bedside beside his twin.

"Are you so sure of that, Brother?" Nuala asked in flowing Old Gaelic. There was a softness in him suddenly that made her bold. "You fought very hard to save the human. You nearly died... could it be for the sake of love? You suffered a flogging to preserve her honor–"

"To preserve my own honor, Nuala, do not be revolting," Nuada snarled. His words were like a slap. The princess stepped back from him, amber eyes wide as she scanned his suddenly furious countenance. Every ounce of tenderness had vanished, leaving only icy fury behind. "She is a human. Nothing she ever does will ever erase that fact. To imply I could feel such emotion for a mortal insults my honor, insults everything I am!" Realizing he was shouting, he lowered his voice to an earnest and angry murmur. "The creature in that bed is an ally, _barely_. But affection, friendship, or the gods forbid, _love_ – that is beyond one such as her."

"Yet you cried out her name while under the hands of the healers," Nuala snapped back. How could she have been so stupid as to believe a human? To believe that a mortal who had known her brother for scarcely eleven moons could understand him better than Nuala herself? Idiocy. "You feared for her life! Prayed for her survival! A _human's _survival!"

Nuada fought against the impulse to jerk back from his sister. She was throwing these things in his face to shame him. He could feel the burn of her contempt and anger through their bond. Yet it did not matter that she claimed he had done such a thing – he knew it to be a lie. Never in this life or any other would he, Prince Nuada, son of the mighty King Balor, the legendary Silverlance, call out the name of a mortal in sleep, save as a cry of triumph whilst dreaming of slaying his enemies. He had not dreamt of silver-washed blue eyes, so very fey in that mortal face – blue eyes framed with dark lashes and scars, eyes vacant in death. He had not dreamt of Eamonn rising up from above the human where she lay in Nuada's own bed, the dark Elf's naked body spattered red by Dylan's blood, the mortal already cold with death brought on by Eamonn's twisted lust. No, _no, __**no!**_ He had not suffered nightmares of failure, of shame, of grief. He had _not _cried out her name!

"I feared for a stain on my own honor and _nothing_ more," he snapped, shoving aside the horror and sickness coiling in his belly. "If she died, if Eamonn managed to slay her, then I would have been disgraced, for I owe Dylan a debt. Eamonn would have succeeded in shaming me, but that doesn't mean I feel anything for Dylan except–"

"Dylan?" Nuala said sharply. "You call her by name, instead of simply 'the human,' yet you claim you feel nothing for her. I think you are lying, Brother. I think you love the human-"

"I could _never_ love a human, Nuala! The very thought is absolutely disgusting! A fae and a human together in such a way... the very idea offends everything I stand for. How dare you even imply that I could sink so low as to lust after a filthy mortal wench-"

The crack of Nuala's palm across his face echoed in the room. Wink growled. Dylan stirred, but did not awaken. And Nuada did not turn the face that had been forcibly jerked to the side by his sister's slap. Where the slender hand had struck first turned shockingly white, even against the paleness of his skin, then flooded with a rush of blood that turned the handprint a pale yellow. Both Elves heaved furious breaths in and out as the tension stretched taut between them. Rage and disbelief radiated from the furious princess. Nuada fought against the sting of hurt in his chest that mirrored the burn in his cheek. Nuala had never, _ever_ slapped him over mere words before. All the hope that had built up within him during the fight against Eamonn and his men, hope fueled by the renewed connection between him and his twin, shattered into jagged pieces.

Nuala's face stung, but she did not regret striking her brother. How _dare _he say such things? All of Nuada's prejudices, all of his hate and disdain, all of the darkness twisting around inside him – it was all still there. The mortal had been wrong about the Elf prince. He did not deserve another chance from his sister, or anyone else. Preserving his honor? He had lost it centuries ago. He could never regain it again. She had been a fool to entertain hope that it could be otherwise.

"The human spoke your praises, Brother. Defended you with her own lips. She told me I should give you another chance. That you would prove me wrong. I regret that it is the mortal who was wrong about you. You will never understand honor. The shame you bring upon yourself is far too dark a stain on your soul." And the princess turned on her heel and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Nuada did not touch the cheek his sister had struck. He feared his hand would tremble, and if it did, he did not wish to see it. He only turned to stare at the mortal still sleeping on the bed. _His_ bed. Her dark curls spread across his pillow. Becan curled up atop another of the plump pillows, snoring softly. A small guardian for his brave mistress. Brighid slept beside the snoring brownie. One of Dylan's pale hands, kissed a faint blue from bruises even after the healing, lay palm up atop the silver bed linens. The healers had believed it best not to move her after the healing. Before it, there had been no time. So now a mortal infected his bed with her human stench yet again as she slept off the magic used to knit her body back together. A body battered and broken in her attempt to save his life yet again.

_She spoke your praises... defended you with her own lips... _Lips that, according to Eamonn, tasted of honeyed mead and strawberries. Lips that felt like paradise. Mortal lips.

"You will want some ice for that," Wink rumbled. When Nuada sliced his eyes to the troll, Wink gestured to the blood-gold mark on the prince's face. "Your sister has always had a strong arm. And your mouth is bleeding."

Nuada touched a ginger finger to his mouth. The tip came away dotted by a tiny drop of blood. "A strong arm... and a sharp tongue. Always has."

"The princess does not understand," the troll replied calmly. He pretended not to hear the slight undercurrent of grief in Nuada's voice. Wink had long ago lost his respect and love for the Elf princess he'd once saved as a little girl. "One day she will, though. Of that, I am certain." He hoped.

"For now, my friend, you need not stay here. Go to the Goblin and Troll Markets, the Floating Night Markets, and the township of Findias. Keep your ear to the ground, and find out what our people are saying about me, about Dylan... about two nights ago. And about Eamonn."

Wink rumbled agreement and left with a shuffling of his large feet and a clank of his mechanical hand. The door slammed shut behind him.

"I am trying to sleep," a drowsy voice mumbled from the bed. "If you don't mind, whoever you are." Nuada strode toward Dylan's recumbent form. Dark lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes and strove to focus on his face. The moment she did, she smiled warmly, then her eyebrows drew down sharply. "What happened to your face?" She pushed up on her elbows, then her hands. The bedclothes slid down to pool around her waist. To Nuada's surprise – and by the sharp ache in his chest, he realized it was also to his disgust – she wore one of his shirts. "Are you okay? What on earth happened?"

"Nothing. It is well enough," the prince said softly. Moments out of an enchanted sleep and though her first thought was tiredness, her second thought was for him. His stomach churned as he thought yet again that this human was so very strange. And she wore one of his shirts! A blue one woven with silver threads. It very much resembled the color of her eyes, in fact. Nuada knew his sister had done that on purpose, though he could not understand why. "And you? How do you fare?"

"I feel absolutely splendid, thank you so much. I can actually draw a full breath." She sucked in a deep one, smiling when her chest didn't scream in protest. "My leg feels fantastic, too. Hasn't felt this good since before I broke my knee. And this is _the_ softest bed I've ever been in. Smells like pine needles; I _love_ it. So, where am I, exactly?"

"My bedroom," he said. She went white as skimmed milk. Nuada saw wisps of memory in her eyes – hands choking, the silver-bright pain of a knife slicing across her face, bones breaking under vicious blows, flesh tearing as men ripped into her body. Even sitting, Dylan swayed with the memory. Her face went completely ashen. "The healers thought it unwise to move you," the prince added hastily, then had to quash the surge of fury when he realized he felt he ought to explain to her. But her color was slowly returning to normal. "I have slept in one of the nearby guest suites."

Ridiculous, that he should be barred from his own suite! The entire court of Bethmoora believed he was trysting with the girl anyway – repulsive thought – so why not allow him entry?

"Oh... thank you, Your Highness."

"It was not my decision," he snapped, then mentally swore when she flinched and looked down. It was almost as if the last months of visits, of reading and talking in front of a warm fire, had never happened. Back was the frightened woman who had first resided with him in his underground sanctuary.

_And_, he realized, _my prejudices have returned as well. Here I stand, intent on always thinking ill of her_ _when she has proven herself again and again to me. Because of the rumors? Because of Nuala's verbal barbs? Or because no one will tell me what Eamonn did to her? Has the base creature succeeded in shaming me... and hurting Dylan?_

The Elven warrior fought to gentle his voice. "But you are welcome. I hope..." He had to clench his teeth around the words. "I hope you find the bed comfortable. Do your injuries pain you at all?"

The human shook her head. Her smile wobbled a bit, but at least it was there. "I think they pretty much got everything when they healed me." She studied her hands for a moment, then wrapped her arms around herself. Nuada frowned. Had she lied about her injuries? "It was a pretty unique experience," the human continued. "I'm grateful to you and your sister, Prince Nuada."

"And... and you..." He wanted to ask her about Eamonn. Ask if the dark Elf had succeeded in fulfilling his vicious promises. Or if the Elf had only managed to commit rape and the brutal tortures he'd shown Nuada using merely his telepathic abilities, not physically. Ask if his own honor remained intact. He wanted to know if she were afraid of him. Did she still, in unguarded moments, look at him with that odd affection in her eyes? The affection that had grown in the last months as they sat before a crackling fire and she read her favorite tales to him, was it still there? Or was there condemnation and hate in her gaze? And yet he did not want to ask at all. Was almost afraid to know.

Silver-washed blue eyes found his. He didn't know it, but she saw the fear and uncertainty in his gaze. Dylan smiled – a real smile that seemed to light up her scarred face. Something inside the Elf prince eased. "The princess put a magical block around my mind. I know what Eamonn did – or tried to make me think he did, rather – but the emotional response isn't there. She said my mind wouldn't be able to handle it right now, but that it will slowly come back to me over time. When I'm ready. It's okay, though. I'm okay. You came after me so fast, he didn't have time to really hurt me. Thank you, Your Highness."

"He nearly killed you!" Nuada growled, turning away from her. The gratitude in her eyes was all too sincere. He deserved none of it. "You insult me, and yourself, with such ill-aimed gratitude. And if you ever give yourself up that way for me again, I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that I will-"

"I know," she said, and the sudden surge of fury that flared in him subsided. There was a wealth of things silently acknowledged but left unsaid in those two simple words: _I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you, watching you die was more than I could bear_. For a minute he simply turned away from her, struggling to make his breathing even.

When he turned back to her, she added, "Your Highness... my prince... Nuada. I'm _all right_. It was just a concussion and some broken bones." At his look, she added, "Okay, so my broken rib punctured a lung. Healers fixed me right up. Same with my head." She touched the back of her head carefully, smiling when it didn't hurt. "And they didn't even cut my hair. Gotta appreciate that – in a human hospital, something like that, they'd have shaved me bald. I spent the last three years growing out my hair, so that would have been really annoying for me. I truly am grateful for all of this. Without you coming to my rescue, I..." He saw the first shimmer of tears clinging to her lashes, reflecting the moon-swept blue of her eyes. But she blinked them away quickly. "We would have had a repeat of the night we met, minus the part where I actually survived. _You _saved me from that. So I thank you."

"You..." He turned away from her, unable to meet her gaze. He could not say what his honor demanded of him if he had to look into those fey-like eyes. "You saved _me,_ as well. I... I thank you."

Dylan shrugged. "You're the closest thing I have to a real best friend in this world, besides John. That's what friends do for each other. Right? Now, am I wearing actual clothes? Because I'd like to get up, but if I'm wearing a see-through nightgown or something, I don't want to get out of bed with you standing right there."

Forcing his thoughts away from her sentiments of (bizarre, ridiculous thought) friendship – and the thought of her wearing a transparent anything, which made something akin to nausea bubble in the pit of his stomach – the prince thought for a moment. "That shirt is one of mine. It should fall at least midway to your knees."

The human sighed. "Not long enough. Is there a... a robe or something? I'd use the blanket or something as a toga, but this isn't my place and I'd feel rude about doing that. Still..." She glanced down uneasily at herself. "Mid-thigh is _way_ too short."

"Most humans seem to rejoice in showing as much skin as possible."

"Yeah, well, my body is a temple. Word of Wisdom and stuff. No smoking, no drinking alcohol, no drugs, no addictive substances – even if they _are_ legal – and no flaunting myself and what sex appeal I possess (which is like, none) for the admiration of other people. It's like it says in one of my favorite songs: I don't need to prove my beauty in the eyes of men. Or anyone else in this world, come to think of it." Now she shrugged, and smiled as if all her dreams had come true. "I only care about the opinion of the most important person in my life."

Nuada blinked. She could not mean... _him?_ Or perhaps she had a lover? No, she was a Christian. She followed the High King of the World. Women who devoted themselves to that royal God did not find physical release outside of the bonds of marriage. Or at least claimed not to. A husband, then? A strange feeling swelled in his belly and he turned away from her again, staring resolutely at the smooth marble wall. "And..." He had to quietly clear his throat before he could go on. "And who is that? This person whose opinion matters so very much to you?"

"God," she said simply. "As long as I live the way He wants me to, He thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread." Nuada opened his mouth, and Dylan added, "Of course, He thinks that about anyone who's living their life right, but it always makes me feel good, because I'm my own flavor."

The prince, for the first time since that final night in Dylan's cottage, found himself laughing. And when Dylan cried, "Stop laughing at me, you... _Elf_," he could only laugh harder, even though it hurt.

**.**

Eamonn knelt before his master, eyes focused on his lord's crest inlaid in precious and semi-precious stones on the black marble floor. Silver eyes traced the diamond sails of the moonstone ship that seemed to glide across the dark marble. Dark volcanic glass in the shape of a rearing, bat-winged horse was the only thing to mar the glittering beauty of the sails. A single ruby served as the horse's cyclopean eye. A ring of purest gold - not Elven gold, but the ancient gold from ere the days when mortal men walked the Green Isle - circled the luminous ship. The dark-haired Elf focused on this and nothing else as he waited for his master to speak.

"She offered her life for his?" His master demanded.

"Yes, Majesty," Eamonn replied. "Three times - once when she came before the Bethmooran king without summons, once when she asked that Silverlance be unchained, and once more when she came out to me in exchange for the antidote to the poison I gave him."

"Then she loves him," the other Elf replied. "Only love makes someone that stupid. A mortal loves Nuada Silverlance."

"And he loves her, Your Majesty. I am sure of it. He may still live in denial of it," Eamonn added, thinking with disgust of the look that had flashed in the crown prince's eyes when the mortal had attempted to stare Eamonn down - pride mixing with the haze of pain, and something that the dark Elf knew full well to be love. "But if so, his heart is torn between his so-called honor and his desire to roger the human slut. Otherwise he would not have undergone a flogging and risked death simply to preserve her honor. And you should have witnessed how he battled for her. He fought like a demon, Sire. I would stake my life on it: he is in love with the human."

"You know Our plans," his master replied. The use of the royal plurality was not lost on the dark-haired Elf. "When Silverlance finally finds the third piece of the Golden Crown, and he awakens the Golden Army and massacres the humans, then would be the opportune time to strike at him." Eamonn looked up and opened his mouth to protest, but the golden-haired warrior seated on the granite throne before him held up a hand for silence. "But if it were possible to tear the heart from his chest now, We would sanction it. If it were possible to weaken him, _truly_ weaken him, in any way, then We would reward any who did so. Poison, bloodshed, maiming... or by the breaking of his immortal heart. Would her death do this?"

"I believe so, Majesty. After what happened to Queen Cethlenn... yes, I believe so."

"Then when the time is right, do what you threatened - use her until she is too damaged to be used any further. Make it brutal. Make her beg for death. Project every moment of it into the prince's mind, and make sure you can project her fear and pain and despair as well. Let him know and feel every bloody detail of what you will do to his woman, to the other half of his soul. Let him understand that, just as he could not save his precious mother, he would never have been able to protect his woman. And then kill her - very, _very _slowly."

"How, Sire? How do you wish it done?"

The faerie king grinned. "Cut her into little pieces and send them to our rash princeling in a box."

"That would steal the very heart from him," Eamonn breathed, already relishing the idea. "Steal it, and shatter it into a thousand jagged pieces."

"Indeed it would, Eamonn," the warrior king said from his stone-gray throne. "Indeed it would."

**.**

"So how long are we stuck here?" Dylan asked some time later. Servants had come and left clothes for her – way fancier than what she'd gotten in Nuada's sanctuary. The human felt strange slipping into silk underthings. She'd have rather had her own underpants, but the healers had thrown her bloodstained clothes away. _I'm probably going to get a wedgy from this, _the mortal mused, _but at least they're pretty._ And what was even stranger – they matched the iridescent pearl shift and shimmery, midnight gown the servants had also given her. A silver girdle and shoes completed the outfit.

_My feet are going to sweat like racehorses in these shoes,_ Dylan thought, nibbling her bottom lip. _Then they'll stink and I won't be able to give them back!_

"King Balor has not given me leave to go as yet," Nuada said. The human and the Elf were moving toward the palace kitchens, Nuada scowling and Dylan glancing every so often at the beauty and splendor of the architecture and decor. The mortal walked with ease thanks to the painkilling medicine Becan had brought her. The brownie sat on the human's shoulder, peering around with wide, sloe-black eyes. "As for you... you may leave whenever you wish."

"I go when you go, Your Highness," she replied. "In case they try to pull anything else. Your dad made it clear that he likes me, but I don't think the same can be said of you, which is ridiculous since you're like, the greatest thing since the invention of French toast, but whatever. And Eamonn can't be the only idiot Elf around here – present company obviously excluded. Every species has its percentage of blockheads, unfortunately."

"Yes, and unfortunately, that percentage seems to eclipse the majority of the human race."

If the Elf prince had expected outrage on humanity's behalf, or even mild disagreement from the mortal at his side, he was sorely disappointed. After a moment of silence, the human sighed heavily and replied, "I'm working on it."

_I did not mean you, _he started to say, then shut his mouth. He was the crown prince of Bethmoora. He owed no one an explanation, much less a common-born mortal woman. Instead, he replied, "You do not dispute the fact that humans are stupid."

"Nope," she said as they came to the servants' doors to the kitchens. "I know most people are dumb, unfortunately. Either they're uneducated, or they don't think about things. The people at the institution - the nice ones - always told me that reading and learning were some of the most important things a person could do. Reading is what helped me learn more about your people. It helped keep me sane in the institutions. But lots of people don't read. In fact, my sister Petra's husband seems proud when he says, 'I don't read.' And I always wonder when he says that, what the difference is between someone who can't read, and someone who can but chooses not to."

Nuada paused before pushing through the door. He watched Dylan's face, saw the way her brows furrowed in a frown. How rarely she frowned, he realized. Even this one curved the corner of her mouth, to make it more of a lopsided smile. She always seemed to be smiling when he looked at her, even when afraid.

An echo of memory then, of sadness and fear in silvery blue eyes and a trembling smile on scarred lips as she confessed to him how frightened she really was. Practically on the heels of that confession the human had walked out of the room and offered her life to save his.

The Elf prince shook his head once to clear it of such sentimentality and demanded, "Well? What _is _the difference between someone who can't read, and someone who can but chooses not to?"

With a sad smile - _always a smile,_ he marveled. _How does a human, a creature with tainted bloodlines and a hole in its heart, strive always to smile?_ - the mortal said, "There isn't one." And she pushed the door open.

Immediate chaos. People called to each other through billowing steam and wisps of smoke. Spoons clanged against pots and kettles. Kitchen fires crackled and roared. Dylan smiled wider when she heard the familiar _thwok-thwok-thwok_ of someone chopping vegetables nearby. Heavy bread dough slapped a counter with a dull _whump._ Somewhere from within the riotous din came the steady creaking of a spit turning a heavy piece of meat.

"Why do you want to be in here?" Nuada demanded.

"I want to help," she said. "You're stuck here until your dad says we can go, right? And I'm not going anywhere without you, Your Highness, so I might as well be useful. Consider it a thank you for taking such good care of me. Besides, I like doing this kind of thing."

And that was another thing! The mortal was injured, or had been. Surely her convalescence gave her an excuse to stay abed and rest, relax. Enjoy the beauty and wonder of the Elven castle around her. Yet, as in his sanctuary, she sought work. Dylan had asked him in her quiet yet arresting way if she could go down to the kitchens and offer her services there. She didn't expect to be allowed to actually _cook _anything, she said (especially since most of what was cooking would be for the Samhain feast tonight and was being prepared only by the most senior cooks), but she could chop vegetables, or stir something, or pull things from the oven when they were ready. She would even wash dishes if that was all right.

"Your Highness!" At the high, almost shrill squeak, the kitchen chaos ground to a halt.

At first Dylan thought she was looking at a young child, maybe two years old, wearing a strange looking bib. Then she saw the faint silvering and realized she was looking at a very, very long beard. Not a child, but a very short male... something. It was impossible to see his clothes behind the huge black apron he wore. The lower half of the beard was tucked behind the apron at the creature's waist. The little man quickly swiped a long red hat off his head and swept his arms - and the hat - before him as he stooped into a low and reverent bow. The hat and the beard cinched it. Dylan knew exactly what he was - a kabouter, a Dutch house sprite.

"You honor the kitchens with your royal presence, Sire," the kabouter continued. "To what do we owe such a pleasure?"

"Greetings, Caspar," Nuada said, and Dylan realized he was actually smiling. _He has a soft spot for this guy, _the human realized. "Dylan, this is Caspar Kabouter, Master of the Kitchens. Caspar, allow me to present..." The prince trailed off, realizing that not only were many of the house sprites shy of humans, but that he did not know how to introduce the mortal at his side. But Becan, who has been quietly seated on his mistress's shoulder, slid down and bowed before the taller kabouter.

"If it pleases His Highness," and here Becan bowed to Nuada, "and Lord Master Caspar," bowing again to the Dutch sprite, "may I humbly present my esteemed mistress, a human of great courage, the Lady Dylan of... of..."

"Lady Dylan of Central Park," Nuada finished, amused despite himself. His Dylan, of mortal flesh and iron-laced blood, a lady? The thought was laughable. But Becan certainly did not lack courage. An angry kabouter could dump a vat of boiling water on something as small as a brownie intruding on that kabouter's demesne. Yet Caspar only blinked owlishly at the brownie and then looked to his prince for explanation. The prince explained, "Lady Dylan... dislikes having idle hands. She would offer her services in your kitchen." Nuada quickly explained what the human had in mind. Caspar blinked again.

"A mortal, Sire? A mortal lady? Wishes to work in our kitchens?"

"I can wash dishes," Dylan blurted out. "Or chop vegetables. Whatever you want me to do. I'll do anything."

"If you don't want her, Caspar, I'll take her," said another sprite, this one clad in brown and black homespun and holding a half-eaten bowl of porridge streaked with golden butter. He, too, had a very full beard, and only one eye in the middle of his forehead that glowed faintly green in the smoky dimness of the kitchen. He was twice the size of the kabouter; tall enough to hold out a four-fingered hand for Dylan's own. When she gave it to him, he dropped a kiss to her knuckles. "I am Nils Fjøsnisse, Lady, of His Majesty's royal stables."

"You're a tomte," Dylan said, and Nils beamed. His smile widened even further when she added, "You want me to muck out stables, don't you? I can do that, but you'll have to show me how. I've never had a horse, though I've ridden before."

"Oh, Highness," Nils said, laughing. "She is a treasure. A human willing to work? And willing to admit to needing to be taught! I'd not have believed it. But none here shall treat you as a lady while you work. A servant you will be."

The human shrugged, smiling. "Hopefully I can keep up."

"_Ja_, she is a treasure. Quick, make up your mind, Caspar, before Jenny Hob comes in and snatches her up for maid duty!"

"You take her, Nils," Caspar said. "Get her some chore clothes and put her to work. Let her do the hard tasks in the morning. When she is tired, send her to me. She may wash dishes. We shall see if the job is not too hard for her."

The smile Dylan flashed at Nuada as Nils led her away left an odd feeling in the Elven warrior's belly. He was sending her to muck out stables, to scrub scummy watering troughs and clean dirty tack. Later she would scour grimy pots and kettles, scrub dirty floors, clean out greasy fire pits, and chop vegetables possessing fumes that made the eyes burn... and she smiled at him as if he had given her royal jewels. The prince did not understand.

"Is it true, Your Highness?" Caspar asked, dragging Nuada's attention back to the Dutch house sprite. "Is it true she is _your _lady? Will you wed her?"

Frowning, the prince shook his head and left the kitchens. What a ridiculous notion. The very idea was laughable. Not to mention disgusting.

**.**

Nuala bit back the rising tide of anger as she saw Dylan, sleeves rolled up and pinned so they held fast at her shoulders, elbows deep in greasy wash water, scrubbing out a grime-crusted kettle. Wearing cotton and leather, no less! And where were the silks and cashmeres Nuala had left her with?

The Elf princess had left the human with her brother for forty minutes, if that, and returned to find them both vanished. The crown prince of Bethmoora had been doing easy stretches in the salle, intent on building himself up to the point where he could hunt down Eamonn like a dog and cut his throat. Nuala knew her brother's so-called honor demanded the dark-haired Elf die a brutal death for embarrassing him, and the prince was not strong enough or fast enough or whatever else he thought he needed to be in order to take out the Elf that had tried to slay the entire royal family of Bethmoora.

Finding Nuada had been the easy part. But it had taken the princess hours to find the human. Jenny Hob, the head housekeeper, had suggested to the princess that the mortal might be in the stables. Some of the young stable tomte had been flirting with the house hobs and brownie lasses, and talked of the human singing cheerfully - if somewhat out of tune - as she mucked out stalls in the Royal Stables.

_Shoveling horse manure, _Nuala thought furiously. _Put to work as if she were a common servant, instead of my brother's savior. Nuada had a hand in this, I know he did. It is just like him. _And the tomte she'd found and interrogated had even said as much - that the human had been brought to the stables at the behest of the crown prince and Nils Fjøsnisse, head groom. _Probably Nils was just doing what Nuada said, but I shall speak to_ him, _as well._

But by the time the Elf princess had gotten there, Dylan had been nowhere to be found. Neither had Nils. And the search had begun again. Yet another couple of hours later, Nuala had been told by one of the kitchen kobolds that Caspar Kabouter had put "the prince's human" to work scrubbing dishes. And now here the princess found Dylan, in rough cotton tunic and leather trousers and boots, probably to avoid being burnt by flying drops of sizzling grease. Piles of dirty dishes towered around her. The Master of the Kitchens had clearly kept the largest pots and pans in reserve for the human, who towered over all the diminuitive kitchen staff by at least a foot. That was also no doubt at Nuada's order.

"What is the meaning of this?" Nuala demanded, and for the second time that day, everyone in the kitchen froze. Except Dylan. Her head - the hair tied up in a black cloth to protect it from the grime - was buried in the massive pot. The echoes of music drifted toward the princess as the human sang, "_Put your shoulder to the wheel, push along! Do your duty with a heart full of song!_"

_Set to work as a veritable slave and still managing to be cheerful about it,_ Nuala thought. _Poor girl. She must be besotted with my brother, if she cannot see him for what he truly is._ Aloud, keeping her tone friendly, she called, "Dylan! Stop scrubbing and come out of there. I have been looking for you."

The human pulled her head out of the kettle and peered over the massive black thing to find Nuala. Surprised, the mortal woman swiped at a trickle of sweat rolling down her face - it was _hot _in the kitchen - and smiled. "Hi. I mean, good afternoon, Your Highness. Are you looking for Nu- the prince?"

_She was about to call him Nuada, _the princess realized. _Is that how she thinks of him? Could she really care for him enough, be comfortable enough with him, to call him by name? And does my brother know of it? Encourage it? What can be his game regarding this human?_ Nuala frowned, a sliver of confusion and uncertainty piercing her chest. What if Nuada had not been trying to do something cruel to the human by setting her up in the stables and kitchens? Perhaps there was something here she did not understand. But what?

Well, whatever it was, it would have to wait. Her father had said he wished to see Dylan and Nuada just after sunset, which was approaching swiftly. "Come with me, Dylan."

"But... I'm in the middle... I mean..." The human glanced around, worry flashing in her gaze. Nuala's rage at her brother on Dylan's behalf returned. Was the woman looking for Nuada? Did she feel she needed his permission to leave her disgusting task? He had much to answer for, the prince. When would he stop hating mortals with such fire? The mortal in question was still looking distressed, which only fueled the heat of the princess's anger.

Caspar Kabouter came and peered inside the kettle. "It is good enough to stop. You are human, milady. You should rest some, so that you may enjoy the Samhain feast tonight. The help was well-meant and you have done more in your time here than any one of my kabouter or kobolds could have. Go with Her Highness."

Confused, a sense of worry burning at the base of her spine, Dylan nodded once and stood up, wiping her wet hands on the front of her shirt. She wanted to thank Caspar, but thanking most household faeries made them angry or drove them away. So she merely said, "If I'm still here the day after tomorrow, may I come back and help some more? I'd come tomorrow but it'll be the Sabbath."

"Of course," said the kabouter. The bell on his tall, red cap jingled merrily. "We would be most glad of such. Of course you may."

_Not if I have anything to say about it, _Nuala thought. The moment the kitchen doors swung shut behind the Elf and the human, Nuala grabbed Dylan's arm - but not hard enough to hurt, never that - and began dragging her back toward Nuada's room. "I will beat my brother senseless for this."

_If Father does not beat me to the mark, _she added, biting back the angry words demanding to be snarled. _To believe we had thought Nuada possibly changed. Foolishness! If neither Father nor I could make him see sense, surely one of the mortals he despises so much could not. Father was absolutely right. The plan will have to be implemented. Gods' curse Nuada! I had hoped to spare Dylan this. _

And she had, desperately. Pleading with King Balor had proved futile at first, but his daughter had had the wit to point out that using the human the way the king's plan called for would be deceitful, and thus dishonorable. The One-Armed King had not backed down entirely, but he had allowed that if Nuada's attitudes were changed, the plan could be put on hold. Nuala had pleaded for the plan to be abandoned completely - such a hasty scheme could prove disastrous - but the king would not capitulate. And that, along with Nuada's abuse of the courageous mortal who gave him her loyalty, left Nuala incensed. "I could _strangle _him!"

She did not know if she meant the king, or her brother. At this point, it hardly mattered.

"For what? What did he do?" Dylan demanded, shocked. The Elf princess was walking way faster than the human could easily keep up with. "Is it the clothes? I had prettier ones - real fancy and nice, thanks by the way - but Nils said that he thought I wouldn't want to get the dress dirty with straw and stuff in the stables, so I put on something else. Then when Nils was taking me to the kitchens, he made me change because there was crud on my clothes and I was going into the kitchen. It's not Nuada's fault, Your Highness, I promise."

"I am not speaking of clothes," the princess ground out from between her teeth. Dylan sighed. Clearly the two Elves shared more in common than just their moon-beam looks. Maybe they'd inherited that temper from their father. _Figures, _the human thought dryly. _Angsty Panda Elf-Prince, Emo-Bear Elf Princess. Isn't that what the kids say these days?_

Nuala was still talking. "Putting you to work like a servant-"

"I wanted to help!" Dylan protested as they came to the door. Nuala waved her hand, and the golden bracelet on her wrist glowed briefly. The door swung open and the princess pulled the human inside. "Honestly, Your Highness, I had to convince the prince to let me in the kitchens. I just felt so useless just sitting around here not doing anything-"

"Nuada told you that was what you were doing, didn't he?" Finally letting go of the human, Nuala went to a chest that Dylan was almost positive hadn't been there when she'd left with Nuada for the kitchens that morning. The princess flipped open the lid and pulled out a long waterfall of sapphire blue material. "He told you that you were being useless, did he not?" She tossed the blue thing on the freshly made bed and pulled out another flowing thing, this time in beautiful pearl shades shot with gold thread. A smaller golden thing with silvery white laces came, too, followed by matching underthings. "Ugh, that brother of mine! I ought to box his ears, like when we were children!"

_Oh, crud, that's for __**me**__, _Dylan realized when Nuala pulled out a pair of blue shoes. _How many clothes are they going to give me? Do I have to wear the shoes? Can't I just keep the boots?_ The leather boots were much more comfortable than the silky slippers had been. _And why is she so angry, anyway? Blargh. This is _not _going to end well._

"Um... what is all that stuff for?" Dylan asked, then winced when she saw that the eyes Nuala turned on her had darkened to a deep bronze threaded with crimson and sienna. _Someone is_ ticked_. Question is, why? _The human bit back a sigh as the princess made a motion for her to strip. _At least it's another girl. _Dylan paused in the act of pulling her tunic over her head. _Wait... does Nuala count as a girl? She's female, but... hmmm._

"My father has summoned you and Nuada to appear before him at first night and I find _him_ working himself into a sweat in the salle and _you_ scrubbing pots at his behest! Put on those clothes; you must be ready quickly."

"Why?" The human shimmied into fresh underclothes - not silk this time. What kind of material was this? - then pulled the pearly shift over her head. Hadn't she just been wearing a shift just like this before going to the stables? _Except, _she reminded herself, _this one has sparkly gold threads. _She indulged in a mental eye-roll. _Oh, baby. Talk about fancy._ "You said Nu- the prince is all sweaty. Won't he have to shower, or... I don't know, whatever?" Dylan paused. "Actually, Your Highness... don't _I_ need to shower? I smell like horses and dirty dishes and tallow."

Nuala's eyes widened. "Yes! Quickly, strip!" Dylan sighed and hastened to obey. The princess shoved a then-naked Dylan through a door and into a bathing chamber. The glossy onyx walls twinkled with jewel chips - blue, purple, green, red, white and yellow burning so brightly that all looked like tiny stars against a clear night sky. A large, perfectly round tub of white marble sat in the center of the room. Small scoops in the flooring around the tub held silver candles dancing with light. Silvered glass made up the bathing room ceiling. When Dylan slid into the tub and obeyed Nuala's order to lie back and relax, she saw that the reflection in the glass made it seem as if she were inside the full moon on a starry night.

"Since I must fetch my brother, you have a little time to relax. But please do not delay in getting clean. Tonight is Samhain, and my father wishes to speak to you before the banquet this evening. There is soap and shampoo there." Nuala gestured, and two of the scoops in the floor, empty before now, filled with glimmering liquid. Silver sparkles twinkled in one scoop. In the other, gold swirls shimmered and shifted. "The silver is shampoo, the gold is soap." And the princess was gone.

For the first time since leaving Nuada's sanctuary, Dylan allowed herself to lie back and give herself up to the pleasure of yet another magical Elven tub.

_I love these things. _Then, realizing she hadn't seen her brownie in a while, she wondered, _I wonder where Becan is?_

**.**

"Nuada!" The enraged princess called from the door of the salle. Her brother was _not_, as he had been last she'd seen him, doing stretches. In fact, he seemed well into a fourth - or was it possibly fifth? - hour of intense training. He moved through the varied and strenuous _aikido_ _kata _without weapons. Sweat glistened under the bright faerie lights hanging around the room. His face was tight with pain. There was fresh blood against the whiteness of his bandages.

For a long moment, Nuala could only stare at the way her brother moved so gracefully despite the fact that he was only just recovering from an assassination attempt and a flogging. Only Elven healing abilities and magic allowed him this much freedom of movement. The prince moved through the Japanese martial art form with power and brilliant speed, before flowing into the _taolu_ for the slow and elegant _t'ai chi ch'uan_ that he often employed to cool down. Nuala wished, not for the first time, that she had his warrior skills.

Then she remembered why she was there and her anger flared up again. She shouted, "Nuada! Do not ignore me! I would speak with you!"

The image of the prince blurred as he completed a triple flip in the air - showing off again, she knew, as flips were not used in the Chinese defense style - and landed in a crouch almost directly in front of her. When he stood, his gaze glistened as if with pain or fever. The Elven twins regarded each other with dark eyes for a long moment. The princess could see the fatigue on her brother's face, but the sparkle in his eyes kept her from softening toward him. She did not even wish to attempt discerning all the different, discomfitting emotions burning through their connection. Finally, when his sister made no move to speak, Nuada demanded, "Are you going to slap me again?"

"I ought to," Nuala hissed. She knew he could feel her anger pulsing darkly through their bond, and did not care. "For treating that woman as if she were your slave, when she saved your life numerous times at the risk of her own!"

Her brother blinked, and something Nuala could not name flickered in his firegold eyes. Something else shimmered through their connection, but was gone before she could identify it. Then his face was but a mask of boredom as he shrugged and turned away. "Sister, I have no idea what you speak of. What the mortal does is no concern of mine."

"She is barely recovered from her ordeal - an ordeal she went through _for you_, need I remind you, Brother! And you have her... mucking out stables and scrubbing dirty pots! Brother, _why?_ Why do you insist on mistreating her? She has done nothing but try to protect and serve you. Tried to earn your regard. I would think you would be glad of a human treating you with such deference and obvious devotion. Instead you abuse her! Why?"

Throughout her tirade, Nuala had seen her brother's spine stiffen further and further, until it seemed as if his backbone had been replaced by an iron rod. Now, as she paused for his answer, the prince turned to her with that unnameable something smoldering in his eyes once more. He stalked toward her. Every movement rippled with menace. Fear uncoiled like an ice serpent in Nuala's belly as she retreated from him. The wall of the salle slammed hard against her back. Then her brother was upon her, both hands braced on either side of her head as he leaned in. He smelled of warrior's sweat and anger and something that might have been soul-pain. There was blood on his breath. His eyes gleamed with a thousand dark reproaches. Shivers raced up and down her back as he leaned further in.

"_Always_ I am the villain to you. You love me and loathe me with every breath, with every beat of your heart. Every moment I exist tortures and offends you, and you despise me for it. You have told me you believe I have no honor. You have told me I could never regain my honor if I tried. You refuse to prove your words by searching my thoughts. Thus I expect you would believe nothing I say in my own defense."

The Elf prince studied his sister's face. Never had she looked more beautiful, or more sad. But if he attempted to touch her now, in any way, attempted to comfort her, the revulsion and fury in her eyes would be worse than a knife to his heart. He knew she loved him. But he also knew she did not wish to, and that was worse than if she did not love him at all.

"You will not believe, but I will speak nonetheless. Dylan asked me to take her to the kitchens. She dislikes being idle, and wanted to help. She is a grown woman, if anything that has lived for less than three decades can be considered grown. She makes her own decisions. I did not send her to do anything. I did not force her. I do not abuse her. I..." Something wanted to force its way past the anger and hurt in his throat, wanted to unfurl on his tongue and spring off his lips. A declaration, an explanation of... he knew not what. But he bit it back, whatever it was. Instead he asked, "Must you always think ill of me, Nuala?"

Such hurt in her brother's voice now. Such grief and fury pulsing like the pain of a festering wound through their connection. She wanted so much to put her arms around him, to pull his head down on her shoulder and whisper that she loved him. He was her _brother_. But she did not know where that would lead. And it did not matter that she loved him, even if her love made him more dear than food and water to her, more dear than the breath in her chest. Because brother or not, he was _not_ more dear than her own honor.

"Always you prove yourself the villain, Brother," she said. "It is none of my doing. Only your own." Now the princess looked away. Nothing in the world could make her meet that tortured and desperate gaze any longer. "Father sends for you. He wishes to see you and Dylan, in a formal audience, at the first full moment of nightfall before the banquet tonight. He will make his decision about you both there."

Nuada pushed away from her, feeling as if his skin had been flayed anew, everything raw and painful. His chest ached and his belly clenched as he walked slowly away from the sister he loved so. The sister who was the other half of his heart, the sister who had once held his heart in her breast as he had held hers, when they were children long ago. They had been two sides of the same coin. Night and day, dark and light, winter and summer. Nuada and Nuala. What had happened to the two of them? How had they come to stand on opposite sides of this great chasm that now stood between them? Because things had changed between them. Somehow. Somewhen so long ago that he couldn't even remember it now.

Shades, he was tired of fighting the yearning. For centuries, for thousands of years, he had fought so much. Fought the desire to slaughter the humans down to every last man, woman, and child; fought the dark shroud of despair always at the edges of his existence, the despair that whispered that all who could aid him had long since abandoned him, including the gods; fought the desire to eschew honor and come to his father on his knees, begging for forgiveness, though he had committed no sins, and begging only to be loved by him again. He had to fight so many. Must he fight his heart forever as well? It was the only thing that could possibly give him a moment's true peace.

"Give me half an hour, Sister," he said calmly. No emotion leaked into his voice, or through the tight shield he kept around himself to prevent his sister from feeling the aching in his soul. Emotion he could hide from her, even some thoughts... but not for long. Not this close. He had to get away from her. "I will be ready then."

"Dylan will enter with you."

Surprisingly, the thought comforted him. The human who had always tried to protect him, who always welcomed him, would enter the king's presence at his side. Her foolhardy courage and desperation to protect the Kindly Folk would be helpful. Still, he would go robed not for war, but for execution, in white and black and silver. Nuada had lived for countless centuries. He knew that even a mortal's testimony might not be enough to sway an Elven king.

**.**

"I don't think I should be wearing this, Your Highness," Dylan mumbled, staring at herself in the mirror. The sight of her reflection, Nuala saw, had bleached some of the color from the human's scarred face. "I mean... this part." She pointed at the white léine, whose long skirt swirled around her ankles. Specifically she was indicating the black and silver embroidery in the form of the Eildon tree across her stomach.

Eildon, the tree of sacred hawthorne. Aiglin, the tree of sacred rowan. The Eildon tree for peace, the Aiglin tree for war. If Nuada has his way, the black and gold and crimson banner of the Aiglin tree would fly as the fey kingdoms made war on Man once more. And that was why they were doing this, Nuala reminded herself.

"Isn't this your family crest or something?" Dylan asked, breaking the princess from her thoughts.

"Indeed," Nuala replied, feeling another twinge of guilt. She swiftly quashed it. "But you are wearing my clothes, remember? All of my formal garments bear this symbol, and formal is what you must be to go before my father."

"Oh." The human stared at her reflection again, hardly recognizing herself in the beautiful clothes. The other clothes Nuada had given her, which had had a touch more of the Briton to them and were from a later time period, hadn't made her feel so... strange. "Is the brat necessary?" Dylan wasn't talking about an obnoxious child, but the Gaelic cloak of soft, fine black wool that Nuala had laid out on the bed for her to put on over her outfit. "Can't I have, like... a shawl or mantle or something? I don't know. I just feel... stupid."

"Do not feel thus," the princess said gently. "But if it discomfits you, we shall try this." From the chest that the princess had apparently stuffed with clothes to loan - _hopefully not give,_ Dylan thought with an edge of desperation - to the human, Nuala pulled a sheer black mantle embroidered with beautiful, very intricate knotwork in glittering silver thread. "Would this be better?"

"Um..." _Crud._ "I guess." Not that she would be comparable in any way to any of the court ladies, so why bother? Well, whatever.

By the time Nuala was done with her, Dylan felt like she'd been bulldozed over several times, but she looked like something out of a period film, which was what the princess had probably been going for. And thank everything under the sky, Nuala had given Dylan boots this time, in soft black leather with silver laces, instead of slippers that made her feet sweat. The final touch of silver to the outfit had been a braided rope girdle low on her hips. It felt like it was about to fall off every time she moved, but Nuala promised that they always felt like that.

Surprisingly, the beautiful Elf had done nothing to Dylan's hair. "Let it hang loose, like mine," the princess supplied when Dylan gave her a questioning look. "The Elven shampoo has made it so beautiful."

_Ouch,_ Dylan thought, then smiled inwardly. _I don't think she meant it to sound like that, so whatever. She's right, anyway. It's not frizzy at all._

Nuala's last loan was a pendant, a black jewel set in silver on an impossibly delicate silver chain. On the back of the silver setting were the words _A Ghrá_ and the symbol for eternity. Dylan showed the princess the engraving, asking what it meant. For some reason, she couldn't remember if the word was still part of the Gaelic language, or what it might mean.

"It is Old Gaelic," Nuala said briskly. "Come, it is nearly time."

_Well, I kinda _knew _it was Old Gaelic, Princess, _the human thought, following her. _I want to know what it_ says.

Trepidation began building in Dylan's chest as she hurried after the gliding princess. What would the king decide to do to Nuada? What would he do to her? _Oh, Heavenly Father, I'm freaking out here. Help me be calm, please. Bless me with tranquility and peace. I faced down rape-minded gunmen, angry stag men, and Eamonn. I should be able to do this, but I'm having a panic attack. Help, please._

As the human prayed silently, a warmth flowed slowly but surely into her, easing some of the tension in her shoulders. That tension returned a thousandfold when she saw the Elf prince standing in front of the doors to the king's Hall.

_Whoa... we match._

And they did. Nuada wore a black silk tunic embroidered in silver over a white silk shirt, just like the embroidered black mantle over her own white léine. Two Eildon trees stood out against both mortal and immortal raiment, one in beautiful silver and black embroidery, the other in black-etched silvery metal. The only difference between them was that the prince's trews were black and the skirt of Dylan's léine was snowy white. They even both wore black leather boots, though only hers had visible laces. And around Nuada's throat was a silver chain and a single black stone, like a shard of midnight crystal.

Dylan knew as soon as the Elven warrior saw her that something was very wrong. She turned to Nuala, a question on her lips, and saw the fierce look on the princess's face as she gazed at her brother. The click as information came together in Dylan's head was almost audible. _Oh, boy. We've been set up. Both of us. I don't know how, but somehow. Great._

"You have betrayed me yet again, Sister," Nuada said as soon as both Nuala and Dylan were within earshot. Dylan almost flinched at the sharpness of the grief in the Elf prince's words. In his eyes.

"It is time you did your duty by her, Brother." The princess's voice could have been made of dagger-sharp ice crystals for all the warmth it held. Nuala tried to ignore the almost pleading look in her twin's eyes as she continued, "You try to invade her bed - give her the protection of legitimacy."

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

Dylan shoved between the Elven woman and her brother. Tingles of apprehension shivered up and down the mortal's spine at having her back to an infuriated Elf prince - and boy, she could tell he was _pissed _- but she only stood up straighter and stared into Nuala's strange, surprised eyes. Normally she wouldn't have given a flying rat's buttered carcass if someone were slandering her and calling her a slut or whatever, but obviously Nuada _did_ care about these accusations, and he'd done enough for her that seeing that shattered, horrified look in his eyes infuriated her.

"We are _not_ sleeping together! How many times do I have to tell you people? What, do I have to sign a contract in blood? Sheesh. I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance and I are not having and have not had sex. Happy, now? Good grief! Now, what's the big deal about our clothes?"

"If you walk into the king's Hall dressed to match me, it is a declaration before the court. Did anyone see you?" Nuada demanded.

Frazzled, the human ran a hand through her hair. "I don't _know_, I was trying to keep up with _her_." She flung her arm to indicate Nuala, who was boring invisible holes in her brother's head with the intensity of her amber stare. "Anyway, great, a declaration. Of what, exactly?"

"There are five possibilities," Nuala said softly. "And only two are open to my brother."

"Begging your pardon, Princess, but I am _so _not talking to you right now," Dylan growled, and turned her back on the princess. To Nuada, she said, "Okay. How bad is the damage? I could go change or... I don't know, get spattered with mud from a passing carriage or something. Do you guys even have carriages?" Before either twin could reply, she held up a hand and shook her head quickly. "Never mind, tangent. Gotta focus. Damage report?"

"This matching," Nuada explained. "It can mean five things: that you are my slave, that you are my..." The Elf prince nearly choked on the thought. Through clenched teeth he managed to spit out, "That I have..." He would not allow even a _shred_ of nausea to make him ill. "Bedded you... and mean to keep you as my... paramour." The thought of which infuriated him. As if he would ever treat Dylan that way. As if, human or not, he would take the woman who had done so much for him and his people and use her like some cheap whore. His fingers curled into white-knuckled fists. "That," he added, "or..."

"Or that you are his wife, or his betrothed," Nuala finished, with a disgusted look at her twin. Was the thought of giving Dylan such a title truly that repulsive to him? She was comely enough, beneath the slashing scars. Not a great beauty, perhaps, but then Nuada was not considered handsome by Elven standards anyway. "Or that he courts you in earnest, which is just as bad in the eyes of his supporters. With a betrothal, it could be supposed our Father has trapped him into it. But if my brother courts you, it will seem as if he does it for love of you."

"You've got to be kidding," the mortal replied weakly. She looked into firegold eyes and saw the sick, hopeless anger. Not kidding.

"His honor precludes him from allowing you to enter under the illusion that you are his slave or lover. His debt to you alone forbids such a smirch against you. And all in Bethmoora know that the prince is not married. If any of the royal family marries - at least, if they wed for love and not for politics - Bethmoora itself rejoices. Which leaves him only two options. They will all assume you betrothed, as no mere sweetheart would offer to die for my brother, especially more than once. And even betrothed, many will reason that it is for love, as you both tried so desperately to save the other two nights ago."

The blood drained from Dylan's face and for a moment she thought she might actually faint. She swayed as dizziness blurred her vision. There was a roaring in her ears. She started to sway, actually dipped as if about to fall. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her upright, and then gave her a small, gentle shake.

"Dylan?" Nuada's voice. Nuada... matching outfits. Betrothed. What? Impossible, no way. She couldn't marry someone who wasn't a member of the Church. She'd made the decision to obey that rule more than a decade ago. Her future children had the right to have a father who could wield the priesthood.

And she certainly wasn't going to marry someone older than dirt, even if he was ridiculously handsome. Especially someone who hated her. Someone who would rather gouge out his own eyes than be with her that way.

"Dylan!" More insistently now. Why was everything so dark? Were her eyes closed? She opened them to see blurry, black-rimmed amber eyes. Something that might have been worry glinted in their depths. His voice was almost gentle as he said, "Take a breath. Deeply, now. Slowly."

As soon as she sucked in a breath of cool air, her head began to clear. Everything swam back into focus. Nuada's golden gaze no longer blurred in front of her. The prince released her the next moment as if he'd been burned. The human realized she could stand up on her own and even speak again. "So... we're engaged? What? I don't... understand. I'll go change. Like, now." She turned to go back the way she'd come and paused as another wave of dizziness swept over her. _Oh, you've got to be kidding. The vapors? Me?_ Dylan rolled her eyes at herself and tried to shake off the strange feeling. _I'm changing now. I've caused Nuada enough problems, thank you._

Nuala watched the way her brother surreptitiously wiped his hands on his trousers. The same hands that had moments ago gripped the human woman so she would not fall. Had that truly been concern in his eyes? Kindness in his voice? Or was it all a ploy? The Elf princess could not discern if her brother played some game, or was actually giving vent to true emotion. The only way for her to know was to open herself to his mind, and that she would never do again. Frustration buzzed at the back of her skull. Neither Nuada nor the human were behaving in the ways the king had expected. Should not Dylan be happy for the chance to wed an Elf, and a prince at that?

"Sister, end this farce," Nuada practically snarled. "You cannot mean for me to enter our Father's presence with a mortal on my arm!" He actually looked ill at the thought. "I vowed long ago that I should never plight my troth to any-"

"Unless they were to win your heart." At the prince's thunderous look, his sister inclined her head regally. "I know she has not. But our Father is no respector of intention in this. The mortal has won your mercy, your charity - if not your love. That alone fulfills the bounds of that oath, yet I have succeeded in giving Dylan your love, as well. She wears your token, Brother."

Nuada's eyes zeroed in on the necklace hanging between Dylan's collarbones. A look of almost agony flashed through the Elven warrior's eyes. The human felt the blood freeze in her veins as she realized then why Nuala hadn't told her what the Old Gaelic phrase on the back of the pendant meant. Memory came crashing back with enough force to make the human woman's head spin. A Ghrá - my love. _My love._ Romantic, fraternal, platonic, it didn't matter. The token said _my love._ Nuada's token... to his sister. Had he made the pendant for the princess? Somehow Dylan knew he had. And the cruelty of what Nuala had done, the total and awful unfairness of it, made Dylan's eyes sting. How could Nuala have done that to her own brother?

"Ní féidir liom grá di_,_" Nuada whispered in the Old Tongue. It felt as if his world were breaking. The pieces of his shattered heart seemed small enough to pass through the eye of a needle. If only Wink were here... or he and Dylan were alone, back in her idyllic little cottage. It would be easier, then, to let the pain burn inside him. Let the hollow grief rake at his belly like a ravening beast. Dylan somehow never made him feel weak or sick when a brief memory of pain came to him. If this one attempted to knock his feet from under him, if he gave in and let it swamp him, she would not offer scorn or pity or anger. But standing before his sister, knowing Nuala would offer all of those things, he could only plead brokenly, "Gceist agam go bhfuil ar do shon_._"

_Oh, God, _Dylan prayed, fighting back the sting of tears. She had never seen anyone look so broken and alone. _Did You hear him, Heavenly Father? He said, "I don't love her. I meant that for you." How_ could _she? How could she_ do _this to him?_

"Why are you doing this, Nuala?" Dylan demanded. Her nails bit into her palms as she struggled against the urge to run to Nuada and throw her arms around him, shield him from everyone who seemed intent on seeing him as a monster, as a villain. Embracing him that way would just make everything worse.

"Politics." And here the princess smiled, and her beautiful mouth was gilded with cruel triumph, like icy starlight on a sword's edge. It was the perfect mask to cover the ragged hole in her chest that was her brother's pain... and her own. She had not wanted this, but she would give herself up to the Sluagh before she let her twin see that. "You understand, do you not, Brother? I merely seek to rob you of your supporters at court. Do not believe me ignorant of your plans regarding the last piece of the Golden Crown. I strike a preemptive blow for our side. When your loyal supporters see you betrothed to a human, for that is what they will assume, they shall desert you like the dishonorable cowards they are."

"Fantastic," the human muttered. "I'm a pawn in Elven sibling rivalry. By the way, Princess," Dylan added, and her voice was equal parts anger and sarcasm when she practically spat Nuala's title, "no one is going to believe we're together. So I'm gonna go change my clothes now. Put on something festive, lots of color."

"Except nearly the entire court already believes you two are desperately in love. The path my brother cut through our foes two nights ago was bloody and brutal, even more so than he usually can lay claim to. Rumors fly amongst the people, that the prince has found solace and heart's ease in a mortal's arms. As for changing..." The look Nuala fixed her with froze her in her tracks. "You may not, by order of the Royal House of Bethmoora."

"What do you mean, _she may not?_ You would seek to inflict your twisted schemes on an unsuspecting mortal, Sister, and yet you claim that _I_ am the one who lacks honor?"

"They are not my schemes alone. Our Father is most cunning, Nuada. It was he who concocted this plan."

"You're joking." Dylan stared at the princess. "The King of Elfland is forcing me to marry his son? Why? I thought you guys hated humans."

Surprised, the princess turned to the mortal. "We do not - indeed, _could_ not - hate one such as you, Dyl-"

"Do not _dare _speak her name!" Nuada fought against the rage pulsing through his blood like the throbbing pain of a wound. Grief and fury suffused every part of him like an insidious poison, one to which he possessed no antidote. To see Dylan's face, to know that his sister - his _sister_, his other half - had betrayed him and the human that had saved him so many times, filled him with a seething rage that fired his eyes to molten bronze and made his blood burn. "I never thought this day would come, Nuala. Your hypocrisy sickens me. How could you and Father do this to me? To _her?_ We have done nothing wrong or dishonorable, and yet still you seek to punish us. To shame me. To wrench from my grasp any and all support I possess in my father's court. Why?"

"So that when you find the final crown piece, when that bloody and terrible day comes, there will be none under your leadership willing to rise up and butcher the humans! Then, when you come before Father and I to demand our parts of the crown, there will be no one to steal it for you." Nuala raged in Old Gaelic. She did not wish Dylan to hear this part. If the human knew what Nuada was capable of, was in fact desirous in doing... the princess knew the human would panic, would seek to escape the Elf who sought her race's destruction. And that could not happen, either. Not if the plan was to succeed. "I seek only to defend my people! To preserve their honor! _Our _honor! And you... you seek only the slaughter of all humanity."

As the Elves raged at each other in the Old Tongue of their people, the human caught in the midst of their struggle closed her eyes and bowed her head, seeking inward for some measure of calm. After a long moment, she heard, beneath the furious contention of the royal twins, the sound of soft music. Seconds later, she heard the words.

_More gratitude give me; more trust in the Lord; more pride in his glory; more hope in his word... more meekness in trial... more strength to o'ercome..._

_All right,_ Dylan prayed silently, as the Elves continued to snarl at each other. _You knew this was happening. You didn't warn me, which means one of two things. Either this is something You want to happen, or You trust me to handle it on my own. Or, a third option - it's both. I pick C, both. Is that true?_ A soft warmth filled her chest, and she smiled inwardly. _Okay, the question is, why do You want this to happen? Do You want me to marry Nuada, or do I need to figure out how to get out of this as one of my trials? Somehow, I don't think you're going to tell me the answer to that one._ The warmth intensified, and this time her smile was outward, as well. _All right, then. Since You trust me, I'll do what I can, and behave how the Spirit guides me. I know You'll never test me beyond what I can handle. _

_I would ask... I won't ask for me to make the right choice. I have agency, which means I make my own choices. What I _will _ask... is for the blessings of a clear mind, sharpened perception, a stronger desire to do what You want me to, and a more open heart, that I might more easily discern the promptings of the Holy Ghost. And... I would ask for help in eschewing my anger at Nuala and forgiving her for this. I know she loves her brother - her tears when she read my mind were pretty obvious, and they weren't fake. So obviously she's got a good reason for doing this. Sane people don't just randomly decided to screw with the people they love. I just wish I knew what the reason was. If You think I should know, please help me find out somehow. And if You don't think I ought to know... that stinks. But I'm okay with it. Thanks for all the help so far. I know I could never do any of this without Thee. I thank Thee, in Christ's name, amen._

As Dylan pulled herself out of the prayer, and let the real world come back to her, she realized both twins were still growling at each other in Old Gaelic.

"Princess Nuala, it's not fair that you're speaking a language I don't know," the human interrupted, surprising both the prince and princess with the even tone of her voice. The panic and confusion from moments ago seemed to have mysteriously dissipated. Left behind was an eerie calm. "I'm getting one word in five, here. And anyway, no one is going to buy this. And you can't force Nuada to marry me. _I_ won't marry _him._"

"But why, Dyl-" A vicious look from Nuada ripped the human's name from his sister's mouth. Nuala cleared her throat and asked curiously, "Why ever not? You love him, do you not?"

"I..." _What? Where did _that _come from?_ _She's smart and sneaky, I'll give her that much_. "Um... well, yes," the mortal replied, flustered, and tried to ignore Nuada's scandalized and half-stunned look (not to mention Nuala's shock that she'd agreed so swiftly). Was she blushing? Dylan fervently hoped not. "I love everyone. Or I try to. I even love you, devious and backstabbing as you're being right now." She winced. That was _not_ being forgiving. That was being obnoxious and... what was the opposite of merciful? Whatever it was, that was exactly what she was being, Dylan reflected. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I shouldn't have spoken sharply to you. That was uncalled for, and I apologize. Please forgive me. And yes, I love and respect your brother, as _you_ should. I consider him a dear friend and an important ally."

_Oh, she has a courtier's tongue, this one, _Nuala thought. _She's more dangerous than I thought._ Aloud, she said, "That is not what I mean. This you know quite well."

"You mean am I _in love_ with your brother?" The look the human shot at Nuada left the Elf prince stunned. Where had the disinterest, the sense of unsatisfied appraisal, come from? Was it simply a cultivated mask, like his own court facade? Dylan added, "Ew. Dude, gross. He doesn't even have the priesthood. He's not a follower of the High King of the World, and without those two things, we could never get married in His temple. What good would he do me as a spouse?"

"And does Father truly want a mortal to rule at my side when it is time for me to be king?" The prince demanded, ignoring the human's comment. He would deal with the sharpness of _her_ tongue later. For now they had to present a united front before their enemies, including his beloved twin. "I think not. Or does he expect her to have withered away and died of her mortality by that time?"

"This is not up for discussion, Brother. Now, there is no time for either of you to change. You know the laws regarding punctuality when summoned by the king, my brother. If you possess a shred of honor, prove it now. Do what your honor demands. Take her as your betrothed. That is what they will all believe anyway. Accept it."

"No!" Dylan moved to Nuada, who actually flinched back from her. If she hadn't understood everything his sister was trying to inflict on him, the human might have let the act hurt her feelings, or piss her off. Instead, she had to fight the urge to try and comfort the prince. She knew he wouldn't appreciate it. Knew that, despite having sworn by the Darkness, Nuala wouldn't believe her if she tried to hug Nuada or truly comfort him.

But for crying out loud, this wasn't _fair!_ Dylan knew the thought of marrying a mortal totally grossed the Elf out. The idea of marrying a man who didn't possess the Priesthood wasn't something she wanted to think much about, either, though that was for her future children's sake and because of her oaths as one of the Star Kindler's children, not because it was abhorrent to her. But to have to marry someone you didn't even _love_ - could _never_ love, probably - was absolutely and completely disgusting. Hadn't that kind of thing gone out with the Dark Ages?

"Nuada, you don't have to do this. We'll say I'm your slave if we have to-"

"And then he will be flogged yet again for enslaving a human," Nuala said coolly.

"Fine!" Silently, Dylan reminded herself that ripping out the beautiful Elf princess's hair was _not_ something Heavenly Father wanted her to do. Darn it. "We'll say I'm your... we'll say I'm your lover." She winced, but inwardly. It was a lie, which sucked, but it was to _help_ someone. And, if she were being honest with herself, Nuada being the someone who needed help was a big inducement to fib. "That way it'll be open as to your motives, since most of them are thinking you're cooking up something nasty to do to me anyway, and-"

"And then _you_ will be tortured for lying to the king, Dylan. Which," the princess added with some exasperation, "you probably would not let dissuade you, but think on this. Nuada will be shamed by letting you profess to a lie and letting you remove your integrity from yourself strictly for his own benefit. And some damage is still done to my brother's alliances with his court sycophants even if you choose such. Brother, there is no choice here. Accept it. Time is passing. The doors will open in but moments."

"This isn't _fair_, Princess!" And she would _not _have let Balor torture her just so she could pose as Nuada's lover. Even she had limits.

"Fairness has never been our objective, Dylan. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," the princess replied, and Dylan froze. A shiver traipsed up her spine at the words. As Elves didn't watch television, Dylan knew the Elf woman wasn't quoting _Star Trek _on purpose. But...

_Was that the answer to my question, Heavenly Father? There's something going on here no one is telling me. What is it?_

Nuala added, "The betrothal will take place. If not tonight, then soon. Once you step beyond these doors, it is only a matter of time. Even if you resist it, it will happen. The king has commanded it."

"She is right," the prince whispered. He sounded so defeated she wanted to punch someone. "We must... play along with this... _revolting _charade."

"Only for now. We'll think of something," Dylan promised, turning back to the pale prince. There was desperation and... was that fear in those pale topaz eyes? Whatever it was, those bestial emotions made her chest ache. He looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Anger sizzled under her skin. "We will! We can have a fight later and break off our supposed engagement or courtship or whatever and you can give some speech about how you should have known that all humans were the same and how we all totally suck. We'll figure it out."

"Yes, we will. Later," he agreed. "We must play this out now, however. The only question is, which is more damaging? Courtship or engagement?"

"Nuala said courtship would be worse because people will assume we're secretly engaged anyway and that you're in love with me." When the prince's throat convulsed, she winced and stepped back. She did _not_ want to get thrown up on. "Sorry, just saying."

"Still... with an engagement, I will be trapped. _We _will be trapped. Thus, we shall attempt a facade of courtship."

"Okay. Whatever you say, my prince, I'll do." She really couldn't have cared less about the whole matchy-matchy thing. If there had been no danger of Nuada getting in trouble, she'd have tossed King Balor an airy "screw you and your antlers, too," and changed into raggedy blue jeans and a lumberjack shirt just to spite him. But the prince would most likely be punished if they didn't acquiesce. Since she had absolute faith that their combined genius would squash the king's stupid little plan into a pancake (eventually), there was no reason not to throw her support behind the Elf prince. And she'd do whatever he said because, as she went on to explain, "I'm not very good at politics anyway, so I'm following your lead on this."

At that moment the huge double doors leading into the hall of the One-Armed King began to slowly creak open. They seemed to be moving a millimeter a minute, and yet they seemed to eat up time with a wildfire's hunger. Nuada held up his left arm, stiff and formal, at his side. Dylan shot one wild-shy glance at his face. It was blank as an unused slate. "Crumb cake," the human swore. "Nuada, I'm _so_ sorry."

He softened enough to glance down at her. "It is no fault of _yours_." With his other hand, he pulled her right arm until it lay atop his upraised left one. Her palm touched the back of his hand. A shiver sizzled through her at the contact. She'd never touched his bare skin before, she realized. Not like this, anyway. Not without hate and suspicion, blood and pain and the rush of desperation between them as she tried to mend his wounds. His hand was warm, the skin lightly furred with soft blond hair except where a thin rough line crossed the back of his hand. A battle scar. One of many, she was certain. His fingers when they touched her were callused, but surprisingly gentle. She could feel the quiet strength in the muscles of his arm.

"Of course it is not her fault," Nuala began. "She-"

"No offense, Princess," Dylan said, turning away from the Elven woman, "but I can't seem to keep a civil tongue in my head when I talk to you. So please don't talk to me right now."

The door opened fully, and a gasp went up from the assembled courtiers within. A tremor went through Nuada - slight, but noticeable, as Dylan had her hand on his. She pressed ever so lightly on the back of his hand in a gesture of support and turned her head a bit to catch his eye. When he glanced at her, she smiled encouragingly. He arched one slender, golden brow. She smiled wider and mouthed, "Let's do this."

Nuada found his own lips quirking into the barest shadow of a smile. How could she be so foolhardy... and so brave? Here she was, offering him courage, when it must be terrifying for her to walk out with him, to present herself at her side. Everyone would believe he courted her, if not that he had plighted his troth to her.

_The necklace_, he thought with no little bitterness. _That cursed token_. It was practically the same as getting on bended knee before the entire court and begging Dylan's hand in marriage. Yet she would stand by him, in front of all the dangerous and capricious Daoine Maithe of Bethmoora's golden court.

The prince had to admit to himself - but only to himself - that if his sister had to do this vicious and cruel thing, better it be with Dylan at his side than any other.

And so, at the mortal's silent words of encouragement and challenge, he inclined his head in agreement and forced the softness he usually reserved for Nuala and his father into his eyes. With a false smile and pain still tearing at his heart, he walked out of the shadowed corridor with his new and too-mortal lady, into the golden light of the king's Hall.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _yes, yes, I know! It's like, "WTF, mate? They're engaged now?" Or practically engaged, anyway. Ah, but are they indeed? How are our hero and heroine gonna get out of this? Are they actually going to get out of it? Or will it end in little hearts and half-Elf babies? Well, even if it did, that wouldn't be until way, way later (since it takes at least 9 months to make a human baby_ _and 10.5 months to make a half-Elf, half-human baby). But we can't forget all the things that stand in the way of a happily ever after: Eamonn, his mysterious lord, Nuada's plan for the Golden Army, Dylan's objections, not to mention the plot of the entire second film. I can only cover so much in the 13500+ words of this chapter (not counting the various author's notes, which are about 4000 words or so)._

_Okay, I like twists (is one reason I absolutely __**adore**_ _manga) and so obviously I am __**NOT**__going to just have it be, "They get engaged, fall in love during the engagement, and when the wedding comes, realize all is well in Love Land and they're meant to be together, tra-la-la." That would be so lazy! I am absolutely__**NOT**__going to do that. I won't, I won't, I won't evah! So please keep that in mind as you continue to read, my loves. I would __**NEVER**_ _make things so simple and easy, as we shall see in the next few chapters. I promise things will stay along the lines of "omg, what just happened?" Twists and surprises are mother's milk to me. They might not happen every chapter, but peeps need some room to breathe, so that's okay._

_**IMPORTANT NOTICE:**_ _the fic rating has been changed to M (nobody panic) because I was reading through the rating system, and on this site, M means "16-18." Which is exactly the age range this fic is for. So __**TheBlackPages**__, you were right. This should be M. It is now M. And it turns out, M is allowed on this site (I thought it wasn't for some reason). MA is not, but I'm not supposed to read/write that anyway, so it doesn't matter. Just an FYI for all you guys out there. There is still not going to be gratuitous sex or violence in this fic, or foul language (faeries don't use it, and Dylan doesn't, either). So no fear._

_**IMPORTANT REMINDER:**_ _don't forget to email HarperCollins. I forgot to post the email address, 'cause I can't find it, but please email them anywho. For a reminder of what the heck I'm talking about, check back with chapter 11 author's notes and find the proper instructions. __**PLEASE **__help me get my _Alice in Wonderland _book published. Anyone who does gets a mention in my acknowledgments page (either via screen name or full name, your choice), as well as their choice of fic cameo or 3 spoiler questions. As for Captain Zombie and xxxyang2006xxx, I have to check my messages again and figure out what I'm doing with two of my __**BIGGEST FANS EVER! **__You guys totally made my day with those emails. I love you both so much!_

_So remember, everyone: plot twists, new rating, email HarperCollins. Oh, yeah. =D And OceanFire9's __**A-**__**MA**__**-ZING**_ _fic._

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_**Skill Poll Challenge #1:**_ _a desire has siezed me, my loves, and it __**must **__be satisfied, I beg of you! The desire is this. Please, please, please, please__**(!)**_ _someone who's good at making videos (or someone who knows someone or whatever), please make a video for this fanfic to Celine Dion's "I Surrender." I beg you on my hands and knees, please! I can only make videos (as opposed to slideshow vids) on my beta's computer, but I don't know how to use her program and I don't have time (being a grown-up sucks). Please, you guys, someone has to be able to do this! Please, please, please! And for everyone who makes a video, I will update once as a reward. So, if five people each make a vid (as an example), then that's 5 extra chapters that I owe you and that will be posted as they are completed (and I'd bust my butt to complete them), versus on the schedule illustrated in the __**Update on Updating **__section. So please! __**PLEASE! IMPORTANT TO ME! I BEG YOU!**_ _Okay, done with all caps now. But please guys, I would absolutely __**LOVE**_ _to see what you come up with. I know the "surrendering" hasn't happened yet, but it would so inspire me._

_**IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT FLASH FICTION CHALLENGES:**_ _Guys, please do the flash-fic challenges at least, even if you don't care about the reward, because this way news of _Once Upon a Time _will spread and more readers will find me. Plus, you guys and your unique writing styles and perspectives inspire me a lot. So please, please, pretty please! Do the flash-fic challenges. I beg you! Loves!_

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_**Reader Review Responses:**_

_**Captain Zombie:**_ _No worries! Not confused anymore. Awww, you love super huggies? *gives more super huggies*_

_**Ja Reedus:**_ _Yay, I'm your favorite! As for the frequency of my updates, I'm going for regularity. In fact, I'm updating early today!_

_**TheBlackPages:**_ _Thank you so much for telling me that chapter 12 affected you. I __**LOVE **__it when I can do that to people. Hopefully I can keep affecting all of my readers, as that is a writer's goal in life. =)_

_**xxyangxx2006:**_ _I figured anything as small as a brownie, that can pack that much of a wallop, would be hilarious to see in combat. As for Nuada and Dylan being okay... extraordinary things only happen to extraordinary people (to quote Reepicheep). It's fairly obvious that our Elf Prince is extraordinary. I hope Dylan is. So life is going to be pretty rough and tumble for them for a while, I'd imagine. Especially since there's still the fact that he wants to wipe out humanity and she hasn't found that out yet. Oh, goody. But trouble makes drama makes excitement_ _equals yay!_

_**SerbiaTakesCntrl:**_ _Wow. My writing is beautiful. *happy tears* Thank you! And yeah, Dylan is so kick-butt. I'd be her (if I wanted to be a 30-year-old shrink in New York, but I don't). I'm glad you like my footnotes. I know how frustrating it is when an author puts in some random thing and I'm like, "Wait... what's that? Is there a glossary in here?" I will try to update in a timely manner._

_**Lorelei:**_ _I'm sorry I made you cry, but at the same time I'm glad that the story moved you that way. To quote Anne of Green Gables, "I'd much rather make people cry than laugh." Although it's not me, but the words and the Spirit doing it usually. And I do also like to make people laugh. As for chapter 12, yay! It's just right! (Someone fetch Goldilocks!) And yeah, Eamonn and gentle are not words that mix. You'll see just how much they don't mix in chapter... 16? 17? Ahhhh! I can't remember!_

_**EnelisEsion:**_ _oh, your second review made my day! Everybody, go look at Ecnelis's review, then make all your reviews that long forever after. Okay, yeah, no, never mind, that's too hard. Anyway, I loved that second review. As for never catching a break... first, love's best refiner is horrible circumstances. Second, it seems like since I've moved into the world of adulthood, I haven't managed to catch a break, either. Bills, broken cars, faulty heating in winter, crappy AC in summer (and I live in a desert), sickness, sick husband, sick animals, marital spats (though we never fight, just bicker), and stuff like that are like plagues now. They happen all the time. I've learned that that's life. For someone involved with the Fae, who has the Sight... yeah, Dylan's life is pretty standard. But that's okay, because she has His Royal Elfness to make her happy. And I am so glad that you enjoyed the faith aspect of the story. You're the first person to tell me that. Dylan is, for me, the ideal Latter-Day Saint. She follows the gospel, but doesn't condemn those who don't follow it, because we're not suppose to. We're told to love everyone. That's what she tries to do. Doesn't always work because, well, it wouldn't always, but it's the trying that's important. So... yeah. And thanks for commendations! Hugs for you!_

_**OceanFire9:**_ _Hey, there's my Red-Riding-Hood goddess! You are amazing! Anyway, I'm glad you like the end-notes. And I'm glad you like the simmering chemistry. Did you go to culinary school? Because I have to tell you, your talents are wasted in that field (Red Under the Moon is __**AMAZING**__). However, I ask you especially for a favor. Please go back through __**ALL **__the author's notes and do the writing challenges, __**PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!**_ _They would be so amazing and I want to see what you do! Anywho, I loves you so much._

_**Strangely Tawny:**_ _yes, I captured you from the start! Did I have you from "hello?" Lol. Don't pack up your "little farce." What does that even mean? You're not little or farcical. I try to inject humor because one of the best writers I've ever read, Anne Bishop, manages to do that with her Dark Jewels Series and it makes the books so awesome. And you used the word pathos! You're so cool! Thank you so much for reviewing me! Especially 'cause you used a lot of my favorite words (like "lyrical" and "growing admiration and affection"). Quick question, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to - are you British? Because you said "humour" instead of "humor." Just wondering. Anyway, ta-ta. Enjoy chapter 13!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- _Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon_ is a book written by Lisa Goldstein that melds English fairy and folktales with Christopher Marlowe's London (Christopher Marlowe is a famous English playwrite - is that how you spell that? - from before dinosaurs walked the earth. He wrote _Faust_). I used this title because if Balor, being all golden and stuff, is the sun, and Nuala (being all pale and serene) is the moon, then this marriage plot of theirs is certainly a strange and scheming device. I dunno, I thought it fit. And it's pretty. I love pretty book titles.

- The Bright Ones is another name in Ireland for the Fair Folk.

- The thing about "I just wish I could have seen him... talked to him... thanked him... one last time..." was inspired both by Nuada in chapter eleven thinking about how he'd have liked to have heard just one more story, and by that scene mentioned in that chapter's references from _the Return of the King_, with Arwen. This time, I was really thinking about that scene in RotK and in chap 11, and I really wanted a sense of balance between the chapters, and a parallel between Dylan and Nuada. Hope it worked.

- Trews is another word for trousers; typically made of tweed, can also be made of other things. A common phrase in some fantasy novels when talking about pants and a shirt is "tunic and trews."

- I got the mind-block thing that Nuala does for Dylan from a short story by Mercedes Lackey (I can't remember what it's called, but it's the first in her anthology, _Oathblood_ - it's the first short story she wrote about Tarma and Kethry). In this short story, Tarma is raped and almost killed. Her entire clan is wiped out (she's the last one). When she takes a vow to become Swordsworn, devoted to the warrior goddess of the Shin'a'in People, the memories of the attack do not hurt her anymore. It is only when, after several months on the road, training in the use of her various weapons, and she speaks to one of her trainers, that she again feels the grief and hate she had previously felt, because the block is taken away. It's a great story and it follows with two books, _Oathbound_ and _Oathbreakers_, and then Kethry, Tarma's friend and mercenary partner, has a granddaughter and there's a book about her, _By the Sword_, which is pretty good, too.

- As for the thing about the hair... I actually got that from Season 1 of _Project Runway_. One of my favorite guys on that show, Rob, was doing some bar-flip gymnastic moves on some scaffolding, slipped, and cracked the back of his head on some cement. He needed stitches or something, but he didn't mind, as long as the ER doctors didn't cut his hair (which was long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail).

- About the shirt being too short - LDS standards for clothing are: knee-length or longer shorts, skirts, dresses, etc. The only exceptions are if, for example, you're wearing pants under your skirt, or if it's a bathing suit. The Prophets have even said that bathing suits should be one-pieces, not two, but a lot of LDS girls don't follow that (or just haven't heard). Actually, a lot of LDS people don't follow the modesty rules, period, but if you look in our pamphlet, _Standards for the Strength of Youth_, ít says almost all of this under the section titled "Dress."

- The "body is a temple/Word of Wisdom" is also a Mormon thing. The Word of Wisdom says: no tobacco, no alcohol, no coffee or tea (even if it's decaf), no illegal drugs (marijuana counts), and no addictive things that aren't illegal (like paint thinner or rubber cement). It also talks about getting up early and going to bed early, getting enough sleep, getting exercise, and how you should eat (lots of grains, lots of fruits and veggies, and "sparingly" of meat - not no meat at all, but like, my average daily intake of straight meat is maybe a bowl of ravioli or some lunch meat sandwiches. I eat a lot of protien, though - peanut butter and jam sandwiches, boiled eggs - love boiled eggs - yogurt and milk, cheese sticks, that kind of thing. And some people will say that you can't have soda as part of keeping the Word of Wisdom, but that isn't true. You have to keep the Word of Wisdom to get into the Temple, and they can't keep you out of the Temple for drinking soda. I personally tend to avoid Mountain Dew because it's got buttloads of sugar AND caffiene (I drank two cans of it recently and got this violent and itchy eye twitch in my right eyelid for like, six hours), but my favorite soda is Pepsi (though I'm trying to lose weight so I don't drink as much of it anymore).

And just an FYI - Throwback Pepsi, the kind made with real sugar, actually has MORE calories than the kind made with corn syrup. Be warned!

- That song is called "To Become Like Him" and I believe it's by Hilary Weeks. The line is, "You don't need to prove your beauty in the eyes of men. You are divine with Him. You were sent here to become like Him." My favorite line, though, is the first line of the chorus: "Remember you are greatest when you walk with God." I love the music they've come out with for the Young Women of the Church. It's very uplifting and makes you feel good. Every girl in the world should listen to "Daughter of a King" and "Happily Ever After" by Jenny Phillips. It's all about your worth as a young woman.

- The crest on the floor is fictional. I didn't get it from anything. However, it is made up of three images from Irish mythology - the winged horse, the single eye (not, _**not **_the evil eye of Balor the Fomorian, sorry), and the moon-like ship. Cameo-Cookie or Spoiler Surprise for anyone who guesses the origins of either of those three things.

- "The Green Isle" is another name for Ireland.

- "Roger" is another word for "screw," but it implies action only on a male's part (similar to the phrase "do me" asking the guy to... well... do you.). However, use of the term "roger" (or "rogering") is usually reserved for situations where the act is spoken of with anger or contempt.

- For those who don't know, the royal plurality is the habit some royalty (even just some aristocracy) have of referring to themselves as "We" versus "I." It implies that, as the monarch, when they speak of what they want/would do/blah-blah, they represent the country or the people they rule over.

- The thing about sweating like a racehorse. I know it's actually "sweat like a pig," but I read somewhere that pigs don't actually sweat. That's why they roll around in mud; to help them cool off.

- "What is the difference between someone who can't read, and someone who can but chooses not to?" My dad used to say that to me when I was little. Said it was a famous saying or a proverb or something. I can't remember which. But I was recently told by a young man I know that he "doesn't read." Not that he can't, because I know he can, just that he doesn't. And I asked why not, and I believe he said something along the lines of "reading is lame." And I thought of that question my dad always asked. And this young man was LDS, and it is part of our doctrine that we are supposed to continually seek to educate ourselves and enrich our lives with good literature, art, and music (literature possibly applying to movies and television in this context).

- A kabouter is a Dutch house faerie (similar to a brownie). They have long beards and tall, pointy red hats (like the Travelocity Roaming Gnome, which is actually a type of kabouter). They are very small and either live underground or under mushroom caps. They are generally shy of humans.

- Caspar is the name of one of the main cast of characters in _Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister _by Gregory Maguire, which takes place in Holland (people of Holland being called Dutch).

- The part where Nuada and Becan are introducing Dylan to Caspar is inspired by two things - one, my own imagination. How _would _Nuada introduce Dylan to the servants? I figured it would be as a lady, but most ladies have land titles attached to their names (such as, in _Pride and Prejudice,_ one of the villains is known as Lady Catherine deBourgh of Rosings Park). And secondly, the movie _Kate and Leopold_. In that movie, Leopold introduces Kate and he's like, "Kate McCay... (silent um)... of the McCays of... (another silent um)..." And then Kate's like, "(Silent um)... Masapeaqua (or however you spell it)!"

- Nils Fjøsnisse is a tomte, a Swedish farm sprite. Tomtes are like brownies, but they usually watch over farms and take especial care of livestock. Their favorite animal is the horse (hence why the majority of the stable hands in Balor's castle are tomte). They dress in farmer's clothes, have full beards, and it is said by some that they only have four fingers, one eye, and/or eyes that glow in the dark. The name Fjøsnisse means "barn gnome" in either Swedish or Norwegian (not sure which). Fjøsnisse is another name for the tomte. So his name is actually Nils Tomte, basically.

- Nils saying "ja" is just him saying "yes" or "aye" in Swedish.

- Jenny Hob is just a name. Jenny is a very common name in England (in olden times, girls in England were referred to as Jennies, girls in Ireland as Colleens, and girls in Australia as Shielas). And a hob is the English version of a brownie. Jenny Hob is the head housekeeper among the hobs and brownies.

- The thing about the servants having names that reflect their species - it's inspired by how, in medieval times, commoners' last names were their professions. So like, if a man was a blacksmith, his last name would be Smith. If he made dishes, it would be Potter. If he fixed roofs, it would be Thatcher. If he made clothes, Tailor, etc., etc. So here, I gave them names reflecting their species - Jenny Hob, Becan Brownie, Caspar Kabouter, etc.

- A salle is a room (though oftentime an entire, one-room, one-story building) used for training with weapons and martial arts (martial here meaning military or war-related techniques, not specifically karate and such).

- The song Dylan is singing is LDS hymn number 252 in our hymn book, and it's called "Put Your Shoulder To The Wheel." I am very fond of it, and it was one of the first hymns I learned. It's fun to sing when you're doing chores or cleaning, because it makes things seem easier (at least to me) and more fun.

- A kobold is a German faerie that lives in either houses, mines, or on ships. The ones that live in houses are similar to brownies, tomtes, and hobs. Unlike these faeries, kobolds are more ambivalent. They'll do housework and such, but will play malicious tricks on people if insulted or neglected. Actions they consider insulting include giving them clothing, rushing them in their work, burning the house down, and leaving a wagon wheel in front of the house. Kobolds who live in human homes are generally humanlike, dress as peasants, and stand about as tall as a four-year-old child. Another type of kobold known as the Hütchen is said to be 0.3–1 m (1–3 ft) tall, with red hair and beard, and clad in red or green clothing and a red hat and may even be blind. Yet other tales describe kobolds appearing as herdsmen looking for work and little, wrinkled old men in pointed hoods. Some kobolds resemble small children. According to novelist X. B. Saintine, kobolds are the spirits of dead children and often appear with a knife that represents the means by which they were put to death. Heinzelmann, a kobold from the folklore of Hudermühlen Castle in the region of Lüneburg, appeared as a beautiful boy with blond, curly hair to his shoulders and dressed in a red silk coat.

House kobolds usually live in the hearth, but sometimes live in less frequented places, like the woodhouse, barns and stables, or in the beer cellar of an inn. At night, they do chores left unfinished before bedtime. They chase away pests, clean the stables, feed and groom the cattle and horses, scrub the dishes and pots, and sweep the kitchen. In return, the family must leave a portion of their supper (or beer, for the bierasal [see below]) to the kobold and must treat it respectfully, never mocking or laughing at the creature. A kobold expects to be fed in the same place at the same time each day. Their favourite food is grits or water-gruel. Keightley, an author who wrote about faeries, said maids who leave the employ of a certain household must warn their successor to treat the house kobold well.

A kobold's behaviour is attributed to the virtue of the homeowners; a virtuous house has a productive and helpful kobold; a vice-filled one has a malicious and mischievous pest. If the hosts give up those things to which the kobold objects, the spirit ceases its annoying behaviour. Even friendly kobolds are rarely completely good. House kobolds may do mischief for no particular reason. They hide things, push people over when they bend to pick something up, and make noise at night to keep people awake.

- A bieresal is a kobold that lives in the beer cellar of an inn. They bring beer into the house, clean the tables, and wash the bottles and glasses, in exchange for a daily gift of beer and grits. For both house and inn kobolds, referring to these gifts as "payment" will make them angry.

- Tallow is a substance made of wax and animal fat, usually used in repairs (for greasing hinges and such), cooking, making candles, making soap, and in giving massages (in place of massage oil). Mixing it with spices or herbs can make it smell nice. It doesn't necessarily smell bad, just not naturally good.

- This bathtub (I'll admit I was being a teensy bit lazy with the elaborateness of it) was inspired by the movie _The Other Side of Heaven _(it's a Disney film starring Anne Hathaway, based on a true story, it's a great film). In it, the MC takes his girlfriend to a swing beside a pond during the full moon and starts pushing her on the swing. As he's pushing her, he asks, "What do you see?" She says she sees the moon (reflected in the pond). He pushes her a little harder and says, "Look again." When she looks as she's swinging forward, the reflection of her in the swing is on top of the reflection of the full moon on the water, and she says, "I see... me in the moon," and she smiles. Totally cute romantic moment.

- Aikido is a style of Japanese martial arts developed by Morihei Ueshiba based on his martial studies, philosophy, and religious beliefs. Aikido translates roughly as "the Way of Harmonious spirit." It is a style created to defend while also protecting the attacker from injury.

- I think I defined kata last time I used the word, but just in case, _**kata**_ are martial art forms (sequences of movements and positions to help teach muscle memory, speed, and self-confidence) for Japan. In English speaking countries, they are called _**forms**_. In China, they are called _**taolu**_, and in Korea, _**hyeong**_. In the opening training scene with Nuada in the film, he is going through a kata (though probably a made-up one).

- T'ai chi ch'uan (also known as Tai Chi) is a Chinese martial art style. Translated into English, it literally means "Supreme Ultimate Fist." It is used both as defense training and to improve one's health (apparently; I don't do it, so I wouldn't know). There are five traditional schools of t'ai chi ch'uan: Chen, Yang, Hao, Wu, and Sun. For anyone who watches _Avatar: the Last Airbender_, the moves for water-bending are based on t'ai chi ch'uan. Although the style possesses both hard and soft martial arts, the slower forms/styles are what Nuada is using at this point (and are the most popular).

- I chose the colors for death and execution based on three criteria. I chose black because black is almost always associated with mourning. I chose white because, in Wicca, which draws heavily on the superstitions and traditions of the Old World, white is the color worn to mourn and to funerals (black being worn often to other rituals and thus not having a funereal connotation). And I chose silver because it seems as if gold plays a big role in the culture of Bethmoora (Nuala and Nuada both wear gold in the movie a lot, the Court of Bethmoora has a lot of gold stuff in it, and the Army itself is gold instead of silver, even though silver is stronger than gold). And I thought, what if gold was a color associated with daily life, and silver associated with war, death, and sorrow? It is a "cool color," to use an art class term, and most cool colors are used to soothe or show sorrow (such as blue and gray, which is a cool color as well as a neutral). So why not silver?

- Nuada choosing the colors of his clothing based on what he had to wear the clothes _to_ is something I did a lot in high school (and a lot of people do). Something I learned when studying witchcraft is that the clothes you wear seriously impact your mindset. For example, when you wear your "Sunday best" to church, it helps you get in a reverent mindset. When you wear the ritual robes for a magic circle, it focuses your mind to the task at hand - doing magic. If you dress up for a job interview, the clothes you wear should help gear your mind toward what you're about to do. And for me, whenever I had a parent-teacher conference, I always wore clothes I was really comfortable in, in black and red because red is supposed to be the color of confidence and black is the color of aggression, which was what I wanted to give off in that kind of situation. Nuada wearing the colors of mourning and execution is a sign to his father that he doesn't expect his father to spare him, and is acknowledging that he mourns for his father's lack of justice and honor (in Nuada's eyes).

- Léine: the long, ankle-length dresses worn by Celtic women before the Middle Ages.

- I've seen in Nuada fanfiction where people call the tree on the crest of Bethmoora the Aiglin tree, but I couldn't find anything about it when I looked it up. Since I couldn't find it, I didn't want to use it. However, in Celtic mythology, the Eildon (or hawthorn) tree, is a symbol of faeries in general, faerie royalty in particular, and is said to be planted at the entrance to Faerie. So I used that instead. Thomas the Rhymer, who is a character from an English ballad, kissed the Queen of the Faeries under the Eildon tree (seven times). Unfortunately for him, he then had to spend seven years in Faerie, one for each kiss.

- Brat: a Gaelic cloak of wool, held closed by a broach, worn by both men and women in Celtic Ireland. Also an annoying child.

- Girdle: a medieval belt. If anyone has seen _the Two Towers_, in that scene where Eowyn runs out of Meduseld and onto the terrace, and the wind is blowing and she's in that pretty white dress? That dress has this really elaborate belt on it that wraps her hips and then falls to the floor in front. That's a girdle. That dress is also what my wedding dress looked like. =)

- The black jewel doesn't have a real-life counterpart. It's just "a black jewel."

- The thing about the clothes matching: in medieval times, if a man and woman attended a formal event dressed to match each other, it was a declaration for everyone that they were together, romantically. It might be husband and wife, betrothed, or just boyfriend/girlfriend. The slave aspect I got from Gwenfarr's amazing fic, _Saving Nuada_, where the MC, Light, is given three outfits that match three of Nuada's, to show she is his slave (sort of like livery).

- Paramour is a French word for lover. Paramore is a band. =)

- Dylan's reluctant to marry someone who is not a member of the Church is because (and this is how a lot of LDS girls feel), only guys in the LDS Church can wield the Priesthood. Part of our doctrine states that children have a divine right to be born into a household with parents who love and cherish them, and one of those parents should be a Priesthood holder. This might not seem fair, but I can only tell you that having someone with the Priesthood in your home is amazing. My husband holds the Priesthood, and when we have kids, I'll know that I can always go to him for any kind of help that he can give me or the children through that Priesthood (giving Father's Blessings, for example, or Blessings of Healing or Comfort). When I joined the Church when I was younger, I was lucky that whenever I needed a blessing, I could call my best friend's dad, or the missionaries. A lot of people don't have that option, and that is one reason the Church stresses to young women that they should marry worthy Priesthood holders. In my opinion, future mothers should do everything in their power to make sure their children have as many advantages coming into this life as they can, and having a Priesthood-holding father is one of them.

- "The vapors" is a term from ages ago that applied to women who fainted or grew faint (usually because their corsets were too tight). Elizabeth falling into the ocean in _Pirates of the Carribean_ - that would have been called succumbing to a fit of the vapors, if she hadn't fallen in the ocean and caused a whole bunch of serious problems.

- Plighting your troth means asking someone to marry you and getting their affirmative. Hence the phrase "betrothed."

- In the movie _A Knight's Tale_, when William is trying to write an apology letter to Jocelyn, the lady he loves, his friends are trying to help him. I can't remember if it's Wat or Roland, but one of them gives him the line, "The pieces of my broken heart are so small as to be passed through the eye of a needle." Or something really, really close. It is the most beautiful letter, and everyone should watch that scene, even if you watch no other part of the movie. But that's where I got that line about Nuada's heart. It was just so exquisite, I had to use it.

- The hymn Dylan hears in her mind is called "More Holiness Give Me." It reflects an attitude I think everybody should have. I've listed the words at the bottom of this chapter.

- Okay, about the warmth in the chest thing. LDS doctrine states that when you ask God about something, you don't just ask Him for the info. You "study it out in your mind," as it says in Doctrine and Covenants (one of our 4 standard works), make your decision, and then ask God if you're right. If you are right, it says in D&C that the Holy Ghost will cause the knowledge of the truth "to burn in your bosom." It doesn't happen that way for everyone - everybody's different - but that happens often enough that I felt comfortable using it here.

- Agency: Mormon word for free will.

- I'm using a lot of rules from medieval times when it comes to how the court is run. For example, if you fell asleep during guard duty back then, you were executed. Painfully. Since faeries are dying out in HB2, they probably wouldn't execute them, but they would punish them. So... yeah.

- Nuala's words about integrity are a paraphrase from _the Book of Job _in _the Old Testament_. Job said that as long as he lived, "I will not remove mine integrity from me." It's the verse they use for the Integrity Value for Young Women's.

- "The needs of the many..." is from _Star Trek_. Spock says it sometimes. And Leonard Nimoy, who plays Sentinel Prime in _Transformers 3_, says it too. By the way, I'm going to be writing a _Transformers _fanfic at some point, regarding Optimus Prime and a human woman who currently lacks a name. Anyone want to volunteer a name?

- Daoine Maithe - Gaelic for "the Good People." Another name for Faeries in Ireland.


	14. In the Hall of the Mountain King

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, even though I had a crazy long author's note at the end, the actual chapter is short-ish. Sorry for all you guys who are like, "We want a long chapter!" I don't wanna add crap just for length, and it so happened that the __**Important Thing Regarding Nuala **__is longer than I intended (but I took it out; I might post it as an essay?). So... yeah. Hope you enjoy the chapter!_

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _A cù sìth is an enormous, otherworldly hound, said to haunt the Scottish Highlands and Ireland. Roughly the size of a cow or large calf, the cù sìth is dark green with shaggy fur and a long braided or curled tail (which is unusual, as most faerie hounds are said to be black, or white with red ears). In Irish mythology, the Cù Sìth had glowing or flaming eyes. Sometimes feared as a harbinger of death, it would appear to bear away the soul of a person to the afterlife. According to legend, however, the creature was capable of hunting silently, but would occasionally let out three terrifying barks that could be heard for long distances, including by ships at sea. This was said to be a warning to farmers to lock up their women, lest the beast abduct them and take them to a fairy mound to supply milk for the children of the Daoine Sìth (faeries)._

.

**Chapter Fourteen**  
**In the Hall of the Mountain King**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Worry, Spies, Presentation, Commandments, Obedience, and the Bane of Life That Is Gossip**

.

.

All right, that was it. He'd had _enough_. That fainting spell three nights ago Thursday had been the last straw. He and Dylan were gonna have a talk, and they were gonna have it tonight.

John parked his beat-up red Mustang as close to the gates of Central Park as he could without getting a ticket and lurched out of the cramped driver's seat. Frustration sizzled in every line of his body. She couldn't keep doing this to him! Something _had_ to give. The icy winter wind and frigid drizzle soaking him as he walked only amped up his anger. How was he supposed to get a decent shot at anything other than cruddy security assignments instead of the important stuff when random crap kept happening to him at bizarre moments because of his whacked-out telepathic connection to his twin? With a spine ramrod straight and clenched fists, he marched up the steps to her cottage and pounded on the door.

"Dylan! Open up!" Hunching his shoulders inside his raincoat didn't keep the chilly wind from slipping inside and leeching the heat from his skin. Gritting his teeth, he banged again. "Dylan! Come on, come out! We gotta talk."

And what, exactly, did they need to talk about? About the fact that he accidentally shot a guy in the back of the leg because of whatever had been going on with her at the time. He hadn't gotten the job at MIB, needless to say. Maybe Sector Seven was hiring. Or Roswell. Or maybe Warehouse Thirteen. Although he hadn't heard anything about Sector Seven employing psychics, Roswell and Warehouse Thirteen usually did. And they were probably the only government agencies who wouldn't care that he'd shot someone while his psychic powers – if they could even be called powers – were on the fritz. Especially at the Warehouse, as they didn't use guns. If he got desperate, he could always put in for the liaison position to Torchwood. They didn't use guns very often, either.

But he shouldn't have _been_ desperate, darn it. After that little escapade in the alternate-dimensional black hole as a kid, the government had been very interested in his life and education. He'd been their golden boy. Or future golden boy, since he'd only been twelve at the time. Whatever. John Thaddeus Myers shouldn't have had trouble finding a government job, since Uncle Sam had paid his and his sister's way through college to bribe him into working for the government. But now, thanks to his sister, he'd lost out on the opening in MIB. What else would he lose if they didn't fix this?

"Come on, Sis!" He called. The rain was starting to pick up. Now it became icy needles driving into his skin. He shivered as frigid rain water rolled in fat, shiver-inducing drops down the back of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. "We need to talk!"

A sliver of unease now. Dylan wouldn't just not answer her door. She'd check the peephole, and even on those rare occasions where they'd wanted to practically kill each other, she'd never left him on her doorstep in inclement weather. Which meant she wasn't home.

But Dylan was _always_ home at night. She didn't like being out alone after dark. After a couple weeks of feeling his sister's terror shivering through his veins after her return in February, John had finally set it up so that either he or his sister's secretary, Ariel, drove her home after dark. And he or Ariel always drove her to work, since taking the subway had led to her attack almost eleven months ago. But Ariel reported that Dylan hadn't been to the office since Thursday. That was just fine, since she had a couple weeks' vacation due, and his twin sometimes took Fridays off to do service projects with her church or other goody-goody things like that.

Except that she should be home _now_. The first Sunday of November was tomorrow, and he and Dylan were supposed to hash out their plans for attending the Singles' Ward Break-the-Fast at her church, since he'd finally agreed to go (on the condition that she went with him, even though it wasn't actually her ward). How were they supposed to finalize their plans if she wasn't even _here?_

_She's always home at night, _he repeated silently. _Always. Even when the faires and festivals are up. Why won't she answer?_ With fingers numbed by the cold despite his gloves, John pulled out his cell and pressed 3 – his sister's cellular speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. Either turned off, or dead. Great.

"Dylan, I'm coming in, okay?" John called, just in case. With a trembling hand he pulled out his linked rings of keys and found the ring that held the eight keys for her door – one key for the knob, seven for the dead bolts. After turning all eight keys in their locks, he pushed the heavy granite door open. It swung easily on its oiled brass hinges and the government agent stepped into the entryway. Only night-dimmed faerie lights illuminated the floor. As soon as he walked in, shutting the door behind him with a _click_ that echoed down the hall, he knew his sister hadn't been here in at least a couple days.

There were no signs of struggle, and the doors had been locked, which meant she'd at least left willingly. Probably. Unless she'd been held at gunpoint. But that didn't feel right. Wouldn't he have felt her fear, seen something to give him a clue? All he'd seen was the Hunter. Maybe she'd gone on a walk and run into one. Maybe it had attacked her! But that didn't feel right, either.

A white square on the floor with tiny black shapes on it caught his eye. He knelt down and picked up an unsealed envelope from the floor. His name in black ink stared back at him. John flipped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. Recognizing a page from Dylan's memo book, he murmured the words to brighten the enchanted hall light and scanned the words scribbled in purple gel ink in the dim glow.

_John-Boy,_

_Don't panic if I'm not home. I had to go help one of our neighbors, and I_  
_had to do it in a hurry. I'm probably okay, though. Call in for me at work _  
_if you have to _– _tell them whatever. If I'm not back in a week, call the _  
_cops, because I'm probably dead, but I'm pretty sure I'll be back  
by then._ _The guy who helped me back in December_ _needed a friend. He'll _  
_keep me safe._

_Please feed Bat and leave cream and stuff out for our other neighbors._  
_And drop off my lesson stuff at the home ward tomorrow by 8:30.  
Sister Johnston is expecting it. It's on_ _the coffee table underneath  
the green book, _Spindle's End. _And my cell phone's dead - can you  
plug it in for me? I love you._

_Zimmie-D_

_PS _– _If I'm gone on Sunday, even if you don't go to _  
_Break-the-Fast, please drop off the Jello things I made.  
They're in the fridge. No, you can't have any if you don't_  
_go to Break-the-Fast. And yes, I expect you to fast_  
_if you're going to eat there. Don't be a wimp. Love you._

One of "our neighbors." He knew exactly what that meant – a faerie. The one that had saved her and brought her to the hospital all those months ago had... how had she put it? Needed a friend. What the heck did _that_ mean?

But she'd signed it Zimmie-D, which meant everything was okay and she hadn't had to write this note under duress. John actually smiled when he thought of how much she'd hated it as a kid when he'd called her Zimmie-D. Zimmie was one of Bob Dylan's nicknames, since his real name had been Robert Zimmerman. Since his name had been Robert, however, and hers had been Dylan, a five-year-old John had always added a D at the end. She'd hated that name, but it was also one of their code words growing up, a sign that everything was okay with her, just like he'd always let her call him John-Boy, even though he absolutely loathed _The Waltons_, and signed any of his okay-notes the same way. If something was wrong, he'd always signed their notes "John" or "Johnny" instead of his usual "J," and she'd sign "Dylan" instead of just "D." So she was all right. He could relax.

_Well,_ he grumbled, staring at the memo paper, _at least I'll get to pig out tomorrow. And I'm eating at least two helpings of all those Jello thingies._ His sister made some pretty rockin' Jello.

**.**

_I could slay him now. He'd never see it coming,_ Eamonn thought, silver eyes burning with a thrill of anticipation. Inside the cottage, the human slut's kin scanned a piece of paper. A letter, no doubt. _ I could leave his corpse there for her to find. And when she found him, I could come upon her while she was yet unaware, and break into her mind again, and Nuada would_–

"Calm yourself, Eamonn," a cold voice ordered. The silver-eyed Elf shot a scathing look at the dark-eyed warrior at his side. If not for the silver chain around the other fayre's throat, the dark Elf would've likely slain his companion long ago. But even for the favorite lieutenant of the one Eamonn called liege, killing the favored lieutenant of the fae lord known as the Dark Hunter would've been unwise. Eamonn loathed Iolo, Master of Cŵn Annwn, nearly as much as he loathed the hypocritical Silverlance (though for vastly different reasons). "We're not here to indulge your twisted fantasies," Iolo continued. "We're here to see if the mortal returns to her home this night. If she doesn't, we are to report back to our respective masters. Nothing more."

"I don't need a lowly Welshman to give me orders," Eamonn snarled. "My king is foolish enough to trust your master, but I'm not so blinded. Don't think I've forgotten he betrays his own king with this alliance, and so do you."

"Why are you so obsessed with the mortal at all, Eamonn?" Iolo taunted, arching a brow. "One would fancy you in love with her as well, and mad with your own jealousy."

"It is Silverlance who occupies my thoughts," the dark Elf hissed. He spoke Nuada's title as if it were an obscenity. "Silverlance and the best way to break him. Believe me, I've thought of every possible thing I could do to bring that baseborn scut to his knees. The human is the key. Hurt the princess, and he dies when she does. It would be over too quickly. His father? The Silverlance will mourn, but it will only serve to fire his vengeance. But the mortal... to lose her... to lose the woman you love would steal the heart even from you, Iolo. Once I end her, Silverlance's heart will shatter. Then I can take my time with the old fool of a king and his whore of a daughter. More knives in his heart. In the end, Silverlance will beg me to end his pitiful existence. I dream of the day when I can rip out his heart with my bare hands."

With just a subtle bite of sarcasm, the Welsh faerie replied, "How charming."

Infuriated, Eamonn turned on Iolo and growled, "Welsh _dog_-"

"Enough of this ridiculous bickering," another voice demanded, sounding almost bored. The dark-haired Elf subsided as eyes like the summer sky glanced at him. Even Eamonn knew not to push the son of his master. The Elves of Cíocal weren't known for their patience. "We have the information my father wanted," the blue-eyed prince added. "The human is staying at Findias. Well and good. Arrachd and Iolo's men will keep watch on the mortal's home. Now let us leave this filthy place. I can smell the stink of human machines from here."

As the three faeries faded into the dark recesses of the trees, Iolo turned to the third and said, "What will your father do now, Prince Bres?"

"He'll send me to Findias to pay homage to Balor in the next few days," the bored voice drawled. "As a token of our 'continuing loyalty' in the face of Eamonn's treachery. The old Elf will be wondering about his allies now, especially with the mortal in his halls. I will also go to see what can be done with that clever little human whore... and with the delectable little princess."

**.**

_Just breathe,_ Dylan reminded herself as she and Nuada strode forward, Nuala on her brother's other side. Every step seemed to echo through the suddenly silent hall. The distance between the entry doors and the dais where King Balor sat upon his throne seemed to span the entire world. Still, it was strangely comforting to hear the soft tread of the Elven prince's boots in time with her own footsteps. Was he walking in time with her on purpose? That was going to be hard later, when her leg started to protest the fact that she didn't have her cane and her meds wore off.

_Just breathe,_ she repeated. _Don't panic. It's just playing pretend. Everything's going to be okay._ And whenever doubt tried to slither down her throat and make her nauseous with sheer nerves, she would surreptitiously glance at the stoic prince beside her and relax a little. _He won't let anything bad happen to me._

When they finally stood at the foot of the dais, Balor's golden eyes peered down at them. The light glittered off the king's golden torc and belt. His antlers speared the air high overhead. Dylan's stomach did a back-flip. _Should I bow? Curtsy? What do I do now?_

Nuada caught her eye, and ever so slightly inclined his head toward the king. The prince shifted, and almost as if they'd practiced it, they bowed in perfect unison. Dylan knew it was only because Nuada was matching his moves to her.

The people behind them were whispering in earnest now. Dylan wished she could understand Old Gaelic better. It would've been nice to know what they were saying about her. Specifically, she would've liked to know if any of the women were plotting to poison her, rip her hair out, or gouge out her eyes. Nuada wasn't exactly bad looking, after all. There were bound to be court ladies suckered in by the charade, and jealous as a result. That jealousy would only be ratcheted up by the fact that this woman who came into the king's Hall on Prince Nuada's arm was mortal, and barely considered pretty even without the disfiguring scars that slashed her face.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," King Balor said in ancient and flowing Gaelic. His golden voice rang out through the enormous hall, silencing the whisperers. "You have not introduced your lady to your people... or to Us."

Though there was no anger or malice in the ancient voice, Dylan heard the steely undertone of command. She didn't miss the king's use of "_your _lady," or the royal plurality, either.

_Translation, _the human thought. _Tell the court who she is right now, and make it obvious she's your girlfriend, or you're dog meat._ They had to be very careful here. They were playing along, yes, but if they weren't convincing enough - or, on the flip-side, if they were _too _convincing - the king would get suspicious and figure out they were planning on slipping his current leash as soon as possible.

"Your Majesty," Nuada said in that same ringing, courteous voice. "I beg your royal leave to present my lady," and here he shifted so he could take Dylan's hand and bow slightly toward her. "Lady Dylan of Central Park." In her head, she heard Nuada say, _Bow to him again, perfunctorily._ She obeyed.

"You are most welcome in Bethmoora and the halls of Findias, Lady Dylan," the king said, and even though he didn't emphasize the word "you," Dylan knew he was implying that though she was welcome, Nuada most certainly wasn't. The first flicker of irritation bubbled up in her stomach. She quashed it and inclined her head regally. At least she _hoped_ it looked regal, and not like she had gas.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its splendor and its king. I find he didn't exaggerate in his estimation of either." _So take that, creep. _At Nuada, she thought, _Findias?_

_The name of this palace_ _and its township,_ Nuada said in her mind. His voice threatened to give her brain-freeze. Why did he sound so cold? Well, probably because he was furious and trying not to show it. At least he'd smiled at her before leading her before the king. The Elven prince said, "My king, I would ask... all know it's a crime punishable by death to appear before you without royal leave. Yet my lady has done so. I would know, Sire, if she's to be punished for saving my life when the traitor Eamonn sought to murder me."

_There's that "my lady" thing again, _Dylan thought, trying to suppress the shiver the words sent down her spine. She knew Nuada was just pretending, but did he have to sound so... so tender when he said "my lady?" It made her feel bizarre, even though it was certainly just a simple façade for the courtship charade. And just the thought of Eamonn sent a frisson of fury and icy terror sizzling under her skin.

"We've said she's welcome here. No doubt her actions were inspired by the love she bears for you, Crown Prince. Mortals love fiercely, and are sometimes... injudicious in how their love can influence them. It would make me a cruel king indeed, to punish such loving devotion."

_Oh, ouch, _Dylan thought dryly, fighting not to roll her eyes. _Like that wasn't loud and clear. Translation: She's an idiot for loving a creep like you, but it's not her fault, it's yours. Jeez, what a jerk._

_Could you cease the commentary?_ Nuada replied without taking his eyes from his father's face. _You're making it difficult not to smile._

_So look at me and smile, _she said. _Make it all gushy and saccharine. That should convince them._ Which was exactly what the amber-eyed Elven prince did, turning to her and lightly brushing his calloused knuckles along one of the thicker scars than ran down her cheek. Dylan suddenly forgot how to breathe as her knees went weak and her stomach fluttered. A frisson of fear shivered up her spine as she remembered the last time anyone had touched her face like that. _Whoa._ The sensitive scar tissue tingled from the contact. _Um... okay, don't do that. Please, Your Highness. That feels..._ _weird._

_My apologies, _he said silently, while aloud he spoke as if to her (though it was clear he meant for everyone to hear him). "I strive every day to be worthy of such devotion. As she stands always at my side, I have hope that I yet succeed."

Dylan fought not to choke on the snort that threatened. Where had that sap-sucking pickup line come from? He didn't really use lines like that to get girls, did he? Hopefully everyone would think her smile and the blush burning in her face were due to being weak-kneed at the prince's "devotion," and not because she was struggling not to laugh. _Crud, I can't even take that line seriously, it's so cheesy._

But in her head, the prince added soberly, _Translation: I'm not the monster he thinks I am, or you wouldn't be here._

_Darn right, I wouldn't. What kind of girl does he think I am?_ She was trying to make him smile, and it worked. Dark lips stretched into a smile, a real one that reached his firegold eyes, one that made Dylan grin back without having to think about it. The whispering from the court increased. _Your Highness, what are they saying?_

Surprisingly, Nuada leaned in until his lips pressed against her ear. She smelled the foresty scent that seemed to always cling to him, as well as the warm familiar smell of leather. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she thought, _Oh, too close_, way _too close._ Fear shivered along her skin, but hopefully the faeries of Balor's court just thought her eyes went wide and her breathing hitched because of the prince's closeness and any romantic effect it might've had on her. "I will tell you something very interesting later... my lady." This time she couldn't stop the shiver, and it wasn't just a shiver of fear.

_Whoa. Are my eyes crossed?_

_No, _he said as he pulled back. _Why?_

_Never mind,_ she said softly, absently. Now the whispering had turned to a dull roar - or was that the blood rushing to her head? Dylan knew Nuada had done the sexy-whisper-thing to give the court gossipmongers something to talk about - they'd probably been able to hear what he said, too - and to keep up the charade, but jeez. It felt like she was having a heart attack.

And as her heart began to pound, any breath of excitement disappeared, to be replaced by cold fear. Dylan had to fight against the sudden, cold slither of phantom-terror down her spine as memory tried to wrench her from the present and shove her back into the horrifying past.

_Nuada! I..._ Flickers of memory, the feel of Eamonn's mouth against her ear whispering hideous promises, threatened to choke her. The sound of screams hammered against her skull. Suddenly she tasted the phantom copper tang of blood. For just a moment she felt Eamonn's hands on her body, touching her, violent and violating caresses. Panic was a gaping abyss stretching before her feet. _Nuada, I'm going to fall,_ she cried, not knowing where the words came from, but knowing they were hideously true. _Help me..._

_Don't be afraid, _the prince whispered in her mind. His grip on her fingers tightened. The reassuring pressure - and, she didn't doubt, a little magic - pushed back the fear until she could focus on the fact that she stood beside Nuada, her hand in his. Familiar golden eyes kept her from slipping back into memory. _I'll not let you fall, Dylan. Do not fear._

_Thank you, _she whispered. The only outward indication of her panic was suddenly stinging eyes, but she blinked back any tears. _I'm sorry for panicking. Thank you._

_All is well, _he replied. _So long as I'm with you, you needn't be afraid in this place. My honor demands I protect you, and I will. Do not fear. And I shall be more careful of your memories next time._

_Thanks._

"I'm overjoyed that you've found such happiness and peace, my son," Kind Balor was saying. "This is surely a cause for much celebration. Chamberlain, see that preparations are begun for a feast in honor of the crown prince and his lady." By now, Dylan had managed to entrench her mind firmly back in the present. Unfortunately, the heart-stopping terror of a flashback was replaced by a stab of panic that lanced her breast now that she stood confronted with the idea of a "celebration feast."

_You gotta be kidding me, _she thought helplessly. _Why doesn't he shoot me and get it over with?_

_It is only a banquet, _Nuada said, surprised the idea would upset her so much. True, she was used to her little cottage amidst the woodland green, and seemed to dislike large gatherings and parties, unlike most mortals. And he knew she disliked dressing in court clothes. He'd been able to taste Nuala's irritation at trying to get Dylan ready for this court summons, even all the way in the salle. The princess had been especially exasperated by the mortal's hair. Only the potion-qualities of Elven shampoo had managed to tame the riotous brown curls that the mortal often despaired of. Yet as long as Dylan could manage her hair (and if his sister had anything to say about it, she would), there was nothing to inspire this panic in her. And as for her hair, when had she become such a vain thing?

_Did you just call me "vain?" _She demanded. He nearly started in surprise. He hadn't been projecting to her. How had the mortal heard his thoughts? _I'm_ not _vain,_ _Your Highness_, she added, and he could tell that if she'd been able to, she would've scowled at him. _It's not my hair, or the clothes. I hate crowds of faeries. Being helpless and mortal, they kinda freak me out, considering they could all blink at me and I'd keel over dead if they wanted._ _Although I'm not fond of crowds of humans, either._ _Add the hair and clothes on top of that, and yes, I'm a little unhappy about the fact that your dad wants to throw us a party. And, _Dylan added, and Nuada could feel the sudden surge of dread. _There's going to be alcohol, isn't there?_

_Yes, _he replied slowly. _This upsets you. Why?_

_I'm not allowed to drink alcohol. Ever. That's why I don't even like going to the fancy charity dinners they do in the medical and psychiatric fields in this stupid city. They never make soda or juice or sparkling cider or, I dunno, just plain tap water available without me having to ask for it. It's always wine or champagne. And then people always give me dirty looks, which doesn't make me feel bad about abstaining since I'm making God happy, except that then everyone assumes I'm a recovering alcoholic or something and that _that's _why I don't drink. Which is nothing to be ashamed of and now I'm babbling and we should probably be paying attention, Your Highness. We can talk about this later._

Unfortunately, the mortal had advised him to pay attention at precisely the worst moment possible. King Balor asked, "Pray, tell Us, Prince Nuada - have you asked for the Lady Dylan's hand?"

"I-" Nuada could think of nothing to say. The panic that had so recently vacated the human at his side seemed to have taken up residence inside him, choking back any excuses he might attempt to make. Wed Dylan? Wed _anyone?_ The thought of marrying, when war loomed on the horizon like black smoke, felt like someone had punched him in the chest.

A wife was nothing but a weakness in war. A potential hostage. And if he got his hypothetical wife with child... another potential hostage. Another weakness. And to marry a _human_, when they were the ones who threatened everything he held dear? But if he said that, if he spoke of war here, now, his father would-

Dylan, warmth blooming in her chest, broke in at the last possible moment with, "We've discussed it, but... a lot would have to happen first. You see, Your Majesty, I'm a Latter-Day Saint, a follower of the High King of the World. My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. And though I may love Prince Nuada with everything I am, I've loved and will always love my God more than any other, and strive always to obey His laws and edicts. His Highness and I have talked often of the Star Kindler and of faith, but he has not covenanted with the High King to follow Him. I know that my God wouldn't wish the prince to be forced to become a Latter-Day Saint - in truth, such a thing would offend Him. But until His Highness chooses of his own freewill to follow the High King, marriage to him is something I cannot consider agreeing to, even if all the kings of this world were to command it. I'm loyal to my God first.

"But," and here Dylan turned to lay her palm against Nuada's chest, over his suddenly drumming heart. The court chatter went into overdrive. "Married or not, betrothed or not, my feelings for the prince remain unchanged."

Again the Elven prince had to admire the fine edge of courtly language the human managed to walk. Her lifetime of dealing with the Gentry was obvious now in the care with which she chose her words to Balor. Never lying, always speaking truthfully, but never giving away any information she desired to keep secret. Telling the king that whether he forced them into a betrothal or not, he couldn't make her fall in love with Nuada, while giving the illusion that even if they could never be together (disgusting thought, the two of them "together" in that way) she would always love him.

And she'd made certain the One-Armed King understood that his son would have to follow the Star Kindler of his own volition, and that no commandment from King Balor would change Dylan's stance on the matter, or affect Nuada's stance toward the High King of the World.

But - and it was a very large "but" - the human was _touching_ him. In front of _witnesses_. The reality of that fact washed away almost all of his admiration in an instant. Still, she was only playing to the crowd, and to his father. Just as he ought to be. Mindful of the fact that Dylan had laid her hand very slowly against his chest, giving him time to protest, Nuada fought the churning sensation in his belly and covered her hand with his own. Closing his eyes, he murmured in Gaelic, "A thaisce." He touched his forehead to hers, and added, "A ghrá geal, a stór, a mhuirnín."

Dylan's breathing hitched again. _My treasure. My bright love, my darling, my dearest._ No one had ever said that about her before, not even John. _But he's not talking about me, _she reminded herself as she fought to regulate her breathing. _He's probably thinking about... someone else. I'm mortal, and he hates mortals. Relax already._

But then, with a crooked smile that sent an odd thrill through Dylan, Nuada added, "Mo duinne." Dylan couldn't fight her delighted grin. No one could've thought he meant anyone else in the court when he'd said, "_My brown one._" The Bethmoora Elves were about as brown as the full moon.

"Such love is truly a beautiful thing," a smooth, oily voice said, shattering the moment.

When Nuada's eyes flew open, Dylan had to fight not to step back. Red as dark as blood melted into the deep bronze of sheer rage in his gaze. It took her a minute to realize he wasn't looking at _her_, but over her head. She turned to see the box-headed faerie with the long, creepy fingers; the same one that had argued with her the night she came to save Nuada. Instinctively, Dylan backed up, stepping closer to the prince, and barely managed to hide her surprise when one arm came around her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder and his chin came to rest atop her head. Dylan could feel his throat working convulsively against the back of her head, as if he were trying to refrain from throwing up, and she laid her hand on his in sympathy. His grip tightened fractionally.

Box-Head continued, "I would very much like to see a demonstration of such tender feelings. As would the entire court, I think." Murmurs of assent flitted amongst the crowd and Dylan fought against slapping her forehead with her palm.

"Chamberlain," Nuada said with an icy calm that made her shiver. "I see you've not changed, even in two thousand years. Yet you seem to forget your place. I am _not_ your dancing bear. Play a tune if you wish, but I shall not be moved, and neither shall my lady."

_Obviously you don't like him. What exactly does he want? _Dylan asked.

_He suspects this is a sham, and wants me to kiss you. _The revulsion and fury burning in his voice was unmistakable. Dylan hid her wince. She wouldn't have been the Box-Head for all the tea in China, if Nuada hated him as much as he seemed to. The prince's next words confirmed her suspicions. _As for liking... loathing would be a more apt description as to my feelings for him._

_Oh._ Well, then. Dylan lifted Nuada's arm so she could turn and face him. The crimson and molten bronze still held sway in his infuriated gaze. With a deliberately light laugh and a coquettish smile, Dylan said coaxingly, "Gean gáire, a ghrá." _Smile, my love._ As she shifted her grip on his hand, without changing from the flirtatious expression she asked in his mind, _My prince, do you trust me?_

He blinked. Did he _trust _her? Did he, Nuada Silverlance, trust a human? Why would she ask that? The answer was obviously to the negative. And yet... this was Dylan who asked. Dylan, who'd yet to betray him, and had done everything in her power to stand by him honorably. Eleven moons was a long time for her to lie in wait like a poisonous serpent intent on striking. Eleven moons of tentative bonds forging. Still, to trust a mortal... _If I said yes, what would you say?_

_I would tell you to lean in as if you were going to kiss me. _The look he gave her could've drawn blood from a stone, even though it lasted only a split-second before turning to that calm politeness he'd shown his father. _**Trust **__me, _she insisted. _I promise this will work, and it'll give them what they want without making either of us more miserable than we need to be._

She _hoped _it would work, anyway. He hadn't balked at whispering in her ear. Hopefully this wouldn't be any worse for him. She didn't exactly want a man she wasn't in love with kissing her, either.

As the prince leaned forward, an expectant hush stole over the assembled courtiers. Nuada took both of her small hands in his large ones, and as he drew closer, tightened his grip on her fingers until they ached. At the very last minute, when she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips and see the anger in his eyes, she turned her head to look straight at King Balor, and Nuada's mouth brushed a chaste kiss over her scarred cheek. Silvery blue eyes locked with the king's golden gaze, and Balor arched an eyebrow.

_Oh, yeah, _she thought. _He knows I'm not okay with this. And he doesn't really care. Why is that? Nuada always said his father was noble and strong and fair-minded. A great king and a proud warrior. So why is he doing this to us? Well, we'll see how just long this lasts. He doesn't care that I don't like this, and I just hate having my feelings ignored. _Directed at Nuada, she added, _You okay? You're not gonna throw up, are you, Your Highness?_

_I'll be fine. I will have to bathe with horse soap after this, and rinse my mouth with some of Caspar's strongest sour beer, but I'll be fine. Now act like one of those fluff-brained court females and blush._

_I can't blush on command. And why would I-_ Dylan began, then swallowed hard, reflexively, when Nuada brought her hand to his mouth and let his lips linger against her knuckles. The heat of his mouth sent tingles up her arm. She didn't have to force herself to blush. Fire spread through her face all on its own. Nuada's amused and almost affectionate smile wasn't forced, either, if she judged right.

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," he said, and her heart went into overdrive. He couldn't _say _stuff like that to her after _doing _stuff like that! Not in Gaelic, anyway. People said French was the language of love, but obviously they hadn't heard Gaelic spoken by a pointy-eared Irish prince before. The lyrical language with its liquid-silver vowels and resonating consonants made even the cheesiest pickup lines sound sexy (which, in her opinion, was lame. Also unfair). After all, if someone had said "my heart is within you" in English, she'd have told them to check the latest trashy romance novel for better inspiration. Or maybe looked at them askance and then sidled quickly away, pondering the nature of stalkers.

But when Nuada said it in the Old Tongue, it made her knees weak. Again. Which was simply ridiculous, because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he didn't mean it. The words probably referred to the fact that his life (and thus the continued beating of his heart) rested within her power. That would make way more sense than if she took the sentiment at first blush. Yet still, her pulse raced.

_You're killing me, here, _she grumbled, feeling idiotic. _Stop that._

His only response: a smug smile that held far too much male satisfaction. He might not consider her attractive (come to think of it, he probably thought she was ugly), but apparently every guy enjoyed giving a woman jelly-legs. Even an Elven prince.

_I wonder how many of the court bimbos got jelly-legs from watching that. _Nuada only quirked a brow at her. Fighting the urge to grin like an idiot at the far-too innocent expression on the prince's face (or maybe scowl, she wasn't sure which), Dylan wondered, _Think the Chamberlain's satisfied? Or is he such a total creep that we'll have to throw down on the floor and do the sweaty pretzel?_ She ignored the prince half-choking and glanced at the assembled courtiers and Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers.

Some of the fae looked enchanted, some disgusted, some amused, and others with that condescending expression she'd seen on the faces of human adults looking at their love-snared teenage offspring; the "aww, isn't that cute" look. One, a beautiful dusky-skinned woman with wheat-blond hair tumbling around her shoulders and beautiful amber eyes, actually looked approving. She smiled. The human smiled back as a familiar feeling of peace unfurled in her chest. Here, at least, was an ally. She'd have to ask Nuada about her.

But Dylan saw that not one of the Daoine Maithe staring at her and Nuada looked disbelieving. At least, not that she could see. So they'd pulled it off. Hopefully the king thought they'd capitulated, and their ploy had bought some time to figure a way out of this "courtship" thing.

_Don't be too swift to assume us safe, _Nuada said in her mind. _The Samhain feast is tonight, and we must attend, which means we'll be in the public eye for some time. And behold my father's face._

When she saw the ancient Elf king's expression - coolly amused, determined, and subtly challenging - she knew they weren't out of the political woods yet. _Well_, Dylan replied with a sigh. _Crud._

**.**

Wink emptied the jack of weak ale in one swallow and motioned for one of the little bierasal barmaids to refill it for him. As the barely-four-foot-high tavern sprite took the leather jack toward the bar, the silver troll scratched his belly and inspected the nearly-regrown finger on his hand of flesh. As long as he kept up this drunken pretense of disinterest, the Kindly Folk around him continued to chatter on, oblivious to the fact that the crown prince's oldest companion listened intently to their gossip.

So far, none of those who frequented the tavern - aptly named the Drunken Dweorg - had mentioned anything about Nuada, Dylan, or the failed assassination attempt and coup at Findias three nights past, except for some to say they'd seen an Elf of Bethmoora striding through the streets, a silver cave troll at his side, the same night as when Wink knew the battle had occurred. But other than to speculate that the Elf may have been the Exiled Prince (it was no secret he kept a rather large silver troll as valet), nobody said anything about Nuada. Which, the troll knew, was nothing but good news. The knowledge that Nuada had been flogged wouldn't have bothered the prince if it got out - many of the common fae believed Balor's rule had failed and thought the prince could do no wrong - but anyone hearing about the human healer's involvement in the fiasco would cause nothing but problems.

The bierasal returned with the now-full jack. Wink took a sip and winced as he realized he'd grown spoiled drinking the Elf liquor that Nuada - on those incredibly rare nights when, after visiting with the human, he'd returned in a _very_ good mood - sometimes brought out and shared with the troll. Wink knew this because the weak ale in his jack reminded him quite strongly of the stench of horse urine.

_Ah, it doesn't matter, _he thought, and downed the contents in one long swallow. Such weak alcohol lacked the necessary power to intoxicate him, even though this was his fourth serving. _Drink is drink, though few establishments compare to Fafner's Cave,_ his and Nuada's favorite tavern. _But I believe I'll take my leave of this place. There's nothing for me to learn. Besides, it stinks of Annwn swine here._ Not surprising, as Wink noticed a Dyfed-dweller sucking down blue Cornish ale from a tin cup.

As he stood to leave, tossing a few extra coppers on the table for the little bierasal who'd made sure to keep his jack full, the tavern door swung open. For a moment, the shadows turned what stood in the doorway into a strange, monstrous shape. Then a _cù sìth_ padded in on silent paws. The beast looked fairly young, approximately the size of a year-old calf. Many of the otherworldly faerie dogs grew to be the size of fully-grown bulls come adulthood. This one must've been a puppy.

On the dog's back rode a short, lean figure in burgundy and black velvet. Once the figure that perched atop the _cù sìth's_ broad back slid down, the green-furred hound shook itself and trotted over to the communal fireplace, where it plopped down, placed its head on its massive paws, and closed its luminous red eyes with a tired sigh. No one seemed to care that the beast's hide still sparkled with raindrops, or that it stank of wet dog. Wink only wrinkled his nose at the stench.

The faerie hound's diminutive owner climbed onto an empty table and yelled, "Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance has returned to Bethmoora! The Royal Exile has returned to Findias at last!"

Wink sank slowly back down to his bench and eyed the huge, green dog for a moment, ignoring the shouting clurichaun. Was the beast from the Royal Kennels? Because although the animal didn't look like the thoroughbred Sluagh hounds bred by the royal family, the troll was almost positive he recognized the clurichaun standing on the table, jabbering a mile a minute. Wasn't he one of the servants beneath Miyax, the kennel-mistress?

He motioned for the bierasal, and this time took one of the heavy mason jars full of honeyed mead from the tray she kept afloat above her head. Sipping carefully at the sweet alcohol, he listened to the freshly-arrived gossipmonger.

"Me own sister tol' me not an hour ago," the clurichaun was chattering to the entranced listeners. Several of the surrounding fae were offering to pay for the imbecile's drinks in exchange for more gossip. _Ridiculous, _Wink grumbled silently to himself as the drunk faerie added, "Works in the Royal Kennels, she does. The Silverlance is returned, she says, an' betrothed to a blinkin' human, to boot!"

The troll choked on his mead.

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_**Author's Notes:**_ _Oooh! So, what do you guys think? You like so far? You know I love reviews, but I know it can be hard to figure out what to put in reviews sometimes. So here's the __**review prompt! **__I would like to know 4 things (and part 4 is easy-peasy)-_

_1) __**Do I need to lighten up on the Nuala/Balor bit?**_ _I don't want them to come across as evil. More like ambivalent and more concerned with what they want versus what Nuada and/or Dylan want. Are they too cruel right now? Before answering this question, I would very much like for you all to read through the __**References **__section for a more indepth analysis of the situation, as well as the __**Thing About Nuala**_ _section (if you feel that they're too evil. If not, don't even worry about reading it unless you wanna)._

_This one isn't as important, but I'm curious about 2) __**Is anyone bothered by the religious element of the story?**_ _Because I've noticed I only get reviews from like, 5 or 6 of the same people every time and a lot of my old reviewers (and people who've favorited this story) haven't reviewed, and I'm wondering if anyone checked it out, found out Dylan was LDS, and left because of that. Lots of people hate Mormons (sigh) so I was just wondering. Or if anyone thinks Dylan would be better as a Catholic or Bhuddist or something. This is not something I'm going to change, but it is something I would like to know about just because I would (it makes me a bit twitchy not to know). Or do you love the faith element? I know a couple of you guys have said you liked certain parts of the faith element, but I haven't heard on it from all of you yet, so I'm wondering._

_And of course you can also tell me things you liked, things you didn't, etc. I love all of you guys. Thank you so much for your support!_

_**Important Reading Reminder:**_ _Don't forget to read __**OceanFire9's**_ _phenomenal "Red Riding Hood" literary short, __**"Red Under the Moon!"**_

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_**Challenge #2:**_ _A flash fiction piece? __**The topic: when Nuada and/or Dylan realize their feelings for each other. It can be just Nuada, or just Dylan, or both of them at the same time.**__It could be as someone is dying or seriously injured, it could be at the dreaded arranged wedding, it could be anytime, anywhere, in any situation. Although I'll admit, I love super sad ones, and super steamy ones where nothing really happens and I'm left going, "Are they gonna kiss or not!" Like in _Twilight _and _Phantom of the Opera_. Those, IMHO, are harder to write than ones where people are ripping off their clothes and rolling around in bed. You can write one of those if you like, since it's your choice, but it won't get a chapter reward because I can't read it. please! You've no idea how hungry I am for good flash-fiction about Nuada!_

_So, just to review._

_**Chapter 6's Challenge:**__a one-shot (or more than a one-shot) about Dylan's time in the mental institution._

_**Chapter 8's Challenge:**_ _a dual ficlet, one from Nuada's POV and one from Dylan's, set during the time in chapter 8 where they don't see each other._

_**Chapter 13's**_ _**Challenge:**_ _it's actually a vid challenge, __**BUT **__if you can't make a vid (an MV of the fic to Celine Dion's "I Surrender") then maybe you can write something based on the lyrics to the song? About Nuada and/or Dylan surrendering. To what? To Eamonn, to save one or the other? To their love? To Nuada's desire to wipe out humanity? It's up to you._

_**Chapter 14's Challenge:**_ _when Nuada and/or Dylan realize their feelings for each other. It can be just Nuada, or just Dylan, or both of them at the same time._ _It could be as someone is dying or seriously injured, it could be at the dreaded arranged wedding, it could be anytime, anywhere, in any situation. Although I'll admit, I love super sad ones, and super steamy ones where nothing really happens and I'm left going, "Are they gonna kiss or not!"_

_**Chapter 15's Challenge:**_ _If you feel the final scene could've ended differently (not _should've_, just could've), I want to know how. What would've happened? I totally want to see what you guys come up with. Please indulge me. No word limit._

_I know it's only chapter 14, but chapter 15 is up, too, so yay!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"In the Hall of the Mountain King" is one of my favorite pieces of classical music ever! Just saying. I don't know who wrote it, but it's pretty famous, and it is one of my favorites. At least I think it's classical. Might be baroque or something._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Sector Seven is one of those "doesn't exist" government agencies that appear in _Transformers 1 _& _2._

- Roswell, I believe, is the town nearest to Area 51 (you know, where the aliens and stuff are). There's an old show/book series called _Roswell High_. But Roswell is (at least in some stories and books I've read) a "doesn't exist" government agency as well.

- Warehouse 13 is another "doesn't exist" agency (henceforth known as a DE). They're out in Nevada in the ScyFy Channel show _Warehouse Thirteen_. The Warehouse itself holds all kinds of neat, famous "Artifacts." Some include things like HG Wells' time machine and Excalibur. The Warehouse operatives don't use guns, but these things called Tesla guns.

- Torchwood is a British DE agency on the show _Torchwood_ and _Doctor Who_. Apparently after Queen Victoria met the Tenth Doctor, she wasn't that impressed, and set up Torchwood both to fight the Doctor if it was ever needed, and to fight the "alien problem." Captain Jack Harkness, one of the sexiest men on television, is one of their operatives.

- Every first Sunday of the month in the LDS Church is called Fast Sunday. Church members choose to fast for 2 consecutive meals (breakfast and lunch) and attend a special Sacrament meeting known as Fast & Testimony meeting. Instead of having speakers like they normally do, members of the congregation are allowed to go up to the pulpit and bear their testimonies (literally testifying of the truth of a gospel principle they've learned the truth of, or just testifying of the gospel in general). For the Singles' Wards (congregations made up of people between 18 and 30 who are unmarried), instead of sending people home to break their fast there, they hold this event called Break-the-Fast, where people who've previously signed up bring lots of yummy food. My favorite Break-the-Fasts ever were when we had baked potatoes, and when we had bread bowls with broccoli and cheese soup. Yum.

Dylan isn't part of the Singles' Ward, even though she's only 29 and single, because she was called to serve as a Nursery teacher in a home ward (a ward for married people and people under 19 and over 30). Sometimes YSA (young single adults - people 18-30) are called to home ward positions, and they leave the singles' wards. But since she's going to Break-the-Fast with her brother (who is only 21), she's bringing food anyway. Or she planned to, anyway.

- John-Boy Walton is the name of the main character from the 60s television show _The Waltons_. They called him John-Boy because his father's name was John.

- "The good neighbors" or "kindly neighbors" is another term for the Fair Folk, which is why in her note, Dylan says "our neighbors."

- Bob Dylan (whom Dylan is named after) has this song called "You've Gotta Serve Somebody." And in the song, he says, "You might call me Bobby, and you might call me Zimmie." And when I was a kid, I was like, "Wait... what? Why Zimmie?" Turns out, Bob Dylan's real name is Robert Zimmerman.

- Jello is capitalized because Jello is actually a brand name. The stuff you're eating is actually called gelatin.

- Iolo is the lead huntsman of Gwynn ap Nudd (king of the Tylwyth Teg and sometimes of Annwn, one of the Welsh-Celtic otherworlds) in Welsh mythology, and the Master of Cwn Annwn. Cwn Annwn means "the hounds of Annwn." They're the Welsh wild hunt.

- Findias is one of the four great cities of the Tuatha de, and the one where the Sword of Nuada was forged. Since they never tell you what the King's palace was called (I've read Anthatal, but I don't know if that's cannon or someone made that up) I chose Findias, for its connection to Nuada.

- Cíocal was the leader of the Fomori when they first came to Ireland in Gaelic myth. He is not the King in the fic, though, because at the time that the mythical Nuada was King of the Tuatha, Cíocal had already died. So instead, we're using it as a Elven Clan name.

- Elven Clan names. So far, we've encountered the Elves of Bethmoora (pasty Elves with silvery blond hair and golden eyes), the Elves of Zwezda (pasty Elves with silver eyes and black hair), and the Elves of Cíocal (tanned, golden-blond, blue or green eyes). At some point, we will also run into the Elves of Nyame, Álfar, Iara, Bulukiya, Dilong, Onibi, Ubasti, Eirc, Orang Bunian, and Menehune.

- "Just breathe" is hopefully recognizeable to all who love fairy tales, as one of the lines played most in the trailer for _Ever After_, which is one of the best "Cinderella" movies I've ever seen.

- In case it wasn't clear, when Dylan said, "His Highness has told me of Bethmoora, of both its majesty and of its king. I find that he did not exaggerate in his estimation of either," she was actually saying, "Nuada told me this place was gorgeous. He also told me you were a jerk. He was right on both counts."

- LDS people have this thing called "the Word of Wisdom." It's about treating your body right. One of the things we're not supposed to do is drink alcohol. Sometimes (often), LDS people are uncomfortable at parties and events where alcohol is the main thing being served. For me personally, it's more a fear that I'll suffer a sudden attack of stupid and take a sip of beer. I'm a total lightweight. Even the smell of alcohol makes me act dumb. Hence why I decided not to drink, even before I got baptized. Not to mention, alcohol tastes bad. Pretty much anytime someone tells me something is "an acquired taste," I'm like, "Meh. Not worth it, sorry. Gimme pizza and Kool-aid." Although actually, I _**LOVE**_ sparkling cider and would drink it every day if it wasn't so blasted expensive.

- What Dylan says/implies to Balor (that he can't just order Nuada to join Dylan's faith) is true. Just because the King orders Nuada to be a Christian, even if Nuada got baptized and went to Church, doesn't mean he's a Christian. If he doesn't believe of his own volition, it doesn't count. For pretty much any religion that I know of, the person who attempts to follow it has to believe it's true first - or at least be open to the idea that it might be true.

- The "do you trust me" wasn't inspired by Disney's _Aladdin_, I promise. It just sounds similar. Great movie, though. =)

- Balor and Nuala are not bad guys. I just need to point this out. They are monarchs. Unfortunately, rulers (not just kings, but prime ministers and presidents) have to make decisions that totally screw up Person A's life, because it will save/protect/seriously help Persons B-Z. That's the case here. Nuala and Balor aren't villains. They're just trying to do what's right, both for the Fae and for humanity. They're trying to keep Nuada from wiping out mankind. I'm all for that. And this goes here because, as I'm going through my footnotes, I got to the part where Dylan realizes Balor knows she's ticked about the whole courtship-set-up, and doesn't care that she's mad, which makes him seem mean, but it's more like he's resigned to the fact that neither of them are going to like it, but it's too necessary to put a halt to just because they're unhappy. In the words of Tamora Pierce, "Good kings are not necessarily good men." Sometimes royals, leaders, and people like that have to make decisions that some people don't like, for the good of other people. In this case, Nuala and Balor don't want to hurt Nuada. They love him. That is obvious even in the film that they love him, even though they seriously despair of him. But if it's a toss-up between a) making Nuada happy and wiping out an entire race, or b) breaking Nuada's heart and saving mankind, I personally would go with B. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, as Nuala (and Spock) said.

- Horse soap is another term for the stuff they washed horse blankets and tack and such with. It's really, really strong. It would actually probably make your hands crack and bleed if you actually used it on yourself.

- Who knows who the brunette chick and the blond guy are? If you can guess right, I'll answer 2 spoiler questions of your choice! Muahahahaha...

- A jack is basically a bag/cup of stiffened leather that people sometimes carried with them, if they were worried about dirty glasses at a pub.

- Dweorg is the Old English word for "Dwarf," so the tavern is called the Drunken Dwarf.

- For those who don't remember, a bierasal is a kobold (Germanic house sprite) that works in taverns and inns.

- Anwnn is the Welsh otherworld (similar to the English Avalon, the Tibetan Shambala, and the Irish Tir na nOg). Apparently they have magical pigs there. These magical pigs are possibly the inspiration for Henwen, the oracular pig in _the Black Cauldron _(Disney film and novel by Lloyd Alexander). One of the Kings of Anwnn, Arawn, gave a gift of otherworldly pigs to Pryderi, the Lord of Dyfed (some Welsh kingdom or other), and the little swine (hehe) took up residence in Wales as well.

- A Dyfed-dweller is not a type of faerie. It literally means someone from Dyfed. In this instance, it's an unknown Welsh faerie (probably a knocker or coblynau) drinking Cornish ale (Cornwall and Wales are _likethis _*crosses fingers to show closeness*). The cup is made out of tin because many Cornish and Welsh faeries are associated with tin mines.

- The ale is blue because you know how, in _The Shining _by Stephen King, the kid keeps seeing "REDRUM," which is vocalized as "red rum." (It's actually "Murder" backwards.) Well, one of my best friends (we call her Latte), whenever she hears "red rum, red rum," she would go, "Blue ale! Blue ale!" So, yeah.

- Clurichaun: very similar to the leprechaun, only they are often drunk and are always surly.

- For those who don't know, mead (unlike pretty much every other type of alcohol) isn't made with fruit or grain, but with honey. I don't know _**HOW**_, but it is made from honey (whereas wines, cordials, and a lot of jacks and brandies are made from fruit, and pretty much everything else is made with grain).


	15. White as Snow

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Challenge (With Prizes)_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title  
Mythological Being of the Day_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, here we are, on chapter fifteen! Not bad, since we were on chapter 9 back in June and it's only the end of July (that I'm writing this - it should be August 1st or 2nd for the update itself). Go us, huh? I couldn't have done this without all of you guys and your encouragement and love. Thank you so very much. Hope you enjoy!_

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**Chapter Fifteen**

**White as Snow**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Escape, Belongings Returned, and the Nature of the Human Mind**

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_That girl is too clever for my brother's good and my own peace of mind,_ Nuala thought as she followed her twin and his new human out of the king's Hall. _More than three hours, and they have yet to slip in their pretense of being in love, while still deflecting everyone's hints and barbs regarding matrimony. Perhaps Father made a mistake in trying to force Nuada's hand in this. Even if _he _capitulated, Dylan never would._

And there the pair of them were, whispering to each other and laughing at the foot of the stairs as if they really _were _as madly in love as the youths and maidens in romantic tales. But Nuala could feel the barest kiss of strained panic whisper through to her from her brother. And did Dylan's smile seem to be a bit forced?

In fact, Dylan's face felt like it would crack in half if she had to keep smiling for more than another sixty seconds and her leg felt like it was on fire. She'd had to keep that stupid smile plastered to her face for the last however many hours, but the nerves that her smile had kept hidden had been so brutal, even with Nuada's presence and silent assurance, that she hadn't really been able to eat much or drink more than a few sips of water. No one - except maybe Nuada - had noticed. They'd all been too engrossed in her face and the gossip now zipping around the court.

But there were still people around - including Nuala, whom the mortal had to keep reminding herself not to hurl profanity at. _James three, verses eight through ten,_ she reminded herself. _And chapter five, verse twelve. Don't say mean things to people._ But boy, she really wanted to, especially since the searing pain in her knee was, even if indirectly, Nuala's fault. But instead of giving way to her irritation and the pain lancing through her bad knee, she took Nuada by the hand, smiled at him in what she hoped was an inviting manner, and began tugging him gently up the stairs.

_I promise, _she thought, knowing he could hear her, _that I won't jump on you the moment we're alone. Your virtue is safe._ As she'd hoped, the crack about his virtue made the prince laugh, though it was obviously strained, even to her ears.

_Many of the court ladies would wonder about the safety of _your _virtue, since you sleep in _my _bed chamber,_ he replied, and could have kicked himself when he felt the faint tingle of old fear from her. Sometimes it was so strangely easy to jest with her. But he could not let his guard down around any human, not even Dylan. _Especially_ not Dylan, as it was so easy to bring her darkest memories to the surface with a word or a gesture. And he never knew when the memories of what Eamonn had managed to do to her in her mind would resurface. _Dylan... you _do _know you_ _are safe with me?_ The thought of her fearing him sent sick shame churning in his belly.

_Yes, I know. If I didn't feel safe with you, Nuada, do you think I'd be pretending to be all giggly and stupid-in-love with you? It's okay. _The mortal continued to climb the stairs, though her breathing labored and her movements were more than a little stiff. A wisp of concern murmured in the back of the prince's mind. Dylan confirmed his worry when she added, _Oh, boy, my leg hurts. Gotta take painkillers when I get up the stairs. But don't pick me up. I don't want it obvious that I've got a bad leg. You know, in case someone tries to attack me again._

_A sound precaution... but I suggest you soak that leg when you finally get around to bathing._ Although the thought of Dylan soaking in his bathing chamber - and the resulting image from that thought - made the "suggestion" come out surlier than he meant, and the human did not look at him or reply.

At the entryway to her room - _although it's technically Nuada's room, I suppose,_ she thought - Dylan opened the door and gestured for the prince to precede her. When Nuala moved to follow her twin, however, Dylan stepped between the princess and the door. The Elf prince turned to watch as his sister leveled her gaze at the human standing in her way.

"Look, Your Highness... I'm still kind of annoyed with you, not to mention tired. I feel like I've been run over by a bus, and I doubt Nuada feels much better. So could you leave us alone?"

The entire time she was speaking, Dylan had been slowly backing up to the entryway with deliberate steps. Nuada moved to lean against the chamber wall beside the doorway. Forcing the rigid ache from his spine while listening to the human trying to stand up to his sister and her not-inconsiderable wrath was all he wished to deal with right then. Especially as the mortal could take care of herself.

"We need a break from the dog and pony show, thanks," Dylan added. "Good night."

"I will _not_ leave you alone with my brother."

"You want me to marry the guy and you won't leave me alone with him? That's a little disturbing to my peace of mind." Finally level with Nuada inside the room, the mortal smiled with genuine affection edged by a little weariness around the edges. She still _liked_ Nuala. She just didn't want to deal with her right now. Hair pulling was considered rude, after all. "Good night, Princess," she said firmly.

"Dylan-"

But Dylan had already shut the door. Nuala stared at the closed door for a long moment in stunned silence. That silence was broken only by the click of someone - _probably that human,_ the princess thought with no little irritation - locking the door.

Well, if that was what the mortal wanted, then fine. She could deal with Nuada in the mood he was no doubt already in from the last few hours at court. He had never been comfortable with the fawning, the double-edged words, the subtle backstabbing. Having the crown prince among the courtiers for more than hour would have usually sent him to the salle afterwards for several hours of intense training to work off his temper, or perhaps he'd have gone for a ride in the royal forest. Keeping him in his suite while his temper sizzled was very unwise.

But if the human would not heed the princess, then on her own mortal head be it. Nuala turned and strode toward her own room, ignoring the twinge of concern in her own mind and the sizzle of temper in her brother's.

The seemingly-heedless human listened to Nuala's retreating footsteps before stepping slowly and carefully away from the door, pain burning through her leg. Tension slipped away from her like raindrops on glass as she threw off the silver-embroidered black mantle and unclasped the necklace whose presence had made Nuada look as if he'd been punched in the gut. She tossed the mantle, but laid the necklace carefully on the chest Nuala had pulled it from. Then she limped over to the bed, where Nuada himself lay spread-eagle, and slid (_or fell flat on my butt,_ she thought with a tinge of self-deprecation) to the floor so she could lean her back against the bedframe and stretch out her bad leg to ease some of the stiffness. From the corner of her eye she saw pale skin and silvery blond hair.

"If I'm too close," she mumbled, closing her eyes, "let me know. I'll move."

"You are acceptable where you are."

For a long moment they merely stayed silent, trying to relax after the mentally exhausting hours at court. Pain sizzled through Dylan's bad leg. She had forced herself for the first couple hours after the Samhain banquet not to limp, which had made agony radiate from her knee down to her foot and up to her hip. Nuada, probably sensing her pain, had begun to wrap things up. When the king protested that they stay longer, the prince had flat-out refused, claiming that his lady was tired, being only mortal and barely recovered from the ordeal of two nights prior. Although she'd felt stupid for relying on "the poor weak female" routine, by then her knee had been screaming at her. And even with the hideous pain, she had forced herself to limp up those beastly stairs without the benefit of being carried in strong, Elven arms. Now she began massaging the swollen knee, fighting back a hiss of pain as her fingers pressed deep into the muscle.

"Your leg pains you?" Nuada asked, then shut his eyes against the sudden surge of humiliation. Of _course _her leg pained her. What an inane question. Had she not been limping for the past hour? He knew Dylan, and knew she would never indulge in pretending to greater hurt than she felt.

"Meh, it's okay," she said softly, focusing on her task so she didn't cry. Tears burned her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "Just overused it a bit. I'll be okay in a minute."

Before she could blink, the prince was beside her on the floor, and had gently pushed her hands away, to replace them with his own. Unlike her own kneading and pressing, the effect of Nuada's touch was immediate. The soothing coolness of Elven magic spread through her bad leg, dampening the hot pain. Dylan wanted to say something, to protest that he didn't have to do this if he didn't want to; she knew the fair-haired warrior prince didn't like touching her. But if she said anything, he might actually stop, and then the smoldering pain would come back. So she just let her head fall back against the bed.

"I didn't know you could heal."

"It's not healing. A mere bit of soothing magic, only. I can ease the pain and reduce the swelling. It shames me that I did not see your discomfort earlier."

"Well, I _was_ trying to hide it," she reminded him. "Don't beat yourself up. So... any ideas on how to get out of this?"

"Not a one," the prince muttered. "My father has made it obvious that we'll incur his displeasure if we do not plight our troth and wed. I can think of no immediate escape. You?"

"Nope." Probably because she was so blasted tired. The last five or six hours had been some of the most mentally and emotionally exhausting she'd ever experienced. For a moment, she indulged in a tiny bit of self-pity. She didn't want to be here, in this beautiful and unfriendly palace. She wanted to be at home, curled up in her own bed, with one of her books. Maybe a blueberry muffin.

But, she reminded herself, that wasn't what Heavenly Father had in store for her right now. She was here to do something for someone. _Probably Nuada_, Dylan thought, but maybe it was someone else. And that was okay. If someone was helped in some way by her presence, that was great. Especially since the pain in her knee was almost gone. Sheer relief was so strong, she felt like singing. _He'd probably think I'd gone crazy if I did, though._ So she only said, "Thank you, my prince. That is so much better."

They locked eyes for a brief instant, feral amber against serene silvery blue. Then the sweet coolness of magic was gone, replaced by a not-unpleasant tingling, and Nuada was across the room, gazing dispassionately out one of the tall windows into the dark night. She felt his sudden absence almost like a blow, but the gentle warmth of the Spirit eased the sharp stab of sadness.

_Obviously I did something to annoy him. Fantastic. Or he just couldn't stand it for one more second. It sucks that I'm so gross to him. _Very carefully, using the bed as leverage, Dylan got to her feet. "I should probably get ready for bed. It's kind of late." _I wish I had my scriptures, _she added silently. _Feels weird not to be reading them every night. It's been... wow, three nights, now. I'm sorry, Heavenly Father._

"Someone has laid out night clothes for you."

"Oh?" Dylan said, distracted. She couldn't help but smile when she saw the pale blue smock, silver kirtle and blue hair ribbon laid out over a chair near the door to the bathing chamber, along with two towels, a pair of her own store-bought winter socks, and her fuzzy white bunny slippers. _Becan, I adore you._ Here were the clothes she liked to wear. She felt almost naked in the thin léine, and much preferred the layered medieval look of shift and over-gown. And the socks and slippers were the perfect security blanket in this strange, rather lonely castle.

Then she noticed there was something else beside the chair draped with clothing - an embroidered, blue canvas bag the size of a large purse. She actually squealed as she dropped down beside it and reached inside.

Nuada stared at the human who seemed to have suddenly taken leave of her senses. Dylan withdrew a _very _thick book with silver-edged pages, bound in blue leather, from the bag. Her name was stamped on the bottom right corner of the cover, but there was no title on the cover. She actually laid her cheek against the book and closed her eyes, as if cuddling against a small, furry animal.

"What _is_ that?"

"My scriptures!" Seemingly delighted, the mortal rifled through the bag and pulled out a thick binder, several brightly-colored pens, a tiny black book with gold-edged pages, and a pink spiral-bound booklet. "And everything else! My journal, my pens, my hymn book! Becan brought them, I know he did. Extra porridge for him tomorrow, seriously. With butter and honey. And cream!"

"Why do you need such things? You're not at your church now."

"Hmmm?" She mumbled distractedly, then snapped to attention. "I'm sorry, yes. No. I'm not at church, but I'm supposed to read my scriptures at least once a day, though I try for twice, since I have a better day if I read in the morning, and sleep better if I read at night. Our Prophet counsels us to study the scriptures daily, and Christ Himself said, 'Seek first to obtain my word.' You know how I am - the Lord commands, and I obey."

"You mean to say," the prince replied, obviously disbelieving, "that you read from that book twice a day, every day?" The tome was nearly as thick as the span of one of her hands. "For how long?"

"It depends on what I'm doing. For right now, I am slowly but surely making my way through the Book of Mormon, as part of my Virtue Project. So I'm trying for at least a chapter every time I read. Bare minimum is one verse, but sometimes the verses end in the middle of a sentence and then when I come back, I get confused for a minute. Although tonight I'm going to do a topical study on forgiveness on top of my Virtue reading."

Nuada blinked. Forgiveness? "Why?"

"Because I'm mad at your dad and your sister, and I don't know if they have a good reason for what they're doing or not," she said, opening the large book. Inside the front cover were several squares of thick cardstock with multicolored writing on them - one in pale blue, one in dark blue, one in red, one in pink, and one in black. He saw that the red one said in bold letters at the top, **DON'T GET ANGRY.** The card scribbled on with pale blue ink was labeled **SPEAK NO ILL**. The Elf warrior could not see the rest. "I try not to get mad before I know someone's motives. Whenever I get mad at someone and can't seem to get rid of it, I read up on forgiveness. It helps me stop being mad. Not always, and not always all at once, but it usually helps." Smiling ruefully now, Dylan added, "I need all the help I can get."

"You believe it's wrong... to be angry?" He scoffed. "Mortals. It seems consistency is beyond a human, even one such as you. Did not your Christian God get angry at times?"

Dylan looked up, studying the Elf prince for a long moment, as if considering. Then the mortal carefully replaced the little white cards and closed the leather tome. She put everything that she had pulled out back into the canvas bag, then sat down with her good knee drawn up to her chest and her arms folded around it, her chin propped on her knee. The human seemed deep in thought, and Nuada had to wonder if she were trying to think of a way to lie to him without lying, as she had done so skillfully in his father's hall. The idea sent a quick flare of rage through him, but it dispersed quickly. She had never lied to him before. When she did not wish to speak of something, she had always told him so, but never lied about it. And when Dylan finally spoke, he was surprised at her words.

"I have done a lot of bad things in my life. Called people names, yelled at people, thought mean things about them, and been unkind. It was mostly when I was young, but I've had lapses as an adult, too. And I've disrespected my parents, insulted the parents of my patients - and, sometimes, my colleagues. I've hurt the people I love - my parents, my siblings. I've done much that I shouldn't have.

"All of those things, or just one of them, has the power to separate me forever from my Heavenly Father if He chooses not to forgive me. But He _does _choose to forgive. And He doesn't smite me, or punish me for the things I've done. He laments for my rebelliousness, and when I am unhappy because of the natural consequences of my actions, He laments my unhappiness as well. He does not become angry for my transgressions, but He is saddened. And He always, _always_ forgives me. I will always owe Him a debt for that."

Now she shrugged, and Nuada saw that she did not resent this idea, but accepted it as plain fact. There was silence for a moment. The prince knew Dylan had more to say, but was again choosing her words with the utmost care.

"There is a story in the Bible, about a man who owed a whole lot of money to a great king - ten thousand talents. Never could he hope to repay the debt, even if he lived a hundred lifetimes. When this debtor went before the king he owed, begging for mercy, the king pardoned him of the debt and sent him on his way with kindness." At Nuada's scoff, she smiled. "Don't the Tuatha dé believe in mercy, Your Highness? Did not your father grant both of us mercy by unchaining you, rescinding the second half of your sentence, and not killing me for showing up uninvited?"

"Well..." Nuada began, and stopped when Dylan turned her head to the side and laid her cheek against her knee. Dark curls slipped over her cheek and part of her face, partially veiling her moon-washed blue eyes. It was such a familiar pose - had she not often sat like that during their talks before her little hearth, dining on sandwiches and other simple fare, before the human would pull out a book and begin to read?

The sight of it sent a strange feeling through the Elf's chest, and he fell silent. Very well. Merciful, King Balor may have been, if mercy consisted of veiled insults and attempting to strong-arm his own son into a union Nuada most certainly did not want. But what did that have to do with anger? Nothing that he could see.

"Continue," he commanded coldly.

_And hello again, Prince Prissy-Pants,_ Dylan thought, and smiled wider. Did he realize how ridiculous he made himself when he acted that way? It was almost adorable (not that she would ever tell him that). "So the king sent the debtor away with a pardon for his debt. That same debtor met with a man who owed him a sum - a sum much smaller than the one owed to the merciful lord; less than one talent. When the second debtor begged for mercy, the man who had so recently been pardoned refused. Instead of forgiving the second debtor, the pardoned man called forth the slavers and had the indebted man hauled away into bondage."

"But that is unfair!" Nuada burst out. "That is so like humans - to be selfish and cruel and-"

Dylan lifted her head and arched one eyebrow, fixing him with an expectant look. A brief pang struck Nuada hard in the belly. His mother had often given him a similar look when he was a child, when he had seen fit to interrupted _her_. Where had the mortal learned such a trick? Through gritted teeth, the prince made a disparaging gesture and growled, "Continue."

"When the merciful king heard what the pardoned man had done, he rescinded the man's pardon and he was enslaved as well. The end." Nuada opened his mouth, and Dylan said a bit loudly, "You're probably wondering what this has to do with anger. Allow me to elucidate. Why do we get angry?"

"Because... because others have angered us." Why was she asking such an obvious question?

"Nope. We get angry because others have done something that provokes us to anger."

"That's _precisely _what I-" Nuada began, and Dylan fixed him with that same look. Fighting the urge to snarl at her, he said icily, "Pray, continue. I am all attention."

"When someone does something that provokes us to anger, we may choose to let that anger come, or we may try to dispel it. It is possible to live without anger, or at least to give it minimal place in your life - not to suppress it, but simply not to feel it. It probably won't happen for me until I'm old and gray, if I manage it in this life at all, because I need lots of practice, but I believe it's possible. If it wasn't, God wouldn't command us not to get angry. He's not going to tell us to do something we simply cannot do. What kind of a just God would do that?" Another of those casual lifts of the shoulder in a half-shrug. "As long as we try our hardest, He'll help us with the rest. We'll mess up now and then, sure, but we just keep trying. Now, what this has to do with the story of the debtors. We, all people - human and fae - have messed up at some time or another, right? Nobody's perfect. True?"

The prince grudgingly admitted that this was so.

"We are the debtor who was pardoned. God forgives us the debt we owe through our transgressions. Do we have the right to hold others to their debts, which are so very small in comparison, when Heavenly Father has pardoned our own?"

"You mean..." He studied her for a long moment. "You believe it's evil to not forgive, since you've done worse and yet been forgiven?"

"Exactly." The smile she gave him would have been called dazzling if found on an Elf's countenance. "Which is why I try to love everyone, and be kind to everyone, and not get angry. I find it's a lot easier to just not get angry than it is to forgive once I've gotten mad. And even though I try really hard, I get angry a lot anyway, but not so much over the small things anymore."

_I still kinda want to punch Nuala and give King Jerk-Face a good kick in the shins, _she thought, frowning. _But that's my own problem and I am _not _supposed to feel that way. I'll get over it._

"What about murder?" Nuada demanded. "Have you done worse than murder?"

"I don't know." She waited while the prince stared at her, tried to speak, and found himself speechless. "I read a book once, called _the Five People You Meet in Heaven._ This man named Eddie dies, and he meets five people in Heaven. One of them is his wife - yay - but one of them is this other guy that he's never seen before. And this guy is there to meet him because when Eddie was a little boy, he or one of his friends threw a baseball and when they ran after it, it caused a car accident, and the man - who was driving that car - died. Eddie never even knew until that moment.

"So, have I done something like that? I don't know. I probably won't know until I die. But I might have. I hope and pray that I haven't, but I might have. And you might not consider it murder, but the pain and suffering that the man's wife and children must have felt at his death was probably no different than if he had been murdered. If I have caused a death in the same way as Eddie did, people suffered in the same way that man's family suffered as well. So who's to judge? It's up to God, not me.

"Which is not to say that crimes should not be punished, because they absolutely should. But they should be so according to a law, and the punishment should not be given in hatred or anger or thirst for vengeance, but out of justice. But my job is not to judge (although I mess up a lot with that). My job is to love, and to forgive, no matter who I'm loving and forgiving. "

"And... if you cannot? If you cannot simply forgive?"

"Then I pray for Heavenly Father to help me do so. He's always willing to help you do what He's asked. It takes effort on your part, but if you do your best, He is always willing to pick up the slack. And there's nothing I can't do with myself - no sin I can't overcome, no trial I can't face - as long as I always remember to pray. As long as we try, and I mean _really _try, that's what's important."

Nuada stepped away from the window and strode over to sit in front Dylan, to study her face. There was absolutely no deception in her gaze. Instead, there was calm acceptance, a firm resolve, and a quiet peace. But he could not simply accept this. No mortal believed this way. To forgive even such heinous crimes as murder? To believe that simple and impotent prayer could change a human's greedy, hollow heart? It could not be.

Yet he remembered that the mortal had prayed with equal fervor for mercy on Eamonn's behalf - although she had sounded as if she were swallowing broken glass - as she had for protection for Wink, his sister and father, and himself. And he recalled the unwavering faith that had been in her voice. But it simply could not _be_. No one could be like that, not really.

"Give me your hand," he commanded, steeling himself. It had been many centuries since he had attempted to touch a mortal mind more than casually. This communication employed between himself and the human during the endless hours at court had consisted of only the briefest mental contact. Here he would be immersing himself in a human mind and consciousness. Searching for a deeper understanding of her thoughts. The last time he had attempted such a thing, the contact had caused him to be violently ill for days afterward. What would it be like this time?

Dylan scanned the Elf prince's face. A whisper of fear threatened her with vicious half-thoughts, hissed that Nuada would hurt her this way, as Eamonn had. But one look at beautiful eyes like amber jewels silenced the whispers. This was Nuada. She had never known a more honorable man. She loved him just as fiercely as she loved John, because Nuada was her dearest friend in this life (even if his regard for her derived only from honor; Dylan was closer to Nuada than she was to anyone but her brother, sad as she could admit that was). Dylan knew Nuada would never, _ever_ hurt her. And so her hand was steady when she reached out and laid her palm against the Elf's.

He found her thoughts, and simply let them wash over him, stunned into silence.

There was desperation there, the desperation she felt to be perfect, to always forgive immediately and to love unconditionally no matter what the circumstances. She did not always manage it, and that was where such fierce desperation and desire came from - the desperate need to _always _manage it. Not because she wanted to be perfect out of pride, but because being imperfect was morally abhorrent to her. The human truly believed that, unless she tried with all her strength to forgive all things and to love all creatures, she was not worthy of the forgiveness and love that she felt she needed from her God. Not that perfection was required. No, it was only the sincere pursuit of perfection that was needed. And it was not simply a feeling of needing divine approval. Nuada saw that Dylan's soul longed not for the love of men or other earthly creatures, but truly needed love from the divine. The fact that she was so certain God even existed, much less cared about a single human to the extent that she believed, astonished him.

And he found memories of Dylan praying, as a girl and as a grown woman. But not praying for the trash and shallow, material things he had seen many mortals request (though the brief memory-flash of her praying for a kitten made him smile). She prayed instead for other things.

_Heavenly Father, please instill in me a deeper love of hard work... bless me with alertness while I study... help me to forgive more readily... please give me the strength to stand against their lies and their drugs... bless me that I might remember to speak kindly... watch over John, since I can't... help him keep the creek clean while I'm gone... help me to eschew my anger... my God, bless me with an open heart... please bless that I may be more useful to Thee in some way, Kind Father... please help my love of my Savior to grow ever stronger... Heavenly Father, bless me that virtue may garnish my every thought, that I might walk in Thy holy ways..._

He easily detected pieces of darkness in the mortal's mind - the painful soul wounds of her past, mostly, though there was selfishness, anger, and laziness that surprised him - but they were small, though Nuada coul see they put strain on her mind. And to his mental eyes it seemed as if they were caged by an odd and fragile umber glow he could not bring himself to touch and the white light of her desire to be loving and kind, her refusal to let her grief and sorrow affect her happiness in life, and the determination to surpass the standards set before her by her Christian God. There was a strange and fierce desperation, also, to forget all the dark things of her life and live in the moment in her efforts to surpass those standards. He had expected her heart to be, like most humans, nearly black and cold with the evil that festered inside them. Perhaps not quite as dark, since she struggled so to suppress that part of herself. But instead, Dylan's mortal heart was nearly as white and pure as fresh-fallen snow, and as warm as spring sunlight.

And there was a presence inside her, separate from her, that seemed to shine like a star. It seemed to soothe every sadness that Nuada had ever felt, to ease every grief, simply by saying to him in words he could barely hear, _I am with you._

A careful touch against his cheek pulled him out of the mental contact. Dylan's fingers brushed against his cheek, and came away wet. He had been weeping.

"You okay?" Dylan whispered. Her voice was hoarse and thick with some emotion Nuada could not name, and did not want to. But the concern and affection in that voice seemed to pierce him to his soul. It was as if he saw her with new eyes. "You look a little pale. You're not going to throw up or faint or something, are you?"

"No... no." The Elf prince slowly rose to his feet, feeling oddly unsure of himself. "I am... well enough." He started to walk to the door. He _had _to get out of this room, get away from her so he could think. He could not _think _with those liquid eyes like rain-swept oceans watching him so apprehensively. Yet his legs felt weak. Somehow he doubted he could make it down the corridor. Instead he sank down upon the bed. "You should go and..." The prince gestured vaguely to the bathing chamber.

"A-all right," she said, and slowly stood up, careful of the minor stiffness in her leg. Dylan gathered up the clothes and towels and was about to go into the bathing chamber when she stopped and turned to the prince. She took a few hesitant steps toward him. "Nuada... I'm sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to."

_Translation, _he realized. _She is sorry I find her thoughts so repulsive. She tries to be perfect. She would be, if she could. Forgive her, that she is not. That is what she is asking me._ It almost made him feel like a monster. And there was such worry and self-reproach in those silvery eyes.

Hardly knowing what he did, he reached out and brushed his knuckles down the length of one of the thick scars slashing down her cheek. Her skin was warm, and remarkably soft to the touch. He let his knuckles whisper ever so slowly along her jaw, reluctant to end the contact, but finally allowed his hand to fall. "You've done nothing wrong, Dylan. You..." _You never do anything wrong. _But he would not - _could _not - say that.

"Okay," she whispered, smiling now - _always smiling,_ he thought, _always trying to smile_ - and left the room. He felt the absence of her immediately, even though she was only on the other side of the door. Nuada listened carefully for the tiny splashes of water that meant she had slipped into the bath. When they came, so came soft singing. Slightly out of tune. Not charming or endearing at all, as many said of their loved ones who could not seem to carry a simple melody. But the feeling in the words, the love and the plea, reminded him of what Ariel, the sylph who helped keep his sanctuary useable, had said all those months ago. That Dylan sang the way a child sang, full of love and joy.

_"Abide with me, t'is eventide;  
The day is past and gone._  
_The shadows of the evening fall;_  
_The night is coming on._

_"Within my heart, a welcome guest;_  
_Within my home abide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me;_  
_Behold, t'is eventide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me;_  
_Behold, t'is eventide..."_

Dylan lay in the tub, letting the water lap gently at her throat and jaw as she sang. Singing always helped to settle her, even though she wasn't very good at it. Tonight she desperately needed settling. The touch of Nuada's knuckles gently ghosting over her cheek filled her mind as she vainly attempted to focus on the words to the hymn. Why had he done that? It had been almost an exact repeat of the caress from the king's Hall (until the touch against her jaw, she reminded herself, and couldn't keep from tracing the still-tingling path Nuada's touch had taken). She'd asked him in the great hall not to do it again... but there had been a difference in that first touch and this one. Not just the extent of the caress, either. Something subtle. Unlike the first time, his touch hadn't frightened her. It had sent her heart racing and her blood humming.

_That's ridiculous! I can _not _be attracted to Nuada, _Dylan thought with no little desperation. She sank under the water as heat flooded her face. _I can't! He _hates _humans. If he thinks I'm attracted to him, he'll be really mad. Not to mention completely grossed out. And besides, attraction leads to crushes, and sometimes crushes lead to love. Love is bad. In this case, romantic love is_ very _bad. I love Nuada as a friend (unfortunately, a hot friend, but a friend_ only). _It can't become anything else. So snap out of it._ _I will _not _be attracted to Nuada._

Well, there was nothing to worry about. If she could force herself not to be angry and not to hate (sometimes), if she could alter her own feelings so that she loved even those who tried to hurt her and forgave them (maybe), then she could keep herself from being attracted to someone (please, yes). And besides, it might not have even been attraction. The scars on her face were incredibly sensitive. She might have just had a totally reflexive reaction. Sort of how John always shivered when someone breathed on the back of his neck. Even guys had that effect on him, and her twin was as straight as a flag pole on a clear day (seeing as how, on incredibly windy days, most upright pole-objects struggled to stay straight and often bent beneath the wind).

_I'm okay, _she told herself. _I just can't let him do that to me anymore. I'll tell him in the morning - no more cheek grazing. It makes me too shivery. We'll figure something else out to show our... attraction or whatever. _Calmer now, Dylan ducked under the water to wet her hair. Suspended in liquid weightlessness, just enjoying the beauty of being in the water, she suddenly realized that Nuada had said he would tell her something interesting after their time in the great hall. _He probably forgot, _Dylan thought, surfacing for air. _I'll ask him in the morning._

She slid back into the water once more.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _what was Nuada gonna tell her? Tell me what you think he was going to say in your review (wheedle, wheedle). But seriously, what do you guys think he was going to say? And who wanted Dylan and Nuada to kiss in this final part? Or did the cheek-touch work better? Or should there have been something totally different? If you honestly feel they should have ripped each others' clothes off and done the mattress mambo, go ahead and tell me, but I have to say I don't agree. But if that's how you feel, I'd like to know. Of course, if you tell me that, you also have to tell me what the reaction would have been to such an action... oooh! I gots an idea! Love you guys so much for all the brain-teasers and idea-bringers! Hugs for all of you! So, anyway, who's enjoying this amazing awesomeness so far? We're still on a slow simmer, but I'm working on it. Don't give up on me. Love to you all._

_And about the anger thing - I'm not trying to preach to you guys. I personally think forgiveness, anger management, and mercy are things Nuada needs to learn himself, as well as things he needs to see humans are capable of. While I personally try to refrain from getting anger, people have freewill. They can ignore the anger thing or not (I promise I'm not making it up that it's in the Bible, though). But whatever. _

_But think how happy everyone would be if no one got angry. Of course, some people like getting angry. In which case they'd be depressed. Ah, utopia/dystopia. How I abhor thee. Whatevs. Ciao!_

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_**Challenge! Muahahaha:**_ _for all of you guys who love me and _Once Upon a Time, _I've got a challenge for you. __**If you feel that the final scene could have ended differently **__(not _should _have, just could have)__**, I want to know how.**_ _What would have happened? Would they have kissed? Would they have started making out and then Nuada would be like, "I can't, it's dishonorable," and run away? Or Dylan would have been like "Law of Chastity" and hid in the bathroom? Maybe Nuada started wondering about kissing Dylan, realized with horror what he was thinking, and went to work off his thoughts in the salle. Does he go to bed after that (and have an unfortunate dream)? Take a cold shower (either before and/or after going to sleep and having said dream)? Go back to Dylan's room and confess his undying passion (and maybe love) for her? What happens? I totally want to see what you guys come up with. Please indulge me. And I'll make it easy for you. __**No word limit.**_ _It can be as long or as short as you want. And __**I will give an extra chapter for each "entry" I get,**_ _unless there's gratuitous sex or masturbation or cussing in there (or if it totally doesn't make sense, like Nuada runs to Wink and begs him to hit him over the head with a mallet or something. Though Nuada going out and getting drunk would be hilarious, especially if it only made the thoughts about Dylan worse, hehehe). So yeah - gimme, gimme, gimme! Bye-bye._

_Oh, but one thing. I know Nuada's in love with Nuala. I know. I get that. But please don't write me something where he starts fantasizing about Dylan and runs to Nuala to get laid so he can "get the filthy human out of his head." That would depress me, because I wouldn't be able to read it. So... yeah. Just a heads up._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _The thing I love about fairy tales is the "(Noun) as (adjective) as (noun)" thing. You guys are probably like, "What?" Well, there's this... it's almost a poem (I stuck the lines together into one), but I didn't write the lines themselves, that goes:_

_Skin as white as snow  
Hair as black as night  
Lips as red as blood  
Eyes as bright as sunlight  
Heart as dark as sin  
Sleep as heavy as death  
Truth as sharp as bone  
Love as sharp as glass_

_And that's what I mean. That's what I love about fairy tales: the noun-adjective-noun thing. Anyway, this chapter is "White as Snow," which is the name of Terri Windling's essay in the beginning of the anthology _Snow White, Blood Red_. Her essay, "White as Snow," is about the fantasy aspect of fairy tales, and Ellen Datlow's, "Red as Blood," is about the horror aspect. They're great essays and anyone who loves fairy tales should read them._

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_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _The sandman! Wait, you say. We know about him already. Yeah, well, you might learn something new. At least, I hope you do. I love getting to teach you guys new things. Anyway, the Sandman is a mythical character in Western folklore who brings good dreams by sprinkling magical sand onto the eyes of children while they sleep at night. He is said to sprinkle sand or dust on or into the eyes of the child at night to bring on dreams and sleep. The grit or "sleep" in one's eyes upon waking is supposed to be the result of the Sandman's work the previous evening. _

_According to Danish folklorist and storyteller Hans Christian Anderson, the sandman always walked in his socks so as not to be heard. The sandman puts children to sleep because he wants to tell them stories, but they can only hear the stories if they are still and quiet (which apparently children never are unless asleep). His coat is made of spider silk and changes colors, and he is said to carry two umbrellas: a white one with pictures on it to give dreams, and a black one to make sleep so heavy you don't dream at all. _

_On the flip-side, ETA Hoffman (the guy who wrote _the Nutcracker_) wrote a short story called "Der Sandmann," which showed how sinister such a character could be made. According to the protagonist's nurse, the sandman threw sand in the eyes of children who wouldn't sleep, with the result of those eyes falling out and being collected by the Sandman, who then takes the eyes to his iron nest on the moon, and uses them to feed his children. The protagonist of the story grows to associate this nightmarish creature with the genuinely sinister figure of his father's associate, Coppelius._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- In _the New Testament_, _James_ 3:8-10 and 5:12 talk about how unkind and profane things are not supposed to come out of your mouth. Yeah, I know, lots of Christian people don't abide by that. But just think if everyone who professed to be Christian actually acted that way, how nice the world would be. =)

- The "tiny black book with gold-edged pages" is Dylan's miniature hymn book. My husband and I have the standard book, which is green and about 8 or so inches tall. The miniature ones are about half that tall, bound in leather, with gilt pages. They come in blue (with silver pages) or red or black (with gold pages). Very handy things to have, those mini hymn books.

- The "pink, spiral-bound booklet" is the new Young Women's Personal Progress Book.

- The quote Dylan says about "seek first to obtain my word" is in _the Doctrine and Covenants _(LDS Scripture).

- The LDS Church doesn't sell/handout those little cards Dylan has. She made them herself. The pale blue one says "Speak No Ill," the dark blue one says, "The Covenant of Parenthood," the red one says "Don't Get Angry," the pink one says, "Faith," and the black one says "Forgiveness." For those who do Bible study, they're great little reference doo-dads. Underneath the main title are scripture references relevant to each topic in color-coded ink.

- About the being wrong to get angry thing. In the Bible, there are tons of admonishments telling people not to be angry. I have a list (Psalms 37:8, Ecclesiastes 7:9, Proverbs 14:29, James 1:19-20, Ephesians 4:31, Proverbs 19:19, Thessalonians 5:9, Proverbs 27:4, Proverbs 16:32). And that's just the Bible. There's also stuff in the Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants, not to mention our Church magazines.

- The story in the Bible about the merciful lord and the unmerciful debtor: it's in Matthew 18, somewhere around verses 23-24. In case anyone wants to look that story up. Actually, the Sunday school class I'm teaching (8 and 9 year olds), we're in Matthew 25 as I'm writing this author's note (today, actually, we're set for Matt. 25:14 or so, the parable of the talents! Fun!).

- The song playing in Dylan's head when Nuada reads her mind is a Seminary song called "I Will Forgive." I don't know who it's by, though. But it's cool. You can download it off the Church website (LDS dot org).

- The song Dylan is singing in the bath tub is Hymn No. 165, "Abide With Me, T'is Eventide." Even if you're not religious, I sincerely recommend looking up "Abide With Me EFY 2004" on Youtube for a simply stunning rendition of the hymn. It's just a beautiful song. I love the songs with minor chords and notes. They're always so pretty.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

_(Lacking more than 5 items to put on this list, the reading list today involves the work of Hans Christian Anderson and works based on his stories, as well as "Bluebeard" and any works based on that story)_

- The Bible (you guys knew I was gonna say that)  
- "The Bloody Chamber" by Angela Carter (short story based on "Bluebeard" in the anthology _the Bloody Chamber_, by the mistress of horror)  
- _The Blue Mirror_ by Kathe Koja (a modern novella based on "Bluebeard;" mentioned here in honor of _Fitcher's Brides; _a very good book)  
- "Bones" by Francesca Lia Block (from her anthology _the Rose and the Beast;_ a modern adaptation of "Bluebeard," where the MC saves herself)  
- The Book of Matthew (I believe that parable is in chapter 13... but I could be wrong)

- Don Bluth's _Thumbelina_ (love this movie! "You're sure to do impossible things if you follow your heart!")

- _Fitcher's Brides_ by Gregory Frost (a 1700s/1800s novel based on the story "Bluebeard")

- "Ivory Bones" by Susan Wade (I believe; from the anthology _Silver Birch, Blood Moon_, I think, and FUH-REAKY retelling of "Thumbelina")

- _Missing Angel Juan_ by Francesca Lia Block (book 5 of _the Weetzie Bat Books_; draws on themes from "Bluebeard" and "Hansel and Gretel")

- "No Bigger Than Your Thumb" by Joyce Carol Oats (I think; I'm sorry I'm not certain, but I can't remember! Argh! I'm a walking library catalogue, I get mixed up sometimes. Anyway, freaky version of the story. Should totally read it.)

- "Persimmon" (I don't know who it's by - might be Gregory Frost - but it's a retelling of "Thumbelina" found in _Snow White, Blood Red_)

- "Sparks" by Gregory Frost (short story based on "the Tinder Box;" found in one of Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's anthologies)

- "Thumbelina" by Hans Christian Anderson  
- "The Tinder Box" by Hans Christian Anderson  
- "Tiny" by Francesca Lia Block (her version of "Thumbelina" from _the Rose and the Beast_; very interesting version of the story)

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"the Tinderbox," by Hans Christian Anderson. One of my favorite fairy tales as a little girl. Found in Andrew Lang's _Yellow Fairy Book_. Gregory Frost, author of _Fitcher's Brides_, wrote a short story based on this story called "Sparks."_

_The story opens with a soldier climbing into a hollow tree to retrieve a magic tinderbox at the behest of a witch. In the tree, he finds three chambers filled with precious coins guarded by three monstrous dogs. He fills his pockets with money, finds the tinderbox, and returns to the witch. When she demands the tinderbox without giving a reason, the soldier lops off her head with his sword._

_In the following scene, the soldier enters a large city and buys himself splendid clothing. He makes many friends, and lives in a magnificent apartment. He learns of a princess kept in a tower after a prophecy foretold her marriage to a common soldier; his interest is piqued and he wants to see her but realizes his whim cannot be satisfied. Eventually, the soldier's money is depleted and he is forced to live in a dark attic. He strikes the tinderbox to light the room, and one of the dogs appears before him. The soldier then discovers he can summon all three dogs and order them to bring him money from their subterrarean dwelling. Again, he lives splendidly._

_One night, he recalls the story of the princess in the locked tower, and desires to see her. He strikes the tinderbox and sends one of the dogs to bring her to his apartment. The soldier is overwhelmed with her beauty, kisses her and orders the dog to return her to the tower. The following morning, the princess tells her parents she has had a strange dream and relates the night's adventure. The royal couple then watch her closely. When the princess is carried away again, they unsuccessfully use a trail of flour and chalk marks on neighborhood doors to find where she spends her nights. Eventually, her whereabouts are discovered and the soldier is clapped in prison and sentenced to death._

_On the day of execution, the soldier sends a boy for his tinderbox, and, at the scaffold, asks to have a last smoke. He then strikes the tinderbox and the three monstrous dogs appear. They toss the judge and the councilors, the King and Queen into the air. All are dashed to pieces when they fall to earth. The soldier and the princess are united, and the dogs join the wedding feast._

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_**The Words to "Abide With Me, T'is Eventide"**_

_Abide with me, t'is eventide; The day is past is gone.  
The shadows of the evening fall; The night is coming on._

_Within my heart, a welcome guest; Within my home abide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold, t'is eventide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold, t'is eventide._

_Abide with me, t'is eventide; Thy walk today with me,_  
_Has made my heart within me burn As I communed with Thee._

_Thy earnest words have filled my soul And kept me near Thy side;_  
_O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold, t'is eventide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold, t'is eventide._

_Abide with me, t'is eventide And long will be the night_  
_If I cannot commune with Thee Nor find in Thee my light._

_The darkness of the world I fear Would in my home abide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold, t'is eventide._  
_O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold, t'is eventide._


	16. In the Dark of the Night

_**Author's Note: **__Okay, this is a request, but not for me! __**TheBlackPages**_ _has this cool __**fanfic called "Waiting for the World to Fall."**_ _She needs a beta. I can't guarantee being able to do it because of life (job, bills, husband, ant infestation, church callings, housekeeping). Would anyone be willing to beta for her? __**TheBlackPages has a good thing going, but she needs a beta.**_ _Would anyone be willing?_

_**Warning:**_ _okay, the next 2 chapters (16-17) are a bit slow. I wanted a bit of breathing space for relationship development because in chapter 19, my robot started yelling, "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" So between chapter 18 to about... 23, there's no slow, take-a-breath, relax for a minute bits. There are some slow-__**er **__bits, but I wanted to give everyone a moment to breathe. So, yeah. __**And though Dylan has some flashbacks here, the focus is supposed to be more on what's happening to Nuada and how she feels about that than what's happening to her.**_

_Just an fyi, you guys aren't obligated to review. I won't be angry or upset or hurt if you don't. Don't think just because I ask that I expect you to do so. I am a shameless attention slut, yes. I didn't get enough love as a child. But if you guys don't want to review, you don't have to. I just want you to know that._

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**Chapter Sixteen**

**In the Dark of the Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Memories in the Dark, Tears in Shadow, Battle and Bloodlust, a Whisper of Failure**

.

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Screaming terror hurled her back into wakefulness with a choked gasp. Dylan bolted upright in bed, her fist stuffed in her mouth to silence the shriek choking the breath from her. Icy sweat plastered her hair to her face and neck. Cold fear coiled sickeningly in her stomach. Tears burned and memory whispered cruel reminders of waking nightmares long past. She looked around, fighting panic. Where... how did... where was she? This wasn't her room. This wasn't her cottage! Where _was _she?

Then recollections of the evening, and the two days prior, slammed into her mind and she fought a sudden despair tightening around her chest. Court, the king, the pretense at love, and the melding of thoughts while alone in the dimly-lit bedroom. Escaping to the bath. Returning to find Nuada gone. Dressing for the night and going to bed. Simple. Easy. Everything was all right.

And yet, somehow, it wasn't.

A _crack_ of thunder rattled the windows. She gasped as another crashing _boom_ reverberated through the cold bedchamber. Her heart slammed hard against her sternum, until she thought the bones were bruising under the onslaught.

_I'm okay, _Dylan told herself, pushing sweat-stringy hair out of her face. She tried to pretend she didn't see the way her hand shook like a leaf in a gale. _It's okay. I'm in Findias. I remember. I'm safe. It's okay._

But every deep shadow was a nightmare monster skulking through the room. Every flash of lightning was a reflection of burning silver eyes lit with evil promise. Every hiss and crackle of the low fire in the hearth was a whisper, a hushed voice murmuring brutal fantasies as Elven fingers bit deep into her skin and Elven cruelty burned inside her skull. The room breathed the name of her worst nightmares: _Eamonn. Eamonn..._

Flashes of darkly-dreamt torments burned against the back of her tightly shut eyelids as sounds assaulted her: Eamonn grinning over her, her blood on his pale lips and teeth; the hollow _snap_ of her arm breaking in his grip; her own thin scream as the dark Elf pressed red-hot iron to her bare skin; her lungs struggling for air as Eamonn held his hand over her face and said, "Watch the light fade from her eyes, Silverlance."

And the hell-thing that filled her with sick horror: Nuada, struggling to rise despite the spiked iron shackles dragging him down; blood matted his hair, streaked down his bare chest; the men who laughed as Eamonn did everything in his power to destroy her beat the courageous prince who fought to reach her, who tried in vain to save her. The sight of the Elven warrior dragging himself onward with bleeding hands, trembling with the effort to keep coming, made her heart hurt. Made tears burn at the backs of her eyes. They seared her cheeks as they fell.

_Stop! _She pleaded to the phantom images branded in her mind. _Nuada, stop! Please... I don't want to see anymore. Please..._ But she did see. Eyes closed, eyes open, there was nothing she could do to stop herself from seeing and feeling what Eamonn had planted in her brain -

_- Hands bruising, breaking her  
No, only a dream_  
_Not real, not real!_  
_Eamonn's mouth hard and biting_  
_She screams when he breaks her fingers_  
_The sobbing, pleading_  
_Not her voice_  
_Nuada_  
_Blows thudding against his bare flesh_  
_Oh, Nuada, Nuada, don't..._  
_Nuada struggling to reach her_  
_Can barely stand, blood dripping_  
_Horrified golden eyes locked on hers as she dies_  
_Over and over and over again_  
_Just a dream! Nightmare_  
_Not real a trick not real_  
_Please, please don't hurt him_  
_Eamonn, don't, _please -

_Help me, _she thought frantically, clinging to the present with all the desperation of a trapped animal. Hysteria burned in her stomach. Terror screamed under her skin. She tried to call out, but her voice was hollow and broken by the fear and soul-tearing grief dripping down her spine like the rain smashing against the windows and running like blood.

_John. Help me, John. Where are you? I need you, help me, I can't... _But her twin brother was in the human world, far from Faerie. As far from her as the moon. _John, I'm scared... _Trapped without him in the dark, she shivered and fought to suppress the fear. There had to be someone, someone who would come and...

_Nuada! Nuada, help. Please... Nuada..._

Her head felt like it was splitting apart. Her chest ached, as if someone had literally punched a hole through her ribs. Dry lips parted and she struggled to call out, to break the darkness. Shadows throttled her into silence. Phantom pain stole the breath from her lungs. A dark poison festered inside her mind, dragging her back into memory, into fear and the mist of dark dreams. Always it was the same: Nuada battered, bleeding, and broken on the icy stone floor. Still struggling. Still fighting. Molten bronze eyes locked on her face every time she died in dreams.

The shadows breathed around her.

_Heavenly Father, _she prayed, desperation choking her. _Help me, please. I'm scared. I don't know what to do. _Panic and icy fear skittered up and down her spine like venomous spiders. _There's something here, something trying to get me._

It was ridiculous, but somehow Dylan knew the living shadows of the room held their breath, waiting for her to move, to make the mistake of sliding out of the safety of her bed. Then they would reach out with scaly claws and drag her into darkness. It was Samhain night, the night when the veil between all the various realms grew thin as breath. The night when the dark things of Faerie waxed strong in their tenebrous powers.

_Help, _Dylan tried to cry. Childlike fear throttled her into silence. _Help me. I can't..._ Was this only the after-effects of a bad dream? Or was it something worse, some malevolent shadowed thing oozing across the floor toward her, intent on the kill? Did some dark thing lurk in the blackness?

_In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, _Dylan prayed, trying to grasp at even a shred of anger to fuel her dwindling courage, _if any devils lurk here, any evil things, I command you to depart!_

But there were no devils to be cast out. No ghosts to be bound by the power of the Star Kindler. No dark forces commanded by the Adversary to be fought. Only the echoes of nightmare, and her fear of the leering, threatening dark.

_Call out,_ a voice breathed against her heart. A tiny ember of courage bloomed inside her. _I am with you. Call out._

Digging her nails into her palms, she sucked in a deep breath. Warmth flared in her chest, and she managed to choke out, "B-Becan!" She had to take another breath as an irrational tide of horror swamped her. But the voice in her heart, the prompting of the Spirit, helped her whisper, "H-help... Nuada..."

The door creaked open. A thin shaft of torchlight sliced through the dark. Then the door closed again with a muffled _thump_. The saliva dried in Dylan's mouth. Had someone come into her room? Who...?

_Eamonn._ Eamonn, coming in the dark to finish it all, to take her and break her to pieces, all for the sake of destroying Nuada's spirit -

_- Teeth tearing into her wrist  
Blood sheeting down an arm twisted and broken_  
_Chains rattling,_ _Nuada swearing_  
_The dark Elf whispering in her ear, _Tá tú a chroí. Anois, beidh mé sos sé i bpíosaí.  
_You are his heart. Now I shall break it into pieces.  
Dizziness and pain_  
_Fire throbbing where his teeth tore_  
_Death like ice at the back of her bruised, swollen throat_  
_And Nuada shouting,_  
_Eamonn! Don't, I beg you._  
_Pleading for the dark Elf to spare her_  
Impigh mé leat... dean trócaire. Eamonn!  
_Eamonn laughing as the prince begs him to have mercy  
Tears for Nuada's pain sting her eyes_  
_She would die, and he would suffer_  
_Nuada... -_

With a choked cry, she threw back the thick covers and swung her legs to the floor. Needles of ice seemed to stab her feet through her socks. Still limping a little from the slight stiffness in her bad leg, she scrambled to the fireplace and coaxed the dying embers into life. Light and heat washed over her, vainly trying to push away the nightmares and the darkness. Dylan hunched on the floor, as close to the fire as she dared sit, until the heat almost seared her skin. The sudden flare of firelight told her that no one lurked in her room. Nothing waited to hurt her. She was completely alone.

After a long, tense moment where she dug her nails into her palms and sank her teeth into her bottom lip... after that, the tears came. Dylan buried her face in her hands and wept.

**.**

Nuada raced down an endless corridor, boots pounding against smooth flagstones. No doors, no windows, no tapestries or branching hallways. In the distance he heard thunder crash, the staccato percussion of rain. He smelled human blood, sharp and metallic. The stench of slaughter. The floor was stained with ever-widening puddles of crimson.

Goblin bronze sang as a Fir Bholg gladius arced down, intent of cleaving flesh. Only the glint of torchlight on metal from the corner of Nuada's eye warned him. The prince dodged and brought up his own blade to block the heavy sword. Silver clashed against bronze. The impact shivered through Nuada's arms as he stared into familiar, sky blue eyes. Sreng. How had he escaped the Butcher Guards?

"I'll be takin' the Sword back soon, Silverlance," the Fir Bholg man said, and chuckled. He pressed with the troll-like strength of the Sons of Dela against the Elven warrior's own strength. It took everything Nuada had to hold the other fae warrior at bay. Without the Spear of Light or the Sword of Victory, the strength of Bethmooran Elves was barely two-thirds that of the Elves of Eirc. Nuada could feel his strength wavering beneath Sreng's even as the prince came to a swift decision.

Lunging to the right, Nuada dodged the bronze blade and thrust his sword deep into Sreng's foot. Blood spurted. The other warrior roared in pain and swung his gladius at the prince. The feral-eyed warrior rolled backward, evading the potentially lethal slice. With a howl, Sreng lurched toward Nuada, face a mask of fury. Nuada brought up his sword as the Fir Bholg lunged for him.

Elven silver bit deep into the other fighter's side. He staggered. Turned to face the bronze-eyed Elven prince who wasn't even sweating yet. The hatred in those sky-blue eyes brought a smirk to Nuada's lips. Attacking in anger nearly always resulted in injury or death. Battles were won with cool heads.

"Smile while you can, Silverlance. She'll pay for it," the Elf of Eirc snarled. Nuada's expression turned stony. Crimson lanced like tiny bolts of lightning through molten bronze eyes when Sreng added, "Your little human tramp. Lord Eamonn will exact retribution for all your sins from her fragile mortal flesh."

With a voice like the arctic wind, his blood burning as it pulsed through him, Nuada demanded, "Where is she?"

Sreng scoffed. "Hardly matters now. If she's still alive... well, she soon won't be." The Fir Bholg launched himself at the Elven prince and brought the gladius down with all the rage he could muster. Nuada barely managed to block the strike this time. No longer did Sreng attempt to prevent injury to himself. He slammed his broad-bladed sword down again and again.

The shock of the blows threatened to numb the prince's arms as he blocked with his own sword. The attacks were so reckless and swift he had no time to dodge. No time to even think of countering. Madness fueled by rage smoldered deep in the other warrior's eyes as he battered at the prince.

_I don't have time for this, _Nuada thought as pain burned through his chest. Blasted poison. He still wasn't recovered enough. _I must move past this weakness and kill him quickly. Dylan is in danger. _Was she with Eamonn now? Was the dark Elf hurting her?

"Eamonn said that once he finishes with your whore, I can be the one to kill her," Sreng panted, grinning at the prince. "Cut the tart into little bloody pieces, I will, and send them to you in a box. Will you weep then, traitor? Weep for the one you sold out your people for? The way you wept for your mother?"

Bronze eyes flashed scarlet. Sreng only laughed. Black hatred thrummed in Nuada's blood.

The Elf of Eirc made a drastic mistake when he stepped too close to the Elven prince. Nuada brought his sword up to block Sreng's attack even as he brought his heel down on the other fighter's injured foot. The Fir Bholg roared in agony and stumbled. A swift blow of sword hilt to elbow numbed the red-haired Elf's arm and forced him to drop his gladius. It clattered to the floor.

Nuada plunged his sword deep into the warrior's belly.

Blood fountained from the wound, running in golden streams down the silver blade. Blue eyes locked with eyes of Bethmooran gold. Nuada twisted his sword and drove it deep. Deeper. Sreng cried out against the fresh pain. Blood bubbled between his slack lips as he fell to his knees.

"How dare you speak to me this way? I don't weep for humans," Nuada said coldly. "But be sure I'll punish _any_ who attempt to harm what's mine." The Elven prince wrenched out the sword and swung. Silver arced across Sreng's throat. His head toppled from his shoulders with a final spurt of dark lifeblood.

Somewhere ahead Nuada heard a sharp, all-too-human scream. He stepped around Sreng's corpse and ran down the corridor.

At the end of the hall was a door, the handle smeared with red. On the floor in front of it lay the black jewel he'd given Nuala so many centuries ago. Dylan had worn it only that night. _A Ghrá_, it said. The endearment was carved deep into the silver. Now the Elven prince knelt and lifted the silver necklace, letting the links slip through his spread fingers. They left thin red lines against his pale skin. When he saw that blood, smelled the iron of it and knew it to be mortal, he knew a moment of true fear. Then he heard the laughter - Eamonn's laughter - and hatred burned like hellfire to mingle with that fear.

Nuada wrenched open the door and froze. Eamonn lounged against Nuada's bed, trews hanging loose around his hips, stripped to the waist. His dark hair spilled over shoulders and chest smeared with human blood. At his feet, black-bruised eyes closed as if she slept, lay Dylan. Bruised. Broken. The too-pale flesh streaked scarlet with blood. Far too still. She didn't breathe or stir. Only lay silent and unmoving on the floor.

Nuada's bloodstained sword fell to the ground with a clatter that drove the breath from his chest.

"_Cosúil le mil meá agus súatha talún, __Airgetlámh_. Like honeyed mead and strawberries, Silverlance." The dark-haired Elf ran a finger over his bottom lip, licked it obscenely as if savoring the last vestiges of a rare delicacy. Something icy settled around Nuada's heart. "Such sweet kisses. Exquisite, even for a human."

"You killed her," he said dully. A strange fog numbed his thoughts, his mind. There was nothing to hold onto but dull confusion. "You _killed _her."

"Eventually." Sickening, the smile that stretched Eamonn's lips. "But I had _such_ fun with her first. Pity about humans, really," he added with a shrug. Nuada saw that his chest and neck had been raked by a woman's nails. "They're so very fragile, aren't they? Your little whore bled out beneath me before you arrived. Her screams were so lovely. I especially enjoyed working with her hands."

Nuada's eyes widened when he saw that each of Dylan's fingers were black with bruises, twisted at sickening angles. The ice in his chest spread cold fingers through his belly and up into his throat.

Eamonn added, "I had no idea mortals could scream like that. Beautiful. Did you know," with a wink and a conspiratory whisper, "the poor thing whispered your name as she died? Rather sweet, actually. She actually expected you to arrive in time to save her. Poor, sweet thing. But you failed, of course. You couldn't save her, you couldn't save Yukihime." Nuada jolted. How did Eamonn know about Yukihime? "You couldn't save Cethlenn. Your whore died believing you would come for her and you failed. Tsk, tsk. 'Please,' she begged. 'Nuada, please... help me.'" Nuada thought he might be sick. Eamonn added, "Although it's always a disappointment to hear a woman call out another man's name when I'm roger-"

With a roar, Nuada launched himself at Eamonn. But somehow, even as he moved, the dark Elf faded away, leaving only mocking laughter like a blow to the belly. That was how the prince knew it was a dream, but it didn't matter. Dreaming, waking, it mattered not at all. Eamonn was gone, and Dylan lay dead on the floor.

Panting with the black hate burning through him, sick from the hollow ache in his belly, Nuada dropped to his knees beside her. She looked like a broken doll a negligent child had tossed aside. Eamonn had torn her dress - the same _léine_ she'd worn to court. Blood stained the snow-white linen. So much blood. The sight of it, so scarlet against the white, was yet another knife in his chest.

The prince slipped his arm beneath Dylan's too-still form, carefully lifted her to cradle the limp woman against him. Everything in him revolted against holding a human this way, but he'd lost control of his body. All he could do was let his eyes - and his mind, numb with shock - absorb what he was seeing.

Dylan's head lolled on her neck like a flower on a broken stem. Black fingerprints stood out starkly against her pale throat. The thin, gold chain of the medallion she always wore, broken now, slid from around her neck and fell to the floor with a _clink_. Crimson stained her scarred lips. A tiny trickle of blood glistened at the corner of her mouth and smeared her cheek. The same cheek he'd caressed only hours before. Pretense, that caress. Only charade. But the sight of that blood marring the bruised skin made his stomach rebel.

He couldn't process any of this. Couldn't understand how he'd failed. How he'd allowed Eamonn to reach her, allowed him to hurt her this way. Tentative fingers brushed a vicious bruise darkening her jaw. Her skin was so cold. It had been warm before, but now she was so very cold beneath his touch. His hand trembled when he traced her bruised, bloodied mouth. No breath warmed his skin, and her lips were cold now, too.

Nuada's mind tortured him with questions: had it been brutal? Had the mortal wept and called out for him as Eamonn had said? That had to be true; Eamonn couldn't lie outright. What all had the silver-eyed Elf done to her? Memories of his mother's butchering ripped through his mind. Had it been so brutal for Dylan? How long had Eamonn tortured her before finally ending it?

"Teacht ar ais," he whispered, voice shaking. The words were not his, he didn't choose them, but still they spilled from his lips like blood. Still he pleaded in the Old Tongue, _Come back. _She must come back. How could he have failed in this? _She must come back._ "Tabhair," he said. _Please._ "Teacht ar ais. Dylan... tabhair nach bás. Ní _féidir__ leat bás_." _Please don't die. You_ can't _die._ He'd failed. Eamonn had robbed him of honor. He'd failed her. "Impigh mé leat, oscail do shúile." But despite his plea, despite that he begged, her eyes didn't open. The hollow ache in the pit of his belly expanded until it felt as if some dark monster raked him with its claws. And he could only plead, "Dylan, tabhair... _tabhair..._"

The mocking laughter returned. Louder now, echoing off the walls, taunting him. The stench of blood was nearly overwhelming. It mingled with the sick perfume of terror, the acrid stink of perverse male arousal that would always, _always_ remind him of that dark day centuries ago. He should get up and strike Eamonn down like a dog. Yet all he could think was, _Eamonn bruised her face._ He touched that dark smudge at her jaw again with a hand that shook. Fury... or despair? His breath shuddered in his chest. _She is mortal. So fragile and mortal. That beast_ _bruised her face._ _Dylan..._

A hand slammed down on his shoulder. He spun, an enraged snarl of pure hate on his lips and his lance suddenly in hand...

**.**

And only at the last minute did he manage to pull the knife strike that would have skewered little Becan.

He wasn't in that blood-spattered room anymore. He no longer dreamt of death and mortality, and a woman broken and far too still in his arms. He was in one of the guest suites down the hall from his own suite. The walls of Findias kept out the pounding rain. Sweat dampened his bare chest. The loose, cropped trews he slept in were tangled around his legs along with the blankets. A well-laid fire crackled in the hearth, and a terrified brownie stared up at him in mute supplication, sloe-black eyes wide in the nut-brown face.

"You should not attempt to wake a warrior by grabbing them," Nuada muttered, pushing back the silvery blond hair spilling around his face. His cheeks were wet. Perhaps he'd built the fire up too high before retiring. Why else would he be sweating so hard in late autumn? Nuada swiped at the moisture on his skin with a hand he refused to admit was shaking, and slid out of bed. Stalked to the fire. The heat seared away the last vestiges of his nightmare. Why did he continue to dream of Eamonn slaying the human? Why did his mind torment him thus with failure and shame?

Becan still stood shivering beside his bed; Nuada placed the knife atop the mantel and growled, "What did you come for? What did you need to tell me?"

"My m-mistress..." Becan swallowed hard and cleared his throat when Nuada's head whipped around. In the dimness, the brownie couldn't tell if the prince's eyes had melted to bronze. "She asked m-me to bring y-y-you to her chambers."

"They are _my _chambers." Only Nuala's interference kept him from regaining mastery over his own bed. As if he would throw the mortal into the stables as a replacement chamber. Or worse, force himself into her bed based on its true ownership. "Your mistress summons me?" He demanded. "As if I am her dog? I do not think so." _She wouldn't do that._

"P-please, Your Highness," the brownie stammered. "I heard the request from her lips myself."

_Strawberries and honeyed mead, Silverlance. Such sweet kisses. Exquisite, even for a human._ Eamonn's words. Eamonn's lies. He would heed none of them. Dylan was mortal. She didn't have lips that tasted of honey and sweet summer fruit. Nor, he told himself vehemently, did her lips taste of blood. They were mere human lips, neither sweet nor exquisite. Nuada didn't have to taste them himself to know that. Eamonn's sickening lies could go hang, and so could Eamonn, gods curse him to the blackest, hottest circle of Hell.

"Why did she send you to fetch me?" Nuada demanded after a moment. Sparks whipped into the air as a log shifted in the fireplace. "I'm not her dog. What does the human want with the Silverlance?"

"I... I don't know, Your Highness. She asked me to b-bring you, then began t-t-to weep. I think she may p-perhaps have had an ill dream-"

But Nuada wasn't listening. He wasn't even in the room anymore. The prince had strode from the room, a grim look on his face, promises of retribution in his eyes, before the brownie had managed to finish saying the word "weep."

**.**

The mortal sat hunched before the fire, the dim light turning the tear tracks on her face to pathways of diamond and glass. Nuada saw this, and saw that she didn't look up when he entered the room. Firelight danced over the dark kirtle covering her drawn-up knee and single outstretched leg. Her hair hung loose and wild down her back, gleaming with the light of the hearth.

Nuada shut the door and walked slowly toward her. Silver-washed blue eyes didn't so much as glance in his direction. She only continued to stare into the fire with empty eyes. The Elven prince smelled blood before he saw the dark smear of it at her mouth. Memory rocked him - _blood smeared across scarred lips, vicious bruises darkening her face_ - but he shoved it down and studied her further. Flames glinted off dark fluid oozing between the fingers of her clenched fists.

She didn't look at him. Only blinked when he sat down beside her before the hearth.

"Dylan?" He reached out to touch one bleeding fist with gentle fingers. Her hand jerked, spasmed. She clutched his fingers. He could feel blood seeping from the deep crescents in her palm.

He stiffened, but didn't draw away from her. Couldn't have, even had he desired it. The mortal's bloodied mouth trembled with some suppressed emotion. A dangerous light flared in her otherwise vacant eyes. He couldn't leave her thus. Instead, he stretched out his legs so they wouldn't fall asleep and waited for her to speak.

"I can't get him out of my head," she whispered. "Him. Eamonn. I can't. It's not like before. I... I had a bad dream." Now she sounded like a forlorn child. Nuada remembered that night in the sanctuary when Dylan had confessed to fearing the dark. She'd sounded like a child then, as well. "I had a bad dream and it was scary and I couldn't fight him or stop him when he... and I woke up and it was so dark and suddenly he was right there in my mind and I can't get him out!"

She flung herself at him.

Instinctively he opened his arms so the mortal collided with his chest. He thought briefly about pushing her away. Condemned the thought as unfeeling and dishonorable. Something a human would consider, and that made him almost ashamed. He'd failed to protect her from Eamonn, so it was his task to comfort her now.

"I'm sorry," she quavered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I know you don't like it, I'm sorry, Nuada, but _please!_ Please, don't let go. Please let me stay. Please don't leave me alone."

An idiot would've thought she pleaded to remain in Findias, but he knew what she wanted. She wanted - _needed _- to stay here. With _him._ Stay pressed against him as if he could shield her from every dark and frightening thing. Against his better judgment, he folded his arms around her, then drew up his knees so she was cradled between them. "Do you think I would desert you if you truly needed me? After everything you've done for me and my people? Never."

_Obviously,_ he thought dryly, _I've said the right thing, or she would not be snuggling her face deeper into my chest._ Which wasn't exactly a good thing, but it was at least an improvement over the hysteria. Still, the near-searing heat of her breath against his bare chest was distracting. "I would never abandon you. _Gach tá go maith, a rún amháin_. All is well, my dear one. The darkness cannot hurt you while I am here."

He felt absolutely ridiculous calling her "my dear one" (not to mention revolted, if the strange feeling in the pit of his belly was anything to go by), but the Gaelic endearment seemed to soothe her further. So he added a couple more nonsensical things.

"It's all right, _a chumann_. Don't be afraid. _Tá mé anseo;_ I'm here. I will stay with you, _a stóirín_, until you can sleep again."

Nuada thought he might be ill with the saccharine words in the Old Tongue. _Sweetheart _and _my little darling_. The Elf could feel his teeth rotting from the sweetness. But he'd fallen back into old habits from soothing his twin in this manner, and it was obviously comforting the shaking human in his arms. He felt her relax, inch by slow inch, until she was warm and limp, slumped against his chest and cradled by his bent knees.

How often had he sat this way with Nuala growing up, after she'd awakened from some nightmare or other? Too often to count. But with anyone else? Never. _At least she's no longer intent on squeezing the breath from me, _he thought with a smattering of half-relieved pique.

"_Tá brón orm_," Dylan whispered in Gaelic. Her eyelashes tickled his bare chest as she pressed closer. Her shoulders shook, but he heard no tears in her voice; only grief. "I'm sorry," she repeated in English. "Please don't leave."

"I won't," he replied, stroking her hair as he'd often done for his frightened sister. "What happened?" Nuada asked, and was surprised when the human wrapped her arms around him and clung as if she never meant to let go. A whimper crawled from her mouth to scurry away into the darkness, which hung around them like a ravenous shadow. Suddenly the dimness and oppressive night lurking outside made him uneasy. Well, he could deal with that later. Frowning, Nuada commanded, "Dylan. Tell me."

"Eamonn..." She quavered. Sudden fury coiled in the pit of Nuada's stomach, burned in his veins like poison. The dark seemed to whisper that hated name like a demonic chant. Nuada clenched his teeth. "I dreamed about... about the things he showed me. He... he hurt you. He hurt you and I couldn't stop him."

Surprised, Nuada echoed dumbly, "Me?"

Dylan nodded without taking her face away from the safety of his chest. Fresh, albeit silent, tears coursed hotly down her cheeks to drip onto the Elf's skin. "When he... when I was... he made you watch." A sob caught in her throat and she tightened her grip on him. "You tried to save me and you couldn't and it hurt you. There were iron chains. They burned you. And his men would keep hitting you every time you tried to get up. Every time you even _moved_. You couldn't... couldn't even _stand_. But you kept c-coming. You kept trying s-s-so h-hard to reach me, to s-save me, and they wouldn't stop, they were _torturing_ you..."

Any trace of composure shattered, and Dylan began to cry; terrible, wrenching sobs that ripped from her with vicious force, worse than any grief she'd shown him in the sanctuary. All Nuada could think to do was hold her as tightly as she held him.

Not a nightmare about _her_, then. That wasn't what gnawed at her, what beat the tears from her haunted eyes. It was his suffering that made her weep, which explained why she wasn't protected by the magic Nuala had laid in her mind. Dylan was still forced to witness what Eamonn had done to _him_, and to feel every moment of grief and hurt. Something hot flared in his chest, equal parts black rage and something that lanced him, and without understanding what unholy notion possessed him, Nuada laid his cheek against her hair. Everything in him cried out to ease her grief. But what could he do?

_Nothing, _he thought with no little bitterness. _I know nothing of comforting mortals. All I can_ _do is let her weep, and what comfort is that?_

"I'm sorry," she said after a few moments. The roiling miasma of black emotion surrounding the mortal began to fade, but the Elven prince knew those emotions weren't gone. Dylan was merely shoving them down so she could gain control of herself. She'd done the same in the sanctuary moons ago. It had surprised him then, unnerved him. It unnerved him now. Such self-denial couldn't be healthy. How long could she hold onto it, locked deep inside, before it shattered its confines? What would happen to her then? It was a struggle for her to keep doing such a thing. He felt the effort it took for her to lock away the anguish so she could speak in a voice that held steady. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I don't know what's gotten into me. I hate breaking down this way. I almost never do anymore."

_Not since I was a little girl trapped in the dark. _So close to the human woman, he heard the bitter thought she couldn't bring herself to utter. _Not since a pack of human wolves tried to rip apart my sanity. _Why did she suddenly seem so broken? And why did it feel as if the night pressed in on them, trying to drown them both? Nuada realized he felt as if he were being watched. Yet there was no one in the room but Dylan... and perhaps Becan. Was the brownie the eyes the prince felt? Most likely. And yet...

"I don't have a good reason to cry about this," the mortal added, bringing him back to the moment. "I'm sorry."

"Dylan..." The fae warrior fought the urge to tighten his grip on the shivering human. He didn't wish to hurt her anymore than she'd already been hurt, and he found that he, too, was shaking. The memory of his own nightmare was acid in his veins. Hate and fury mingled with the fierce need to keep Dylan from crying anymore. Each tear only added to his shame. "Just because the rape wasn't physical, does not mean it shouldn't hurt you."

Just as his nightmare of finding her brutalized and dead hadn't been real, yet it had hurt him. The sick shame and dark rage that burned in him whenever he thought of Eamonn... and a strange, hollow ache in his chest at the thought of what Dylan's death truly meant to him: no more nights full of tales before the fire; an end to their talks of faith and life and freedom; the loss of one of the few people in his life who'd never viewed him as a monster. "You're allowed to grieve for yourself... and for me if you must. There's no shame in it."

"I wish I could be as strong as you," Dylan whispered. "You're not afraid of anything, are you? Not the wolves, not the leanashe, not Eamonn." And he knew that was the sticking point: he was _not _afraid of Eamonn. He wished Eamonn a brutal death being drawn and quartered, but didn't fear him. She didn't know that he feared what Eamonn could - would - do to her if he ever found her alone. But Nuada said nothing; only let her continue with, "I wish I was brave like you." She sighed shakily.

"If you were any braver," _or any more foolhardy, _he thought, "I don't think I could take it. How many times have you risked your life to save mine? You refused to run the night we met, and nearly died trying to save me. Despite your wounds, you made sure I was safe before allowing yourself to fall unconscious. Then you forced me to care for myself, even after I nearly strangled you. You tried to save me from the leanashe. Saved a halfling child from Eamonn when you knew what he was capable of, then stood up to him when he threatened us. When you learned I was to be charged falsely, you sought out a creature that could've easily killed you in order to reach me. Risked death again by coming before my father without being summoned. And you knew he would most likely kill you. Wink told me thus. After _that_, you offered to take the rest of my punishment. And when I thought your reckless courage had finally attained its limit, you gave yourself up to Eamonn for rape, torture, and death to save my life.

"It's only now, in the deep dark of the night when phantoms haunt your sleep, that you finally let it all bring you low. And even in this, your tears are not solely for yourself. You weep for my pain as well, for what Eamonn did to me in your mind. You wish to be braver, Dylan? Your courage would frighten a lesser man than myself. I beg you," he added, chuckling a little, "to think of yourself next time. Be a little selfish."

Impossibly, her mouth quirked in a smile. The admiration - and exasperation - in his voice had been obvious. _Translation,_ she thought. _You're going to give me gray hair one of these days, but I'm too much of a Macho Elf Man to admit to it_. But all she said was, "Thank you for staying with me, Nuada."

"I remembered the nights you woke in the sanctuary, and you were so afraid after dark dreams. As if you were trapped in your own memories. I..." He hesitated, but then she shifted to look up at him. Her smile was exhausted, but open and genuine. "I didn't wish for you to be alone."

Nuada sensed the odd feeling that flooded the mortal as she looked away and finally released him from her embrace. His skin felt strangely cold where she'd touched him, as if it missed the warmth of her. Dylan shifted and looked down at her hands. "My hands hurt." It was more a question than a complaint. Vague confusion tinged her voice. Then she touched hesitant fingers to her lip. "My mouth hurts."

Nuada briefly wrestled with his sensibilities before reaching up to gently cup her chin, touching the pad of his thumb to her bitten lip. With a brief thought he felt the soothing magic he'd used the previous evening flow into the wound. Then he covered both her hands with his - how had he never realized before how small her hands were? How small _she _was? - and did the same for those hurts. Neither injury was healed, but the pain was dulled enough that Dylan didn't wince when she swiped at the half-dried tears on her face with the back of a loose fist.

"Thank you. So... how awkward am I making you feel right now?"

"I am an Elf," he said with cool disdain. "I'm never awkward."

The look in the Elven prince's eyes made her lips quirk in another tired, watery smile. _Elves are never awkward. Right. I bet their farts smell like roses, too._ Then she wondered if Nuada could hear her. Was he glaring at her? No. The prince stared into the dancing fire, a far-off look in his eyes. His expression made her shiver. _He looks like I did, the first time I looked in the mirror after my attack. Like I'd just crawled off of some battlefield in Hell._

"I dreamed darkly as well," he said suddenly in a very, very soft voice. He couldn't look at her. If he did, Nuada knew he would see her as she'd been in his nightmare: cold and still at Eamonn's feet. His grip tightened fractionally. It felt as if the darkness around them held its breath, listening intently to his words. "I dreamt that I came for you and that... that you were dead when I arrived. That he killed you. That I failed." Nuada let out a shuddering breath and Dylan realized the prince was actually shaken by his nightmare. She pressed her cheek against his breastbone. Felt the thunder of his heart against her skin, hard and fast like the wings of a bird. "I couldn't... in the dream, I failed you. I failed, and holding your corpse in my arms was the price."

And he remembered pleading in a broken rasp, _Come back. Please, come back. Please don't die._ Nuada thrust the memory away, and the strange icy chill that wasn't anger, though it burned coldly in his chest at the thought of Dylan lying dead in his arms. It was more difficult to suppress that memory and that cold than it should've been.

Surprisingly, Dylan said something in a tired voice that made him smile. "We're both of us pretty messed up right now, aren't we? Quite the pair."

"Yes," he said with a weak, hollow laugh, as the mortal shifted in his arms again. "We are that. Dylan... why do you always put yourself in danger for others? I would not have you do so for me." The debt accumulating between them was already too vast for him to ever be able to repay. His honor pricked him every time he thought about it. "Surely even you are allowed to be selfish at times, to think of yourself first."

"I _am _selfish," she mumbled, settling more comfortably against him. "Almost everything I've done for you has been because I couldn't stand seeing you hurt. I care about you, Nuada. I wasn't lying when I told your sister I consider you a friend. My only real friend, probably, even though you hate me. Well, strongly dislike me."

The prince frowned. What did she mean by that? Something dark slithered at the corner of his eye, but when Nuada turned to get a better look, there was nothing. Only darkness... and that strange feeling of being spied upon. He mentally shook himself and turned his attention back the mortal in his arms.

"It's hard to make friends with someone (real friends, I mean), when I can't tell them about the Huldufólk, and about having the Sight. There's always that secret between me and them. I've seen what secrets like that do to people. It's pretty much ruined my relationship with my sisters because they don't see what I See.

"They think I'm crazy, did you know that? Even now. They won't leave me alone with their children. They rarely visit. I get unsigned Christmas cards and phone calls; that's about it. They came to see me when I was in the hospital, but shy of family emergency? I rarely see them. My parents never visited me in the institutions, either, because of my gift.

"A secret like the Sight can mess with your head, your heart. If you get too close to someone who's quote-unquote 'normal,' you find yourself lying about what's around you, lying about your life. Soon enough, there's nothing left of who you are. Your whole existence hinges on the life you pretend to live.

"But with you, I don't have to do that. I can be completely honest. You know what I See, what I know, who I am. And you're the only Bright One who visits me on a regular basis and wants more from me than for me to feed you or take care of you in some way. Most of my friends are fae, but even they're a bit fickle in that way; they forget about me for months on end, unless they need me for something. You don't do that. Sad as it is, you're basically my best friend in this world, besides John. Of course I'd do everything in my power to keep you safe. You're all I have.

"Besides, you're a faerie prince. I'm just a mortal woman. You're a bit more important in the grand scheme of things than I am. If it comes down to a choice between me living or you living, I pick you."

"Dylan," he said softly. The emotions churning in him were beginning to make his skull throb with tension and confusion. Would she never behave the way mortals ought to? "You don't have the right to make such a choice for me."

_And I don't hate you,_ he thought, but didn't add. He wouldn't speak on _that _until he could sort through the strange feeling inside him. How could she think he hated her? Had he not allowed her to live all these months? Did he not now hold her in his arms? If he loathed her, the Elven prince would have slain her long ago. Surely she knew that he... felt... _something _for her that (had she been fey, and not a lowly mortal) might've been called affection.

"You've no right to choose life for me at the cost of your own."

"Me caring about you doesn't give me that right?" She asked softly. Her fingertips slowly ran over a thick scar carved deep into his right bicep. The gentle, feather-light touch gave him gooseflesh. She studied the mark with half-lidded eyes. He could feel the heat of her breath on his skin when she leaned closer to see it better. Why was the fire suddenly so uncomfortably warm? Forcing his thoughts away from the careful fingers absently tracing the sensitive scar, the soft breath, and the heat from the hearth, Nuada growled, "By that logic, I've the right to make the same choice for you."

There was a pause as Dylan pulled her hand away from his arm to tuck it against her chest. His skin tingled where she'd touched him. She whispered, "Yes, you would... if you cared about me. But you don't. So no. The choice is mine."

"I... had not... I didn't mean..." Why was it suddenly so hard for him to form a coherent sentence? Yet if he could speak like an intelligent being and not a complete imbecile, what would he say? That he cared for her? That would've been a lie. So he said nothing.

"Nuada," Dylan said, shifting to look up at him. Eyes like liquid amber locked on her tired face and she smiled sadly. "It's okay if you don't like me. I know you hate humans. I can understand why. And I know you're only here right now because your honor compels you. I'm all right with that."

Was she? Why was she all right with that, when suddenly he was not?

"But listen, you're a prince. One day, probably when I'm dead and buried, and you're finally old enough to grow a beard like your dad's," here she grinned, a flicker of mischief like will-o-the-wisps in her eyes, "you'll be the king of Bethmoora. Right? You're the crown prince. You have a responsibility to your people. I know that faerie royal families are tied by magic to the land and the people on it. If your line dies, the Fair Folk of Bethmoora die with you. You don't have the right to sacrifice yourself for me, because your life isn't your own.

"But I'm my own person. I'm just a common human. God gave me agency, freewill. I can do what I wish, as long as I'm not sinning. Actually, I can sin if I want, I just have to pay for it later if I don't repent. But because I've been given my agency, I can do whatever I wish. And what I wish is to keep you in my life as long as possible, because you're one of the best things that has ever happened to me. So yes, my prince, I am very selfish."

Something hot burned in his chest like a dying star. The prince wanted to say something to her, but everything inside him hissed and snarled at the silent words hiding at the very back of his tongue. Those words were so silent, he couldn't even tell what they were. Only that they longed to be spoken. He choked on the words and the taste of salt and sorrow. Whatever the mad part of him wanted to speak was best left unsaid. If they were words of condemnation, Dylan didn't deserve them. And if they were not... well, what else could they be?

So he continued to hold the human who felt as if she might vanish like a specter on the night wind. Only held her as the crisp citrus scent of her shampoo tickled his nose and her breath warmed his already-hot skin. He could feel each rise and fall of her breast as she breathed. After a while, as she slowly went limp as an exhausted kitten in his arms, it seemed the mortal nodded off to sleep once more.

Seemed.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm thinking the Shadow of the Dark Elf will be a canker sore in the lives of "the Elf all the bad girls want" and our favorite LDS chick for quite some time, even with the mental block Nuala placed in Dylan's mind. The block only buffers the mental and emotional effects of what happened in the psychic assault_ to Dylan. _Hence why now her consciousness if focusing on all the crap that Eamonn did to "Nuada" while he was building the illusions in Dylan's mind. How shall this affect our leading lady?_

_And did anyone cry during Nuada's dream? Was our Prince out of character (remember this is a dream, where all our inhibitions go bye-bye)? Or what?_

_And here comes our lovely (and completely optional) review prompt:_

_1) This is something I'm seriously curious about. Nuada is totally focused on the fact that Eamonn wants to hurt Dylan. He hasn't really considered the idea that Eamonn might try to attack him head-on now that the flogging didn't go through. Who'd be interested in Eamonn (or any villain) attacking and torturing Nuada?_ _Or both Dylan and Nuada? Maybe they get captured and imprisoned and tortured together._ _But who's interested in the idea of Nuada as Eamonn's victim for once (in all methods of torture)? He's such a strong character, and a strong warrior, and very proud. I think it would be interesting to see how he responds to something like that. But I want to know if anyone's violently opposed (or violently in favor) of it before I think about plotting it out. And it wouldn't be for... at least 20 chapters or so._

_I love you all! Your support and reviews and readership mean so much to me! I just want to snuggle all of you, omg!_

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_**Flash-Fic Challenge:**_ _inspired by REM's "I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight," the topic: __**what if Dylan really did die?**_ _What if Nuada never saved her from Eamonn that night and the dark Elf had time to do everything he wanted: torture, rape, slow death, the whole 9 yards? Or what if he saved her, but Eamonn got to her again? What if Eamonn made all of Dylan's nightmares come true? When would that happen? How would Nuada react? Or what if they both die in each others' arms (like in _Final Fantasy... 10_? Or _10-2_, I can't remember which)? __**What if Dylan died in childbirth? Or what if Nuada was the one to die in Dylan's arms? **__Or (if you go with the less gut-wrenching route, you adorable people with your love for romance... oh, wait, _I'm _one of those_ _people!) what if, after a long and happy life together, Dylan died of old age? _

_Please keep it appropriate for 15-17 year olds (and keep the use of F- and C-words out, please). Love you!_

_**PS -**_ _If someone does the flash-fic, then does a "what if Dylan dies of old age" piece and it's totally amazing (I have high standards, and I love dark anguish and despair, so it would have to be super, super amazing) I will add an extra chapter as a reward, as well as give that person or persons a Spoiler Special or Cameo Cookie._

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_**References Made in the Chapter:**_

- Dylan's experience upon waking from her nightmare is from an experience I had when I was maybe 9 years old. I slept on the bottom bunk of a bunkbed (nobody slept on the top). Because I was afraid of the dark, I always made sure my closet was shut and that I had "curtains" made of blankets and/or sheets hung up so I couldn't see out, and nothing could see in. But one night, I was dead certain there was something in my room with me. Something bad, that wanted to do something awful to me. As a kid, I had the idea that if I called out in the dark and wasn't answered, after a certain amount of time something would eat/kill me because it knew I was awake and no one would hear me screaming. So I would always work my way up to screaming by whispering, then saying, then shouting whatever I wanted to say. This time, as the sounds of harsh breathing and the creaking of someone creeping across my bedroom floor turned my blood to ice, I said, "Daddy... Daddy. Daddy!" I had to do it twice, which made me think I was going to die very quickly, but my dad ran in and turned the light on and I started crying because now that my dad was there the monster couldn't eat me.

As an adult, I've had similar experiences (usually following dreams). In fact, I had one in May when I went to a convention. I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified out of my mind, and called for my best friend (we were sharing a queen bed because it was us two and our other best friend in a room at my husband's aunt's house). She jolted awake and I started crying that I'd had a bad dream, which made me feel stupid since I was (am) 22, but I was just so scared I couldn't help it. I drew on all those experiences when working on this scene.

- Dylan prays because LDS children (and converted teens, if they've got smart Church member friends) are told that when a bad dream scares you (when anything scares you), you say a prayer for comfort. I've done it since my conversion, and it worked for me (it also helps that my husband will check under our bed for monsters if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night).

- The command Dylan gives about the devils is what members of the Church are taught to say if they believe there is an evil spirit or ghost or some other bad hobgoblin in their area.

- "The Adversary" is another name for Satan.

- I did get the line "You are his heart. Now I'm going to break it into pieces" from the movie _Ghost Rider_. One of the worst threats I've ever heard a bad guy give to a hero with a girl is when Blackheart says to Roxanne, "You hold his heart. Now I'm going to break it." Or something like that.

- I made up the Elves of Eirc. Since the Fir Bholg, Fomorians, and Tuatha de are so similar, it seemed like, in this universe, they'd probably all be Elves, just Elves that look different from each other. So in the same way Nuada is an Elf of Bethmoora and Eamonn is an Elf of Zwezda, Sreng is an Elf of Eirc (father of Eochaid, King of the Fir Bholg in mythology).

- Ha! I can say "Silverlance" in Gaelic! Okay, no I can't, but I can write it down. Wootness. I love that word, wootness. Anyway, Silverlance in Gaelic is _Sleighe Airgead_ (literally "Spear of Silver," but translates as "Silver Spear" or "Silver Lance").

- Okay, I'll be honest. The part of Nuada's dream where he's saying, "Come back," is totally inspired from this horribly sad scene in the anime movie, _Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust_. It is SO sad! () Quick FYI, this contains spoilers for the third _Matrix_ and _LotR_, as well as _Beauty and the Beast_ television show. Anyway, in the movie _Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust_, the vampire that D is hunting, Meier Link, is in love with a human named Charlotte. And the whole time your wondering, "Does this guy really love her?" It's obvious pretty early that she loves him, but does _he _love _her_? Later in the movie, Charlotte gets bitten by an evil vampire and drained almost to death. Meier saves her from being killed, but he doesn't have time to save her from actually dying as a result of the blood loss.

So he's holding her, unconscious, in his arms, and he says, "Charlotte, come back. Charlotte, I need you. _Please come back._" And he's actually crying. I was like, "Oh, snaps." I cried. A lot. Buckets. So yes, any time Dylan almost dies (or if she ends up dying in the end), those scenes are inspired by _that _one. I do _**NOT**_recommend watching the movie (it's rated R) but Google "Charlotte Elbourne Death Scene" and see if that one part is on Youtube.

I also draw on the scene in _Return of the King_ where Eomer thinks Eowyn died, and the scene where Sauron shows Aragorn that Arwen is dying, as well as Leonard diCaprio's moving mourning scene in _Romeo+Juliet_.

In fact, pretty much, I rely on all the best death scenes I've ever seen in movies and on television (_West Side Story_, when Tony dies, is a good one, too, and so are the almost-death scenes and the death scene in _Beauty and the Beast_ with Ron Perlman; another awful one is when Trinity dies in the last _Matrix_ movie).

- About the sleeping gear. Nuada actually strikes me as one who would sleep naked, but that would be awkward. But, since he's incredibly uncomfortable where he has to sleep, he'd want to be able to jump out of bed and kick butt if he had to, so I figure rough linen cropped pants would do it. Now, all you girls, picture that in your head for a minute. Go ahead, say, "Yum."


	17. Before the Dawn

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
Mythological Creature of the Day_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Chapter Play List_  
_The Words to Nuada's Lullaby (in English and Gaelic)_

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_**Dedication: **__to __**xxyangxx2006**__, who wrote an entry for the __**Chapter 6 Challenge**__. It's called "In the Dark." It's pretty good. _

_**BUT, apparently it's against the rules on the site **__(is it really? Must go back and look)_ _**to write a fanfic without having a canon character make a lot of appearances in the fic.**_ _I find this odd, as some of the best fanfiction I've ever read are shorts for _the Lord of the Rings, _where a random person from Minas Tirith or Edoras or wherever has to deal with the war and the events in the LotR, even though they never get to meet the characters (except if they lived in MT or Edoras, they'd see/hear about Aragorn/Eomer being crowned king of their respective countries). So that doesn't quite make sense to me, but whatever. I don't want you guys getting in trouble, so make sure __**for any challenges you do, that a canon character shows up a lot.**_ _Easy ones for Dylan: John (duh), and you could have it be Liz, since Liz spent a lot of time in nut houses as a kid too. As for Nuada, he IS a canon-character, so no worries. But yeah, just a head's up._

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, guys! We are on chapter seventeen! Yayness! So, who's enjoying the ride? I hope you are. Don't worry, things are going to pick up after this chapter (though they don't really pick up until chapter... wait, why am I telling you this? We can have what I like to call "slow-action." That's what we had in chapters 2-7. Sorry, I dunno why I was getting so nervous. Ignore the twitchiness). After the end of this chapter, we're going to get some more information on why Dylan was attacked in chapter one, as well as some political intrigue and some dangers (and mental duress). The best fun for the next several chapters, of course (I use the term "fun" loosely) will be Eamonn's master, as well as any particularly jealous court bimbos. It's a toss-up between which one is more dangerous._

_Soc I'm scared of your guys' reactions to this chapter, though. I'll be honest. So be gentle with me. I'm breakable. *hugs*_

_Anyway, this chapter is also kind of dark (though there are some fluffy and cute parts, too, and some funny one-liners). It's also a sort of take-a-breather from the action chapter. One of the biggest complaints my beloved beta has often had for me, is that I never give my characters enough breathing room (not in this fic, as I keep that in mind, but in my other fics that she's read). So I'm trying to do that here, while also putting in character/relationship development. I hope you enjoy it._

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**Chapter Seventeen**

**Before the Dawn**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Rumors of Love and War, Music in the Night, Echoes of Fear, a Whisper of Assumption, and an Incautious Word**

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Wink scrubbed at his face with one hand, trying to force the burning tiredness from his eyes. Dawn was still some hours away. Yet the taverns were not yet closed, which meant he had more places to frequent still. As he trudged down the street, the silver cave troll grumbled silently to himself. He was gone for a few hours and somehow the prince managed to get wrapped up in rumors of betrothal and human mistresses. Of course Wink knew better than to give credence to any of the gossip. Nuada bedding a human? He'd as soon bed one of his hunting dogs.

As for the mortal... Wink knew she cared deeply for the prince. No one who did _not _care for Nuada would have done all that she had to protect him. But his mistress? If - and it was a _colossal_ if - Nuada could have ever been persuaded to lie with a mortal, he and the human would have become lovers long ago. No woman could resist the Elven warrior when he set out to bring them to his bed. Past conquests could attest to that. If the prince and the mortal were not intimate now, they never would be.

The silver troll slipped into another tavern - the Jugged Hare - and lumbered to an empty booth. As soon as he was seated, a slender meliae approached. Torchlight turned her shimmering raiment to liquid silver. Her ash-blond hair fell in wild tangles down her back. Pale green eyes studied the troll for a long moment before she asked in a voice like the wind through the trees, "What'll it be?"

"Manna cordial," the troll grumbled. He was fond of the sweet drink made from the sap of ash trees, and it was weak enough that he would not become innebriated from the faerie liquor. Then he got a better look at the meliae and grinned. He recognized this girl. One of her "sisters" worked in the royal gardens. Wink was not surprised; most of the families in Findias had family working in the palace. He also knew that wood nymphs, particularly ash nymphs, kept their ear to the grapevine. Tree maidens loved gossip.

Well, he might be a little rusty in charming a pretty lass, but Wink was sure he could manage to make her laugh, at least. "The stars must surely shine on me tonight, beautiful maiden. The beauty and grace of the pale ash trees are reflected in your loveliness."

"And _you_ are probably old enough to be my father," the dryad replied, but her lips were quirking into a smile. "Flattery will not avail you free drink, Sir Troll. I have other tables and customers to see to."

Now Wink laughed. "I would not cheat such a fair creature of her custom. I am merely a lonely troll, looking for some drink and simple conversation."

The dryad looked the silver troll up and down, speculation in the eyes as soft and green as the leaves of her ash tree. Wink saw that she noted the mechanical hand he bore. Saw the interest - and the recognition - in her eyes. How many silver trolls would there be in Findias who bore both a hand of flesh and a hand of Elven bronze? The meliae dipped a small, bobbing curtsy and said, "I'll go and get your cordial. Then we can talk."

"As I am taking my ease, I would appreciate discretion," the troll rumbled. The meliae inclined her head and went to get his drink. When she returned, sliding the mason jar of pale amber cordial in front of him, she perched on the opposite bench and propped her elbows on the table. "Tonight must be slow, pretty lady, for you to have such leisure."

"Those who wish to discuss the latest rumors about the Royal Family have gone to other establishments, as we do not serve strong enough drink to suit their tastes."

Wink took a long pull from the jar of cordial. Unlike the ale he'd been quaffing all night, the sweet drink was a welcome taste on his tongue. "I usually like my drink sweet," he said, locking his single dark eye with her pale green ones. "And what rumors would those be, lovely wood witch?"

"Oh, some nonsense about Prince Nuada Silverlance having returned to us at last," she replied airily, studying the broad tusks ringed with bronze that glinted in the torchlight. "Being engaged to a mortal. As if that would ever happen. Everyone seems to have forgotten that he is meant to wed the eldest daughter of the Emperor of Dilong."

Wink nearly choked. That farcical arrangement was still in place? Neither he nor Nuada had known _that_.

"At least as far as the common folk know. Last the townsfolk heard, an envoy from Dilong was supposed to arrive for the Midwinter Solstic, as the eldest princess will be old enough to be formally promised. So even if the mighty Silverlance _is_ betrothed to a human, she will have to deal with the Elves of Dilong - as will His Majesty and the rest of the royals."

The Elves of Dilong? Wink knew there had been some talk of Nuada, as crown prince, marrying the Emperor of Dilong's eldest available female relative (as in Dilong, a woman could not inherit the Jade Throne). But that had been over three thousand years ago, when the Jade Emperor (still the Jade Dragon Prince at the time) had first married. When no female child had been forthcoming, talk of a union between the prince and a Dilong princess had slowly ceased. Emperor Huizong's sister, Princess Yin-Mei, had been eligible, but had been promised by her brother that he would not arrange a marriage for her. Did Balor even remember that Nuada had once been intended for Huizong's daughter? It had been so long ago, before the prince's exile. So much had happened. Did the king of Bethmoora even consider the agreement binding anymore, if he _did_ remember it?

The young princess, Ming Xian, would be three hundred years old just before this Midwinter, if Wink remembered correctly. Nuada could not marry a... a _child_. And if Dilong took offense, how was a child of merely three centuries going to challenge a grown mortal woman for the right to him? Would the human even fight? _My prince, things have become even more complicated. Perhaps you were right - politicking is nothing but a headache waiting to happen._

"And there's rumors that an Elf of Zwezda tried to assassinate the king," the meliae continued, watching Wink intently. Her eyes seemed to focus now on his large shoulders and the spines protruding from his back, the deep scar slashing across an eyeless socket. Unlike most fae, nymphs could - and more often than not, _did_ - wed outside their species. And the ash nymph had to admit, there was much to admire about the troll she talked with.

"But," she continued, "if that were so, he'd have been executed publicly, yes?" She shrugged and ever-so-casually brushed her hair back from her face. "Rumors abound on that subject, however. I have heard that he is a spy for the Elves of Eirc, for the Sons of the Spider, or even the Zwezda themselves. They say that war will come between the Elves before war comes betwixt the Hidden Folk and the humans. I say these are nothing but idle whispers... but what do you say?"

"I say... that I have heard enough of politics," Wink said, and reached out to lightly brush a careful finger over the back of her small hand. "Thank you, beautiful one. Perhaps I shall return tomorrow, for more... talk. I would have your name."

The meliae smiled. "I am Sophia," she said, and watched him walk away. So. That was the silver cave troll called Wink, the one-eyed warrior with the metal hand. The one who owed the Exiled Prince his allegience. Sophia grinned as she got up to check her tables. _Well, he certainly was handsome. Wait until I tell my sisters._

**.**

_At last, she sleeps,_ Nuada thought, relaxing a little now as Dylan sighed and settled more comfortably against him. He would not think on the mortal's strange words; not yet, at least. And he would not put her to bed quite yet. _I will wait a while before I move her, in case she does not sleep deeply enough. I do not wish to wake her. _Did not wish to feel as if he owed her something for the way she had looked at him with sorrow in her moon-washed eyes.

_I consider you my only friend, even though you hate me. _But he did not. How could she think that? Shame was like wormwood in his mouth. Had Nuala told Dylan that he hated her? Or had it been his own behavior that gave her such an idea? If Dylan had not slept, he might have asked her.

But in fact, Dylan wasn't sleeping. She was listening to Nuada's slowly drumming heartbeat with her eyes closed against the burning exhaustion. It was easy now to let her body go limp. The panic had all but faded. She just wanted to stay here, in this half-waking state, where it seemed as if nothing could touch her so long as the prince remained with his arms around her. Now that the urge to cry was dissipating, she could relax. Breathe. Let go of the fear that had threatened to choke her. Nuada was here, unharmed. Everything was all right. No one would hurt him.

_Please, don't hurt him,_ she thought sleepily, unsure if it was a prayer or just exhausted thoughts. _Never again. Not like that, please. Hasn't he had to deal with enough? Especially after what happened to his mom._

_It's because of you._

Dylan tensed as the icily familiar voice breathed against the back of her neck, inside her skull. Not a real voice. Wasn't real, she told herself. Only the ghost of a nightmare. Only a dark dream. But she was suddenly cold and shivering again. The world around her faded away - the fire, the light, Nuada's bodyheat like the warm glow of a candle in the darkness. There was only the vision, the mental prison slowly wrapping around her mind until she forgot where she was, who she was with-

_-Cold, rough stone beneath her  
Biting deep into her skin_  
_Pain flares_  
_No fear no horror no despair_  
_Only numbness in her chest_  
_Can't feel the jagged pieces of her heart_  
_Silver eyes gleam like poison_  
_Rough fingers jerk her head to the side_  
_"Take a good look."_  
_Silver pain bright blades slice through Elven flesh_  
_Golden blood welling, flowing_  
_Amber eyes find hers and stay on her face_  
_Regret and despair and rage now_  
_Her fear and his shame_  
_Their desperation_  
_"It's all because of you."_  
_Eamonn's lips against her ear_  
_"He suffers because of you."_  
_No, no, no! Please, please let him go...-_

"_Dylan!_"

Hands gripped her shoulders and shook her, snapping her back to the present so fast she nearly passed out. Icy sweat plastered her hair to her neck and shoulders, dripped down her face. Her blood was ice. Her fear was arctic poison. Why was she so cold? Where was she? Eyes like glittering topaz pierced the fear. Locked onto her and pulled her back from the brink of the abyss where the nightmares waited to swallow her up with their obsidian teeth. The shadows seemed to hiss and snarl at her. Fear threatened to strangle her.

"Dylan! Look at me!"

She looked. Let her eyes rake over the ashen face, trace the slashing scar across his cheekbones. Found those amber eyes again. Amber eyes that burned with something that might have been desperation or fear. Nuada. _Nuada_. Alive and safe and right there with her. Never mind the living, breathing darkness pressing down on them. He was here. He was safe.

"Come back, Dylan. Teacht ar ais. _Come back_."

_Come back. _Nauseating fear was a living thing in his belly as he saw for just a moment his own nightmare: the pale, still woman lying in her own blood on the floor at Eamonn's feet; a broken doll discarded by a vicious, evil child. _Please don't die. You can't die. Dylan, please..._ Begging, pleading. Sick shame and horror - and grief? - squeezing his heart like a vice. But he shoved the image and the emotion down and down where he would not have to think of it and shook the mortal again, gently this time. "Dylan, come back now. It was only the memory of a dream. It is not real. Come back to me."

"It feels real," she gasped. Her breathing was too fast, too shallow. She couldn't get enough air. Couldn't breathe past the cold, hard weight of the fear pressing down on her. And suddenly she felt eyes on her back, watching. Calculating. Plotting. But there was no one; she knew that in her head, even if she didn't believe it in her heart. Dylan shivered. "The blood and you... I don't... I can feel his hands on me. It won't stop." Revulsion burned in her stomach. Fresh tears seared her cheeks as the stink of freshly spilt golden blood hit her nose. She shoved to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "Nuada, the blood... I can taste it, it burns... I can taste blood and..." She nearly choked. The darkness seemed to laugh silently at her. "He made me watch... and you... I can still hear them laughing at you. Hitting you. Your bones breaking. Hurting you. It won't stop."

Panic crept into her voice with every word. The sheer terror in her eyes hit him squarely in the stomach. With trembling hands she covered her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as if to block out whatever she saw. He wanted to pull those shaking hands away from her face, show her that there was nothing to be afraid of. Not here, not now. But then she spoke again, and the fear and heartache haunting her voice froze him.

"Blades and glass shards and fire... screams. No one would come. No one would help. And every time one of us died, it just started all over again. Every time I close my eyes I see you. The blood, your blood. They won't stop, they won't leave you alone, I'm crying and crying, begging, and they won't, they just laugh and I can feel him, he wants to hurt you, wants to _destroy_ you, Nuada, he doesn't just want to kill you, he wants to break you to pieces."

Something brushed against her cheek and a silent scream slammed hard against her chest-

_-_ _Hands touching, mocking tenderness, _  
_Eamonn whispering_  
_"Watch the show, sweeting" in her ear_  
_Can't stop them from hurting Nuada  
Fingers biting_  
_He lightly brushes her face with his hand_  
_Wrenches her head back so she can see_  
_With her own eyes she can see_  
_A single tear on a pale cheek_  
_Blood runs like golden water_  
_Bones give like glass under brutal fists_  
_So much blood_  
_Nuada hangs limp in the shackles_  
_Can't even lift his head_  
_And still they hit him and hit him and hit him_  
_"Enough!_ Please!"  
_Eamonn lifts Nuada's silver spear, grins  
"Your turn, now."_  
_Agony bows her spine and makes her scream_  
_Nuada cries out, calls her name-_

"_No!_ Don't touch me!"

At her cry, Nuada jerked his hand back from her face. The fear in her eyes frosted his blood. Never had she looked at the Elf prince that way. _Never_. Like she looked at a monster. As if he were nothing but a beast. It hit him low in the belly and left him hollow. He could only gaze at her in shock where she hunched away from him, one hand covering the cheek he had accidentally brushed with his fingers. Her shoulders heaved with every breath. Glassy terror in her eyes was like a knife twisting in him. A petrified sound escaped her lips, a sound like a fist in the pit of his stomach.

Then he saw something in her eyes shift, brighten. And her shallow breathing deepened and her eyes lost their glazed look. Recognition filled her gaze.

"Nuada. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." There was no revulsion or disgust in her voice or eyes now. Regret simmered there, and sorrow, hot enough to burn him. "I'm sorry. Please... I'm so very sorry."

But the hollow feeling was still there. Still pulsing darkly in his chest. Bile burned the back of his throat.

Dylan moved closer. There was an awful look in his eyes, one she had never seen before. "Nuada?"

"I am sorry my touch is so distasteful to you," he mumbled, looking away now. He did not see her flinch. Instead, his eyes found the fire. Better to watch the flames than catch a glimpse of that contempt and fear again. Pain threaded through his skull. The heat of the fire seemed to burn him. He needed sleep, not this shadowed meeting stalked by nightmares and rejection, where the darkness itself felt alive and hostile. Such things were good for nothing but headaches and irritation. Why was he even here? Here in the dark with a mortal woman who abhorred his very touch? Nuada moved as if to rise. "I will trouble you no more, human."

"_Don't,_" Dylan snapped.

His head whipped around to stare at her. Now mingling with the pain was anger, like black lightning amidst the storm in her eyes. Irritation whispered under Nuada's skin. She dared to command him?

"Don't you dare. Don't you even _think _about leaving me just for... for _that_. That's not fair. I am _not _afraid of you, Nuada. I do not fear you, or hate you. I don't think you're a monster." He saw her lip trembling. She wiped at her face with a hand that shook violently, as if she were trying to shove away tears. "You are the bravest, most honorable man I have ever met and I am _not _afraid of you. I could _never _be afraid of you."

Dylan's voice broke, and the prince felt the sudden headache begin to ease back.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't reacting to you. I had a flashback and it... it was... it was bad. And Eamonn touched my face and then you did and I got confused. Everything was confused. I'm sorry. Please... _please_ don't leave me alone. I know you don't want to be here, but _please._"

_Not in the dark. _The words seemed to shimmer in the air between them. _Don't leave me alone in the dark. Not now. I can't be here without you. Please._

_I know you don't want to be here... I consider you my only friend, even though you hate me. _Why did she say things like that? Why? Better to be with the human than with Nuala, whose tortured and torturing emotions were like molten glass in his skull. Better to be with the mortal than at court with those thick-headed imbecilic lords and those flutter-brained, nymphomanic court ladies. And it was better to be with Dylan than to see the disappointment and shame in his father's eyes whenever King Balor looked at him.

Did the human not know that she and Wink were the only ones who looked at him as if he had any value? And only she watched him, in rare unguarded moments, with warmth and affection and joy. Did she think he did not see that she cared for him? Did she think he did not value that affection? Well, he would show her the truth.

The Elf prince resettled himself, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he held out a hand and said, "Come here."

Slowly, she came forward and scooted back into her place. His arms closed around her hesitantly, and she threw her arms around him, laying her head against his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his chilled skin. And the fact that she held him so tightly told the amber-eyed warrior everything he needed to know without words.

"I will not leave you, Dylan." To do so was unthinkable. Cowardly. Even if she was mortal. It was his fault that she was so afraid. She needed him.

"Promise?"

"Do you not trust me?" He asked, meaning to tease, to silently apologize for snarling at her and hurting her. For behaving like a callow youth, instead of the honorable warrior he was. But she did not laugh or smile. His Dylan, who always smiled. Her arms only tightened around his chest. "Yes, then," Nuada whispered. "I promise you."

More than an hour passed in near silence, broken only by Nuada occasionally murmuring assurances that he would not leave her and brief floods of Dylan's hot tears running down his chest when a memory took her. How could he leave her thus? Though of course, he knew he would have to eventually. For one thing, his left leg had fallen asleep. The other was not far behind. And the prince knew his hindquarters would carry an impression of the floor for the rest of his immortal life. But every time he so much as shifted a little, Dylan would whimper - actually whimper! - and cling to him more tightly.

_I will butcher Eamonn for this, like the mangy cur he is, _the Elf Prince thought, stroking her hair. The idea gave him a brief flash of satisfaction. Then it faded, and he was left with a quietly crying mortal whose tears were like knives in his belly. Something had to be done. Yet the only thing he could think of was... no. No, he could not do that. To even think of it was folly. But he could feel the fear and heartache clawing at the woman in his arms. Felt the despair and regret, like ashes in his mouth. Human or not, he could not leave her in such pain as this. But... he could not do _that_... could he?

_She will laugh at me, _he thought, and a spark of fury flared inside him. If she laughed at him, he would leave her to weep in the dark. If she dared to ridicule him... _But she would not, _the fae prince reminded himself. _Dylan would never mock anyone. _Memories of being inside her mind assured him of that. Which meant there was no help for it but to do the only thing he could think of to comfort her.

Drawing a deep breath, Nuada quietly cleared his throat and began to sing.

"Cé glaoch Cŵn Annwn mar an glaonna gaoithe, agus sé anáil an oíche eagla sa dorchadas, thiocfaidh mé póg a thabhairt duit mar an chéad breacadh an lae." _Though the hounds_ _of the Otherworld howl as the wind howls, and the night breathes fear in the dark, I come to you as the first kiss of dawn. _"Trí casadh an bháisteach an spéir go dubh, tá mé ag teacht tríd an stoirm." _Though the rain blackens the sky, I am come through the storm_.

Dylan tried to swallow the salt of her tears so she could hear the gentle words in the Old Tongue of Nuada's people. Even though it was Old Gaelic and not the modern language, he sang slowly, the timbre of his voice like breaking dawn and lullabies, and she could understand every word. Understood that the song was a promise. For the first time she realized Nuada held her to him, the way John had often held her when they were little and she'd had a bad dream.

_Some things are universal, I guess, _Dylan thought as the panic began to fade. A sigh hitched in her throat as she felt the warmth of Nuada's body push at the chill of nightmares in her bones.

"An scáthanna teitheadh. Thagann siad faoi bhun mo chlaíomh. Stailceanna mo sleighe croílár an dorchadais. Ní bheidh na Sleighe Airgead bhriseadh." The Elf prince fought the faint tinge of embarrassment at the words to the song he had written as a child. At only nine centuries of age, he had first held the Silver Lance, the weapon of the crown prince of Bethmoora. The feeling of invulnerability had heavily influenced the words to the lullaby he later wrote for his sister. He would never tell Dylan he had been a boy when he wrote, _The shadows flee. They fall beneath my sword. My spear strikes the heart of darkness. The Silver Lance will never break._ The words of a confident child sounded almost silly to him now. Perhaps that was why he had not sung this song in over two thousand years.

Dylan shivered as wisps of memory tried to creep into her mind. Each image was there and gone in a flash, but each was like a slap. She could still smell the blood, hear the percussive impacts of brutal fists against Elf flesh. Could never chase the image of the Elf prince, bleeding and shaking with the effort to crawl, from her mind.

Her vision blurred and her eyes burned as another phantom vision scraped her heart raw: Nuada chained by iron to the wall, struggling to remain on his feet despite the heavy shackles; Eamonn grinning as if this were the greatest joke in the world, taunting the fair-haired prince that if he could not remain standing under the blows from his fifteen men, each of them would have a turn with the human whore. Blood dripped from Nuada's mouth and nose. Black bruises bloomed like pain across the pale skin. Then the dark Elf struck the prince hard in the face with the butt of the silver-tipped lance. Nuada staggered. Nearly fell. Managed somehow to keep on his feet.

Dylan choked on the memory. Refused to let the scalding tears fall.

Nuada felt the mortal stiffen in his arms. Tasted her anguish like ashes and rot on the back of his tongue. Dylan only held herself this way, so tense his own muscles ached in sympathy, when she battled against the urge to break down. His arms tightened instinctively around her. "Caoin má mór duit ach eagla nach bhfuil an oíche go labhraíonn go bog an aisling dorcha. Tá siad ach macallaí na taibhsí d'aois. Tá siad aon rud ach aisling sa ceocháin." _Cry if you must but fear not the night that whispers of dark dreams. They are only echoes of old ghosts. They are nothing but dreams in the mist._

If only they were. If only she didn't have to remember the things Eamonn had shown her. The things he had done to Nuada. Hate like black poison pooled in her stomach along with the nauseating fear. She wanted to _kill _the dark Elf for everything he had inflicted on the pale Elf prince, even if it wasn't real. Every vicious and cruel thing. But as soon as she thought that, a flashback slammed into her like a tsunami and it was suddenly all in front of her eyes-

_- Nuada dragging himself across bloody, broken glass  
Reaching, straining, always reaching_  
_"Come on, Silverlance._  
_Just one touch of her hand and you're both free!"_  
_Glass knives biting deep and burning_  
_Every minute of struggle drags by_  
_Blood runs in deep, golden rivers down his skin_  
_Mingles with crimson mortality_  
_Almost touching, almost there, almost_  
_Scarcely a breath between their hands..._  
_Flash of silver_  
_Pain bright arc of death_  
_She screams when the sword rips through her_  
_And dies with his name on her lips -_

But it wasn't real! She forced her eyes open as wide as she could and focused on everything around her now. The fire was hot through her clothes. The light was golden and umber, and it danced across Nuada's chest and across her arm. His skin where her cheek rested was wet with her tears (_and probably some saliva,_ she thought disparagingly, since she could never keep herself from drooling when she cried that hard). Dylan could hear the steady beating of Nuada's heart under her ear, telling her that he was right there. He wasn't hurt. He wasn't dead. Eamonn hadn't done those things to him. Nuada was _fine_.

"Taobh thiar an stoirm luíonn an solas na gealaí airgid. Solas na réaltaí ar an spéir," the Elf prince continued, his voice soft and slow and steady. That sound served to anchor her in the real world, too. _Behind the storm lies the silver light of the moon. The stars light the sky._ Dylan focused on the song, the heat from the hearth, and the constant drum of Nuada's heart, shoving the memories and nightmares down. "Breacadh thagann go tapa mar an fia." _Dawn comes swift as the deer_. Would Nuada stay with her until dawn? When the sun rose, she might be able to sleep then. Maybe. Sleep without dreaming. If he just stayed with her until then.

"Beidh mé a shealbhú tú, agus tú a chosaint i an dorchadas go dtí go breacadh an lae." _I will hold you and protect you in the dark until dawn._ And hadn't he done just that? Nuada's bare chest and shoulders were slick with her tears. He hadn't said a word about it, just let her cry. Let her sob against him and shake. Six months ago, he would never have let her do this, she knew. Even a month ago. But he had seen inside her mind. And now... now he cradled her against him in the dimness. Stood guard against the nightmares that crept at the edges of sleep. "Eagla nach, le haghaidh mé anseo." _Fear not, for I am here._ She had always felt safest when he was with her. Always. "Beidh an oíche agus beidh deireadh breacadh an lae thagann os mé fhágann tú riamh."

Dylan was pretty sure she liked that part best. _The night will end and dawn will come before I ever leave you._ She'd never heard an Elven troubadour sing before, and wondered if they could possibly be better than the prince who sang to her now. As Nuada's voice faded into silence, Dylan sighed and looked up at him. His face was more alien than she had ever seen it. His eyes were clouded and far away. But he was here. As long as he was here, she was almost certain the nightmares would stay away.

_Nuada as a teddy bear. Kind of weird, _she thought. _But cool, too. Maybe I should get a bumper sticker with something like that on it. "My security blanket is a ticked-off Elf prince." Meh. Most people probably wouldn't get it._

She found her lips quirking into a small, tired smile. Oh, but she was tired. Her eyes burned from crying and from tiredness. But to sleep... to leave herself vulnerable to those dreams again... she didn't think she could do that if she were alone, and if she tried to go to bed, he would leave. His honor would demand it.

"That was... incredible," she murmured. "Thank you so much, my prince. I feel so much better."

"Are you tired?" He asked without looking at her.

"Yes, but... but I don't want to sleep," she confessed quietly. Nuada looked down at her, brow furrowed, and her eyes shifted away. Suddenly she felt like an insecure, whiny child begging for a blankie and crying about the monster under the bed. "I'm just..." Dylan gestured helplessly, unsure of what to say. Confess that she feared her own dreams, or keep silent? The prince was probably tired of being stuck here with her crawling all over him. She should just let him go. "I'm sorry. You're probably tired. You should... I should let you go to bed, I guess."

Her reluctance was obvious. "What is wrong?"

"I..." Dylan looked down at the glisten of tears on Nuada's chest. Her tears, like a sheen of diamond over pale skin. He'd let her cry on him for what seemed like hours. She knew right then that she could tell him anything. "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. But I don't want you to leave me. I can't help thinking something terrible is going to happen to you. But I know you hate being around me when I'm like this, all... wishy-washy and crying and stuff. I'm sorry. I just... when you're gone," she added softly, and Nuada's belly clenched at the thread of fear and melancholy in her voice. "When you're gone it feels like I'll never see you again. I know you're a skilled warrior. I know I'm being stupid. But if anything were to happen to you for real, I... I think I might... I don't know what I would do. I get panicky just thinking about it. And I don't want to dream again. Not like that. Not ever." With beseeching eyes, she pleaded, "Tabhair... fan liom?"

_Please... stay with me?_

Nuada fought the groan that yearned to escape. Of course he would capitulate. Dylan struggled to maintain a strong, brave facade every waking moment of her life. He should have expected that the rare instances when it slipped, it would fall away completely in a flood of emotion. His failure had done this. He would live with it. But they both needed sleep. The floor was not a welcome prospect for slumber, either. Yet laying on the bed with her... he knew her adherence to and reverence for what she called the Law of Chastity probably would not allow him to do that. And his honor pricked him more than a little bit at even considering it.

_Stay with me,_ she had whispered softly in Gaelic. And he remembered her whispering brokenly, like a terrified child, _I am afraid of the dark. _The dark, that even now seemed to pulse with a strange, sentient malevolence that sat ill with him. He sighed. The floor it was, then. Fighting a scowl, he said, "Beidh mé a bheith ceart anseo. I gcónaí."

Dylan blinked back the sudden prickle of tears. _I will be right here. Always._ She resettled her head against his chest and sighed, the hitch in her breathing the only indicator that she still struggled with the fear that had prompted her to call him to her room in the middle of the night.

_The middle of the night._ For the first time, he thought of how this must look to those who would not understand. Like his father and Nuala. They would assume that he shamed Dylan by stealing into her bed in the night, even if they found the two of them sprawled on the floor as they were. Would it shock the king and princess to see him, holding the mortal as he had once held his twin after a bad dream? Probably. He shifted slightly. Dylan's hands flattened against his chest, as if she meant to stay him.

"Dylan... I should not be here." He shifted again. "It is hardly proper-"

"Ná téigh!" She cried. _Don't go._ "I don't care about proper; don't go." A razor-edged shard of fear made her voice knife through him. With a barely suppressed sigh, the Elven warrior resettled, ignoring the beginning of a dull ache in his lower back. If she did not want him to move... he would not. He would stay, as honor demanded, until she fell asleep once more. Even if his posterior and spine did not appreciate such chivalry.

"Dún do shúile. Codladh anois. Tá mé anseo."

Dylan let her eyes close and let her body relax. _Close your eyes. Sleep now. I am here._ When Nuada said something like that, all the fear faded away, replaced with a tired contentment that allowed her to slowly drift off, lulled by the sound of his breathing, the watery thud of his heart, and the even rise and fall of his chest.

**.**

Daybreak was still an hour away, but the Midnight Star was fading as the false light of the predawn hour began reaching across the night sky. The mortal in Nuada's arms slept easily now. No nightmares twisted her peaceful expression. All it had taken was allowing her to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. He carefully lifted the human in his arms and even more carefully stood. Her head against his shoulder was almost comforting. Her breath was surprisingly soft and sweet and warm against his bare skin. The prince padded on bare feet to the mortal's bed and laid her upon it, straightening the tangled blankets and pulling them over her. She stirred once, shifted. Was still once more.

_Eamonn will pay for this, _the prince vowed, not for the first time. Dylan's hair slid across her face like a dark curtain. Remembering the way she had reacted to the simple touch of his hand, he _very _carefully brushed the stray curls from her soft cheek. Only his iron will kept his hand from shaking with the strength of his fury at the dark Elf. How many nights would Dylan awaken in terror and tears because of the traitor? _He will pay for tormenting her like this. He will _not _escape my vengeance._

Becan slipped into the room. Nuada knew it was a brownie from the faint kitchen smells that always clung to the Wee Folk, and knew it to be Becan because the little house sprite had made sure the rest of the castle staff knew _he _was the one responsible for Dylan. Now the tiny faerie scrabbled up the side of the bed like a mountain climber and perched on the footboard.

"Is she well now, Your Highness?"

"She is as well as could be hoped for." The prince turned to Becan. "Your loyalty does you credit. If she wakes thus again, fetch me at once."

"Yes, Your Highness. Thank you." The little fae bowed as Nuada turned and walked out of the room to return to his own chamber. His lady was lucky, Becan knew, that the Silver Lance cared so much for her. He wondered if his mistress (or Princess Nuala) understood the depths of the Prince's affection.

Nuada moved swiftly and silently down the hall, careful of the servants and guards that would, even at this early hour, be prowling the corridors. He managed to slip back into his room without being seen (Dylan's protestations of the chaste nature of their relationship would be as smoke in the wind if anyone saw him leaving her room so early in the morning) but when he turned from the door to return to his bed, he stopped short and blinked. A slim, blond figure rose from the mattress, took several steps forward, and slapped him across the face.

"Sister. A pleasure, as always. Could you not sleep, either?" Even the princess could not miss the sarcasm tingeing his voice.

"Do not 'Sister' _me_, Nuada. I know where you have been." The disgust in her voice was like a second slap. "The brownie who serves your lady told me you went to her chamber in the night. I felt your fury. Did she refuse you? Or did you guilt her into accepting you into her bed?"

He forced the shock and bone-deep hurt down and away before it could register for his sister. So even after all this, she thought him capable of rape. For that was exactly what it would have been, had he done as his sister accused. If he ever took a woman to his bed, it would be with her full consent; how could Nuala believe otherwise? Did she truly think him such a monster? But all he said, in a dry voice, was, "Neither, though doubtless you believe I am lying."

"What other reason would you have for going to her chamber thus?" Nuala demanded. She did not believe him for an instant. Why else would she have felt the anger simmering through their bondline all this time? The fury and the lust for blood? His feelings, burning through their connection, had turned her own dreams into a vicious bloodbath.

_If I had been awake, I would have stopped him from going to her, _the princess thought, _whether he was in a fury or no. _True, there had been brief flashes of hurt or sorrow, but they had been quickly snuffed out by Nuada's rage. Only a shimmer of true lust had edged his desire for violence, which only further cemented what Nuala had initially suspected. And the _entire _time the fury and lust were burning, the prince had been in Dylan's darkened room. For what other purpose could he have gone there to begin with, never mind in the state of black rage and desire he had stewed in all the hours there?

The Elf prince moved around his sister to the bed. There he unceremoniously dropped himself, stretching full-out on the exquisitely soft feather mattress. His spine, long compressed by the fact that he'd sat on the cold stone floor without any kind of back support while a human slept slumped against his chest, cracked audibly more than once. Nuada stretched a bit.

His twin continued to glower at him. The warrior felt her fury and suspicion through their bond like hot iron against his heart. With a sigh, he turned his head to look out the window at the eerie false-light of the pre-dawn hour. Clouds from the nocturnal maelstrom hid even the rising Morning Star from him.

"I do not have the heart to fight with you this night, my sister. The brownie fetched me to Dylan's chamber. She had suffered a nightmare. I soothed her."

"How?"

Embarrassment seared him. "I held her. We were _quite _chaste." He would not tell his sister that he had sung to the weeping mortal. That song had been written for Nuala, long ago when she and Nuada were only children. The prince had been... between nine and ten centuries? Perhaps younger. Part of the song - and nearly all of the tune - had been composed on the spot one night while his sister wept, as Dylan had wept, into his chest in the wake of a horrible nightmare. The rest had been penned the next morning. Nuada had never sung that song for anyone else, not even in an attempt to show off for his father. Yet he had shared it with Dylan as she cried. And he had heard from her own lips that she cared more for him than any other, save her twin. Even now, that simple statement murmured in the shadows shook him.

Yet Nuala would never believe any of that without searching his thoughts. His twin clung to her honor, but she did not understand his. Because he had failed in saving the human from Eamonn, he was at fault for the nightmares. Being at fault, he would do all in his power to mend the damage they caused. Even singing to a weeping mortal woman in the dim light of the fire. But Nuala would never understand that.

As for his twin's belief and understanding... he knew Nuala detested touching his mind with hers. What she found there always served to upset her; there was nothing he could about that. His heart was not his own. But that knowledge was like a blade of ice straight to his heart. He refused to suffer further proof of that knowledge while still so raw from Dylan's fear and his own nightmares. And his back seemed intent on assassinating him. That did not improve his mood a whit.

"Do you hate me, Sister?" Nuada demanded suddenly, pushing himself upright to stare at his twin with challenge in his eyes. "Is that why you continue to harrass and attack me?" In a softer voice, letting a brief kiss of hurt caress his words, he murmured, "Do you truly think me so dishonorable?"

"Brother, I do not hate you," she said. Was that remorse in her voice? "But I felt your rage strongly enough that it gave me nightmares. Dark dreams of blood and slaughter and the screams of the dying. I felt your fury; I expected..." In truth, she had expected for his hate and rage to explode so fiercely that the barrier between their minds would have shattered. And then she'd thought to see what her brother saw, to be able to witness what her brother was doing in the wash of that acidic fury.

As for what she'd thought him likely to do... Dylan still being counted among the living had surprised her greatly. Nuala had seen her twin in skirmishes and battles with mortals. His viciousness and hatred had driven him to butchery more than once. Yet not, it seemed, this time. Not with the mortal woman who should have drawn the worst of her brother's wrath. And that puzzled the princess. "I love you, Nuada. I worry for you... always, I worry for you. For your honor, your heart, your..." _Your sanity._ But this, she could not say aloud. It would only enrage him.

_I love you, Nuada. _Words he always yearned to hear. Words that never failed to fill him with joy... and pain. Never did love come without strings attached to it, it seemed. Never from his father, or his sister. Always there was more to it than simple emotion. Subtleties and shades of meaning. This was why he hated court life and loathed politics.

_You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me._ No double-edged words there. No nuances or possible double-entendres. Only quiet and sincere sentiment. Nuada realized no one had ever said such a thing to him. Oh, he knew his mother had felt that way. What mother did not feel thusly about her children? But no other had ever expressed that sort of... affection for him before. Only a mortal woman. And he knew, despite the stain of humanity on her soul, that she spoke the truth.

"Why do you persist in thinking me a monster, my sister?" He asked softly, wearily.

"You have done monstrous things, my brother. I have witnessed them with my very own eyes, and you know it."

Such sadness in Nuala's voice. Such hurt. As if the thing she spoke of had been an attack against her personally. Yes, he had begged his father to accept the goblins' gift of the Golden Army. Seventy-times-seventy soldiers, unstoppable and without mercy, to protect his people - and all the Fair Ones - from the humans and their mindless butchery. Seventy-time-seventy sins on his soul, seventy-time-seventy scars on his heart. All for the sake of his people. Why did his advocacy of the Army make him a monster to the other half of his soul? Why? Why did his love for his people and his love for all the Hidden Ones paint him a villain in his twin sister's eyes?

"Dylan does not think of me so," he muttered without thinking. When his sister tensed, when her suspicion pulsed through their bond, his fury prompted him to throw caution to the winds and he growled, "No, she does _not_. And if she were to learn of the Golden Army, I dare say she still would not. When I held her in the dark, she whispered to me of loyalty, of trust... and of love."

_You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me._

Mortal love, to be sure, a weak and flimsy thing... but a type of love nonetheless. And fealty. Faith in him. Why else had she sought him in her fear? Why else did she look at him the way she did? Loyalty in a human, devotion from one, should have been impossible. But not from her. And it hurt, like a sword-thrust through the back, that such loyalty and trust _was _impossible from his sister.

"Strange, is it not, Sister, that a mortal thinks more highly of me than you or Father do? Perhaps she sees more clearly than either of you, mortal eyes or no. Perhaps she can recognize my honor, my heart... and that I still retain a firm grasp of my sanity."

Nuala flinched, but would not back down. Not after what he had said. _When I held her in the dark, she whispered to me of love... _"Or perhaps she is blinded by her own heart. I will go and speak to her," the princess said, and there was a subtle challenge to her tone.

Nuada glared at her and muttered, "I have only just coaxed her back to sleep. Leave the human be for now. Interrogate her when the sun rises, at an hour the gods deem fit for being conscious."

"Very well." Nuala turned to go, then paused at the door. "Brother... if what you say is true..."

But how could it be? Her brother, whether he felt affection or not for the mortal, would never hold her the way he had implied, unless... And certainly not when he was still so very angry. His rage coiled inside him like a serpent waiting with bared fangs to strike, to kill. Yet the princess knew she had been wrong about the prince and the human before.

"If it is true, then I will say this for it." Eyes like antique gold coins met eyes of glacial topaz. Nuala's face burned from the crack of her hand against her brother's cheek. "Well done. It was honorable of you. If it is true, I am proud of you."

And she left him to the dark.

_Well done. I am proud of you. _Fair compliment, and the first he had received from his sister in a long while. A sigh shuddered out of him as he thought of Nuala, so beautiful and so blind to the truth if it displeased her. And his indrawn breath hitched when he thought of Dylan curled so trustingly against him. She did not doubt him. Even the recoiling had been not at him, but memories of Eamonn. Dylan _never_ doubted him or his honor.

_Did you know the poor thing whispered your name as she died? She actually expected you to arrive in time to save her._

Nuada clenched his fists. He would never let that dream come to pass. _Never_. He would die before Eamonn managed to get to Dylan again. And in the meantime... in the meantime, he would play his father's political game of forced courtship until he and Dylan could figure a way to get out of it without his father being able to contest it. And if she woke from nightmares into choking darkness again, he would go to her. He would go to her, and comfort her, as his honor demanded, until the fear left her like night mist in the morning sun. Never again would the mortal be forced to weep alone in the dark.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Sigh. Nuala is actually a lot like me in this instance. When I was young and my older brother still lived at home, I was always telling him, "You can't have girls in your room!" If he did, I'd go in there and be like, "Sorry (Name of Girl), but my brother is a cad. Don't make me tell Mom and Dad, Blake (my brother), or you're busted." Now, I'd never slap my brother, but that's because he's five years older than me and humongous, and he moved out when I was thirteen. If I had a twin that I thought had slithered his way into a girl's bed without any intention of marrying her (and he claimed that his honor prevented him from doing so) I'd probably slap him. And if I was in a time period where being in a girl's bedroom practically amounted to sleeping with her (or if I had grown up in a world where the same held true) and my brother walked out of some girl's room, I'd be mad that he was even there in the first place, no matter what he was doing there. So no hating on Nuala, okay? She's not mean. Just... worried. And a little freaked by dreams of a "vicious bloodbath." But I promise, she's not gonna slap him again, because Dylan's gonna give her a talking-to in the next chapter._

_But is not Nuada the most chivalrous, honorable, awesome antihero to ever exist in the history of comic books? Because _Hellboy _is, in fact, a comic book first, and a movie second. I always knew that a man with the code of honor he possessed in the film could be - would be - gentle and tender with the women and children he cared about (tenderness not really being necessary in a guy's dealings with other guys). And he __**FINALLY **__admitted to himself that he cared about Dylan (sort of). _

_And my beta, when she was reading the chapter, was like, "You _know _he's got this teeny-tiny voice in his mind telling him, 'If you don't do everything in your power to get her to calm down, she is __**never **__going to let you go. You'll be chained to her side for eternity.' And Nuada's all, 'All right, fine!' Then he shudders."_

_Anyway, do we want Nuada to sing to Dylan again sometime? Was it cute? Romantic? Or if anyone was like, "Ew! Nuada singing probably sounds like a dead frog. Blech!" I'd like to know that, too. Or do we want to see Nuada do something else, like teach Dylan to ride a horse (since humans can't ride as well as Elves and she can only "kind of ride," by human standards, and compared to him she can't ride at all) or... I dunno... push her on a swing in the rose garden? I don't know. Something. If anyone wants to see something romantic, run it by me and I'll see if I can pop it in, okay? I like fluff as much as the next girl, I'm just not very good at coming up with instances of it. I can write it, I just need prompts._

_Speaking of prompts, __**review prompt!**_ _Woot. You guys can ignore these, you know, I'm just trying to be helpful. It's not required that you do them (although I'd like you to, I won't hate you or be sad or anything if you don't). But I know some people sometimes don't ever leave reviews (or just sometimes don't) because they don't know what to say (me included). I'm just trying to help out._

_1) __**Who thought there should have been a kiss in the comfort scene?**_ _I'm just curious. Do you think there should have been a kiss (or almost-kiss) in this chapter, and if so, where? (Part of this is to fuel my plan to be like, "Hey (Name of Beta, not sharing online), all my reviewers are saying, 'Man! They should have kissed right here! Or there! Or wherever!'" And then maybe the next time I say, "Can they kiss __**NOW?**__" She'll say "yes" instead of "no, not yet." I know it's my story, but I trust her sense of timing. _

_2) __**How did I do on Dylan's flashbacks?**_ _(Real quick, so you know - the first time you guys read a chapter is like, draft 7, but I usually go through up to 15 drafts before I'm done, so these answers do sometimes impact my revisions) Anyway, I was really trying to put the emphasis of the flashbacks on what Eamonn was doing to Nuada and how Dylan felt about that, and less on what Eamonn was doing to her (due to the effect of Nuala's mind-block). So how did I do? _

_3) __**Was our Elf Prince in character? If not, help me fix.**_ _I want him to be in character __**all **__the time! I didn't fall in love with stupid, wimpy OOC Nuada found in so many OFC fics, but with strong, noble, desperate, heartbroken Nuada from the movie. He's the one I want in my fic. So if he's not in-character, point it out to me. Was he too tender? Was he not angry enough? Is there anything I could do to improve him in this chapter, or was he fine? Did his motivations for helping Dylan and comforting her make sense (both his honor, and that he cares about her but is in denial and sublimates that caring in his honor)? Was there enough sensual tension (again, going for the slow simmer, so it's more sensual tension than sexual tension)? And who thinks it's funny that whenever he starts feeling attraction for Dylan, he's like, "Why is it so hot in here?" Or like, the time when he was weeping in his sleep and woke up and was like, "Why am I sweating so hard in November?" Who thinks his denial is cute?_

_4) __**Was Dylan too wimpy?**_ _I'm wondering because it's unusual for her to break down or be so clingy, but at the same time she's really magically messed up (__**future plot point teaser**__), she's in a strange place, and unlike the last time she was messed up in a strange place, she isn't sleeping in the same room as the only person in the place that she trusts. And on top of that, she's worried about him dying on her because of her nightmares and because someone is trying to kill him. So I thought it was fairly justified that she's all quakey and terrified, but I'm wondering about how you guys feel. Too much crying? Too much clinging to Nuada (as if there could ever be such a thing in real life, lol)? Not enough clinging? Or was it fine the way it was?_

_Anyway, that's it. Love you all! Thank you so much for all your support (it's crazy how much it makes me happy to know you're all still reading)._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _This is a song by Evanescence. It is actually my favorite song they've done. It's beautiful and slow, and probably in a minor key (I used to be able to tell without having to look at sheet music, but I haven't been in choir in over 4 years, so I'm out of practice). Anyway, "Before the Dawn." I likes it._

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _The nightmare (which is an actual type of creature of folklore, as well as a mental sleep event). A mare or nightmare is a spirit or goblin in Germanic folklore which rides on people's chests while they sleep, bringing on bad dreams._ _The mare (not a horsey) is attested as early as in the Norse _Ynglinga _saga from the 13th century, but the belief itself is likely to be considerably older. The belief has inspired a great deal of fiction, including the 2011 Swedish film _Marianne _in which the protagonist dreams of a creature that sits on his chest while he sleeps._

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_**References Made in the Chapter:**_

- The thing about "some people's sisters" is something my sister and I do all the time. We'll be mock-arguing, and she'll go, "Jeez, some people's sisters." And I'll be like, "Yeah, I know, some people's sisters." Which she will follow up with, "Yeah, tell me about it. Can you believe some people's sisters?" And we'll go back and forth until we're either laughing our butts off or until we get distracted.

- Huldufólk is Icelandic for "Hidden Folk," another name for faeries.

- Nuada's feet falling asleep may have been indirectly inspired by Brad Paisley's "Little Moments." In that song, there's a line that goes, "And about the time she falls asleep, so does my right arm." The song goes on to say that she looks so peaceful asleep on his shoulder that he wouldn't wake her for anything. But if it is inspired by that, I didn't do it consciously.

- About Nuada being able to sing. Who knows who the Fianna are?

They were a group of independent warrior bands who lived as loners in ancient Ireland, but could be called upon the High King in times of war. In order to be a fénnid, a member of the Fianna, you had to be able to pass a bunch of tests. One such included a man standing in a waist-deep hole armed with a shield while nine warriors threw spears at him. If he was wounded at all, he failed the test. In another test, the would-be fénnid had his hair braided, and he would be pursued through the forest; he would fail this test if he was caught, if a branch cracked under his feet, or if the braids in his hair were disturbed. He would have to be able to leap over a branch the height of his forehead, pass under one as low as his knee, and pull a thorn from his foot without slowing down. He _also_ needed to be a skilled poet and be able to sing passably well.

Although Nuada is no bard by any stretch, in ancient days in all kinds of places, men were not considered men unless they could spin verse and sing at least passably. And one of the most adorable things ever is when I'm upset, and my husband (who has the musical talents of a rock, poor guy) sings to me.

- I wrote the song Nuada sings, by the way. If anybody cares.

- Although the Law of Chastity does not specifically state that you can't lay on a bed next to someone of the opposite sex, people are counseled not to, as it is a HUGE temptation. I am not sure if Dylan would worry about that or not (since she believes that Nuada thinks she's the nastiest thing since the discovery of baby poop) but you know that Nuada would worry about it on the off chance that she would care, because that's just the kind of man he is.

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_**Chapter Playlist**_

_Same list as last chapter, sorry._

- "Ariadne" by the Crüxshadows (_**has been my favorite band for almost 10 years**_)  
- "As Long As You're Mine" from _Wicked_  
- "Asleep" by the Smiths (_**featured in the book **_The Perks of Being a Wallflower)

- "Bang, Bang! (He Shot Me Down)" by Nancy Sinatra  
- "Before the Dawn" by Evanescence (titular song)  
- "Born to Make You Happy" by Britney Spears (_**my favorite song by her ever**_)

- "The Cross" by Within Temptation

- "DNAngel (Revix Remix)" by Vic Micnogna  
- "Don't Walk Away" from _Xanadu_ (_**for the part of the film animated by Don Bluth, of **_Secret of Nimh/Troll in Central Park/Once Upon a Forest _**fame**_)

- "Frozen" by Within Temptation

- "The Harold Song" by Ke$ha (_**my favorite song by her ever**_)  
- "Hello" by Evanescence  
- "Her Name Is Alice" by Shinedown

- "I Surrender" by Celine Dion (_**great **_Escaflowne _**video on Youtube to this song**_)  
- "I Will Carry You" by Clay Aiken  
- "In Joy and Sorrow" by HIM  
- "In Your Arms Tonight" by REM (might actually be called "I Just Died In Your Arms")  
- "It's All Coming Back To Me Now" by Celine Dion

- "Jillian (I'd Give My Heart)" by Within Temptation

- "Kissing You" from _Romeo+Juliet _(_**specifically the instrumental bridge**_)

- "Last Kiss" by Taylor Swift  
- "Lovin' You Against My Will" by Gary Alan  
- "Lullaby for a Stormy Night" by Vienna Tang

- "Mad World," as sung by Adam Lambert  
- "Muitio's Song (Ending Theme)" from the anime _Blue Submarine No. 6_

- "Nobody's Home (Acoustic)" by Avril Lavigne  
- "Not Like the Other Girls" by the Rasmus (_**great AMV to **_Earth Girl Arjuna _**on Youtube**_)  
- "Nothing Else Matters (Acoustic Instrumental)" by Apocalyptica

- "Review My Kisses" by Leann Rhimes

- "Sinking" by the Cruxshadows  
- "Slipped Away" by Avril Lavigne  
- "So Close" from Disney's _Enchanted _(_**GREAT scene**_)  
- "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel (_**loved this song since I was a little girl**_)

- "The Two of Us Will Always Be One" from Hallmark's _the Snow Queen_ (2005)

- "What You Don't Know" by Monrose (_**great Nuada video to this song on Youtube; is how I found out about the song, actually**_)  
- "When You're Gone" by Avril Lavigne  
- "Where Is My Angel?" by the Crüxshadows  
- "Where's My Angel?" by Metro Station (_**inspired a scene in my YA novel, **_Glass. _**If it gets published and gets made into a movie, hopefully I can have this song in the soundtrack, 'cause that would be AWESOME**_)  
- "Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley and Alison Kraus (_**for the sad melody and croony sound**_)  
- "Wish I Could Stay" from the musical episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, "Once More, With Feeling" (_**specifically the melody and theme**_)

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_**The Words to Nuada's Lullaby (In English and Gaelic)**_

_(Although songs from England sometimes rhymed at the time of the Celts, most of the Irish songs originally composed in Gaelic did not. One of my favorite poems from Gaelic Ireland goes something like: _The birds sing in the trees, the sun dawns golden over the lake, and the deer leap through the woods_. I can't remember __**exactly **__how it goes, since I read it in like, 2nd grade, but it was pretty.)_

_(secondary note: although I don't know how the song in Gaelic is pronounced, the phrase "Cŵn Annwn" is in both versions and is actually Welsh, not Gaelic. Cŵn Annwn is pronounced "Seen Uh-Nawn," with the N in "Seen" barely pronounced. Just so you guys know.)_

Though Cŵn Annwn howl as the wind howls, and the night breathes fear in the dark, I come to you as the first kiss of dawn.  
_Cé glaoch Cŵn Annwn mar an glaonna gaoithe, agus sé anáil an oíche eagla sa dorchadas, thiocfaidh mé póg a thabhairt duit mar an chéad breacadh an lae._

Though the rain blackens the sky, I am come through the storm.  
_Trí casadh an bháisteach an spéir go dubh, tá mé ag teacht tríd an stoirm._

The shadows flee. They fall beneath my sword. My spear strikes the heart of darkness. The Silver Lance will never break.  
_An scáthanna teitheadh. Thagann siad faoi bhun mo chlaíomh. Stailceanna mo sleighe croílár an dorchadais. Ní bheidh na Sleighe Airgead bhriseadh._

Cry if you must but fear not the night that whispers of dark dreams. They are only echoes of old ghosts. They are nothing but dreams in the mist.  
_Caoin má mór duit ach eagla nach bhfuil an oíche go labhraíonn go bog an aisling dorcha. Tá siad ach macallaí na taibhsí d'aois. Tá siad aon rud ach aisling sa ceocháin._

Behind the storm lies the silver light of the moon. The stars light the sky. Dawn comes swift as the deer.  
_Taobh thiar an stoirm luíonn an solas na gealaí airgid. Solas na réaltaí ar an spéir. Breacadh thagann go tapa mar an fia._

I will hold you and protect you in the dark until dawn. Fear not, for I am here. The night will end and dawn will come before I ever leave you.  
_Beidh mé a shealbhú tú, agus tú a chosaint i an dorchadas go dtí go breacadh an lae. Eagla nach, le haghaidh mé anseo. Beidh an oíche agus beidh deireadh breacadh an lae thagann os mé fhágann tú riamh._


	18. Changelings

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note/Must Read  
Skill Poll Challenge #4  
Mythological Being of the Day_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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_**Dedication: **__dedicated to __**Captain Zombie**__, who did the __**Chapter 16 Challenge **__(started the same day I posted the chapter; now _that _is impressive). __**"On Death and Dante" **__is so sad! And beautiful! And she's doing a free sequel. Yay! So this chapter is for you, Captain my Captain. _=)

_**Poll by Request:**_ _one of my betas is doing a _Labyrinth _fanfic. She is worried about posting it, because Sarah is not Jareth's love interest (neither is Toby; it's an OC). She asked me to post a poll asking any fans of the fandom *pokes Ja Reedus* if they would hate it automatically because of this. So... impressions? Questions? Comments? Smart remarks? I promised her I'd post this poll, so please help us out. I love you all. And IK Scott (my beta) says, "Thank you (in advance)!" Hugs for everyone!_

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, I was informed my chapters are too long (by more than a few people). So I have tried to shorten them. A lot. More cliffhanger-ness that way, too. I'm just worried because I've already written up to chapter 25, and I'm worried that I have too many chapters devoted to this one day (morning-after... whatever) due to the cutting-in-half thing (they don't go all the way to chapter 25, I promise) and that it'll get too time-consumy. But if the chaps are short, maybe not. Anyway, because originally this was a lot longer, I'm posting 2 chapters today. One for Captain Z, and one for WhenNightmaresWalked, as they both did challenge entries. Yay!_

_So... yeah. Anyway, hope you enjoy the latest chapters. I love you guys! *huggies for all* Also... about Nuala. Just something to keep in mind. __**She tried to kill Nuada. Twice.**_ _Just reminding everyone. _=D

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**Chapter Eighteen**

**Changelings**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Girl Talk, Confessions, Rumors, and a Halfling Babe**

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Dylan woke as pale golden light caressed her face, without the fear and anguish of the night before. Her eyes flickered open, closed again. She let herself enjoy the soft pillow beneath her cheek, the warmth of the velvet blankets, and the prettiness of early morning birdsong.

A soft crackling from the hearth and the soft warmth of a fire told her that Becan had already come and gone from her room. The little brownie had already left to do... whatever things brownies did when not doing housework. Dylan knew the small faerie took pride in the care he took of her, so she let him. Hopefully one of the servants had been told to give Becan those extra helpings of porridge with butter, cream, and honey. A smile curved the mortal's scarred mouth as she thought of the brownie's delight upon receiving such a gift.

For one of the rare times in her life, there was no fear and no grief upon waking. Only the gentle light of soft dawn, the warmth of a well-laid morning fire. It was as if the nightmares had never been. The morning outside looked like it fully intended to unfold in glorious splendor and much fanfare. But there was also, just under the quiet contentment of the early morning, a sense of something missing. Something... and someone. She sat up and glanced around. Realized that Nuada had not stayed after she fell asleep.

_Well, of course not, _Dylan chided herself, throwing back the blankets and swinging her feet to the floor. _What would people think if they caught him asleep in my room? We'd be in trouble, because the king would assume I'd been lying about sleeping with him. Of course, _she added philosophically as she padded on chilly sock-feet to the bathing chamber and privy, _Nuala could back me up, since she read my mind. But it would cause so many more problems that we don't have time to deal with. Avoiding scandal is one of my main priorities right now._

In the bathing chamber, she saw that Becan had indeed been up early to do "the things brownies did." A silver basin and pitcher sat beside the black marble sink next to a fluffy white towel. The chair that had held her clothes the night before had been moved into the room and now lay draped with fresh garments. Her daily dosage of painkillers for her bad knee were set out beside a cup of water. A plush, velvet-covered stool rested next to the chair, but she doubted she'd actually get around to sitting down while she was in this room. She noticed that the pitcher steamed. When Dylan sniffed, she realized the fragrant steam smelled of lotus and camellia blossoms. And best of all, Becan had brought with him her toothbrush and a tube of the handmade cinnamon toothpaste John always bought.

_Fantastic, _she thought as gratitude filled her. _My mouth tastes disgusting, and my teeth feel fuzzy. And now I won't have to chew mint leaves again. Yay!_ She poured water into the basin and splashed some on her face. Warmer than she preferred, but at least it wasn't ice water or anything. Dylan thought of Bridget Fonda in _The Snow Queen_, and the pitcher of ice water the beautiful winter faerie had requested in the middle of winter in Denmark.

The human shivered at the thought and, fighting back the sick nausea the action caused, swallowed her pain pills before draining the glass of water in several long swallows. She took a moment simply to breathe and be sure she wouldn't throw up the Vicodin - a precaution she had to take every morning when she popped her dose, even if it was only one pill instead of the prescribed three. When her stomach had calmed, Dylan began to brush her teeth.

"Dylan?" Someone called from the other side of the chamber door a few moments later. Dylan spat pink toothpaste suds in the sink and poked her head out the door. Nuala, looking supermodel gorgeous in pale gold and green, smiled when the Elf caught sight of the mortal peaking into the room. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Your Highness." At the princess's gesture, Dylan shuffled back into the bathing chamber, followed by the princess. "How did you know I was going to be awake this early?"

"Becan informed me you were awake, and I thought I might beg a few moments to speak with you." Nuala sank down gracefully to the three-legged velvet-covered vanity stool that Dylan had shunned as impractical. "If you have no objection."

"Can I keep brushing my teeth while you talk?" Dylan asked. Looking at the princess was putting her teeth on edge; not just because of the whole forced-courtship thing, but because it wasn't fair that anyone could look like a supermodel at the crack of dawn, Elf or not. _Well, I agreed to come to Earth as a __mentally fragile __human__ with PTSD and a bad knee__. With frizzy hair. I'll get over it__. Well... maybe not the hair__. _Aloud she added, "I've perfected the art of talking with a toothbrush in my mouth."

Nuala's laugh was light and silvery and completely sincere. Dylan began to relax as the princess replied, "I do not mind at all. However, before you begin, I wish to broach a delicate subject, and I would not have you choking in surprise."

At the human's slanted, suspicious look, Nuala sighed. "You have every reason to be wary of me, I know. I am sorry for that. I would very much like us to be friends, if you can find it in you to think of me with some fondness. But that is not what I wish to speak with you about."

The princess paused, and frowned. How to put this delicately? She did not believe the mortal had done anything inappropriate, not really. The brief scan of her mind the night of Nuada's trial had shown Nuala that Dylan would not compromise her morals lightly. Offering herself to Eamonn as she had was one thing, but letting Nuada have his way with her out of some sense of obligation was quite another. In the light of day, in the human's presence and without the echoes of her bloody nightmares haunting her, the princess realized she most likely owed her brother an apology. Yet something had to be said.

"My brother was in your room last night."

"Crud." Dylan spat the last vestiges of toothpaste into the sink before flipping the tap. She palmed a handful of water and rinsed her mouth and the sink, then shut off the water and turned to the princess. "Okay." _Don't panic. Just breathe._ "What about it?"

"Dylan... if he... if my brother..." Why was this so hard? It was a valid question. "If Nuada did anything that made you uncomfortable... you know that you can tell me. We do not believe in _noblesse oblige_ here."

_Noblesse oblige_. The right for a lord or a lord's son to have his way with any woman who called him liege, married or not, willing or not. As if Nuada would ever do something like that, even if he _was _allowed to. Dylan knew his code of honor would've prevented him if his inclinations hadn't. So she only shrugged and said, "He didn't do anything."

She stepped to the chair that held her new clothes. There was a silk screen for her to change behind; how had she not noticed it before? More faerie magic, probably. Stepping behind it, Dylan doffed her kirtle, shift, and underthings, but kept her socks. The floor was like a glacier, even through the thick wool.

"You are sure?" Nuala heard rustling as the human dressed. "I know that the followers of the Star Kindler are very circumspect, and if Nuada-"

"I had a nightmare," Dylan interrupted, slipping the fawn-colored shift over her head. "A bad one. Becan fetched Nuada to me at _my _request, and he stayed with me until I fell asleep again." The memory of it made something warm and soft fizz in Dylan's stomach. She recalled a warm, golden voice singing in the dark. A promise to stay and protect her until the dawn chased away her fear. "He sang to me. Nothing inappropriate happened, Your Highness, I promise."

The princess did not point out that Nuada being in the mortal's room alone in the middle of the night was impropriety in and of itself, because of something she heard in the human's voice. Nuala had noticed that there seemed always to be affection and admiration in the girl's voice whenever Dylan spoke of or to Nuada. But now there was something more, something the Elf princess did not quite understand - or like. It was not love... but the wealth of affection was great enough that apprehension slithered up Nuala's spine.

_I held her in the dark and she whispered to me of love._

Perhaps King Balor had made a mistake in attempting to force them together, Nuala thought once more. If the mortal fell in love with the prince, there could be so many complications. And if Dylan did fall in love with Nuada... how would it affect the prince? She would have to speak to her father about this.

And Nuada singing... when had her brother ever sung to anyone other than his twin before? At least sung a lullaby? It was one thing for her brother to join in at the various fetes and ceilis they both enjoyed, but to sing a lullaby to someone other than his other half? Nuala could not remember a time when he'd done so, even when they were very young. Another cold trickle of uncertainty down her back. There was more here than she understood. She would have to speak to Nuada, as well.

"You didn't yell at him, did you, Your Highness?" Dylan asked, startling her from her reverie. "Because I'd have to protest if you did. Loudly. Maybe even physically, and with some Mormon cusswords." Like "frack." Frack was a good one.

"I beg your pardon?" The princess realized the human had come out from behind the changing screen and was watching her with expectant (and suspicious) eyes. "Forgive me, my thoughts were elsewhere. Why do you ask that?"

"You always think the worst of him," the human replied, fluffing her hair. She went back to the pitcher of water, poured some more into the basin, and used it to wet down the frizzy locks until they looked a bit less wild. "You always treat him like he's the black sheep or something. What part of _he saved my life_ did you guys miss, exactly? Words fail me when I try to express how annoying that is, that you guys do that to him. You didn't automatically assume he'd come in here to seduce me in the night, did you? For one thing, he doesn't think of me that way, and for another, the prince would never do something like that even if he thought I was the sexiest thing on two legs. And why do you guys have a pitcher right here when you have running water?"

"The water in the pitcher is... special." No need to tell her that it came from the River Boyne in Tir na nOg. The princess had no idea how much the mortal knew of Faerie. If she told Dylan that she drank water from the river fed by Connla's Well, what would she say?

_Though it is not as if it would do her any harm, _Nuala rationalized. _In fact, it would be all to her benefit. The River Boyne has always done wondrous things for the children of men._

"And no, I did not yell at him. But he should not come into your room like that, Dylan. He dishonors himself _and _you that way."

"Um... he's a grown man."

Something she had conveniently forgotten last night when he'd come to her room without a shirt on. Otherwise, she was pretty sure she'd have kicked him out. Or at least made him put on a shirt. _At least he wasn't all sweaty and gross. _Having hugged John in that state, she could appreciate a lack of man-sweat on a guy.

"As long as it doesn't hurt his kingdom, he can do pretty much whatever he wants. And since everyone assumes we're sleeping together anyway, I don't see how this is going to adversely affect us. If anything, people will be less likely to bother us because they supposedly know the rumors are 'true' and don't need to finagle any juicy tidbits out of us. Psychology one-oh-one, Your Highness."

"If the court ladies discover anything that could be called proof that you and my brother are lovers, they will most certainly 'finagle juicy tidbits' from you," Nuala said a bit sharply. "Many of them are gossip-hungry sharks. They will ask you things that, as a child of the High King of the World, you will be embarrassed to hear, much less answer. And you have made many of them your enemy because they have only a tiny suspicion that Nuada seeks pleasure in your bed. Their envy will transform to hatred if they are given proof."

Feeling like she'd just been scolded by her mother - and she didn't even want to think about Nuada "seeking pleasure in her bed," which just sounded plain weird and made her stomach feel strange - Dylan grabbed a brush and began jerking the soft bristles through her tangled hair. Tiny pinpricks of pain in her scalp told her she wasn't being careful enough, but annoyance with herself and the situation made it difficult to force herself to be gentle. At least her hands didn't hurt anymore.

"It's not my problem what a bunch of dirty-minded Elves think about me or His Highness. You and your father are lucky I'm even going along with this whole courtship thing. If I'd said no, what would you have done?" The brush ripped through a snarl. "Glamored me into accepting Nuada's suit? Blackmailed me into it? Oh, wait, you did that already. And what if _he _had said no? Did you think of that?"

Before the princess could open her mouth to answer, Dylan sighed.

"Look, I don't want to fight with you. I like you, Your Highness. Or I'm trying to. But you're making it hard. Nuada is a brave and honorable man. The most honorable man I've ever known, and he makes me feel safe. If I have a bad dream, I'm going to want my brother." She wanted John now, as a matter of fact. "But if he's not available, I want Prince Nuada. And I don't trust _you _enough to ask you to come to me, because I don't really know you. He's the only person I really know here at all. And I don't want to wake up from a nightmare in the dark and have to fall back asleep alone." Because she would no doubt have a flashback or a psychotic break. "I want someone I can trust. As long as Nuada doesn't mind, and as long as I keep Becan in here as a chaperone," _which,_ Dylan thought, growling at herself, _I should have done last night. Jeez, I'm such an idiot. Law of Chastity, for crying out loud!_ "Or as long as someone is in here as a chaperone, I get to ask him to come see me when I wake up from a nightmare. End of story."

"It is not wise to do so. He desires you, Dylan. You know that, don't you?"

The mortal froze with a handful of hair and a handful of brush. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the Elf princess. "Um... first, no he doesn't. Second, nice try. Third, gross. I can't... even tell you how gross that is. That's like hearing my brother feels that way about me. Seriously, nasty. And fourth, no he absolutely does _not_. I know I said that already, but it bears repeating. If he 'desires' anyone, it's..." She trailed off, thinking of the mental conversation she'd had with Nuala the first night in Findias. Dylan shook her head to clear it of such thoughts. "Never mind. It's not true. I don't know where you got that idea, Your Highness, but it's flawed. Severely."

Nuala pursed her lips. Clearly the human had not noticed the embers of lust burning beneath the prince's anger. Had Nuada himself even realized it? Somehow, the princess doubted that.

_I may be wrong, as well, _the fair-haired Elf thought, watching as Dylan attacked her hair with the hairbrush. _It may have been the result of a dream, or the echo of a stray thought my brother entertained of one of the court ladies. I know he finds them beautiful, if incredibly irritating. But... for some reason, I do not believe that is the case. _Aloud she said, "You believe it to be impossible that my brother might yearn for you that way. The idea of making love with my brother bothers you a great deal. Why? I know that many of our kind believe him... well, but you are not our kind. I have heard many a human woman call him attractive. Do you not find him handsome? Elves make consummate lovers-"

"Well, _jeez!"_ The wooden brush smacked the counter with a hollow _clok_.Dylan could feel her face burning. If Nuada ever found out about this conversation, he'd probably throttle them both. "Gee, let me think about all the reasons that Prince Nuada doesn't want to do the Jungle Monkey Tango with me!" Although irritation slithered up and down Dylan's spine, she did smile when Nuala laughed about "Jungle Monkey Tango." Still, did the princess really want to have this conversation? Because Dylan really, really didn't. Nuada didn't even _like_ her. That was what made this conversation actually rather painful.

_But if I don't tell her, she's gonna be all, "My brother wants to get in your pants." Good grief._ Tapping her fingers on the counter, the psychiatrist added, "Look, he thinks I'm ugly, not to mention disgusting. He hates me. I'm mortal, my face looks like a homicidal emo kid played Tic-Tac-Toe on it, I wear pants - which probably offends his Old World sensibilities - and I'm not a virgin. Isn't that important with people like you?" Hit with a sudden bolt of inspiration, Dylan added, "That's why I can't marry Nuada. I'm not a virgin. Don't royal brides have to be virgins?"

"Absolutely not. That is a human custom. My mother had been married twice before she wed my father. As you said, Dylan, 'Nice try.'"

Dylan scowled. _Crud. _"Well, it was worth a shot. As for me thinking he's handsome, that's not the point. The point is, I won't sleep with someone outside of wedlock. They could be as ugly as homemade sin or as sexy as Fabio; no dice. And I don't want to hear about Nuada's physical prowess or whatever. I mean, seriously. Actually, can we change the subject? I don't even want to _think_ about your brother and, um, intercourse at the same time."

Dylan knew her face was _on fire._ Had to be. Thinking about Nuada and sex made her feel distinctly uncomfortable, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Not to mention paranoid; inexplicably, she kept expecting him to barge in and throw a prissy-pants fit over the fact that Nuala was basically trying to auction him off as a lover for a human woman.

"In fact, I don't really want to think about conjugal relations. Like, at all. I try not to think about it, since I'm not married. If I think about it, I'm gonna want some; it's like chocolate. Best way to not have that problem is to not think about it. When I get married - to someone who is _not _the crown prince of Bethmoora, by the way - then and only then will I think about..." Dylan fumbled for an appropriate phrase. "Marital rites."

With an indulgent smile, Nuala added, "Very well; as you wish." What a strange human. She could not seem to bring herself to use the word "sex." Was that due to being a follower of the Star Kindler? Or because they were speaking of Nuada? _That's like hearing my brother feels that way about me._ Was that truly how the mortal felt about the prince? "At any rate, Dylan, I wondered... what your plans were for today."

The human arched an eyebrow at the question. Even without touching her hand, the princess could tell that the mortal was trying to figure out how the question applied to the previous topic.

"Do not fear; I have no nefarious designs on you in this. It is only that you have been formally presented at court as my brother's truelove-"

"Truelove? One word?" Dylan was distracted, still trying to purge any and all talk of Nuada and physical romantic virtues from her traumatized brain. Thinking about Nuada in that way was like... like thinking about John that way. _Blech._ A shudder raced up her spine and her stomach lurched. _Yeah, Elf prince and conubial bliss do not mix, _she thought, grimacing. Her brain tried to remind her of the way his knuckles brushing against her cheek had sent delicious little shivers whispering down her spine, but Dylan forced herself not to think about that. She could not afford to remember the flutters Nuada had put in her stomach with that simple touch.

"Yes, his truelove. The lady that, if things progress as he intends, will one day be his betrothed, and then his wife."

Dylan rolled her eyes and walked with stiffened spine and a somewhat stiff leg back into the bedchamber to sit before the warm fire. Even through her socks her feet were freezing. _And of course, we're back to the betrothal thing. Don't they ever give up? I told them, unless he converts, I can't marry him. What is so difficult to understand about that?_ Cold clamped hard around her knee, but it only made it stiff and a little painful. Whatever Nuada had done to it the evening before was lasting. She stretched out before the fire and began gently kneading the stiff joint. Soon the Vicodin would kick in and she'd be fine.

"Look... Your Highness... you know I really don't want to marry your brother, right? I mean, I wasn't just putting on a show for his benefit when I protested before. He doesn't want to marry me and I really, really, _really _don't want to do something that will upset him like this. So do we have to talk about this now? I've had about three hours of sleep, I'm really tired, and then you go and embarrass me by talking about your brother being my lover." She glanced down at her hands. Saw with some surprise that the cuts in her palms had scabbed over and looked well on their way to healing. Dylan forced herself to focus on the present conversation again. "I've been awake for less than an hour. I would seriously just like to not deal with the whole courtship-engagement thing, at least until I've had breakfast. Is that possible?"

She didn't want to sound mean or angry, but she'd only just woken up about twenty minutes ago. And - big concern - what if Nuala, who was really kind of sweet and had the potential to be very persuasive, got her to agree to something that then turned out to be problematic for the prince? _I'm enough of a burden to him; I can't afford to make mistakes right now._

"I know this all must seem sudden, Dylan. I do understand. And there will be time to deal with your concerns; this I promise. After all, there is your assessment to deal with-"

"My what, now?" That did not sound good.

"Your assessment. As a commoner, we must determine what training you stand in need of in order to be seen with respect by the rest of the court. Can you dance? Embroider? Sing?" Nuala paused, remembering the sound of Dylan singing in the kitchen. "Well, perhaps not sing. Can you play an instrument? Are you skilled in diplomacy? Do you know how to run a household? Are you wise to the ways of court life and intrigue? We must see if you have anything that will make you an advantageous match for my brother." Noticing the faint glimmer of panic in the human's eyes, Nuala added, "But I will be the one to handle that. For now, worry about how you and Nuada plan to present yourselves to our people. It is customary for you to spend at least some part of the day in public with him. Royal courtship is much attended to by the people of Bethmoora. They will want very much to see that the two of you are happy with each other."

_Oh, you've got to be kidding me. It's too early for this stuff. And I can't do _any _of that stuff!_ "Um... ask Nuada what his plans are, okay, Your Highness? Then come talk to me." At Nuala's baffled look, Dylan sighed softly. "You wanted us to be a couple, right? Well, we are. We're a team. I'm not making those kinds of decisions without him." _Just in case there's a trick to this; I like Nuala, but she answers to the_ _king. I have to watch out for any tricks._ "Besides, it's the Sabbath. My choices are a bit limited." With another sigh, she added, "Sorry about that."

_Oh, but she is quite clever, _the princess thought as she sank into a curtsy - Dylan merely waved cheerfully - and then Nuala glided from the room. _I cannot fault her for being so cautious. If only Nuada would relinquish his desire for bloodshed, and truly accept her. She would make him a fine match._

Dylan stared into the fire, finally realizing why she had felt such a sense of loss upon waking. True, she had missed Nuada, had known almost from the moment she opened her eyes that he was no longer in the room with her. _He must have carried me to bed, and tucked me in, _she realized, stunned. _Why would he do that?_ But the question faded into insignifance when that other thing that had been missing alerted her once again to its presence (or lack thereof). With a sigh, Dylan wondered, _I said I wouldn't leave Findias until Nuada did. Who knows what kind of stuff they'll try to pull while I'm gone? But... it's Sunday. How am I going to get to church?_

**.**

Rumors have a way of germinating from the tiny seed of a seemingly-innocuous deed. Sometimes the source of gossip is truly worthy of the tall tales and snarky asides muttered by both commoner and aristocrat. More often than not, however, the simplest and most mundane things can give birth to the most twisted and elaborate of lies. After all, a lie that is actually half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

This time, the simple thing was this: a fortnight ago, the crown prince of Bethmoora had brought a tiny halfling child to his sister the Princess Nuala, claiming the bairn's parents had been slain. Would Her Highness take the babe and find a servant woman of Findias to care for it? A common enough practice, even among the royals. Noble houses, below stairs, were full of orphaned servants fostered from childhood or even infancy by the older members of the staff. Unusual, that the prince had borne the infant to the palace in his own arms and not sent another in his place. Yet it was known that Prince Nuada, warrior though he was, had a soft spot for children under misfortune. Not inconceivable, then. A perfectly innocent moment by itself. A brief visit between siblings long separated, and a request, swiftly granted.

There are many poisons found in the world that, when the ingredients are taken separately, are not toxic in the least. One might partake of the fruit of Juliet's Bane and take strength from that fruit. But when combined with the leaves of the amaranth plant known as love-lies-bleeding, Juliet's Bane could, as it was said in olden times, "slay all senses with the heart."

So too were the events that begat this particular rumor. On the heels of that brief visit from the Exiled Prince came another well-noticed event that set the rumor mill spinning like a child's top upon a smooth marble floor. This was the arrival of the prince's human lady to the court of Bethmoora.

Whispers of betrothal, a torrid love affair, and political games swirled through the courtiers, their servants, and eventually even among the common folk of the township attached to the palace. The truth was simply this: a human follower of the High King of the World had been presented by the prince as his lady. They seemed much in love, both happy with and devoted to each other, and uncaring of the scandal or the outcry from those factions at court who believed humans to be the bane of all life. It was also said with much certainty that the mortal was quite ugly, her face ruined by many scars, but that the prince did not seem to mind. But that was all that was known. Nothing more, nothing less.

There were many who did not believe this farcical relationship for a minute, or care for the supposed truth even if they _did _believe. One of these had a theory about that halfling child... and its supposedly deceased parents. And she had sent three of her best and most loyal servants to put a plan into action to punish the crown prince.

"I don't think this is going to work," Peg Powler snapped, looking down at the squirming bundle in her arms with obvious distaste across her face. The puling little creature could not even walk. Of what interest was it to one of the Dark Ladies of Bradley Woods? Yet the hag opposite her had brought the bairn to Peg for a very specific reason. The water witch sniffed at the child. Grimaced when the brat tried to snatch a handful of dark hair like slick pondweed. Hissed at the babe with broken, rotted teeth like jagged ivory blades. The baby wailed at the sight of that hideous visage. Turning to her "sister," Peg Powler demanded, "Why should His Highness care about a squalling halfling babe?"

Blue Aniss glared at her "sister" and took the crying, wriggling baby from her. Just the scent of all that delicious baby fat made her mouth water. "Have you not heard the rumors, Sister? Were you not listening to our mistress and her master? Some say this babe is the prince's bastard by a human woman." Narrowing eyes like a raptor's and peering into the chubby, red face of the crying baby, she added, "The same human who currently resides within Findias' walls and holds the title of the prince's truelove."

"I do not believe it, Sister," said the Powler, poking at the infant with a gnarled finger. It shrieked anew. "The lily-white prince would not sully himself with a mortal, much less leave her high in the belly. You know he loathes the Children of Adam. And this bit of halfling flesh is fresh and green, like a woodman's child. The prince's get would be pale as the moon, with the golden eyes of Bethmoora."

"Then why, Sister, did the crown prince himself bring the halfling child to Findias, cradled like a veritable gift from the gods?" Aniss hissed through her iron teeth. "He has been to see the brat every day since the night of the attempted assassination. He cares for the puling infant, right enough." Peg flinched away from her sister's broken, jagged grin. Old blood streaked the iron fangs; the blood of countless slaughtered children. Aniss's breath stank of rotting meat and slaughter. The dark-haired hag leaned in to inhale deeply of the alluring aroma of child flesh. Oh, but to taste that tender, juicy flesh just once...

But no. They were on assignment from their mistress. Their noble lady and her master had plans for both the babe, and the mortal who was rumored to be its mother. Of course Aniss, a connoisseur of adolescent meats, knew that there was no chance this child possessed a drop of Elven blood. Yet it did not matter in the least. As she had said to the water witch, clearly the bairn meant something to Prince Nuada, or else why bring the little morsel to Findias in person?

"We are not to kill the child as yet, Aniss," Peg reminded the flesh-eating hag. "We are to test what ties it claims - if any are to be claimed - to the mortal woman. Her child, this babe may be. The prince's... doubtful. Yet if he loves her as many have said, it may not matter. He will most likely care for the child as well. And the little one's death might be punishment enough for our mistress to visit upon the prince."

"Doubtful, Sister. Doubtful. Our mistress can be a ruthless woman; her master even moreso. You know they will not forgive the prince's betrayal or leave him in peace after only slaying the pathetic little creature, nor will any of the court who believed the prince to be our savior against the humans let him alone. Both factions are out for blood. This is only the beginning."

Peg Powler stared at the babe, which squirmed and wailed. Strange, that none of the servants in charge of the king's wards had come to see what was the matter with it. Strange, if one did not know that another of their sisters, Jenny Greenteeth, was currently keeping the doors warded with her dark magic. The young water witch watched the two older hags with impatient eyes from the door. Could anyone even hear the bairn's cries?

"Only the beginning," the old water witch murmured. Met Aniss's ruby-red eyes. "Well, then. Let it begin."

Aniss laughed and withdrew a thin knife from the bodice of her black dress. With a wicked smile, she pricked her finger. The foul stink of swamp water seeped into the room. A single drop of poison-green blood glistened at the tip of her finger. Still grinning, Aniss reached for the screaming child and touched the blood-drop to the babe's tongue. The child fell silent. A red flush began spreading over the soft skin like a fever. A weak, pitiful cry crawled from the baby's mouth. Over time - three weeks or four, perhaps six at most - the poison would spread through the little creature, attacking the organs and the brain. Burning the tiny body with fever. Racking it with icy chills. Ravaging it with illness and pain. Even magic would only prolong its life for a few extra weeks. And in the end, the halfling child that Prince Nuada came often to look in on would die. Just the first piece of the punishment for the royal traitor.

"Taking a human as his truelove," Aniss spat as she placed the baby back in its cradle. "He should be ashamed."

"Fear not, Sister. They will both be punished." With a smile, Peg added, "Our mistress and her master will see to it."

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_**Author's Note/Must Read:**_ _hey, guys, you have to read __**"Surrender"**_ _by __**Arianna Lussier**__! It's for_ Hellboy; _it's a gift for all the Nuada fangirls out there (according to the author). So yeah, go read it! It's short, but totally worth it. You'll go "argh!" at the end, but still. And leave her a review, because it's good and she deserves it. _=D

_So, our lovely review prompt. Simple stuff (I hope). _

_1) What is your favorite Dylan and Nuada moment so far in the fic?_ _I'm seriously curious._

_2) Who thinks Nuala's planning on ratting Nuada out to their dad about his and Dylan's little slumber party?_

_3) What do you guys think of the political game? Who sees it turning into something super dangerous (and don't forget the Elves of Dilong; who are the Elves of Dilong? It's in chapter 17)?_

_4) And on a much lighter note, who thinks Dylan should also have "I Am In Denial" stamped on her forehead_ _(considering the conversation with Nuala)? _

_5) And finally and most importantly,_ _everyone say "Thank you, Captain Zombie," because she's the reason this chapter popped up so fast. And go read and review her fic, "On Death & Dante."_ _Thank you, Captain my Captain. *hug*_

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_**Skill Poll Challenge #4:**_ _another vid request. I'm sorry, I love __**GREAT MUSIC VIDEOS!**_ _I can't help myself! But the __**entry/chapter rule is still in place**__, so I am trying to compensate all of you, my adorable loves. And again, if you want to contribute to the "hurry up and update, LA Knight" effort but can't make a vid, I'll take __**a flash-fic**__. But I would like at least one video; I love Nuada vids. There are not enough online. Pwease? Anyway, song that I would like to see employed is called __**"Chemicals React" by Aly & AJ**__. _

_For you guys doing flash fics, the concept is this: __**Nuada and Dylan's first kiss**__. I'm just (pseudo) dying with curiosity about how you all think that would go (__**for those who say I'm obsessed, heck yes I am**__. I know where The First Kiss is going, probably, and it's killing me and tantalizing me and I want it sooner because I'm craving some kind of physical release for them both and obviously it's not going to be sex before they even kiss, come on. So __**yes, I am obsessed with the two of them kissing**__. Besides, you know he's just got to be a whiz at it *drool*). I say "pseudo" because I'm not really dying, obviously, but my years-long study of faeries has gotten me into the habit of being careful what I say. So, anyway, let's see, huh? And because I want this one so bad, anyone who does it gets a cameo cookie, spoiler surprise, OR a free review of a chapter of a piece of their choice (unless I don't know the fandom). Love you all! Thanks for not being like, "Get a life, LA!" *hugs*_

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_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _The changeling. A changeling is usually the offspring of a fairy, troll, elf or other legendary creature that has been secretly left in the place of a human child. Sometimes the term is also used to refer to the child who was taken. The apparent changeling could also be a stock or fetch, an enchanted piece of wood that would soon appear to grow sick and die. The theme of the swapped child is common among medieval literature and reflects concern over infants afflicted by as-then unknown diseases, disorders, or mental retardation._

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_**References Made in the Chapter:**_

- Remember that, as Nuada is an Elf of Bethmoora, Eamonn is an Elf of Zwezda (as mentioned in chapter... 7?).

- I picked camellia- and lotus-scented steam for a very specific reason. In the language of flowers in America and England, camellias represent "unpretending excellence." The lotus represents purity and chastity (and eloquence, but that's not important right now). In hanakotoba, the language of flowers in Japan (I'm using that one, too, because it's used throughout Asia, though the word hanakotoba is Japanese; and because Nuada is a martial artist of some serious skill. He probably spent a LOT of time in Asia during his exile)... where was I? Oh, in hanakotoba, the white camellia means "waiting" or "I'm waiting for you," the red camellia means "love," and the yellow one means "longing," or "I'm longing for you." And the lotus still means purity and chastity, but it also means, "I'm far from the one I love."

The language of flowers in both America/England and Asia is going to pop up a lot because this custom has been in practice for thousands of years. People could send messages with flowers very easily. As an example, if a woman sent Nuada a letter with a bouquet of pressed (meaning flattened and dried) flowers that included a red camellia, a coriander, a lemon blossom, an orange rose, a red carnation, an azalea, a cactus blossom and a lime blossom inside, even if the letter is just an invitation to a ball or something, she's actually inviting him to have sex with her.

He could accept by sending back a light pink or orange/coral rose, lime blossoms, a red carnation, or any other flowers (or combinations of flowers) that represent sex or passion (there are tons). Nuada would refuse by sending a striped carnation (simple refusal), a yellow rose (apologetic refusal), a blue rose (meaning "what you want is impossible to obtain"), and/or a yellow carnation (rejection).

A bouquet of flowers can be burned or thrown away, and is less likely to leave incriminating evidence behind than the ashy remains of a love/lust letter. There are nuances to the language of flowers that are easy to see, but also easy to hide (color, for example, or a lack of thorns changes the meaning of a rose; burn the rose and the message is lost). Now, did Nuada pick the scent of the water? No. Becan did. And no, Becan does not have a thing for Dylan. However... now Dylan smells like lotus and camellia, and our Elf Prince will notice. This will be important later.

- In Hallmark's _the Snow Queen_, the titular character requests a pitcher of ice water to be brought to her room (in the middle of winter in a 1930s inn in the mountains of Denmark). That should've been the first clue that she was a little strange.

- A sickening example of _nobless oblige _is in Mel Gibson's _Braveheart_. I don't even like that movie (it depresses me _a lot_), but it was pretty accurate in that part, at least. William Wallace married his wife in secret because _nobless oblige _meant that the English lord the village folk owed fealty to could take the bride and have sex with her on their wedding night, even if she didn't want to. A somewhat funnier, less graphic example is in Mel Brooks' _Robin Hood: Men In Tights_, when at the end King Richard says Robin and Marian can't marry until he, Richard, kisses Marian.

- The River Boyne is a real river in Ireland. It is said in the legend of the river, that the river came to be when the Irish goddess Boann (said by some scholars to be the wife of King Nuada, FYI) walked widdershins, or counter-clockwise, around Connla's Well (the Well of Wisdom that stands in the hall of the faerie king Manannán mac Lir, home to the Salmon of Knowledge that was caught by Finn Eces, blah-blah). Apparently walking counter-clockwise around this well challenged its power (I think it needs some self-esteem therapy if it's that insecure about itself). The water rose up and chased Boann to the sea, where she drowned, forming the River Boyne, whose waters are said to be beneficial to humans. The river does not really go through Tir na nOg, as Tir na nOg is a land beyond the edge of the world and the River Boyne is in Ireland, but I am allowed to make use of the artistic license of others, and in various pop-culture novels, movies, and television (such as the kids' show, _The Mystic Knights of Tir na nOg_, and the YA novels _A Wizard Abroad_ by Diane Duane and _The Hounds of the Morrigan_ by Pat O'Shea) Tir na nOg has been conveniently relocated to the Green Isle.

- Connla's Well: the magical source of the River Boyne. This well is also called the Well of Segais, the Well of Nechtan, and the Well of Wisdom/Knowledge. Said to be ringed by nine sacred hazel trees that bloom and bear fruit in the same hour. Stands in the halls of the faerie king and ocean god, Manannán mac Lir. The Salmon of Knowledge lives in this well, feeding on the magical hazelnuts that fall into it from the sacred trees. Eating the hazelnuts that fell into the well, drinking the well water when the hazelnuts fell in, or eating the salmon that ate the hazelnuts granted knowledge and poetic inspiration. The well was accordingly sought out by many poets and philosophers. Six other rivers are said to flow from Connla's Well besides the Boyne, but I only know four: the Shannon, the Nore, the Barrow, and the Slaney. _**The Shannon River bank is where they found the final piece of the Golden Crown in the film.**_

- I ran across the word "truelove" in the _Once Upon a Season's Time _series. It had this gorgeous, medieval romance feel to it, so I grabbed it. As Mr. McKiernan has done a lot of research for those books, I assume it's a historically accurate concept.

- Peg Powler is a hag from English folklore with a green skin, long hair and sharp teeth who is said to inhabit the River Tees. She grabs the ankles of those who wander too close to the water's edge, especially naughty children, and pulls them under the water and drowns them.

- The Black Lady of Bradley Woods is actually a legend from England. Here, it refers to the five hags of English myth: Peg Powler, Blue Annis, Black Agnes, Segna the Gold, and Jenny Greenteeth. So that also tells you who Blue Annis and Jenny Greenteeth are (although Blue Annis and Black Agnes eat little children, and Peg and Jenny drown them. I'm not sure about Segna).

- Jeez, rumors are a pain in the butt, huh?

- "High in the belly" is an old term for being pregnant.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

_(Unfortunately, these are mostly movies. Blargh. But since there's not enough books and I mention "the Snow Queen," I'm going to put in a whole bunch of "Snow Queen" related books. Woot! Anyway, love you, bye.)_

- Hallmark's _the Snow Queen_ (from 2005, starring Bridget Fonda; doesn't follow the fairy tale as much as other versions, but it is in fact an amazing film and remarkably epic. Also subtly explores the nature of love versus lust)

- "Ice" by Francesca Lia Block (the last short story in her anthology, _the Rose and the Beast_. In this modern adaptation of "the Snow Queen," it is said that the Snow Queen is symbolic of drug addiction)

- _Kate & Leopold_ (a movie where I first learned that the flowers you put in a bouquet are important and actually mean something).

- _Once Upon a Summer Day_ by Dennis L. McKiernan (first saw the word "truelove.")  
- _Outlander_ by Diana Gabaldon (best scene involving training a woman to use a dirk; "What if I get him in the breastbone and my dirk gets stuck?" "Pull out your pistol and shoot the bastard!")

- _Robin Hood: Men In Tights_ (I just have one thing to say. "We're men! We're men in tights! We may look like sissies, but don't get us wrong or else we'll put out your lights! We're men! Manly men! We're men in tights! Tight tights! Yeah!" That's not exactly how the song goes, but that movie is hilarious. It also taught me that singing in the shower was acceptable).

- "The Snow Queen" by Hans Christian Anderson (the original short story)  
- "The Snow Queen" by Patricia A. McKillip (short story in the anthology _Snow White, Blood Red_)  
- The Snow Queen (1958 animated film from Russia, dubbed in English with the voice of Sandra Dee as Gerda)  
- The Snow Queen (2003, from BBC; uses a lot of CGI elements, but live-action actors)  
- The Snow Queen by Mercedes Lackey (one of her fairy tales set in the 500 Kingdoms, I believe; haven't read it, though, just to warn you)

- The Winter's Child by Cameron Dokey (a great adaptation of the fairy tale; one of the Once Upon a Time series from Simon and Schuster)  
- "The Wisteria Princess" by Kara Dalkey (a short story in the anthology _Firebirds_, setting "The Snow Queen" against feudal-era Japan)  
- The Wizard of London by Mercedes Lackey (book 5 in the Elemental Mages series; "The Snow Queen" set against Victorian London)

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _in honor of Captain Zombie's chapter (as it is her entry that made this update possible), the Story of the Day is "On Death & Dante." Go read and review it, it's awesome!_


	19. A Man Like Ligeia

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Skill Poll Challenge #5_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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_**Dedication: **__dedicated to __**WhenNightmaresWalked**__, for her wonderful __**Chapter 6 Challenge**_ _entry, __**"I Do, I Promise I Do."**_ _Fantastic ficlet. That piece (and OceanFire9's first 2 chapters of "And Twice Beneath a Space") is official story canon. Totally check them out. Way to go, WNW!_

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _The red cap (or red cap). Also called a powrie or a dunter (dunno why). Described on Wikipedia as "a type of malevolent, murderous dwarf, goblin, elf, or fairy found in Border [English/Scottish] folklore." Red caps live in ruined castles along the English/Scottish border, as well as on battle fields and other places were vast quanities of blood have been spilled. The redcap will murder any traveller who strays into their home and then dyes their hat red with the victim's blood (hence the name red cap). They have to kill regularly, because if the blood of their cap dries, they'll die. Red caps wield heavy iron pikes and wear iron-shod boots. Outrunning a redcap is supposed to be impossible (although, if you're wearing seven league boots, I'd imagine you have a shot). Redcaps are depicted as sturdy old men with crimson eyes and with large, sharp teeth (sometimes made of iron). They carry their pikes in their left hand. Both hands have blood-stained talons. The kabouter, the redcaps of __**Dutch**_ _folklore, do not fall into this category._

_We also talk about a second mythic creature in the __**Concerning Chapter Title **__section. You might want to read that first... but you don't have to._

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**Chapter Nineteen**

**A Man Like Ligeia**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Self-Doubt, the Best Gift, a Warning of Danger, and the Love Talkers**

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"I trust all was satisfactory?" Nuada demanded coldly the moment his sister walked into the salle. He had only just begun the first _taolu _of one of his favorite early-morning fighting styles, _Shí Hè Quán_. He could feel his sister's eyes on him as he glided through the _taolu_, but other than his initial question, he did not acknowledge her scrutiny. The prince could pretend that the tightly-controlled moves of the Taiwanese martial art required all of his attention, though in truth the Elven warrior had mastered Morning Crane, as the style was called in English, some centuries ago.

He did not wish to even think about last night if it could be avoided. What had he been thinking? Cuddling against her as if she werec as if the human were his truelove, and not merely a useful ally. The idea revolted him. How had he grown so... weak?

_But she was so afraid, _he remembered, then cursed silently. It did not matter if she had been terrified for her life. It was embarrassing that it had even happened, much less that his sister knew of it. If it had to happen again (as his honor unfortunately demanded), he would do a better job at keeping his distance, and keeping the knowledge of such meetings from Nuala. At least she did not know about the lullaby.

"Why did you not tell me you sang to her?"

He froze in mid-form, eyes wide. How had Nuala found out about that?

_But of course, Dylan told her. The human will only use subterfuge if absolutely necessary, _the prince recalled. He resumed training, though his movements were no longer as smoothe or controlled. _Wonderful. The rare time when a sly, lying human might have actually been useful._

Aloud, all he said was, "I do not wish to speak of it."

He would _never _speak of it. To anyone. If Nuala spread it around... The amber-eyed warrior did not understand why the thought irritated him. Perhaps because the song was, in truth, rather silly. But he had only been between his ninth and tenth century when he wrote it! Again he wondered what in the name of Danu he had been thinking, going to the human that way?

"Was that what you came to speak to me about?" He demanded, voice rough with annoyance.

"I..." In truth, it had been, but she could tell from her brother's tone that he would say nothing more on _that_ subject. "When I spoke with Dylan, she seemed melancholy. Would you perhaps know why?"

"Most likely because this is the day of worship for the Star Kindler's people, and she has no means of going to their place of prayer."

_I go when you go. _Words of loyalty from a mortal tongue. His honor pricked him as if with a needle, reminding him that Dylan's faith was important to her. Was, in fact, probably the thing that kept her going from day to day under hardship and the pain of her memories. And his honor reminded him that it was due to his being under what amounted to house arrest that she could not attend her worship. She could not even go to the Star Kindler's hall in Findias' township. She refused to leave the palace without the prince. _And for good reason, curse it._

Snarling profanity in his mind, he added aloud, "I know of such a place, however. If she is truly that unhappy, I will escort her there when I am finished training."

_And what a joy _that _will be,_ the prince thought sarcastically. After realizing just how intimate he had been with the mortal (a _mortal!_ In his arms, her face pressed to his chest! Clinging to him like a gargantuan leech. The idea put an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach), the last thing he wanted to do was be alone with her again. Or be with her at all. What if some other flight of stupidity decided to make its presence known? He would make an imbecile of himself. Again.

But Nuada knew he owed Dylan much: his life, his freedom, and the clearing of his honor before Bethmoora. And if she wished to attend her spiritual meeting, then it was his duty to ensure it happened (even if he loathed the prospect of spending one more idiocy-fraught moment with the human; what if he embarrassed himself? Because that was _exactly_ what he had inexplicably done last night. Only what if it happened in public? He suppressed a shudder).

Still, the prince would not tell his twin that the little chapel he knew of for the Star Kindler's followers was in the servants' part of Findias. Even some of the Shining Ones followed the High King of the World, especially among the lower classes. No, he would not tell his sister that Dylan would be attending church in the humble chapel near the stables. If Nuala's reaction to Dylan being in the servants' area last time was any indication, the princess would forbid such a thing.

Stunned, his sister stared at him. He could clearly sense her disbelief through their bond. The prince knew she wondered if he had suffered a blow to the head or some other injury, that he was behaving so uncharacteristically now toward the mortal.

But Nuada remembered a sad voice whispering in the dark, _I consider you my only friend, even though you hate me._

He did not. He would not let her think that he did. If the Elf prince were being (albeit silently) honest with himself, hate was _not _the emotion that filled him whenever Dylan was brought to mind. After all, he always wanted to smile when he saw her (even now, after making an idiot of himself). That could not be hate. And his honor precluded him from deceiving her into believing (or allowing her to continue to believe) that he felt less than he did. Mild affection for a human such as her was no great evil. It was similar to the sentiment one felt for a well-loved horse, was it not? Or a fine, well-bred hunting dog. His pride would survive, he was sure. Better mild affection than the sickening love he was forced to pretend to.

"You truly care for her," Nuala whispered, breaking him from his thoughts. The words should have filled him with revulsion and loathing... but they did not. They were simply not true (mild affection was not "caring," as his sister put it). He knew Nuala meant that he loved Dylan. The very idea was laughable. Special - for a human - she might be; honorable she might be. But the woman was mortal. Love... no. Never.

Nuada continued the flowing moves and refused to glance at his twin, much less answer her ludicrous accusation. Then the sound of a boot tread touched his ears. He recognized the stiff, somewhat awkward gait of the mortal in question. It was only an hour after dawn; she had slept perhaps three hours total. What was she doing up after so little sleep? Had she suffered another nightmare?

A flush of anger washed over him. It was Eamonn's doing if she had. Traitor. Monster. _Dead man walking,_ Nuada snarled silently, and the grim thought made his mouth curve in a vicious smile.

"Brother, answer me." Nuala eyed her brother as he continued to move so very gracefully through the _taolu_. Sudden fury from him made her stomach roll. The princess pressed a hand to her belly. Perhaps it was best she had not eaten recently, or she might have been ill from the sudden surge of violent emotion. Despite the rage, she pressed, "You care for Dylan, don't you?"

As the prince transitioned from _Shí Hè Quán_ to the easier _kata_ for _Battōjutsu_ _Iaido_, drawing his sword from its sheath at his hip, he replied with only the slightest strain, "Would it surprise you to learn if I did?" Any roughness to his voice, the prince hoped Nuala would assume came from the strain of training.

And it was not, exactly, an answer. The Daione Maithe were very good at answering a question with another question. Even though he could admit to himself that Dylan was... tolerable as an ally and companion, he would never say such to Nuala. For one thing, it might encourage her and Balor to press Nuada further in regards to asking for the mortal's hand. And for another... he did not wish to deal with his sister's suspicions yet again. Admitting that he could feel anything but disgust and loathing for a human was simply asking for more heartache in _that_ corner.

"Are you in love with her?" Nuala asked, and nearly swallowed her tongue at the burst of emotion that flashed through to her through their connection. Shock. Denial. Irritation at being questioned. Sharp hurt that his sister kept prodding him and demanding answers he was loath to give to questions he did not wish to consider. Incredulity at the very idea.

But, the princess noticed with startlement, there was absolutely no revulsion, no disgust. No sense that the idea of loving the mortal was in any way repulsive to him. There was only denial that he loved anyone he had not always loved. Denial that he felt anything other than distant affection for the human. _But just yesterday, he swore he did not care for her in any way. What is going on with him?_

"Your Highness, please don't torment the prince like that," a familiar voice said, laughing a little. Nuala turned to see Dylan leaning against the door frame. The mortal, in the bright daylight shining through the salle's high windows, looked positively resplendant in the fawn-colored shift and amber gown. Only the scars on her face stood out starkly in the strong sunlight. Against the beauty of the gown, hopefully no one would notice her face.

But, the princess saw with some disparity, she had eschewed the slippers normally worn with such clothes and stood in pale brown leather boots. The golden laces sparkled in the light.

The human continued, "Don't ask him that kind of thing. You'll make him sick. _Iaido?"_ She added to Nuada. The prince paused in his sword-thrust and eyed her.

"Yes." He studied her face. There were faint traces of fatigue, but none of the frigid terror that had haunted him from the depths of her eyes last night. No nightmares, then. She had merely woken to the rising of the sun. The strange sense of relief made him speak sharply. "Why are you here, human? Do you intend to harass me about training too hard after being only barely recovered from Eamonn's poison?"

Oddly, she grinned. "Could've sworn I've done that before, and you didn't listen. But I can do it again if you want." Dylan saw the corner of the Elf warrior's dark mouth curve slightly. Good. If he could smile, Nuala wasn't being too mean to him, then. "Although actually, my prince, I came to rescue you."

"Again?" With a final sharp move, he shortened his sword back to a lance and sheathed it. "I would think you too weary after all that occurred last night. It was most taxing, was it not? I am yet weary from it."

Nuala choked. Dylan grinned and approached him, sliding her fingers around his hand to brush them against his palm. In his mind, he heard her say, _You are_ so _mean. Don't you torment Nuala, either. She's going to think we're doing something bad. I told her this morning you didn't do anything to make me uncomfortable_.

Nuada, surprised he was capable of it, grinned at her.

_Forgive me. I would never wish my sister to think ill of us. Clearly she overestimates your comfort levels. _His sarcasm made her smile, and he found that her expression eased some of the sting of Nuala's anger from that morning. _But I thank you for desiring to rescue me from the sharp side of her tongue._

Aloud he added, "If you but give me half an hour to bathe and dress, Dylan, I will take you to church." His grin widened at her surprised look. In her head he murmured, _Do you think me oblivious? I know that today, the day of the Sun, is the day of worship for those who call the Holy One of the Lost Tribes, "Lord." If we are to pull off this charade before my father and buy us time to find an escape, you will need as much help as can be had._

_Why me and not you?_

_Because _you _are human,_ he replied. Did not add, _Of course, _but he knew that he did not have to, either. _And the help you need includes any aid to be gotten from your divine Master. I plan on petitioning all the gods on your behalf._

_Thanks a lot. So you're looking at it strictly from a mercenary point of view. _Her delighted grin was infectious. _Well, whatever works._

Serious now, she tightened her grip on his hand. The smile she gave him now had none of the amusement from before. There was only gratitude. The prince could feel that what he had just offered her was a thing that would have won her loyalty if she had not already bestowed it on him. He suddenly caught the sweet scent of lotus and camellia clinging to the human woman. Frowned at the odd feeling in his belly when he recognized the perfume.

But Dylan broke his concentration with, _But thank you, Nuada. This means the world to me. I hate missing church. So thank you, so much. I won't forget this._

With a smile that Nuala marveled at, the Elf prince walked with Dylan out of the salle. _I was right, _the princess thought, watching the pair disappear. _He truly cares for her. My brother cares for a human. But how deeply? I must speak to Father._

**.**

Becan hung the last of the heavy velvet drapes, then sat down with a sigh. Fortunately his mistress kept a clean cottage, or going back and forth between Findias and the little house to clean would have been impossible. Now the brownie allowed himself to luxuriate in the sense of a job well done. Not only had he pulled all of the winter drapes out of storage, but he had cleaned them and put them up over Dylan's thin, linen summer curtains. The house would soon be ready for the frigid weather New York City boasted of in deep winter.

The old-fashioned telephone shrilled, but he ignored it. Answering phones and taking messages was for humans, not Wee Folk. After a moment to rest, he'd return to Findias to look after Lady Dylan as was his duty.

His mistress's answering machine clicked on. A man's gruff voice snapped out over the phone. "Dr. Myers, this is Sergeant Donovan. I'm calling regarding your patient, Lisa Ramirez. We need to speak with you as soon as possible, Doc. Please call me back at 555-9438 right away."

The machine beeped, ending the message. Becan glanced at the flickering light and felt a small flicker of apprehension. Lisa Ramirez. The brownie knew the girl – she came every other Saturday for special sessions with Dylan, unless something came up. Lisa was fourteen and possessed the Sight. Her older brother belonged to the gang known as the Rojos; members of that gang had attacked Lady Dylan this past December. Lisa always made sure to put some extra sugar in the porridge Becan's mistress left out for him. She always left him tiny packets of candied green chilis, Lucas salt, and the Mexican peanut coins stamped with embossed roses. Dylan always made faces about that (said the candies were too spicy/sour/sweet for her taste), but the brownie loved the exotic candy.

And now the police were interested in her. _Very _interested, by the tone of Sergeant Donovan's voice.

Shrill ringing snatched his thoughts from his head and he glanced at the phone for the second time. It rang again and again, then switched over to the answering machine once more.

"Dylan!" John's voice came through the speakers, strident and frantic. "I just saw channel four! There's a girl with a gun on the roof of the Hudson Mall! I think it's Lisa! You've got to get down there before she does something insane! Hello? Dylan, pick up your phone! _Where are you? _I can't believe you're not home yet! Forget the fey for five stinking minutes; you have responsibilities-" And the machine clicked off as it ran out of time.

Wide-eyed, Becan scooted off his perch and raced for the door. He had to tell his mistress, and he had to tell her _now_.

**.**

"Ouch." Bres turned to calmly regard the diminutive maid that had seconds ago pulled his hair while running the silver brush through the shoulder-length blond locks. The little hob flinched and looked down, bobbing curtsies and mumbling stuttered apologies. "Shut up and finish," the Fomorian prince snarled in disgust. The hob flinched again and obeyed. He could feel the way she trembled. Better to let her think she had escaped punishment for now. Perhaps if she managed to get through a single task without mishap, he would actually forget about her punishment and send her on her way. _But then again,_ he thought as another hair was plucked painfully, _maybe I won't_.

When the little creature was finally finished, she curtsied and began to scoot away. She froze, eyes wide, heart humming like a frightened mouse's, when Bres said, "Come here, Hob." The tiny fae approached warily. Nerves vibrated through her entire body. "Twice you pulled my hair."

"F-f-forgive m-me, m-m-my prince," she quavered. "I n-n-never m-meant-"

"Be quiet," Bres said. Then his gaze shifted to the door behind her; the door to freedom, and at least temporary safety. But she didn't dare try to leave without the prince's permission. A creak told the hob - whose name was Assa - that someone had just come into the room. The prince of the Fomori grinned. "Ah. Ciaran. Dierdre. So good of you to come."

Assa felt the blood drain from her face. Ciaran and Dierdre. Lord Bres' two favorites among the king's torturers. They were Prince Bres' gancanaugh. Dierdre was the prince's mistress, Ciaran his shield-brother and friend. What were they doing in this room? With the likes of _her _here? She was only a hob chambermaid! Surely she should have been dismissed already. Unless...

_I cannae' let Ciaran touch me, _she realized as the soft sound of bare feet padding on lush carpet reached her ears. Her heart smashed hard against her tiny ribs. _If he touches me... I'll die. Mayhap no' t'day, but soon. The gancanaugh's poison will kill me. He cannae' touch me._

"Dierdre, my sweet. Ciaran, old friend. I have a request. My father has already approved it, but out of respect, I will ask and not command your acquiescence. I would like the two of you to come with me to Findias. I believe the envoy could make use of your considerable... charms and talents."

Dierdre tittered at the prince's words. Assa flinched. Gancanaugh only had one talent of use to Prince Bres: the ability to make Aengus' Sweat, that devilish brew also called the Tears of Branwen. That evil poison that transformed love into a double-edged knife, and lust into a killing sword.

"I will need both of you," the Fomorian prince added, "as we are dealing not only with Nuala, but with her brother and his new mortal toy. And Ciaran... I will need your help in wooing the princess, if I am to have any hope of using her to steal the Golden Crown of Bethmoora."

"I don't see why you don't just take the Golden Crown yourself, Bres," Dierdre said with a sigh. "You'll make me jealous, dallying with Nuala. Must you _wed_ her to gain future control of the Golden Army? She's ugly. And pale as a dead fish. And the mighty Silverlance will run you through, old friendship or no, if he discovers you mean to woo his sister."

"And that is where his potential disgrace with the mortal comes into play. He will be in no position to do anything to me, sweet Dierdre, if you and Ciaran take care of Nuada and his little human pet on this first trip. Once he is disgraced - and hopefully exiled or imprisoned for the crimes you will make him commit - then nothing will stand between me and the Golden Crown save the frail health of a fading king. It is so easy for _accidents_ to happen to the very old, isn't it?"

"A human?" Ciaran, a faceless shadow behind Assa, was grinning. She could tell by the sound of his voice, by the undercurrent of intrigue and unholy glee. Tears stung the little hob's eyes. "I do _love _mortals, old friend. Even more than I love the Wee Folk."

"And well I know it," Bres replied, and the smile that stretched across his coldly beautiful face turned Assa's insides to water. "I would like to see what you can do with the human, or the princess... or the human with the prince."

"We could lock them in a room together," Dierdre said thoughtfully.

The hob shivered and hunched in on herself, trying in vain to disappear. Why was she here? Why was she in this room where three great faerie nobles spoke of death and torment? She just wanted to go and finish her chores, then return below stairs and hide for a very long time.

"The Bethmoora prince and his human would be most amusing," the female gancanaugh added. "I could work my magic on the prince, and afterward turn him loose on the little mortal. Even Nuada's precious honor would shatter under the influence of Branwen's Tears. If they do not meet in lust, they will still meet in violence. In fact, knowing the prince, he will most likely purge himself of such abominable desire in bloodshed, I am almost certain."

"Will the human survive such an encounter with the prince?" Bres asked. He thought of Elven strength pitted against human, and a woman's weakness under a warrior's power. Could almost hear the symphony of snapping bone and flesh bruising under fists; the singing of Elven silver piercing a human heart.

Dierdre arched one slender, black brow and grinned at her lord. "Do you care?"

"Not especially," the prince replied, and grinned back. His teeth tapered down into wicked points. Ice blue eyes burned in anticipation. "In fact, it may be better for her if she did not. Because if Nuada does not kill her after you charm him, my lovely Dierdre, then that madman Eamonn most certainly will."

"Oh, dear," drawled the gancanaugh with sickly-sweet false sincerity. "That would be such a shame. But I agree, she would most likely rather die beneath Nuada's... spear," and Dierdre grinned, "then Eamonn's. I know _I_ would."

"Careful, my darling. You'll make me envious." Bres smiled at Dierdre, who tilted her head coquetishly and batted her dark lashes. "But I care little for the human, save as a means to bring Nuada low. My focus for now is to woo the lovely princess, and to remind Silverlance that we were allies and comrades once. Brothers-in-arms. I want, and need, his trust before our plan can truly succeed. Of course, there's also the matter of the dream spells I asked you for this morning, Dierdre-sweeting. Are they finished?"

"Of course, Your Highness."

"Bres, the hob," Ciaran said suddenly, and Assa could not stop the whimper that crawled out of her mouth. "Why is it here?"

Assa looked beseechingly up at her prince. Tears welled up in her eyes and overflowed. The tiny heart slammed hard against her ribs as terror grabbed her like a terrier with a rat and shook her. For a moment the ice-eyed prince put a gentle hand on Assa's shoulder and smiled. Her heart lurched sideways in her chest. Was he going to send her away now? Let her leave so she could go back to doing her chores?

The king's son grinned, showing those wicked teeth again, and said softly, "Why, Ciaran, she is a present for you... if you and Dierdre agree to come with me."

The hob gasped and fell to her knees, grasping at the hem of Bres' trousers. "No, Highness!" She sobbed, voice rising in pitch with every word. "Please! Please, I'm sorry, dinnae' send me ta him! I beg ye, mercy! _Please!"_

But the prince only smiled. And Ciaran laid a hand - his bare hand, slick with Branwen's Tears - on Assa's arm. The poison seeped into her skin, and she began to scream and sob as the fire took root inside her. And Ciaran whispered, "I do so _love_ the Wee Folk."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _crap! What is the danger of Dierdre and Ciaran? Who is Lisa? Why is this important? What will Dylan do? What _can _she do, considering she's stuck in Faerie with everyone's favorite Elf Prince and, although she can leave, Nuada can't? Will Becan reach our favorite LDS psychiatrist before Lisa "does something insane?" And will LA ever stop talking like that deep-voiced narrator guy they use for epic movie trailers and asking so many random questions? Lol, blame it on the late hour and lots of sugar. Anyway, stay tuned, blah-blah, I love you guys, laters._

_Although seriously, this short-chapter thing is killing me. Instead of 2 chapters spanning one day, now I've got 4. Ugh. But my beta is like, "Slice it in half. Go forth." And I trust her. So yeah._

_So, our lovely review prompt. Simple stuff (I hope). Firstly, __**who sees Ciaran and Dierdre as a very, very big potential problem?**_ _And where do you think that's going to go? Second, and I'm just curious (this was prompted by a conversation with OceanFire9), if this fic had a song or a soundtrack for you (this only applies to those of you who put songs to things you read), what would the song be? I mean, is there a song that you hear that makes you think of Dylan and Nuada? Or even just Nuada ("Mordred's Lullaby" is one for me)? Or Dylan? Or whatever aspect of the fic? Just wondering. Third, Nuada's denial/oh-my-gawd-I-can't-believe-I-did-that attitude about last night: in character? Actually, pretty much every chapter, I need to know how I'm doing with that because he's such a complex guy. So yeah._

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_**Skill Poll Challenge #5: **__it's a bit dark, but I'm kinda curious in a morbid, macabre kind of way. __**Write about what would happen if Dierdre actually managed to douse Nuada in Branwen's Tears and lock him in a room with Dylan.**_ _I'm curious how you guys think it would go. How did it happen? Does Dylan run to Nuada, relieved that he is relatively unharmed and definitely not dead, and get the stuff on her, too? Does Nuada try to kill himself or some other drastic thing in an effort not to attack Dylan? Attack her in a rage brought on by the magic of the poison and beat her to a bloody (and probably very dead) pulp? What happens? _

_The rules are simple. Firstly, it has to be rated M or less, not MA (based on FF dot net rules, as well as my personal beliefs). Secondly, there is __**no word limit**_ _for this. I am henceforth slaying all word limits for all challenges. Thirdly, __**if Nuada is driven to do something dishonorable or evil, you are still elligible for the reward**_ _(as long as it is well-written and not graphic, similar to the way violence is described in chapters 1, 11, and 12). And finally, please keep Dylan in character. Even if her favorite Elf Prince were in screaming sexual agony, she would not agree to have sex with him to relieve his pain. Or any other sexual act. Plus if she even so much as kissed him, he'd probably attack her and do something awful under the influence of Branwen's Tears._

_Just so we're clear, the Law of Chastity forbids pretty much everything except cheek and/or mouth kissing, hugging, and hand-holding before marriage (mostly because the main things, like 2nd base and on, usually happen as a result of serious makeout sessions; mostly. It's also just not a good idea to get that physically intimate with someone if you're worried about avoiding sexual temptations). So Dylan would stay away from all that except within the bonds of matrimony. Yay, weddings! Cake is important for healthy living._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title: **__Ligeia is a character from Edgar Allan Poe's writing (she's also the main villain in Kelly Creagh's _Nevermore_). From what I understand, the character archetype Ligeia is a woman who returns from the dead to possess another woman in order to be with her "true love." Only it seems like the person being possessed ends up dying, I think. Similar in concept to HP Lovecraft's "The Thing on the Doorstep," which you should only read if you can handle being scared out of your ever-loving mind. I read his short story, "The Color out of Space," when I was 16. I was a horror buff of some note (Stephen King, Clive Barker, Dean Koontz: I reads them). And I was sitting in broad daylight in the living room with my dad, who had the television on, the blinds open (he's big on natural light) and a lamp on because he was grading tests. But this story was so flippin' scary that when my dad sneezed, it scared me so bad I screamed my freaking head off. My dad was like, "What is wrong with you?" I think I even started crying from the adrenaline-crash, but I don't remember. That might have been some other scary event._

_So, Ligeia is also supposed to be super alluring; like, pretty much delicious (like Paulie Bleaker as described by Juno). And that is the main aspect I'm going with here, is the whole "horrifying evil monster seduction" route. _

_Anyway, so the chapter title is "A Man Like Ligeia." We have introduced this faerie type before (and apparently you can find them in Melissa Marr's _Wicked Lovely _series), but allow me to bring back the gancanaugh (from the Irish Gean Canach, "Love Talker"). A seductive, incubus-type... wow. I almost wrote Pokemon. I'm working on a Pokemon fanfic and I'm tired; that's my only excuse. Anyway, a seductive, incubus-type __**faerie **__whose touch is literally addictive (they're male, but I thought that was sexist and brought in some females, too). But first of all, that's just scary anyway. When I say addictive, I mean literally, you become addicted to this thing and you can actually die from lack of their touch (when it says their touch, I assume it means having them screw you, because they seduce anything with legs, based on gender). _

_So firstly, that's scary. Secondly, you know that can totally wreak some havoc with the united front that Dylan and Nuada are supposed to present to the court as being stupid-in-love with each other. And thirdly, these sex-fiends work for Bres, which means they work with/for Eamonn. Not only is that bad for Dylan, it's bad for Nuala, as we know from chapter 14 that Bres has some dastardly plans for our pretty, kick-butt princess (we just don't know what they are). So that's our little blurby on the chapter title. The end. Yay, fudge! Mmm, fudge._

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_**References Made in the Chapter:**_

- _Shí Hè Quán _is one of the five sub-styles of the Chinese martial art Fujian White Crane. _Shí Hè Quán _means Feeding Crane Fist or Morning Crane. Fujian White Crane is an imitative-style of Shaolin boxing based on the characteristics of the Taiwanese crane. An entire system of fighting was developed based on the observations of their movement, fighting abilities and spirit (the other four animal styles of Shaolin boxing/kung fu are Tiger, Leopard, Snake, and Dragon). This style uses deep-rooted stances, intricate hand techniques and fighting mostly at close range as if to imitate a pecking bird. Fēi Hè Quán, or the Flying Crane martial arts style, however, has a greater amount of long-range techniques (which suits Nuada's penchant for flips and stuff), although it too prefers close-quarters hand-oriented combat too. This simulates the flapping of crane wings. Some white crane styles also use a great variety of traditional weapons whereas others have discontinued practice with ancient weaponry.

- Since _Shí Hè Quán _is Chinese, the form-style is called _taolu _instead of _kata_ (in case anyone forgot).

- _BattōjutsuIaido _is actually just called _Iaido _(translating approximately into "the way of mental presence and reaction"), though its earliest incarnation was referred to as _Battōjutsu_(literally, "art of drawing the sword"). In the 1700s, _Battōjutsu_was changed to _Iaijutsu_, and then later to _Iaido _(they changed the suffix "jutsu" to "do" to emphasize less of a combative point of view and more of a spiritual one). _Iaido _is the martial art style associated with the smooth, controlled movements of drawing the sword from its scabbard, striking or cutting an opponent, removing blood from the blade, and then replacing the sword in the scabbard. Because _Iaido _is practiced with a weapon, it is almost entirely practiced using _kata_. Multiple person _kata _exists within some schools of _Iaido_, when those _iaidoka _(practitioners of _Iaido_) will usually use _bokken _(wooden practice swords) for such _kata _practice. _Iaido _does not include direct competition or sparring of any kind (it is considered too dangerous - sounds like something our Elf Prince would enjoy). Because of this non-competitive aspect, and _Iaido's _emphasis on precise, controlled, fluid motion, it is sometimes referred to as "moving Zen." _Iaido kata _are performed solitarily against one or more imaginary opponents. Some _Iaido _schools, however, include _kata _performed in pairs (which apparently doesn't count as sparring; maybe it's only sparring if it's free movement. I dunno). Most of the styles and schools do not practice _tameshigiri_, or cutting techniques.

- So, yeah, guess what, guys? I, who created Dylan and mentioned previously that she has gone through medical school, had forgotten her title was actually "Doctor." Go ahead and laugh at me. Sigh.

- Candied chilis are an actual candy. I've never had them (I'm afraid of chilis) but I've seen them on TV.

- Lucas salt literally looks like salt or Pixie Stix powder, but it's so sour it can (not always for other peeps, but almost always for me) make your tongue bleed. It comes in little canisters than look like salt shakers. Most people just call it "Lucas."

- The "Mexican peanut coins" are actual candy called Dulce de Cacahuate (I believe; not speaking Spanish, I don't know if this refers to the brand, or the actual candy. I'm pretty sure it's the candy). The stuff I'm talking about here is made of peanut-powder, water, and some other wet stuff to make it so they can turn it into basically a chocolate coin (except there's no chocolate in it). This kind is stamped with a rose. They come in yellow boxes with red roses on them; you can buy them online. I've never had one, 'cause I don't like peanuts, so don't ask me what it tastes like.

- As far as I know, there is no Hudson Mall, but I didn't want the police getting mad at me for using a real place for my scene involving a suicidal teenager with a gun. I'm careful about that kind of thing.

- A hob is basically an English/Northumberland brownie (brownies being Scottish in mythology), except they do more stuff (like brush hair).

- The worst form of torture I've ever read of is in the _Meredith Gentry _novels, where the Queen's torturer chains a naked faerie man to a wall and then covers him completely in Branwen's Tears. He has to remain that way for 6 months. Because he's immortal, he won't starve or die from lack of light or anything. So he's sitting in the dark, chained naked to a wall, and what Branwen's Tears is, is an aphrodisiac (something that makes you want to have sex). But it's a bad one. If you get this stuff on you, first it's poisonously addictive, and too much of it can kill you. Secondly, it will make you so sexually aroused that you could screw yourself to death in an effort to make the pain of being turned on end and it wouldn't help. If the stuff isn't washed off, you could literally screw yourself _to death_. And this guy was chained by iron for 6 months, naked, covered in that stuff. Yeah, it drove him insane.

Anyway, that's where I got the idea for the king's torturers to be called "Love Talkers," which will show up later. Gancanaugh secrete Branwen's Tears from their skin. Gancanaugh is explained in _**Concerning the Chapter Title**_, so we've already discussed what that has to do with "Love Talking." Anyway, so, in this fic, the Fomorian King's torturers are all gancanaugh.

- The thing Dierdre comes up with is that they literally lock Nuada and Dylan in a room together after Nuada has been doused with Branwen's tears. I actually might have that happen just to see if I can have him believably resist the nearly-maddening urge to attack her. If I can't, then... well. I don't know what will happen. We'll have to see.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- "The Color out of Space" by HP Lovecraft (considered the grandfather of horror)  
- "I Do, I Promise I Do" by WhenNightmaresWalked (ficlet that brought this chapter around early)  
- _the Labyrinth_ (I'm watching it right now, lol)  
- "Masterpiece" by Garry Killworth (actually a retelling of "Rumplestiltskin," but an interesting example of sex and lust used as a seriously fatal weapon; found in the fairy tale anthology _Ruby Slipper, Golden Tears_)  
- _Nevermore_ by Kelly Creagh (speaking of Ligeia)  
- "Sacrifice" by Arianna Lussier (_Hellboy _fic on this site; the Throne Room Scene from Balor's POV, but in an interesting way)  
- "The Thing on the Doorstep" by HP Lovecraft  
- _Wicked Lovely_ by Melissa Marr (for appearances of the gancanaugh)

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _in honor of Nightmare's piece, everyone should go read "I Do, I Promise I Do," and review it, as our fairy tale/story of the day!_


	20. Like a Glass Coffin

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Challenge #6  
__Concerning the Chapter Title  
Mythological Being of the Day_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_  
_Fairy Tale of the Day_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, I was wrong about John showing up in chapter 19 or 20. He'll be in chapter 22, guaranteed._

_**Warning:**_ _the next few chapters makes references to gang warfare, suicide, cutting, and other "controversial teen issues." If you're not comfortable with that... um... I actually don't have a second option. Crap. Well, anyway, just a warning, guys._

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**Chapter Twenty**

**Like a Glass Coffin**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Spies, a King's Command, a Maiden's Heartache, and a Prince's Envoy**

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Nuada slipped back into the salle, his lance clenched tightly in one fist. With a wave of his hand he lit the faerie lights that hung from the ceiling. Then he spun the shortened lance once, twice, and let himself flow into a lethal training dance.

Silver eyes slit like a cat's watched from the end of one of the entry-halls to the salle, studying the Elf prince as he flipped and spun, twisted and thrust with the lance. The eerie glow of faerie lights burned along the edges of the lance-blade like the light of rush-fires. Oh, but Bethmoora's crown prince was out of sorts this afternoon. Pale lips quirked into a cruel smile as Elven magic tasted Nuada's thoughts. So, he was worried about the human. Worried that the dark Elf known as Eamonn would find her and destroy her. That he, the mighty Silverlance, would not be enough to protect her. How very sweet.

_If only you knew that Eamonn was not your biggest problem, Your Highness, _the silver-eyed Elf thought, and grinned. A cat with a bowl of cream and canary blood would have worn such a grin. _Nor is his master. Your greatest threat comes from within the walls of Findias. Father, sister... and others. My master, and his followers._

_Did you think you could betray so many of your people with impunity? You would do well to fear them all - even, if Eamonn and the Fomorian prince have their way, yourself. Even_ you _are not immune to all glamor and illusion. What will you do, Crown Prince, if the mortal dies at your own hand? If she dies beneath your fists and your blade, begging you to stop? Begging for her life? If her so-called innocent human blood stains your hands? Will it break your heart and drive you mad?_

_My master and his allies thinks so. And once the mortal who cannot be glamored is gone from Findias, there is nothing to stop you from wiping out the ravenous, devouring humans... or Prince Bres from wedding the princess, and seizing control of the Golden Army. Whichever comes first._

But the prince did not hear. Did not sense the eyes on him. He only threw himself behind every thrust of the silver spear, grunting with exertion, desperate to purge himself of the twisted fantasies Eamonn had placed inside his mind. Nuada did not see the cat-eyed Elf turn and glide silently away.

With a grunt of effort, Nuada somersaulted through the air, kicked off one wall of the salle, and landed in a crouch. The glow of avidly fascinated will-o-the-wisps and the umber light of the late afternoon sun edged the silver-tipped spear with fire as it sliced through the air. Sweat dampened long blond hair. His breath was slightly strained as the effort to push himself began to take a toll on his sore muscles. Even after three days, the poison had not completely faded from his blood. Eamonn had chosen his tools well.

_The traitor ought to be horse-whipped, _the prince growled to himself. His back twinged, protesting the strenuous twists and flips after a night spent sitting on a cold stone floor. He ignored it.

He had not returned to sleep once Nuala left his room. After an hour of restless tossing and turning, he had come to the salle to flog his body into exhaustion so that he might find some peace and thus return to sleep, only to be thwarted by his sister and the human. Now that he finally _had _that long-desired peace, he found himself too awake to take some rest. Very well; he would resume training.

Nuada swept into one of the swift, sharp _taolu _of _Táng-Láng-Quán_. The whip-like defensive moves made his shoulders ache. His breathing was harsh in his own ears. But the burn of fatigue helped push away thoughts of Dylan, thoughts of his sister, and thoughts of the situation his father had trapped him into. Memories of the night before.

_If I am not careful, I will do something I shall regret, _the prince thought. One hand lashed out in a swift strike that, had it connected with a human's carotid, would have been fatal. _Already the strain of this farcical "courtship" has made me look like a fool._

And what else _could _he look like, escorting the mortal to church with that sickeningly tender smile plastered on his face? Dylan had apologized profusely through the telepathic connection they had maintained. Insisted he did not need to keep hold of her arm. She could find the way to the chapel, she said. He did not have to embarrass himself by being seen with her more than was necessary for their charade. Always the human tried to be so considerate of him. Whereas he usually appreciated her consideration, now it only served to infuriate him.

_The mortal is at fault in this as well, _Nuada growled silently. _If she were not so... so fey-like, so different from other humans, this would not be so hard. But always she succeeds in making me forget that there is iron in her blood. _One wicked slice of the spear severed the arm of a wooden practice dummy. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter. _Otherwise I would not have been so... so comfortable with her._ Just the thought of how he had cradled Dylan to his chest made Nuada grit his teeth. The demands of his honor had forced him to the mortal's side last night, it was true, but he had not needed to pet and cosset her like some... some prized poodle.

A series of knife-sharp, lightning-strike kicks actually decapitated another set of practice dummies. His boots slapped against the floor as he leapt and twisted. Gritting his teeth, the bronze-eyed warrior shortened the spear until he could comfortably spin the half-spear, using it conjunction with his sword. With a low snarl, he turned and lunged at an imaginary opponent, battling against an Elf one minute, a troll another minute, and a fuath the next. And despite the ache in his muscles and the fatigue burning in him, he could not forget Dylan's grateful smile when he'd left her at the chapel door earlier that day.

_What is the matter with me? _The prince demanded, replacing the sword on the weapons' rack. He grabbed a pair of small war axes (_one of the current banes of my existence,_ he thought with a brief flash of bitterness) and began to spin them, adjusting to their weight. _What is the matter with me? _He repeated. _Why do I find myself smiling at her when I want nothing to do with her right now? If we were elsewhere, perhaps it would be different._

Different. As it all had been different when Dylan had sat perched on a velvet-covered stool in front of the fire in her little cottage, reading tales of mighty warriors and hidden princesses. Things had been simple enough then. A sharp longing for those brief weeks hit him hard. Nuada shoved it away.

_Things are_ not _different, _he reminded himself, twisting and dodging away from an imaginary opponent. _And with everyone watching our every move like vultures, she quickly becomes an irritant. Everyone sees how I am forced to act around her to continue this imbecilic charade. The court believes me to be besotted with her. With a human!_

And he had not yet heard from his court supporters. Just this afternoon, returning from escorting Dylan, he had been publicly snubbed by Lord Galen and Lord Finbar, two Elves who had once been some of his most loyal and reliable agents at court during his exile. Both had pointedly turned on their heels and strode away when they saw him coming toward them. When the silence was finally broken, what would they - and others - have to say about the situation with the human? The prince knew that _that_ had the potential to become very, very dangerous - for both himself and for Dylan.

_And if she has another nightmare, I will be forced to go to her again. If I am seen by anyone, rumors will run rampant through the court. Well, _Nuada added, grimacing at the burning in his arms from the heavy axes. _At least Nuala will not slap me again. That is one thing I can thank Dylan for._

_But I should not have to thank her for_ anything, _at all_, he suddenly remembered, and snarled. With a swift throw, the pain-bright axe blade imbedded itself in the wall. _The mortal is turning into a problem. It must be dealt with before she drives me mad. I cannot stay here much longer, if I am to be forced to act like a love-besotted fool to _anyone, _much less a human woman._

"You are still a skilled fighter, my son," a calm voice like the creaking of ancient oak trees called from the doorway of the salle. "I am impressed."

Nuada froze. Did not dare breathe. For just a moment he let himself feel joy that his father had sought him out. And he had only been in Findias for four days. The last time he had ventured to break his self-imposed exile to see his family, to show them he was well, his father had refused to see him for the first couple of weeks. It had been two weeks of haunting Findias' training halls, seeing to what few responsibilities he could not give over to Wink or his other trusted servants, seeking Nuala's reluctant company and passing messages through her to King Balor that he wished to see the king before he had to leave again. Only on the last day had his father agreed to walk with him through the royal gardens. That visit still left a bitter taste in Nuada's mouth.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," the prince replied hesitantly. Memories of that final walk in the gardens tempered his happiness, diluted it with caution and sorrow. Still, feeling a bit reckless, he added, "I am glad to see you."

Balor smiled, but did not return the sentiment. Nuada looked away from his father's weathered features, desperate to see anything but the king's eyes. When had those eyes changed toward him? Before or after the first moons of his self-imposed exile? The amber-eyed warrior could not recall when he had first noticed that his father no longer watched him with the same pride and glowing love that had followed the prince through his childhood. Nothing was the same between them anymore. _He does not want me here, _Nuada reminded himself. _My father does not want me._

Nuada suddenly wished for Dylan - Dylan, so fey-like despite her mortal blood; Dylan, who had begged him to stay with her. Then he cursed himself for a fool. He was the legendary Silverlance! He did not need a mortal, even an exceptional one, for any reason. But at least when the king's disapprobation hung like a death sentence over Nuada's head, the mortal's sharp humor had kept the hurt of it away. Her cool disregard for the One-Armed King's opinions had soothed him the night before at court. And there was never a question as to whether the human wanted the Elf prince around or not.

"You train with war axes? Are they not somewhat... obsolete?"

The reproof was subtle, but Nuada felt it like the bite of a whip. His father had always tried to discourage the intensity of Nuada's training once the prince realized a war with the humans was inevitable. But the prince would not rise to the bait.

"It was my lack of skill with war axes that led to my lady having to save my life the night we met," Nuada replied instead. He strode over to the axe imbedded in the wall, grasped the leather-wrapped ebony handle, and yanked. The faerie metal slid from the wall as if the wood were water. "As she tends to pester about my safety, I try to indulge her in making sure I do not sustain injury."

"Your sister tells me that you care for Lady Dylan."

Nuada clenched his jaw and did not speak for a long moment. Nuala had said that, had she? There were a thousand possible undertones to that simple statement. A thousand hidden messages. Was this his father's way of bringing up the night before? The Elf prince would not talk about that unless the king literally commanded him to speak. It was... private. More private than nearly anything in his life, except the plan to retrieve the Golden Crown. He was closer to that goal than anyone but Wink knew, and both secrets possessed the power to ruin everything if they were found out.

When he had control of his voice, Nuada replied, "The human is my ally. If I did not trust her at least a little, it would not be so. But ally is all she is."

"Be grateful for your allies, my son, for they grow few," the king said softly. "Your spies at court of course kept you appraised of the noblewomen vying for your hand."

It was not a question, but Nuada inclined his head in agreement. Of course Balor knew about his agents at court. Of course he did.

"It may interest you to know that nearly all of them have been called back to their estates by their parents - a development I am certain comes as a relief to you. Yet think on this, my son: those that stay are the most vicious of the fae women, and will stop at little in order to snare you, and those that have been called home have families whose support you once possessed in your campaign against the humans. You do not have their support any longer. You are losing this campaign, Nuada."

In a measured, deliberate tone, Nuada said, "I will not lose in this, Father. You seek to rob me of my followers; very well. Yet I have been alone for centuries, and have accomplished much in that time without the aid of those who grow sleek and fat on the toil of others. I need no one's aid to protect my people."

"You and the Lady Dylan _will _be betrothed, Crown Prince," Balor said, and his voice was cool now, almost icy. The words were a slap. Nuada refused to allow himself to flinch from them. "And then you will wed. You will wed the human, take her to your bed, and make her your wife in all ways. Do you understand?"

"I will _not."_ Nuada met his father's eyes squarely, and refused to back down. "I will not dishonor myself that way, or her. After the lifetime of service she has given to our people, she deserves better at your hands than this, Father. She has earned some peace from hardship, from the tricks and ploys of Faerie. I will pretend at courtship if I must, as your machinations will no doubt come to fruition based on that shame alone. But never will I sully myself by joining with a human. And neither will I dishonor myself by forcing a woman to my bed against her will," the prince added, a sudden flare of rage searing him, "mortal or not, wed or not, by your order or not. You are my father and my king, and I owe you my fealty, this is true. You will always have my love and loyalty, Father. But I hold my mother's memory too dear to shame _her_ that way."

Balor flinched at the mention of Queen Cethlenn. Her name and hers alone could still bring a broken look into otherwise clear, topaz eyes. But then anger clouded the king's face. "You behave as if you hold nothing dear but your own pride, Crown Prince."

"There are many things I treasure, Your Majesty," Nuada said just as coldly. He would not show his grief to his king. "The lives and livelihood of my people. My sister's happiness, if it is in my power to grant. My birthright as a prince of Bethmoora. My honor. The _legends_ of you, Father, and your courage, your honor, your skill on the battlefield." Legends only, now. What had happened to his father? To the proud warrior who had rejoiced in calling Nuada his son? When had he disappeared from the prince's life? "And," the Elven warrior added, fighting the heat of rage flaring beneath his cheeks, "I value Dylan's regard." After all, hers and Wink's were the only ones guaranteed him. Even in his exile, he had always had Wink. Now he had Dylan's care as well. Mortal she might be, but value that regard he most certainly did. "So if you believe that I will betray her, my own honor, and the alliance between us, you are sorely mistaken."

They locked eyes, liquid bronze and dark topaz. Nuada did not let his gaze waver. Balor did not look away. After a long moment, where it became obvious to both that neither would back down, the One-Armed King of Elfland said, "You have heard Our command. Court her in earnest. Do what you must so that when you ask for her hand, she accepts. Then wed her and have done, or face Our displeasure. We will never allow you to reawaken the Golden Army, my son. If you believe otherwise, then _you_ are the one who is mistaken." And the proud Elven king strode from the salle, leaving Nuada staring after him with pale topaz eyes.

"I pray I am not mistaken, Father," the prince murmured, turning away. "I pray not."

**.**

The wind screamed, bringing tears to her eyes. Her cellphone, a mockingly bright pink studded with rhinestones, seemed to taunt her from where she'd laid it on the ground next to her foot. Icy November air dug its teeth into her bones through the thin denim of her jeans and her tatty windbreaker. The cold made the black bruise under her eye throb.

She wanted Dylan, because Dylan understood. Even though she was white, and old, and part of the system, Dylan somehow understood everything.

But Lisa knew she couldn't have Dylan. At least not yet. Dylan hadn't answered when she'd phoned the house. When she'd called Mr. Myers, Dylan's brother, to find out where the older woman was, he'd said, "She's out of town, visiting a friend." When she'd asked when Dylan would come back, he'd said he didn't know.

So she'd tried to hold on. Tried to keep from screaming or running into the street with tears scalding her eyes. Tried not to look at the picture in its pretty frame on her nightstand, covered by shards of broken glass and black-tinged mascara tears and a few drops of blood like heartbroken roses. She'd known that if Dylan called, told the fourteen-year-old to meet her somewhere, anywhere, then she could handle looking at that picture. But only then.

Now her hot tears practically steamed in the cold of a November afternoon. Frigid wind swirled rotting leaves and debris across the concrete roof of the mall where she huddled against a freezing cinderblock wall. And the gun was like icy death in her hand.

_If you're going to kill yourself, make sure you get it right,_ Dylan had told her.

That was why she liked Doctor Dylan. She didn't BS around like most of the shrinks at Palo Verde. She'd been straight-up with Lisa about the fact that suicide was an option, but a really stupid one.

_If you try to kill yourself, make sure of two things: that it doesn't hurt, and that it works the first time. You want to die because you're in pain. Why go out that way? And if you screw up the initial run, you'll never want to do it again. Because screwing up means capture, imprisonment, and the death of your soul. You're suffering now, but at least you're free from the people who don't care. If you try to die, and you fail, you won't even have that._

_I could make it happen the first time, _Lisa had said. _I could shoot myself in the head. I'll be dead for sure then._

Dylan had given her a look that was pure kid, straight-up "C'mon. You sure about that?" And the then-twelve-year-old had realized that the older woman had never really grown up. Not in the way that would have made it impossible to trust her. It had been so surprising - and so surprisingly comforting - that Lisa had burst into tears. And Dylan had said, in a voice like a real mom's, _You can never be sure it will work, no matter what. Not without a lot of pain. If you're running from pain, why run toward it? It's agony to feel this way, but at least it can be felt. Better to feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest than to have no heart at all._

_It's agony to feel this way, but at least it can be felt. _For months and months, those words had made her hold on. Even after her brother's "friends" had attacked Dylan, cutting up her face and doing things that had made Lisa hate José for what his so-called "homies" had done. For ruining Dylan's beautiful face. For hurting a woman who had only tried to help her. And for Rafael. She had despised - _I still despise,_ she reminded herself - her older brother for that. But in the end, it had all been too much. Even Dylan couldn't change that.

Lisa stared up at the boiling sky. Fitting, wasn't it, that the day she chose to end things reflected the grief inside her? Her heart throbbed like a wasp sting. Her eyes ached from crying. _Doesn't matter, _her parents had told her. _He was a no-good thug. _But that wasn't true. Dylan had known that.

_Why don't they bring her?_ The fourteen-year-old wondered. She traced the ridges and lettering on the gun barrel, her fingers shaking. _I just want to talk to her._ _Tell her it's not her fault. Make her understand. I can't go unless she understands._ But the pain beat at her like her father's fists. Screamed like her mother's shrill, disonant voice in her mind. If the police didn't bring Dylan soon... could she last? Could she keep holding on until Dylan came?

"I want to go home," she whispered, shivering with the biting cold. "I just want to go home."

But home wasn't the little ghetto apartment building with its taped-up jagged windows and peeling door with the broken lock. It wasn't her father's hand cracking against the side of her face when he found the poem under her pillow, or her mother shrieking at her that she'd end up pregnant before she managed to graduate high school as long as she kept seeing "that punk."

Home was Dylan's little cottage on the edge of Central Park. Home was the brownie setting out ice-cold cherry lemonade or warm hot cocoa for both Lisa and Dylan (always remembering to put tiny, vanilla and caramel marshmallows in Lisa's cup). It was talking with her shrink about anything and everything that needed to be talked about while a fire blazed and they sipped warm, liquid chocolate. Borrowing books to smuggle home. Eating a real dinner instead of cold lettuce and mustard on cardboard posing as white bread. Having someone ask her about school, helping her with homework, listening to her when she asked for advice.

And praying for her. Dylan always prayed for her. Sometimes the teenager had heard the woman whispering, soft and earnest, praying in the counseling room at Brooklyn Heights High School before Lisa had come in. Home was the sound of Avril Lavigne singing about waiting in the dark on a cold night and Superchic(k) singing about bravery while Dylan and Lisa just sat and watched the fire. That was home.

Home was Rafael, and the smell of Ivory soap and Old Spice. The sound of his laugh as he taught her to shoot a basket at the Park and she jumped up and down, squealing like a little kid, when she finally managed to sink the ball. His smile, flash of teeth so white against dusky skin and the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of those dark, Spanish eyes. A rose tucked inside her locker like a Christmas present come early. The music from his mix CDs crooning from his headphones about love and possibilities and what it would be like to have a real home. _My love is like a red, red rose _and _you and me, we can ride on a star _like lullabies.

It wasn't this cold roof under the rain, a gun in her hand and death on her mind. This was one stop short of Hell.

_Dylan, I can't do this anymore, _Lisa thought, letting her head fall back against the cinderblock wall. Exhaustion and grief made her shake. _It wasn't this bad when my parents tried to stop us. It wasn't this bad when Rafael landed in the hospital. It wasn't this bad when José's friends attacked you. But Rafael is gone now. He's gone and I can't deal with this anymore. I just can't. I want to go home._

Lisa let her eyes slide over the burning-cold steel of the gun barrel. Thought about the men with their rifles trained on her in case she decided to begin emptying the clip into the crowd of people standing around the mall, or the mall security, or the TV reporters spilling her life for the cameras like arterial blood. Thought about the death waiting to rip away her pain. All she had to do was hold out until Dylan came and she could tell her. Explain that it had been the worst - and the best - part of her life, those biweekly sessions in the older woman's house. Because it had been hope and safety, but it had always ended with her going back to that stupid apartment in the Bronx. Lisa had to explain how only the shrink had had the guts and the heart to keep her around this long, and she loved the older woman for that.

"I'm sorry, Dylan," she whispered, curling her finger around the trigger. She made sure not to point it anywhere but the roof's rough floor for now. When the time came, when she lifted the gun and pointed it at the crowd, then it would be over. Lisa knew the cops would never let her hurt anyone. They'd bring her down with a sniper shot to the head, maybe the heart as well. And that was fitting, too.

_Hurry, _the girl thought as the cold burned in her bones. _Please come. I can't handle this anymore. Please come so I can say goodbye._ After all, Dylan was the only one left for Lisa to say goodbye to.

**.**

The assembled phooka snorted and pawed the ground, tossing their heads impatiently. They wanted warm stables, fresh honey and milk with their oats, and to get these disgustingly heavy Fomorian lords off their backs. But Prince Bres did not command the faerie horses to move forward. So they stood in the cool evening air as the gloaming deepened around them. Their breath steamed in the gathering dark. They stamped their feet and shifted restlessly, but waited obediently for their master's order to advance.

"What do we wait for?" Gwrhyr demanded, stamping a hoof. Spatters of mud squelched up and splashed Bres' boots. The Fomorian prince glanced down at his mount, who added, "We want out of this miserable, icy damp, Highness. The phooka of Cíocal serve you willingly. Will you abuse us?"

"Silence, Gwrhyr. I am merely considering. Winter comes swiftly this far north, and the dusk creeps across the sky." The Fomorian prince glanced toward the horizon. The orange sun half-peered over the tops of the trees. "Should we send a runner ahead, to tell Balor of our presence? Or should we arrive on the edge of the darkness, and let that be our first surprise to the old Elf? What do you think, Ciaran?"

"My prince, that is an unfair question." The gancanaugh brought his own phooka to stand beside Gwrhyr. "You have told me and my sister that you have a task for us at Findias, one we anxiously await, and then ask if we should delay?"

"I care not about keeping the old fool on his toes! Let us press on, Bres," Dierdre called. "I dislike the cold, and I want to catch sight of the lily-white prince before I find my bed this night."

_And, _she thought with a smile like moonlight on a knife blade, _I want to see Nuada's reaction when his "old friend" Crown Prince Bres brings a woman with him who looks even somewhat like Nuada's dead mother - it is not as if the Scarlet Fomori are very common. How will the court of Bethmoora react to seeing one of the scarlet ones again? It has been so many years._ Dierdre checked her hair, just to make sure the cloaking glamor was still in place. _Even Balor will be stunned by my appearance. He might even miss the fact that it's glamor at all. That will make things even more fun. No one will look for deception and danger from a prince who fought alongside Nuada Silverlance all those centuries ago._

A gust of wind sliced through her fur-lined cloak, and she called out, "Bres! Please! I'm freezing out here!"

Bres turned to study the members of his envoy. His pair of talented gancanaugh, who would shatter the bonds between the princess, the prince, and the human; his old nurse (and his father's favorite sorceress), Biróg - a mistress of poisons and illusions even some royals could not see through; Lí Ban the bodach, King Elatha's greatest assassin; and Arrachd, the nuckelavee. Perhaps if Bres was truly, truly lucky, Prince Nuada's little human would catch sight of Arrachd and die of a heart attack. Mortals were so fragile, after all. While Biróg, Lí Ban, and his gancanaugh could easily disguise themselves as nearly anything humanoid (including Fomori), Arrachd would never pass for anything but what he was. The Fomorian prince cast an appreciative eye over the finned centaur-like faerie. If the nuckelavee did not frighten the human, Bres did not know what would. And they _wanted_ her scared.

Only on edge, and frightened of every shadow, would Bres' plan for the mortal woman work. Before he handed her over to Ciaran, the blue-eyed prince had to make sure that he shattered the united front he had heard the crown prince of Bethmoora presented with his mortal lady, leaving Nuada vulnerable to Dierdre's brilliant schemes.

Bres knew his lovely gancanaugh's devious mind (and her fondness for poisons both subtle and all-too deadly) would serve as the best tools against the Silver Lance, as Ciaran's charm and talent for potions would be most effective against the princess. As for the king... The prince smiled fondly when he thought of what his father had in mind for the old king of Bethmoora.

"Bres!" Ciaran shifted in the saddle, breaking his train of thought. "Come! Let's get out of this cold, before Dierdre starts to whine."

"I do _not_ whine, Brother!"

"Very well," Bres replied. Lifting his arm, he motioned the envoy and their guards forward. "On to Findias!"

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_**Author's Note:**_ _ugh, too short. Too short! *slumps* I'm gonna do something unprecedented and post chapter 21 as well. This is in anticipation of Septermber 1, which is coming up in less than a week. No review prompt this time; you know the drill, though. Things loved, unloved, hated, unhated, hilarious or sad, all that stuff._

_Okay, I lied, because I just remembered in one of WhenNightmaresWalked's reviews, that she said she loved the prompts, so I'll put one in just for her. Although the rest of you guys can do it too. *hint hint*_

_1) Who thought that the silver-eyed Elf watching Nuada in the first scene was Eamonn (before it said it wasn't Eamonn)? Just curious, 'cause that's what you were supposed to think, so I wanna know how good of a job I did._

_2) Who likes the upgrade on the political intrigues and murder plots and such? Anyone have any other political plots that they think should pop up in the fic? I'm always open to suggestions._

_3) Will Nuada suspect his "old friend" of subterfuge and foul play when they finally see each other? Or will he trust in the bonds of brotherhood, the warrior's code, and shared experiences of battle?_

_4) Why do you think Dierdre plans on glamoring herself to look somewhat like Nuada's mother (think Freud)?_

_5) Balor and Nuada: strained father-son relationship accurately portrayed? I don't want Balor to come off as not loving the Prince. He's trying to caution him, and stop his genocidal plans, while still trying to show his son that he loves him. And Nuada wants to please his father and make him proud, but at the same time can't reconcile his own code of honor with what the King wants him to do. Did that come across?_

_**And a Challenge:**_ _it's two (or 3) parts (__**no word limit**__) about Nuada and Bres. Friends once, allies once, brothers-in-arms once, they fought in the wars against the humans (and even saved each others' lives a few times). Yet now, Bres is plotting to kill Nuada (either directly or indirectly, whichever is easier). So I'd like to see, like, a three-scene one-shot or something, with one scene about Bres and Nuada's past together, another where the two meet again in the fic-present, and the final scene where Bres makes his move in his betrayal against our Prince (whichever move that might be). Although you can have more than 3 scenes if you want, for all you adorable overachievers. Okay? Same rules apply, of course. Love you guys! _=D

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"the Glass Coffin" is a fairytale that is similar in some ways to "the Brother and the Sister," in that there's a girl who is a princess (in tBatS, she becomes a princess) and her brother is a stag. The full tale (is not long) is our Fairy Tale of the Day. But regarding the chapter title, I've called it "Like a Glass Coffin" because the things that are brought up in this chapter are almost like intangible shackles or walls pressing down on our characters. The secondary title of our chapter is "A Short Tale of Spies, a King's Command, a Maiden's Heartache, and a Prince's Envoy." Those things are like the walls of a glass coffin closing in on Dylan, Nuada, and (for some of them) Nuala. So that's where I got the chapter title. Yay!_

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_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _Today, we're doing a person, not a species - Arawn, King of Annwn (this will be important in either chapter 21 or 22). For those of you who have seen Disney's _The Black Cauldron _or read Lloyd Alexander's novel on which the film is based, you'll know him as King Creepy with the antlers. In Welsh mythology, Arawn was the king of the otherworldly realm of Annwn. In later tradition, the role of king of Annwn was largely attributed to the Welsh deity, Gwyn ap Nudd (the son of Nudd, who is considered a Welsh counterpart of Nuada, random fact). In _the First Branch of the Mabinogi _(a cycle of Welsh mythology), the lord of a place called Dyfed, Lord Pwyll, mistakenly sets his hounds upon a stag, only to discover that Arawn has been hunting the same animal. To pay for the misdeed, Arawn asks Pwyll to trade places with him for a year and a day and defeat Hafgan, Arawn's rival, at the end of this time; something Arawn has attempted but has been unable to do. Arawn, meanwhile, takes Pwyll's place as lord of Dyfed. Arawn and Pwyll become good friends because when Pwyll wore Arawn's shape, he slept chastely with Arawn's wife (what a nice guy! Sounds like someone we know, don't it?). _

_A friendship between the two realms was retained long after Pwyll's death; in _the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi_, Pryderi, Pwyll's son and reigning lord of Dyfed, received a gift of otherworldy pigs from Arawn (gee, otherworldly pigs. I wonder if one of them was named Henwen). These pigs were eventually stolen by Venedotian magician and trickster, Gwydion fab Don (the guy whose sister has to stay a virgin so King Math could put his feet in her lap), leading to Pryderi's invasion of Gwynedd. In the ensuing war, Gwydion kills Pryderi in single combat._

_Also in Welsh folklore, the Cŵn Annwn or "Hounds of Annwn" ride through the skies in autumn, winter, and early spring. The baying of the hounds was identified with the crying of wild geese as they migrate and the quarry of the hounds as wandering spirits, being chased to Annwn. However, Arawn himself is not referred to in these traditions, though the Huntsman of Annwn, Iolo (who remembers him from Chapter 14?) is mentioned by name. We're going with the physical description of Arawn in _the Chronicles of Prydain _by Lloyd Alexander, but his personality is more that of the faerie lord of the Welsh otherworld and not necessarily a bad guy. Still, all faeries are dangerous, are they not?_

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- _Táng-Láng-Quán_ translates as "Praying Mantis Fist." When they talk about Praying Mantis kung-fu or whatever, they're talking about Northern Praying Mantis, a martial art style originating in the Shandong Province of China. The fighting style involves the use of whip-like/circular motions to deflect direct attacks, which it follows up with precise attacks to the opponent's vital spots. One of the most distinctive features of Northern Praying Mantis is the "praying mantis hook," a hook made of one to three fingers directing force in a whip-like manner. The hook may be used to divert force (blocking), adhere to an opponent's limb, or attack critical spots (eyes or acupuncture points). These techniques are particularly useful in combination; for example, using the force imparted from a block to power an attack. So if the enemy punches with the right hand, a Northern Praying Mantis practitioner might hook outwards with the left hand (shifting the body to the left) and use the turning force to attack the enemy's neck with a right hook. Alternately, he/she might divert downwards with the left hook and rebound with the left wrist stump to jaw/nose/throat. Northern Praying Mantis is especially known for its speed and continuous attacks. Wrist/arm techniques in particular are emphasized, as well as knee and elbow strikes. Another prominent feature of the style is its complex footwork, borrowed from Monkey Kung Fu. I got this from Wikipedia. Praying Mantis doesn't normally use weapons, but I figured Nuada's smart enough to incorporate his favorite thing (the lance) into any form of martial arts.

- The royal gardens are important later, just fyi. It probably won't be for much, much later, but it will be in here.

- I learned the word "disapprobation" from _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen (the book, not the movie). It means disapproval.

- Tatty is so a word. It basically means shabby, raggedy, messed up, torn, grubby, etc.

- Rafael was a kid I knew in 7th grade who wrote amazing poetry and lyrics. Couldn't sing as far as I knew, but we sometimes wrote poetry together. I don't know where he is now, because I moved away at the end of 7th grade, but his work was pretty good. Who knows? Maybe he's a rap star now.

- The first song Lisa remembers, "Avril Lavigne singing about waiting in the dark on a cold night," is "I'm With You" from her first CD, _Let Go_.

- The second song, "Superchic(k) singing about bravery," is the song "Hero" by Superchic(k). Guys, there's a great _Evangelion_ AMV to this song on Youtube. Please go listen to it. It's not for the fic, but because this song has a message that I feel is incredibly important. It's not religious; it's about bullying. So please go listen to it. Even if you can't find the AMV, please find the song. Okay?

- The song lyrics Lisa remembers in the paragraph about Rafael are from "Like a Red, Red Rose," which is an old song (I think from Ireland), and the credits-song from the movie _Stardust_.

- phooka are faerie beings, that can take the form of hounds, horses, or men (and sometimes fish or cats). They're usually black with glowing green or golden eyes. Unlike the kelpie, the faerie horse that drowns people, pwcas usually just take you for a ride and scare the crud out of you, but don't hurt you. The Royal Stables of Bethmoora, in this fic, have kelpies, pwcas, and pretty much every other type of horse faerie except centaurs in the stables. In the _Meredith Gentry _series, the Captain of the Queen's Ravens (royal guard) is the son of a phooka and a sidhe, and he can turn into a horse and a black dog.

- Gwrhyr is just a cool, Welsh name (pwcas, with that spelling, are from Wales).

- Ciaran is named after the titular character in _Son of the Shadows _by Juliet Marillier.

- Yeah, Bres and Dierdre have a thing.

- A bodach is a mischievous Elf in Scottish mythology. Often they are depicted in pop culture as being incredibly dangerous (as in the _Odd Thomas _books by Dean Koontz, where they are harbingers of tragedy and attack the souls of the evil dead).

- I can't tell you what a nuckelavee is, other than a centaur-type creature with finned legs. Why? Because when Dylan sees him, I want it to be a surprise to you, too (so no peeking on the internet!).

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- _The Black Cauldron_ by Lloyd Alexander (book 2 in _the Chronicles of Prydain_)  
- _The Book of Three_ by Lloyd Alexander (book 1 in _the Chronicles of Prydain; _a must for fairy tale lovers. You can probably get them used on Amazon for super, super cheap)

- _The Castle of Llyr_ by Lloyd Alexander (book 3 in _the Chronicles of Prydain_)

- Disney's _the Black Cauldron_ (not as good as the book, since they never finished the rest of the story in a sequel film)

- _The Green Fairy Book,_ edited by Andrew Lang (actually, all of them are pretty good)

- "Hero" by Superchic(k) (or Superchick)  
- _The High King_ by Lloyd Alexander (book 5 in _the Chronicles of Prydain_)

- _Stardust_ (movie)  
- _Stardust_ by Neil Gaiman (book movie is based on, but the endings are different)

- _Taran Wanderer_ by Lloyd Alexander (book 4 in _the Chronicles of Prydain_)

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_**Fairy Tale of the Day:**_ _"The Glass Coffin."_

_A tailor's apprentice became lost in a forest. At night, he saw some light and followed it to a hut. An old man lived there and, after the tailor begged, let him stay for the night. In the morning, a fight between a great stag and a bull woke him. He watched. When the stag won, it bounded up to the tailor and carried him off in its antlers. It let him down before a wall of stone and pushed him against a door in it, so that the door opened. Inside, he was told to stand on a stone, it would bring him good fortune. He did so, and it sank into a great hall, where the voice directed him to look at a glass chest, which contained a beautiful maiden. She told him to open the chest to free her, and he did so._

_She told him she was the daughter of a rich count. After her parents died, her brother raised her. One day, a traveler stayed the night and used magic to get to her in the night, to ask her to marry him. She found the use of magic repellant and did not consent. He turned her brother into the stag, imprisoned her in the glass coffin, and enchanted all the lands._

_They emerged and found the brother once more a man. The bull he had killed had been the magician. The tailor and the maiden married. The end._


	21. Knives

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Challenge #7_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title__  
References Made in the Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, this is actually more like part 2 of chapter 20, so I'm posting chapter 22 also (so 5 chapters in 3 days - who's happy about that?) because I don't like how short these are, ugh! Anyway, this is just a brief deep-breath-before-the-plunge scene between Nuada and Dylan before everything gets confusing and complicated (again). I hate short chapters! *bangs head against a wall* Ugh! Yeah, if LA doesn't seem her usual bouncy, perky self, it's because I'm trapped in my apartment with almost no AC and it's like, 108 degrees outside (and about 110 in here). Not to mention it's 2 in the morning. Blargh. So I'm melting into a puddle of goo out here in our sort-of-happy desert. So __**LOVE ME!**_ _Love me, Junior! *ahem* Sorry, channeling Bleedman there for a second. Who's Bleedman? Great artist, fanfiction comic book guy. Google "Snafu Comics" and read his comics, _Grim Tales From Down Below, Sugar Bits, _and _Power Puff Girls Doujinshi. _They're awesome._

_Oh, and the courtship gifts mentioned in this chapter actually exist and are part of different cultures (mostly Welsh and Gaelic, and any cultures that fed into the Gaelic way of life, such as the Vikings)._

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _Today, the mythical being is called "the Super-Long Fanfic Chapter," or more commonly called "Supa-Chappie." It is a rare animal, even in myth, rumored to consist of more than 18,000 words sans author's notes and anecdotes, and only appears once in a blue moon (a blue moon actually being the 13th full moon of the year; although apparently that happens every 2-3 years or something, but whatevs). Yet despite its gargantuan length, somehow the Supa-Chappie manages to ensnare its victims with the first few paragraphs and never ever lets them go, slowly draining the real-world-connection-juices from its victims' brains and leaving them mindless husks who live only for the next words of the Chapter. This dangerous entity, however, has never been found anywhere but in mythology, so no worries. _=D

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**Chapter Twenty-One**

**Knives**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Tokens of Love, Talk of Escape, and a Message Delivered**

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The Elf princess found her brother some time later not in the salle, not in the little chapel reserved for those servants who followed the High King of the World, and not in the guest chamber he had been given while Dylan used his own. Instead, she found him in the little-used workroom that King Balor had had built centuries ago for a young prince who delighted in craftsmanship.

Nuada, stripped to the waist and sheened with sweat from the heat of the forge, bent over an anvil, hammering at a piece of yellow-hot metal with a hammer. He did not flinch from the sparks that flew up at each strike. Nuala glided to him, and watched as he began to bend and fold what was probably Elven silver. The blistering heat was enough to make even the princess sweat. "What are you making, Brother?"

"A dirk." There was no annoyance or hurt in her brother's voice now. There was only the terseness of concentration and the quiet joy of doing what he loved. Yet underneath his calm exterior, she could feel a small shudder of sorrow. As he folded the metal again, he added, "For Dylan."

She jerked, startled. "Then... you are making her the _scian_ _suirí?"_

With a sigh, Nuada brought his hammer down again. "I am." If he had to court the human, or appear to court her, he would do it properly, as his honor (and his implacable father) demanded of him. That included the customary tokens of flowers, jewels (if the human would take them, which the prince rather doubted, knowing her), the courting knife, and - sickeningly saccharine thought - a lovespoon.

At least he enjoyed metal-working and woodcarving for its own sake. The flowers could come from his personal gardens within the Royal Gardens. But he knew that every nobleman in the court of Bethmoora thought him stupid-in-love with her. Such insipid sentiment was pathetic in a warrior. It galled him to have to pretend to such boyish affections. His father had not been so besotted with his mother, had he? There had been love, yes, but not _this_.

"Then... you mean to truly capitulate to our father's wishes?"

"Why do you sound surprised?" He would not allow any bitterness through. "Our father has ordered me to court her, so court her I shall." The prince wiped at the sweat on his face with the back of his arm. The blade itself was nearly finished. "So I make a courting knife for her. You may give her the sheath and belt you possess, Sister, as you have never worn it. In fact, if I remember correctly, you _refused_ to wear it."

"Brother... you know I could not. I will give it to her." The princess, knowing there was just a touch of hurt in her brother now, added, "It is honorable, what you do here, my brother." An awkward silence descended on them both as the Elven warrior finished the actual forging of the blade itself. He lifted it with his tongs and thrust it into icy water. The water hissed and steamed. Then, knowing he had time to let it cool, the prince grabbed his carving knife and the block of dark ebony he intended for the dirk's hilt and, dropping to a bench, set to work.

"When..." Nuala trailed off when her twin did not even acknowledge her words with a look. Struggling for poise, the princess asked, "When will Dylan return from her worship?"

"She told me she would return in about three hours' time. That was three hours ago."

And had that not been a vexation? Uneasy at leaving the mortal among other faeries, even the servants of the castle, he had briefly entertained the idea of going into the chapel with her, despite the flush of embarrassment threatening him. After all, he certainly smelled better than the stable tomte that were filing inside. He would not have been in danger of giving offense, as Nuala had insinuated when he had been dressing.

And he would not have listened to the religious babble, of course, but at least then Dylan would not have been alone. After the terror of the night and his father's edict, Nuada was torn between two extremes: desperate for time away from the choking charade that seemed to drag him down like a ball and chain, he was still loath to leave Dylan alone among strangers. What if they frightened her? What if she suffered another flashback?

But the mortal had insisted that no ill would befall her while she remained with the tiny congregation. And Nils had been there. The tomte had agreed (_indeed, practically begged,_ Nuada thought with a little sizzle of irritation) to be Dylan's escort for the service.

"It has been a long time since you used this room, has it not?" Nuala asked, desperate to keep the awkward silence from returning. Her brother paused in his carving. "Father ordered this room built... I believe you were only a youth at the time." Fourteen hundred years old, still a young Elf, fascinated with the art of smithing, willing to face burns and scalding steam, aching muscles and long hours, just to learn a thing he would never even need. But, Nuala remembered, he had loved it so. Their father could not help but give into his only son's wish to learn.

And less than a thousand years after that, Nuada had gone into exile, and no one had used the room since. And whenever the prince returned to Findias, it was never long enough to find the time to use it, either.

"I spoke to Jenny," Nuada replied. Beneath his skilled hands and blade, the hilt of a dirk was emerging from the dark wood. "She had the room cleaned while I trained this morning. After you and I... spoke, and Father came to me, I knew that I would have to begin this courtship in earnest if Father were to continue to be merciful."

"You think us cruel to force you both into this alliance, but Brother, it is the only road you have left us."

Nuada shrugged. "It matters little what I think of you, Sister. Of either of you. You and Father have always made that very clear."

"Brother..." She could not bear the razor-edged shards of hurt in his voice. But before she could even so much as coax him to meet her eyes, Nils came into the forge with Dylan at his side.

"See? What did I tell you, milady? Jenny had the right of it. His Highness is in his forge." Nils bowed low to Nuala and Nuada, murmuring, "Highnesses." To Dylan, he added, "Well, I must return to my stables. I am glad that you enjoyed sacrament."

"It was lovely." She flashed him a dazzling smile. The tomte thought, _A pity her face is so scarred. She would be at least pretty, otherwise, for a human. Though that second eye is a bit off-putting. _"Thank you, Nils, for making sure I was all right. If I'm still at Findias come next Sunday, I'll see you there again?"

"That you will," he replied, and bowed to her and the royal twins. "Highnesses, Lady." He left when Nuala dismissed him, leaving the human to stare around her at the forge in wonder.

"Wow. This place is amazing."

"Dylan!" Nuala went to her and took her hands. _Try to be friendly, _she reminded herself. It was the least she could do for the poor girl in light of the courtship situation. And the human actually smiled at the Elf princess with sincere delight. "Did you enjoy yourself? I heard some of the singing when I went to the chapel in search of my brother. It sounded lovely."

"Oh, the singing was wonderful!"

Dylan grinned and actually pulled the princess to the bench where Nuada sat. The Elven warrior quirked a brow at the two women as the human perched on the bench beside him and began telling him (as if he had expressed an almost fanatical interest) of all that had happened during the religious service. For some odd reason, the mortal focused a lot on the children who had been seated near her.

"Nuada, they were so sweet! I think they were fragglewumps, since the kids were eating pieces of raw meat, but they might have been something else, I'm not sure. And there was an agloolik! I've never, ever seen one before. She was beautiful, and the frost on her skin made her sparkle under the light. And her hair was so black! Like the kind of black you find in an underground cavern. She had a dog, too... or was the dog part of her? Nils wasn't sure, since he said she never talks much and he's never asked. Do you know her name? Nils said she was in charge of the hunting dogs in the royal kennels. Why didn't you tell me you have kennels? I love dogs!

"And there were _abatwas._ I've never seen those, either. They all perched on the backs of the pews where there were children so they could see because they're so small. One of them went up to bear her testimony and it took a long time for her to get up there, but it was absolutely worth it.

"Oh, Nuada, I loved it. I loved it so much! Thank you for taking me! Stop carving for a second."

The prince had allowed himself to be lulled by the constant stream of excited babbling, so it took him a moment to realize she had given him an order. He laid down the carving knife and looked at her. Her eyes shone with equal parts excitement and apprehension.

_What now?_ He wondered disparagingly. After last night, he was unsure he even wanted to know.

The human threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He froze. She was _touching _him. _Again_. And this time, in front of his sister, who no doubt would have something to say once the embrace was over. This was not the same as when Dylan had been near hysterics. Nuada knew this was premeditated. And yet oddly, he could not find it in himself to be angry, only oddly pleased and somewhat embarrassed. Nuala gaped at them, which only made an otherwise awkward situation at least partially amusing for the prince. And Dylan whispered over and over, "This was the best thing you could ever do for me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I loved it _so_ much. Thank you."

When she finally released him enough that he could draw a full breath, the Elf prince was surprised that her eyes were bright with more happiness than he'd ever seen on her face before. And she looked at him... as Nuala once had, when they were children, and his sister had believed him to be the greatest warrior, the kindest person, and the best brother that ever could be. The look in Dylan's eyes made him smile at her without conscious thought.

_No, _Nuada reminded himself, straightening his features. _Do not smile at her. Do not encourage such familiarity._

But then the mortal looked down at herself and added, "Blech. You are _really_ sweaty." And he could not help but laugh at her too-feminine disgust.

Nuala, observing them both, was even more surprised at the obvious affection in her brother's face and the sound of his carefree laugh as he watched the mortal wipe his sweat from her hands. Did her brother know he looked at the human that way? Nuada was so careful in his expressions, in every word and gesture that could be seen by another other than his twin. Yet now some of the walls and safeguards were dropping, just a little. _And in the presence of a human. Mayhap affection is not a strong enough word for what he feels. But how has Dylan managed this?_

"I am glad that you are so happy," Nuada said, oblivious to his sister. _Perhaps it will carry over to tonight, and I will have some peace. The floor does not make a good place to sit._

"You should come next week," Dylan replied. "You'd be this happy, too."

_No _was on his tongue before he had even to think about it. But the look on her face was so expectant and happy that he did not want to ruin it. Never had he seen such a joyous expression from her before. Contented, yes. And he had seen soft, calm joy whenever she spoke of the things of her faith. But this... had he ever seen anyone who was not a child this happy?

So he said gruffly, with a scowl, "We shall see." Perhaps the next time she asked, she would not wear such an expression, and he could refuse without feeling as if he were kicking a puppy.

"What are you making?" She asked, beaming.

"The hilt of a dirk. The blade is cooling in the water there." He gestured.

Dylan peered at it, and then went back to observing him at his work. "Who's the dirk for?"

"It is for you. If you ever see Eamonn or another male predator, you can use it to make them a eunuch." He smiled against his will when Dylan snorted.

Nuala chose this moment to discreetly take her leave. Let Nuada explain the _scian_ _suirí_ to the mortal, if it was needed. Though somehow the princess suspected that Dylan probably already understood the significance of the courtship knife.

Dylan leaned back and regarded Nuada, who continued to work carefully to bring the shape of the dagger hilt from the wood. In her study of Gaelic culture in college, she had read about the invasion of the Vikings however many centuries ago. And she'd read about the custom that had long ago passed into some Celtic peoples from the Vikings, where a girl ready to be courted would wear an empty, decorated leather sheath at her hip. And if a suitor came to her, and was accepted, she would wear the knife or dagger that he had made for her in that sheath, and everyone would know that the girl had chosen her sweetheart. Though not as binding as an engagement ring, it indicated a serious commitment. Had that custom come from the Gaels' fey predecessors? Somehow she was almost certain it had.

_The dirk is for me, _she thought, never taking her eyes off the prince who carved it. _And he is making it for me himself, instead of just buying it or something. Then it's a courtship blade. I... I don't know how I feel about that. _

Flustered. Surprised that he would do it, that he would go this far with the courtship charade. Had Balor said something to Nuada? Dylan wouldn't have put it past him. The king might not have been breathing down their necks, exactly, but that didn't mean she couldn't smell his breath. But also, in a small corner of herself, she felt pleased. Pleased by the fact that the Elf prince was obviously taking great care with the gift. He meant to do her honor, even though she was mortal.

"Thank you," she said softly. When he glanced at her, a faint glimmer of irritation in his gaze, she looked away. Dylan knew there was probably another woman whom Nuada would have loved to give the blade to instead. He only gave it to _her_ because he had to. And yet he still took exquisite care. It made her sad for him, and proud of him.

"It will not be purely ornamental. I shall teach you how to use it once I am finished. Tomorrow, perhaps. The day after at the latest. And I will also teach you _aikido,_ _hapkido, _and _shīzi hŏu_. That way you will learn how to fight, and how to defend yourself against a much stronger opponent. And this way I will not have to throttle you if Eamonn damages you again."

_Not that I will allow him to, _the prince snarled silently to himself.

_He's still worried about me, _Dylan realized. _Does he feel obligated to teach me, then? Is it an honor thing? _Aloud she said, "You don't have to teach me if you don't want to. Someone else can-"

"_I_ will do it," he said with finality. "I would not give your safety over to any of the imbeciles who claim proficiency here. I trust only Wink, and he is not skilled in martial arts, but in weapons. However, he and I will _both_ teach you the use of the dirk. After that, we shall teach you knife-fighting. It is not quite the same, and both are skills you should possess." The prince paused, glanced at her. Eyes like rain-swept lakes met his. "It will be difficult for you. Because of your leg, and because I believe you are not used to such training."

She fought back a sigh. The prince seemed strangely prickly this afternoon, now that they were alone. Fantastic. Well, she _had _climbed all over him like a monkey in a tree last night. Dylan knew she owed him big, so she said softly, "If you need me to do this, I'll do it."

_"If you need me to," _he thought, puzzled. _Not, "If you think I should." Not, "If you say so." If I need her to do it. Why would she say it that way?_ He knew Dylan picked her words far too carefully for it to have been anything other than intentional. But he only nodded to her and went back to glaring at the half-carved ebony as if it had given offense.

"Good."

"Now, I'm gonna go change. I'm sure Becan can find me some pants. And then we are getting out of here for a while."

He stared at her. "What? Why?"

"Nuada." She touched his hand with the lightest caress of her fingertips. The touch almost burned; he felt it down to his bones. Only centuries of discipline kept him from jerking away from her. "I know you're unhappy about being stuck here, with everyone watching us and people always talking about us and stuff, right?" When he nodded, her smile turned sad. "It's frustrating. I totally get that. I'll admit, I get a little freaked when I notice some of the people here pointing at me and whispering. So maybe we could go somewhere. Like, for a ride or something. You like riding horses, don't you? And I'm okay at it. We could go horseback riding. Go check out some woods or something. Get away from everyone. I know you don't like leaving me alone. And Wink could come with us. That way it'll be 'proper' and all that."

She rolled her eyes on the word "proper." Obviously she had not been impressed by what Nuala had said about propriety this morning.

Go with Dylan? Go out riding, which he had not done in such a long time, with a lowly human? Away from his Father, away from Nuala, away from the eyes of the court. Into the woods, maybe, or to the beach. It was cold enough that there would be few humans there, and he could glamor himself well enough as to remain unnoticed. How had Dylan known that he yearned to leave this place? Yearned to be free of it all?

Exile had left him loath to remain in this confining palace, with these insipid and moronic aristocrats. He longed for the freedom of his subway tunnels, the Troll Market, and... and Dylan's idyllic little cottage by the park. _Well,_ he thought with no little annoyance, _of course I do._ At least there he could relax around a female who did not wish to bed him for his position or to get herself with his child. That slew of shrewish irritations had been one of the things he _did _not miss about life at court. _But if something frightens her, if she has another flashback... then she will attack me again. And "snuggle" me, as she puts it. _

He almost felt ill at the thought. And yet... to get away from this place, while still technically obeying his father's wishes (and thus avoiding any sort of punishment or disapproval) was too good an opportunity to pass up, even if it left a strange feeling in his belly.

"So?" She said, tilting her head so her hair slid across her face like a thin, dark curtain. A pang hit Nuada's chest and he went very still. "What d'you say?"

"I say..." Her eyes were very blue behind the curtain of her hair. "I say that that would be the best thing you could offer me," he said.

Her smile was bright and sweet. Nuala never smiled at him like that. No one did, except Dylan. Without thinking, Nuada put down the small knife and the ebony, and reached out. He did not know what he meant to do to begin with, but he ended up slowly brushing his knuckles along her jaw. He was doing it _again_. Letting some ridiculous, impulsive notion seize control of him and turn him into ten kinds of fool. Had he not learned his lesson the night previous? Willingly touching the human was a mistake. But her breath warmed his wrist when she let out a sigh and Dylan briefly closed her eyes. Her lashes made dark crescents against her scarred cheeks. And Nuada found himself speaking before his brain could clamp his teeth shut.

"How can you know me so well... and yet be mortal? You are so young, yet you read me as easily as one of your tales." The very idea unnerved him. It made no sense that a human could understand him so well; even one such as her.

"Just lucky, I guess," she said softly. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. Hesitantly, moving on instinct, she reached up and curved her hand around his where it lay against her face. Dylan could feel his pulse against her cheek from the warmth of his palm. Feel the calluses on his knuckles from what were probably fights; feel the tension in him, and the way he held so very, very still. Golden eyes like sunlight through amber locked on hers. She swallowed. Didn't dare even try to take a breath. What was he thinking right now? He suddenly looked lost. She had never seen him look like that.

_And of course, I'm being a total sucker and getting all fluttery. Ugh, I feel like a bimbo. But he looks so sad._

"Nuada, I-"

"Nuada!" Wink burst in, jerking the Elf and the mortal apart. Heat raced through Dylan's cheeks and she scooted back, staring resolutely at the floor. What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her? Nuada didn't like touching her! Why had she done that to him?

The prince clamped down hard on the surge of irritation that threatened to make him snarl at his oldest friend. It was not Wink's fault that he and Dylan had been... what? Touching? When had it become acceptible to touch a human that way?

"What is it, Wink?" Nuada demanded, forcing his voice to remain neutral. It would have been shameful to growl at either of them (much as he wished to). But he had been the one to initiate the touch. He, Prince Nuada, had caressed - yes, _caressed;_ there was no other word for it, mortifying as the thought was - mortal skin.

The silver troll, confused and with just an inkling that he may have interrupted something, stared at them both.

"What did you want?" _Focus on Wink, _he ordered himself. Nuada could not think of Dylan right now. He simple could _not._

"Nuada... I have just come from the Troll and Goblin Markets. I spent all night listening to the gossip. They know about the human. There are rumors that the two of you are betrothed! And there is more; the Jade-"

A patter of little feet echoed behind the giant troll and Becan raced in, wide-eyed and frantic. "Mistress! It is terrible! The girl, Lisa! The police! She has a gun! You _must_ come!"

_"What?"_ Dylan leapt to her feet. With wide eyes and pounding heart, she turned to Nuada and said in a tense voice, "Nuada, I have to go. I have to go _right now_. Lisa's one of my patients. I _have_ to help her with whatever's going on."

King Balor had not given them permission to go yet. If Nuada left Findias without royal leave, the King would be displeased (see _infuriated_). After the conversation in the salle, the prince had no doubt that his father would see his absence as a sign of defiance. The One-Armed King of Elfland did not look kindly on defiance, especially not twice in one day. But the determination in Dylan's eyes told the Elf prince that with Balor's leave or no, she would do everything in her power to leave the castle, and Faerie, to get to this girl, this Lisa. And the moment she was out of his sight, Nuada knew that Eamonn would find her. He would find her, and take her, and then-

_- Silver-blue eyes glassy in death  
Eyes like hollow bruises_  
_Scarred lips that Eamonn said tasted_ _like honeyed mead_  
_Blood so red against death-pale skin_  
_Bruises black as nightshade_  
_Dylan so cold, unmoving_  
_His chest is burning _  
_Burning because he cannot draw breath_  
_And she is so very, very still-_

_No!_ The Elf prince wrenched himself away from the memory of his nightmare. Forced himself to remain firmly locked in the present. It had only been a dream. A dream, and nothing more. Eamonn would not find her. He would not hurt her because he, the Silver Lance, would never allow it. Nuada's nightmares would never come to pass. His honor demanded that no harm come to Dylan. None would. So long as he drew breath, nothing would ever threaten her again.

Blue eyes were gazing at him in supplication. He could see the pleading in her eyes, but she said nothing, only watched him. Waiting for his decision. Nuada remembered Dylan telling him, _It is very hard to be young, no matter what your species... Growing up is the hardest of alchemical transformations._ He knew that was so.

"Very well," the blond warrior said. His voice remained perfectly steady. "Give me but a moment to dress, and I shall take you where you need to go." They could deal with the king's wrath later.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _oh, crap, king's wrath. Eek! And guns! And suicidal teenage girls! And more cheek-touching! Yay for cheek-touching! Boo for trollish interruptions! Okay, since my beta is talking to me, I'm in a better mood (even though I'm being eaten by midges - don't know how they got in here, since I'm inside and it's a desert, not a swamp, but whatever; maybe it's 'cause I'm so sweaty and hot). So wootness for being happy and... she just stole the fan from me. My beta must die. Now. So I can have the fan back because otherwise I'm gonna die._

_Beta: Hey!_

_Me: What?_

_Beta: *sad sound*_

_Me: Oh, okay, jeez. You're pardoned. Whatever. Can I stop the fan oscilating now?_

_So, okay, back to the actual chapter. Wait, you say! What about Bres and them arriving? Yeah, they just miss each other (oh what a shame). And of course, since it's an envoy, not a relay-run message of dire need, they don't go before the king all dusty and gross. They get time to be escorted to their rooms, bathe, change clothes, make themselves presentable, even get a little bit to eat. Good stuff. So, review prompt:_

_1) Raise your hand if you hate being eaten alive by flying black bloodsucking specks of insect matter._

_2) What do you think would have happened if Wink hadn't interrupted the conversation between Dylan and Nuada (that is a __**secondary challenge:**_ _if anyone wants to write an alternate ending to the scene for an extra chapter and a Spoiler Surprise/Critique Cake/Cameo Cookie)?_

_3) List four things you liked about this chapter (or chapter 20 or 22) and anything you didn't like (I can't think of any good questions other than #4)._

_4) And finally, the romance aspect. Who liked the little moment (sadly interrupted by Wink) that Nuada had with Dylan? The barest inkling of foreshadowing of possible romantic interest, combined with confusion at this fey-like human woman who is so young and inexperienced, yet reads Nuada so well and tries to give him what he needs (and often succeeds at it). Did it work? I hope it worked. I agonized over it, poked it, prodded it, stuck it with pins and forks and needles and sticks. I even electrocuted it a couple times with my shock-pen. How did I do?_

_**Challenge Again!**_ _No word limit, just a thing. Nuada's gonna teach Dylan how to fight, right? Lots of touching involved. With Nuada not wearing a shirt, right__?__A__nd high levels of adrenaline. So... who wants to write a short scene (or series of scenes, whatever - actually, I prefer a series of scenes involving yummy shirtless adrenaline-laced goodness) about him training her in martial arts or using a dirk/knife, that involves high levels of sensual awareness/tension? I could just see that going in some seriously delicious (and yet retrospectively awkward for both of them) directions. Who thinks they can do it? *nudges OceanFire9 and WhenNightmaresWalked* _

_._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Knives" is a short poem about the faery-tale "Cinderella" by Jane Yolen, found in the anthology _Snow White, Blood Red_. Though there's nothing about Cinderella in this chapter, there is some stuff about knives. Yay, knives! And poison. Woot, poison!_

_Wait... I just realized how that sounded. Um..._

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Nuada as a blacksmith. First of all, it's obvious he's a craftsman. He made that little egg thing for the forest elemental. Secondly (this ties into the courtship knife) he has to be proficient enough to know how to make a knife for his future lady. So do I feel like I took liberty by showing that he knew how to use a forge and stuff? No. It makes sense, because how else would he know how to forge a knife? And he seems like he would enjoy that kind of thing. You don't get that good at making little clockwork bits in a century with just a passing interest in the concept.

- I think, however, I should make a note of something. Faerie (the realm of Faerie) seems to exist in pretty much every country in the world. If all those Fae are from the same place, it seems to me that Faerie is actually a place that exists wherever you find it, and it's the same everywhere. So the castle of Findias is the same castle that you see in the little beginning segment of the film about the Golden Army, even though that was in Ireland and Dylan's in New York. However, the glory of such a place has diminished over time as the Fair Folk have faded. This will be explained more later, but I just wanted to point out how a castle in New York City held a room that Balor had built for Nuada over 2500 years ago.

- What is a dirk? I think I said this already, but so that you all don't have to look for it, here it is again. A Scottish knife (evolved from the bollock dagger; see _Sciansuirí _below) with a blade approximately 12 inches long. They're single-edged with decorative file work (called "jimping") on the back-edge of the blade. Their hilts are traditionally carved from dark woods such as bog oak or ebony (I figured ebony would work better, seeing as it's so dark and would match the hilt of Nuada's lance; *gasp* more matchy-matchy). Dirks are usually decorated at the hilt with silver mountings (which I don't know what those are and can't find anything to explain them, lacking a decent library and decent internet - HELP!) and a cairngorm stone in the pommel. When worn, the dirk's sheath hangs by a leather strap known as a "frog" from a dirk belt, which is a wide leather belt having a large, usually ornate buckle. Usually the dirk is worn with the kilt on men, but women wielded dirks as well (and didn't wear kilts).

- Cairngorm stone: a variety of smoky quartz crystal found in the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland. It's usually a smoky yellow-brown, though some specimens are gray-brown. It's used in Scottish jewellery and as a decoration on kilt pins and the pommels of sgian-dubhs and dirks.

- _Sciansuirí. _It is true that in Viking countries (and those countries they invaded and melted into), a girl ready to be courted would wear an empty leather sheath on her belt (with lots of pretty stuff on it; if she was rich, there would be embossing and such. If she was poor, embroidered leatherwork). When a boy wanted to court her, he would make a knife for her to wear at her belt. If she accepted the knife, it counted as "going steady." _Sciansuirí _literally translates as "knife-courtship," but it means "courtship knife." I made up the name, but it's basically exactly what the thing is. The courtship knife was probably not a dirk, but dirks are part of the standard Gaelic arsenal and were worn more openly, so it would make more sense for her to have one of those than, say, a bollock dagger (so called because the hilt resembles a certain aspect of male anatomy) or a _sgian-dubh_ (literally "hidden knife;" a couple inches shorter than the 12-inch dirk, worn strapped to the upper arm, also standard Scottish Highland dress).

- Lovespoons! In Celtic Ireland/Scotland/England/Wales (hehehe, we pretty much just covered everywhere Nuada could hail from), a token similar to a marriage proposal (though more like, "Would you ever consider marrying me? Not that you have to agree to wed me right this second, but could you see it in the future sometime?) was the lovespoon. Partly to show off the skill of the carver, a lovespoon is a handcarved wooden spoon with different shapes carved into it. Each symbol/shape meant a different thing. For example, a padlock could mean "I will always remain faithful" or "I will protect/guard you." Vines or flowers meant "Our love will continue to grow." Hearts are pretty obvious, but a ship's wheel means "I will steer us on a safe course through life" or "we will steer through this life together." Anchors mean "eternal love" or "devotion." Now, won't it be interesting to see what Nuada comes up with? Judging from pictures I've found online, average length was 10-14 inchs, and about 2-4 inches wide. Not actually meant for eating.

- Yes, LDS church services span 3 hours. I can imagine the horror and shock on your faces. That was how I felt, too, the first time I went (especially since I actually went there for the choir practice and we - my beta and I - couldn't find the flippin' choir! So I was like, "I'm stuck in this place full of whackos for three freaking hours and I don't even get to do any singing? RAWR!" But not only was there a lot of singing, which made me happy, but I enjoyed the whole thing anyway. I was so shocked, but after the second hour, my beta was like, "So, think you can handle one more hour?" And I was like, "Are you kidding? I love this! Can I come back next week?" It was pretty awesome).

- The first hour and ten minutes of LDS church is called "Sacrament Meeting." Then there's Sunday School/Primary, and then Young Women's/Relief Societ/Priesthood. It changes depending on your age and gender.

- Who remembers Lucy the Fragglewump from the movie? Anyway, for those who haven't seen the movie (I know there are at least some of you), a fragglewump is a Scottish bogle that poses as an old person. They eat cats, and are afraid of canaries. At least, according to the film. I haven't had a chance to look them up yet, so I'm not sure if they got it right. They messed up quite a bit of the mythology already (examples would be Balor being Nuada's father; in the legend, Balor was the guy who killed Nuada in battle. They weren't even the same species. Another example would be Bethmoora. Bethmoora isn't Irish at all. It's from HP Lovecraft. And they pronounced Nuala's name wrong. It's Noo-Lah, not Nu-Wa-La. But whatever, the movie's fantastic anyway).

- Aglooliks are Inuit (Eskimo) ice spirits that help hunters and fishers. I actually took some liberties with the agloolik. I don't know what they look like (I haven't been able to find a picture or description) and so it's left up in the air as to whether she is humanoid or if that's just glamor because she likes the way she looks all frosty. Since she looks humanoid right now, I made her look Inuit. And she's in charge of the dogs bred by the royal kennels for hunting and fishing (there are such things as fishing dogs).

- Abatwas are "little people" in Zulu mythology that ride around on ants. Their function at the castle is to keep the royal gardens free of crop/plant-eating insects by killing them and feeding them to their ants. I assume they ride on those ants that are the size of hot dogs (the ones in Africa that eat cows and stuff... Seafu? Pronounced See-Ah-Foo, but I don't know how to spell it) since they don't say how little they are.

- What does Dylan mean "got up to bear her testimony?" Okay, it's the first Sunday in November in the fic right now. The first Sunday of every month is Fast Sunday (we explained that in a previous chapter) and the Sacrament Meeting is called "Fast and Testimony Meeting." Unlike the other Sundays, on this Sunday members of the congregation get up and bear their testimony, or talk briefly about the truthfulness of the gospel and how it has affected their lives. One of my favorite times someone got up to bear their testimony, it was a little kid, maybe nine or ten at the oldest, who talked about how he knew paying fast offering (the money that would have been spent to buy the 2 meals you don't eat on Fast Sunday, which instead goes to charity) was important because it helped people who didn't have anything to eat get food, and he was like, "I'm glad I have a testimony of helping people," except in kid-speak, but still. I was like, "Go you!" Except I didn't say that, because it would've been disruptive. But I was thinking it. Fast and Testimony Meeting is my _**FAVORITE**_ Sunday! I love it. I'm always crazy hyper like Dylan was afterwards (and so are most people). Especially when kids and teens bear their testimonies.

- More martial arts! Aikido, the Japanese martial art developed by Morihei Ueshiba as a synthesis of his martial studies, philosophy, and religious beliefs. Aikido is often translated as "The Way of Unifying With Life Energy" ("ki" being "life energy," similar to the Chinese "chi"). It also sometimes translates as "The Way of Harmonious Spirit." Ueshiba's goal was to create an art that practitioners could use to defend themselves while also protecting their attacker from injury. Aikido is performed by blending with the motion of the attacker and redirecting the force of the attack rather than opposing it head-on. This requires very little physical strength, as the aikidōka (aikido practitioner) "leads" the attacker's momentum using entering and turning movements. The techniques are completed with various throws or joint locks. As Dylan lacks much of Eamonn's strength, she's mostly going to be using throws, I'd imagine, and not joint locks. Today aikido is found all over the world in a number of styles, with broad ranges of interpretation and emphasis. However, they all share techniques learned from Ueshiba and most have concern for the well-being of the attacker.

- Hapkido! Hapkido is a dynamic and eclectic Korean martial art. It is a form of self-defense that employs joint locks, techniques of other martial arts, as well as kicks, punches, and other striking attacks. There is also the use of traditional weapons, including a sword, rope, nunchaku (nun-chucks), cane, short stick, and staff, which vary in emphasis depending on the particular tradition examined. Hapkido contains both long- and close-range fighting techniques, utilizing jumping kicks and percussive hand strikes at longer ranges and pressure point strikes, joint locks, or throws at closer fighting distances. Hapkido emphasizes circular motion, non-resisting movements, and control of the opponent. Practitioners seek to gain advantage through footwork and body positioning to employ leverage, avoiding the use of strength against strength. The art evolved from Daitō-ryū Aiki-jūjutsu (the base for Aikido) after founder Choi Yong-Sool returned to Korea after World War II, having lived in Japan for 30 years. This system was later combined with kicking and striking techniques of indigenous and contemporary arts such as _taekkyeon _and _tang soo do _(I don't know what those are yet, but I'll find out). Its history is obscured by the historical animosity between the Korean and Japanese peoples following the Second World War, however. Although this is a modern style, do you really think Nuada's not going to learn every single thing he can about fighting while he plots the downfall of humanity?

- Sh_ī_zi Hŏu is the ancient Tibetan martial art "Lion's Roar." It is surprisingly ruthless, and it would put Dylan in the right frame of mind to fight someone hand-to-hand. Nuada wants her to learn this style because of its emphasis on being ruthless and following through with strikes. The original Lion's Roar system is attributed to a monk named Ah Dat-Ta, also sometimes known as the "Dai Dat Lama". Ah Dat-Ta was born in 1426 and was a member of a nomadic tribe that traveled throughout Tibet and Qinghai. After becoming a Tibetan monk, he also learned a martial art that was apparently from India.

The story goes, that for several years Ah Dat-Ta retreated to the mountains to live in seclusion, studying Buddhist texts and practicing meditation. He also hoped to improve his martial art skill. One day Ah Dat-Ta's meditation was disturbed by a loud sound. He left the cave he had been meditating in to investigate and found an ape trying to capture a crane. He was astonished. Despite the ape's great size and strength, the crane eluded the great swings and pecked at soft, vital points. Ah Dat-Ta was inspired to create a new martial art. Ah Dat-Ta created a system that mimicked the deft evasion and vital point striking of the white crane and the ape's powerful swings and grabbing techniques. It was based upon the number eight, an important number in Chinese cosmology and numerology.

The fundamental fighting theory was known as the "eight character true essence". The "eight character true essence" can be roughly translated as "strike the place that has a pulse, never a place that has no pulse, and stretch the arms out while keeping the body away." The system consisted of 8 fist strikes, 8 palm strikes, 8 elbow strikes, 8 finger strikes, 8 kicking techniques, 8 seizing (clawing) techniques, 8 stances and 8 stepping patterns.

There are four other points of philosophy behind Lion's Roar: 1) Chan, ruthlessness, represents the mental state that must be achieved. When attacked, there is no room for ambivalence or hesitation. The student must commit themselves to being totally ruthless. All strikes must be executed full force, and all blocking motions must destroy the opponent's limbs; 2) Sim (dodge, evade, avoid) represents the preferred defensive method. It is considered superior to evade all attacks whilst simultaneously striking exposed vital points. This is achieved through footwork, body positioning, and jumping (oh, gee, jumping. Who do we know who jumps around while kicking butt? Can't think of anyone off the top of my head); 3) Chyuhn (to pierce, penetrate) represents the primary offensive goal, for all strikes to pierce and destroy vital points. It also refers to vital point striking; and 4) Jit (to stop, intercept) represents the second line of defense. Attacks that cannot be evaded must be intercepted and the attacking limb destroyed (I got all this from Wikipedia). It is this emphasis on destruction and hard offense versus attacker-conscious defense that makes Nuada want to teach Dylan this style.

- You know there are faerie sluts trying to get in Nuada's pants just because he's the prince, or because they want to be Queen, or because they want to have his baby (and thus trap him into making them his Queen). Poor guy. Being royalty sucks sometimes.

- That quote of Dylan's that Nuada remembers is from chapter 10. =)


	22. For the Dead, They Travel Fast

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Challenge #8_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_Important Warning_  
_References Made In This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _First, before anyone freaks about the limo (limo? What limo? Shhhh...) give me some credit here and keep reading. =) Lol. And there's a cameo in this chapter of a character (3 characters) from another fandom. Can you find them? They're all together. Same prize as before: Spoiler Surprise or Cameo Cookie. Prize goes to the first person to guess._

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _Twrch Trwyth; actually explained in the text for once! Go me!_

_**Important Translation:**_Brennis _is Welsh for "king." _Eich Huchelder _is Welsh for "Your Highness" but I couldn't find the Welsh word for "his" so I translated it in text as "His Highness."_

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**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**For the Dead, They Travel Fast**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Disrespect and Authority, a Tidbit About Nuada, Twrch Trwyth, the Chariot of Annwn, and How John Meets His Sister's Suitor**

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Dylan shoved her feet into blue jeans (where Becan had gotten blue jeans in an Elven palace in the middle of a faerie city in five minutes, she had no idea) and yanked them up and on. A dress would have been a very bad idea - speed being her goal - so instead of a dress, she grabbed one of Nuada's shirts from one of the various clothes presses lining the walls. Her hands trembled as she yanked on the cream-colored tunic. On her slight frame, the V-neck tunic hung like a loose mini-dress.

_I'm wearing pants, it's fine, _Dylan told herself, shoving her feet into black boots. _If Nuala doesn't like me wearing one of her brother's shirts, tough tiddly-winks._ Besides, the princess would have her hands full with Wink, who had gone both to inform Nuala of what was happening and to somehow stand in the Elf woman's way so she couldn't stop them.

_And Becan is waiting for us... wherever Nuada sent him, _Dylan thought, rushing out the door immediately after popping a second dose of Vicodin. The running was going to play heck with her bad knee if she didn't prep for it in advance.

Nuada, in sable and scarlet and carrying his lance unsheathed, waited for her at the head of the stairs. She eyed the razor-edge of the spear. "What's _that_ for?"

"In case the guards refuse to let us pass," he said tersely. "How is your leg?"

Irritation was like wasps buzzing inside her skull. The guards would do that? _As for you... you may leave whenever you wish... King Balor has not given me leave to go as yet_. Was that what Nuada had meant about not having leave to go? But he was a prince! Why would the king set him up and openly disrespect him this way?

_For the exact same reason, _she realized, _that he is trying to force Nuada to marry me. Whatever that is. I'm not going to let them treat him like some kind of dirty family secret. He's the prince of Bethmoora. Those jerks._

"Leg's fine," she replied, hitting the stairs running. Her knee flared, protesting mildly, but she ignored it. The meds would help once they kicked in. "I can keep up, I think. Where are we going?"

"Stables," the Elven prince said as they reached the bottom step. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and dragged her down the left-hand corridor. Servants and guards watched the pair speculatively as Dylan jogged to keep up with Nuada's incredibly long stride.

_This will get back to Father, _the prince knew, and that made him want to run faster. If by some miracle they reached the royal stables before word of the crown prince hauling his mortal lady down the hall like a recalcitrant child reached the king, they could be gone before anyone attempted to stop them. Yet Dylan, slow as only a mortal could be slow, would never have been able to keep up with him if he ran. And leaving without her would be fruitless. Perhaps if he took her through the servants' way...

Nuada knew there would be trouble the moment he caught sight of twelve of the Butcher Guards, the best of the royal guard, standing in front of the doors to the servants' area of the castle. All twelve wore the long-beaked metal helmets that gave the king's elite their nickname - the Corbies. They hefted their massive broadswords and stood at attention, ready to fight the prince.

"I serve as escort to the Lady Dylan of Central Park," Nuada called to them, slowing as he approached the armored warriors. "She has requested she be returned to the mortal realm. I can do no other than oblige her." He stopped about twenty feet from them, watching. The Elven prince could feel the sudden tension in Dylan as she freed herself from his grasp and studied the soldiers standing between her and freedom. "She is not a prisoner in this castle. I demand that you allow us to pass."

"_She_ may pass," said one of the guards. His voice echoed hollowly from inside his helmet. "_You _may not. We are under orders from His Majesty to keep the Royal Exile from leaving Findias without permission."

"You dare!" Fury and hurt pulsed through him like a shock. His father had literally ordered the guards to keep him in the castle? His hand tightened on the lance shaft. He could feel panic and anger from the mortal beside him, she stood so close. If he did not act now, the mortal might very well try to get through on her own. While the Butchers would not harm her, something else might. Even if he gave her explicit instructions on what to do once she made it past the doors, something could happen to Dylan without Nuada there to protect her.

_But you can't protect her, Silverlance. _Eamonn's voice slithered through the Elven warrior's mind. Nuada's grip tightened until his bones ached under the tension. _Even at her side every moment of every day, you'll never be able to keep her safe. Just as you can't keep the princess safe. Just as you couldn't keep your mother safe. One by one, they'll all be taken from you. Mother, lover, sister. Nothing you can do, Silverlance._

Gritting his teeth, Nuada pushed Dylan behind him and lengthened the blade of his shortened lance until it had shifted almost into a longsword. To the human, he said, "Stand against that wall, there." He pointed with the sword. "Do not move. I will clear the way."

"But, Nuada-"

"Do as I say," he snapped. She flinched and took a step back. Did she wish to get hurt in the coming fight? The Butchers would not use her as a hostage - such would have been the act of cowards - but in the heat of a fight, anything could happen. "I will not stand for-"

"We don't have time for anyone's ego right now!" She snapped, though she stepped back just a little more. There was rage in every line of the Elven warrior's body, in the sanguine bronze of his eyes, in the harsh growl of his voice. Dylan saw for just a moment the faerie tale beast with the golden eyes. The lion with teeth bared and claws unsheathed, ready to rip through whatever stood in his way. And she saw the faint blue lines around his mouth that meant he was in pain. Was he still not fully recovered from Eamonn's poison? Well, if she mentioned that, he'd probably eat her. Dylan tried a different tact. "Look, if you do this, your father is going to be furious. Can't we just talk to them?"

The look he gave her could have frozen even an agloolik's chilled blood. "I am Prince Nuada, Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. I do not negotiate with common army dogs."

And that, the warrior thought, was exactly what these men were. How far his father had fallen, turning what had once been an elite fighting force into royal nursemaids. Nuada had no doubt this was a result of his so-called trial. Flogged before the entire court, never receiving a formal apology or pardon, then forced to stand at a mortal's side and claiming her as his truelove... now the chamberlain and the Butchers seemed to be following his father's example of disdain and backstabbing courtesy, only much more openly. Clearly they thought they had the king's blessing.

With narrowed eyes, rage burning in his blood, he growled at the Butchers, "Get out of my way."

"The yapping insults of royal whelps are of no concern to the King's Elite," the leader of the Butchers taunted. Dylan felt Nuada tense. She couldn't believe this: stuck fighting a moron just because he seemed to think it was okay to insult the prince. _I'm going to have words with Balor when this is over, _Dylan grumbled, as the captain of the guard added, "We obey the king's orders, not the howling of an undisciplined pup."

"How dare you-"

_Stop them, _the Spirit commanded, as heat exploded in her chest. _**Now.**_

_Oh, crud, I'm gonna get killed, _Dylan muttered silently, as she took a strangle-hold on her self-preservation instinct and lunged between the guard captain and the infuriated Elven prince. "Whoa! Whoa!"

She held up both hands. Nuada jerked to a halt, promises of retribution shining darkly in his bronze gaze. His hold on his lance bleached his knuckles to bone-whiteness. The faerie guard made a hissing noise inside his helmet, but stepped back a ways from the insane mortal who dared come between the two warriors.

"Hang on a second!" Dylan yelled. "I don't have time for you two to whip out a ruler and compare notes on your manliness."

Silently, she prayed, _Okay, I'm standing between two really ticked-off faerie warriors. Heavenly Father, please bless me than I don't get made into human-kabob today. Please._

Aloud she added, "Now, before anyone says or does another stupid thing, what exactly did the king say about His Highness?" Dylan fixed the captain with what she hoped was the gimlet eye. Nuada, she saw from the corner of her eye, was staring at her as if she'd run mad. _Well, I_ _know exactly how he feels._

"Nuada is not to set foot beyond Findias without leave," the guard captain snarled. The Elven prince stiffened and took a menacing step forward.

Fighting the ball of panic trying to make her throw up, Dylan gestured for him to be still. His eyes shifted from infuriated bronze to glacial topaz when he fixed her with a grim look. She widened her eyes, silently pleading, _Trust me. Come on. _Then she turned back to the guard captain.

With deliberate coldness, Dylan said, "_Prince _Nuada is not to do so without _whose _leave?" Her emphasis of Nuada's title was not lost on the royal soldier. Even if Balor was okay with the rest of the court of Bethmoora disrespecting Nuada, she wasn't. _And it's probably not even something His Majesty did on purpose, _she thought. _Just fall-out from the whole..._ thing.

But still, she and the king needed to talk, and soon. "Are you gonna answer my question?"

"We obey whom the king has commanded us to obey," the Butcher replied, lowering his claymore. Dylan wondered if he was actually looking at her. Did the faerie soldier even have eyes? Not all of the Tylwyth Teg had eyes - or even faces. It was unnerving to be looked at by someone when you couldn't see their face, she realized. "If one of them gives Nu-" He broke off when she slapped him with a scathing look. "Gives _His Highness _permission to leave the castle, we will allow him to pass unmolested."

"That's nice," Dylan replied, injecting deliberate scorn into her voice. Was it her imagination, or did the faerie guard flinch? _That's... weird. Um... gotta focus._ "And who would they be?"

"His Majesty and the Princess Nuala; the Chamberlain..." The guard's reluctance was obvious, but Nuada let him squirm under the mortal's scrutiny. How had she done this: cowed one of the Butcher Guards with a few choice words and some purely-mortal sarcasm? Somehow, his father was in this. The Elven prince could not quite see where, but that did not matter. Balor had had a hand in the strange deference the Butcher captain seemed to feel toward the human woman. _And she knows it, _he realized. _She is not a fool. She knows something odd is going on here._

_He's hiding something from me, _Dylan realized, oblivious to Nuada's thoughts. She folded her arms. From the corner of her eye she saw Nuada shorten his lance back to the half-spear he'd been carrying earlier. _This guy doesn't want me to ask these questions. Man, I hate political intrigue junk._

"And? Who else? I can tell from your oh-so-eager tone that you haven't given me all the names yet."

"The king has ordered us," the Butcher captain added reluctantly, "to obey the Lady Dylan of Central Park."

Dylan's jaw dropped. Nuada's would have, but centuries of self-discipline kept his mouth firmly shut. His father had told the king's guard to obey a human? Why? What possible reason could Balor have had for giving Dylan that kind of power? The Butcher Guards were some of the best fighters in Bethmoora, if not the world. Although the warriors could not wipe out the entire Bethmooran army, they could certainly decimate their ranks. Only Prince Nuada, the king, and the Golden Army were known to be better fighters than the Butchers (and the Golden Army owed that status to their indestructibility). Yet the One-Armed King of Elfland had given a mortal some control over the warriors.

"Okaaaay," Dylan said slowly. Nuada could see that the human was struggling to process this new information. She was not the only one having difficulty. But then her face smoothed out, all confusion gone, and she glared at the Butcher captain with something that might have been actual anger. In a tight, sharp voice, Dylan snapped, "Get out of our way, you bucolic nonentities. His Highness has my leave. Now move it."

Reluctance obvious in every movement, the royal guards stepped out of the way. The Butcher captain bowed his head and muttered, "By your command, Lady."

"Yeah, whatever," Dylan snapped, and strode past them, fury in every line of her body. She yanked the door open and gestured for Nuada to proceed her. The amber-eyed warrior gave her a look promising retribution, which she acknowledged with a sharp jerk of her head in what might have been a nod. Then the mortal slammed the door after them.

"Well, that was strange," she quipped. "And scary as heck. Not to mention an annoying waste of time." Whirling on the Elven prince, she poked him in the chest. He blinked at her. "I am going to have a talk with your dad when we get back about these _stupid_ rules, Your Highness. I am sick of people being jerks to you. You deserve better than this. Gah!" And she turned on her heel and started walking.

Oddly touched by the sentiment (why should she care about such things?), and annoyed that the mortal had once again managed to give him such an uncomfortable feeling, Nuada demanded, "Do you even know where you're going?"

Dylan stopped. "Oh. Actually, no." With a sigh, she turned back to him. "Crud. Could you..."

"This way." They would speak of the fact that she had ignored his orders later, when she did not look as if she would relish cutting the next irritant into little pieces with the sharp edge of her tongue.

**.**

Becan was waiting for them outside the stables. The brownie raced up to them with excitement glittering in his sloe-black eyes and cried, "Highness, I did just as you asked. His Majesty King Arawn was most willingly to lend the Chariot to you. He asks only that it be returned before dawn tomorrow. It waits at the other entrance to the Royal Stables."

"Wait a minute. Arawn?" Dylan asked, surprised enough that she stopped. With wide eyes she demanded, "As in, Arawn _Death-Lord? _The immortal King of Annwn? Master of the Fell Crochan? _That_ Arawn? The guy with the huge black antlers and the undead army and the otherworldly hounds that chase down demons? You know him?"

The look Nuada gave her was one-hundred percent male pride and satisfaction. "We often hunted together before my exile. I saved him from one of the Twrch Trwyth once." When her jaw dropped, he grinned. "I am over four thousand years old, Dylan. That is a long time to become a proud warrior. A single venomous wild boar is no great thing for one such as I... though I will never make the mistake of fighting an otherworldly boar with only a dirk again. But Arawn was grateful."

"You're making that up," she said. He had to be.

"Am I?" He arched a brow, irritation glittering in the depths of his eyes, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't. Then the Elven prince took her by the wrist to lead her to the Chariot of Annwn. "Come; Nuala has managed to get past Wink. If she reaches the Butcher Guards before we are gone from this place, she has the power to order them to detain us. Then we _will_ have a fight on our hands."

Numbly, Dylan followed him, trying to reorient her world. She'd known Nuada was a skilled fighter. He'd managed to take down nine armed men (almost) single-handedly. Fought his way through Eamonn and the other treasonous Elves, despite having the skin whipped from his back and being pumped full of poison.

Still... to have fought any wild animal armed only with a twelve-inch knife and survived was amazing, unless you were talking about an angry Chihuahua or something. But the Twrch Trwyth, descended from the original cursed boar Troynt of Wales, were incredibly dangerous. They were the size and weight of very large horses, as angry as demons and as bloodthirsty as starving vampires. Twrch Trwyth would attack and kill people just to taste the hot, fresh blood.

One of the Hunters she knew had brought her a gift of otherworldly boar tusks once, in exchange for saving his wood wife's tree (through the useful human practice of "adopting" it). Naturally sharpened to a razor's edge, the tusks had been longer than her arm.

Just the thought of Nuada facing off against something that savage made her breath catch in her throat.

"What happened when you fought it?" She asked suddenly as they turned the corner of the stables. "Did it... hurt you?"

Nuada paused and turned back to study her face. Why did she look so worried? It had been over two millennia ago. He had been but a youth then. Yet it was just like her to be concerned, even after the fact. He said, "I will tell you of it another time. For now, focus on the girl, your Lisa. Oh, excellent, Becan." Nuada stopped and gestured to the hulking dark thing in front of them. "The Chariot of Annwn."

Dylan stared at the sleek, black stretch-limo with dark-tinted windows and sparkling rims. Confused, she glanced at the prince at her side. "You guys have a limo? Not very environment friendly, Your Highness. Those things suck gas like no tomorrow."

He scoffed. "I thought you could not be glamoured. Look with your Sight, not your eyes. And do not scream," he added, when she jerked back with a gasp. Where the beautiful limousine had stood, now sat an enormous black carriage drawn by four very, very, _very_ large Twrch Trwyth. Their eyes glowed a strange, otherworldly green that made Dylan think of the ocean-phenomenon, St. Elmo's Fire. Their tusks were stained dark with what she knew to be blood, fae and human. The silver bristles glistened with drops of translucent poison. Between the rough bristles she could see the wicked edges of the razors that were said to nestle amongst the rough swine fur. Up close, the beasts were huge and terrifying. Nuada had fought one of _those?_

"You are insane," she said breathlessly, trying not to stare at the grunting swine. Her pounding heart was trying to punch her in the throat. "Like, for real. And," she added with a bit of tartness, "for your information, Your Highness, I wasn't going to scream. I've seen these things before. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"A human one. Are you going to faint?"

She shot him a look. "Do I look like it?"

With a perfectly straight face, he replied, "A bit." She _did _look somewhat pale. And Nuada could tell she was half-tempted to kick him in the ankle for that comment. Instead she focused again on the magical carriage, which bore the bone-gray crest of Annwn - a skull topped by a crown and antlers - on the door.

Dylan asked, "So... we just get in?"

"Aye, _fy arglwyddes_," a gruff voice assented. Dylan looked up and blinked at a pig-faced goblin woman in black velvet and leather livery seated on the driver's bench, grinning. Dylan was actually surprised she could tell the goblin was in fact pig-faced, since her head was actually a skull. But the delicate tusks and pig snout were still present, even in a skeletal form. A goblin of Anwnn, from the Welsh honorific for "my lady."

Another goblin of the same kind, this one male, clambered down and got the carriage door. "The wee one says ye need a ride to the mortal realms. _Brennin_ Arawn's chariots can go anywhere in the world, fast as anything. Get in. The coarsers don' bite. They remember _Eich Huchelder_ - His Highness, there."

It was then that Dylan saw one of the Twrch Trwyth bore several jagged, bone-white scars slashing across its hide. One ran around its thick neck like a silver chain. She glanced with wide eyes at Nuada, who only inclined his head. Speechless, she allowed the skeletal goblin footman to help her into the coach. Nuada climbed in after. The door shut behind him.

"Black velvet cushion seats," the human observed with forced lightness, glancing around at the carriage interior. The Elven warrior could tell she was a bit shaken, probably by what she had learned and seen in the last few minutes. "I'm sensing a theme with all the black and antlers. And of course it looks like a limo to mortals. Way to blend in. Seriously." The carriage jerked as it started to move. When a muffled whipcrack snapped through the sudden silence, Dylan flinched. Frowned at herself. "Jeez. I need to calm down. Gotta focus."

Nuada frowned when the human pressed her hands to her eyes. The only times he had seen her do that were under severe emotional distress. Sitting beside her, he demanded, "What is wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Dylan echoed, her voice half disbelief, half nervous laughter. "What _isn't_ wrong, rather.

"What's wrong is that because of what's going on with the two of us, I wasn't there when one of my kids needed my help. What's wrong is that Becan tells me that one of my kids is camped out on the roof of the Hudson Mall with a gun she got from who knows where, ready to shoot people, which I don't believe for a second."

Dylan suddenly stood, which was only possible because the magical coach did not bump and rock like a normal carriage would. The human started to pace.

"I know exactly what she's doing - suicide by cop. Making sure that she dies quick and painless. The minute I get there, she's going to tell me something horrible happened and that it's not my fault that she can't take it anymore. And then she's going to aim at the crowd of sickos who'll be out there because people seem to find a teenage girl's soul-pain highly entertaining. Since the cops are already there, when she does that I have no doubt they will shoot her. And they will kill her, and it's because I was here with you instead of at home where she could reach me."

At that, Dylan sank to the opposite seat and buried her face in her hands. "This is all my fault," she mumbled through her fingers. "How could I have been so irresponsible?"

"I fail to see how it is your fault. Humans are always doing stupid things for stupid reasons-"

"Don't you dare say another word," Dylan said, in the coldest voice the Elven prince had ever heard her use. When she raised her face from her hands to look at him, her eyes were like ice. "How dare you? You have no idea what her life is like. You don't know her. How dare you speak that way about anyone, prince or not, when you don't know them?"

He opened his mouth, to protest, to speak, to rebuke her, but she continued before he could form the words.

"I am all she has, besides her boyfriend. She's fourteen. Do you know what it's like to be a fourteen-year-old girl in New York City with only two people in the world who care about what happens to you? Especially when your mom is a prostitute and doesn't care; your dad thinks you're a screw-up and doesn't care; your brother's a drug-dealing gangster trying to set you up with his gang leader and as long as you keep turning him down thinks you're barely half a step up from a moron; your boyfriend is from a rival gang and almost nobody can know or really bad things will happen to you and everyone who knows you; _and _you have the Sight. The only reason she has me is because thank everything holy, her teachers had the sense to call me and not someone else when she showed up to school with cuts all over her arms."

Nuada watched Dylan for several long moments as she pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. He wanted to be angry; how dare she speak to him that way? He did not have to know humans to know that they were pitiful, hollow creatures without feelings or souls. The prince fought back the undignified urge to shake her like a recalcitrant child. How dare she speak to him with such disrespect? After all that he had done for her?

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," the human whispered suddenly. Nuada, about to put the mortal in her place, blinked in surprise. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. You didn't deserve that at all. I'm so sorry. I'm just... really protective of my kids." She scrubbed at her face with her hands for a moment before looking at him with tired eyes. "Don't be mad at me, okay? I'm sorry. I just hate it when people put labels on my kids. That's a big part of the problem with them, normally. Please don't be mad. I'm so sorry."

He had not been angry; merely irritated, and suddenly he was no longer even that. Merely troubled. She looked so tired suddenly. So exhausted. Her shoulders were slumped and there were circles under her eyes that he had not noticed before. Where had the brilliant light in her eyes gone since this afternoon? Where was the joy he had seen in her? Nuada had never seen the human look so worn before. And never had she snapped at him out of anger before.

"I... am not angry." He paused. Added, "You are frightened for the girl... and you love her."

"Yeah," she said, and gave a mirthless laugh. "Me, and a fifteen-year-old gang banger who wants out of the life and can't get away. Rafael is a good kid, too. I've met him a few times. He's as clean as you can get and be in a gang. The two of them are saving money so that when Lisa turns eighteen, they can move to Canada together. Get away from the gangs. Be safe somewhere." With a sigh, she flung herself down and stretched full-out on the bench seat. "I've been helping them out, but it can't be anything big or her parents might find out, and Lisa could get reassigned to someone else." She closed her eyes. Nuada saw her composure crack just a little. Her voice shook when she asked, "Nuada, what am I going to do?"

"You told me once that you could face any trial as long as you prayed," the prince said, feeling foolish. He knew praying to be a waste of time; an impotent plea to indifferent gods. _But Dylan professed faith in the idea,_ he reminded himself. Aloud, he asked, "Did you mean what you said? Do you still mean it?"

After a long silence, she said softly, "Yes."

"Then that is what you will do for now," he said, and turned to gaze out the carriage window, feeling idiotic. What was one woman's faith in the face of humanity's evil? Just a single drop of soothing water in a barren desert.

_Sahara. _Harsh sand and blistering white sun, a land empty of nearly anything fresh and green. A desert plain of treacherously shifting dunes and scouring wind, like the world the humans had created - were still creating - out of the once-fertile earth. What kind of name was Sahara - even if it was only her middle name - for a woman who tried so hard to bring life back to the barrenness of human hearts? And how could he justify encouraging such misguided hope?

_Better to shatter her forlorn hope now, before it gains the power to make her bitter and evil like the rest of the humans. _And yet, doing so seemed almost like murder.

Several moments passed in tense silence. Then he heard Dylan sit up. Felt more than saw the mortal bow her head. And heard in his mind the faintest whisper of her mental voice as she murmured, _Dear Heavenly Father, I need Thy_ _help..._

The Elf prince kept his gaze trained on the world rushing past the window, ignoring the praying mortal. He had much he needed to think about while she was occupied. Why had the One-Armed King ordered the Butchers to obey Dylan? That little maneuver stank of politics to the fair-haired warrior. But what had been the intended purpose?

And why had Nuada allowed Dylan to disobey him and speak so sharply to him without protest? Very well, her disobedience during the stand-off with the royal guards had resulted in no need for any fighting. Not that Captain Oisín would get away with his insults. _"Royal whelp," _Nuada recalled as fury flared in the pit of his belly. _He will pay for that. _

But what of the way she had spoken to him just now in the carriage? As if she were his equal, and not a commoner addressing a prince. As if he were a mere boy for her to chastise. _As if she were my mother, _he thought, and shot her an annoyed look.

The brief flicker of irritation melted away when he saw a tear roll down her cheek. He didn't need to chastize her. She had recognized her error immediately and apologized already. Well enough. He wasn't a bully, to snarl at a weeping woman for a brief flash of temper. Instead he watched Dylan sniff and wipe the tear away before opening her eyes and lying back down on the bench. He wanted to say something to her. Ask about the tear. Where was the strength she so often presented? But the vacant look in her eyes, as if she wandered some inner road, made him hesitate.

"Do you mind if I sing?" Dylan asked suddenly, her voice barely a whisper. "It makes me feel better when I'm worried about something."

Ugh. Her singing. Why did she do it so often, if she could not keep in tune? But if he said no, she might begin to cry again. He would be forced to deal with her tears. So Nuada said softly, "As you wish."

Her song, when it came, was softer than a breath, and so very sad. But he could see the way the words seemed to fill her, strengthen her, even as she relaxed and let the song soothe her. And he remembered yet again what Ariel had said about the way Dylan sang.

_It is as if she is praying with music, _Nuada realized. _As if her song were a prayer._

_"I'll close my eyes. I'll feel my way,  
Trusting the whisperings of my faith. _  
_I'm clinging to You... Father. _  
_With every step until this life is through, _  
_I'm hold onto You."_

Dylan fought against the fear and the dread that threatened to choke her as the words soothed away the sharp edges of panic. And in the stillness inside her created by the song, she suddenly remembered a verse from Alma. _Whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions._

_Okay, _she thought, as a soothing warmth unfurled in her chest. _Okay. I thank Thee. I think I can do this now. Thank Thee, Heavenly Father. _And she found familiar amber eyes (did he know she could see his concern in their depths?) and smiled at Nuada. "I'm okay," she said softly, and managed a smile. It felt hollow and fake, even to her. But she repeated, "I'm okay now."

After a long moment, the corner of his mouth quirked and the Elf prince replied, "Good."

**.**

The moment Dylan was out of the limo, she ran smack into John. Nuada, cloaked in glamour that sat ill against his skin, stepped out of the Chariot in time to see a young man with blazing eyes grab the mortal woman by the shoulders, shake her, and shout, "What the heck is _wrong_ with you? You have responsibilities! Where have you _been_, D?" He shook her again. Dylan's teeth snapped together with an audible _click_. "I've been worried sick! You miss our dinner date, you miss your physical therapy, you don't call, you only leave a lousy note - what the _heck_? Why did you leave your phone-"

A firm hand closed around John's wrist. Squeezed until bones ground together. The government agent winced and tried to jerk away from the tall, blond man whose tawny brown eyes glinted with murder in their depths. John knew this man was calculating all the reasons why it would be a good idea to kill him. From the grim light in those strange eyes, the twenty-one-year-old knew that the reasons this guy considered valid were _legion_.

"Release her," the man growled. Hate burned darkly beneath the icy voice. John's insides turned to water. _"Now._ Or I break your wrist."

"No, Nuada, it's okay, this is my brother," Dylan said sharply, and then did a double-take. The voice was the same, but she had to blink and stare at the man with the golden-blond horsetail wearing the crisp, black business suit and tie. Familiar golden eyes were gone, blanketed by a glamour of tawny, mortal brown. She stared at what seemed to be a human man, though with an odd, feral quality to those eyes and a bit more height than was considered common. Only the slashing scar across the bridge of his nose remained. "Whoa. Wait... hang on."

Dylan twitched out of John's grasp and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. The glamour around the prince shimmered, wavered. Reasserted itself. Pain throbbed through her temples. Nuada could glamour himself to look human?

_But of course he would know how, _she realized. _He's probably used this shape to spy on humans before and stuff._

"Okay, then. That's..." Dylan trailed off. She couldn't see through the glamour, of course, because it had been laid by a prince, but she caught flickers. Chinks in the armor, so to speak. If Nuada had been a king, or wearing king-backed glamour, however, she'd have only gotten a wicked headache. As it was, if she _tried_ to see the prince beneath the glamour, her head hurt. If not, Nuada just looked like one of those high-powered, big-shot business moguls who made a game of seducing pretty waitresses and flight attendants on weekends, actually, but she wasn't going to say that. "A new look for you."

"Who the heck is _this _guy?" John demanded, snagging her attention. Dylan could feel the anger and relief sizzling inside him like a low-volt electric charge. It made her skin itch. "You're gone for almost five days and then show up with some big-shot blond dou-"

"Dude, seriously." If her brother finished that statement, Nuada would probably put him through a wall without a qualm. "We'll talk about this later. Take me to Donovan. I have to talk to Lisa."

"Dylan," her twin snapped, throttling the urge to shake her again. He didn't want to deal with that strange man who watched him with suspicious and disdainful eyes. That guy gave him the creeps. "She's on the roof with a _gun_. The news' stations are all over the place. What do you think you could do here? They've got SWAT here. She's not getting out of this in one piece."

"First, shut up. Don't be such a pessimist. Secondly, _I'm_ what she wants," Dylan replied. "I know what she needs. Donovan will let me up. I've worked with him before, we've been friends for years."

"It's not safe!"

"Neither is living," his sister replied, flashing him the smile that always got them in trouble. "Everyone who does it ends up dead. So get out of my way. Wait. Do you have my spare cane?" John growled and hefted the slender rosewood walking-aid. "Thank you," his twin quipped, snagging it. "Donovan!" Dylan limped off toward the cluster of police cars where a redheaded uniformed cop was waving her over.

The strange, blond man moved to follow her. John reached out as if to grab him. The tall man froze him with a glare of vicious and absolute loathing.

"Do _not _touch me."

"She's not going to want you with her," John said, then jerked back when the brown eyes flashed crimson-tinged bronze for a split second. _Great; one of the Other Kin. Why did she bring_ him? _Why does she_ do _things like this? The fae are dangerous but she keeps helping them. She's crazy. _Aloud, he added defensively, "Well, she won't! She does this kind of thing better alone. And since Lisa can actually See you, you'd just scare the crud out of her."

_Dylan brought me here, to stand by her,_ Nuada thought, ignoring the idiot human male who had manhandled the prince's ally.

He scanned the crowd of milling humans. Mortals with cameras and microphones in flashy, trashy business suits; ineffectual human police in their dark uniforms; and a group of teenaged and adolescent humans all huddled together beside an old yellow vehicle. They were looking between the top of the loathsome mall building and Dylan arguing with a policeman. A set of brunette twin boys was actually staring at Nuada himself with surprised looks on their freckled faces. And older girl stood with them, eyeing the Elf prince inquisitively. They looked to be siblings. Could the three children See him? Perhaps this group of children, too, were some of Dylan's "kids." Were they also here to help her if she needed it?

_This will be hard for her. I should go with her, as honor demands, though it pains me to come to any mortal's aid. How do I keep getting into these situations with her? Irritating woman. Yet at least if I do this, Father will be less likely to become angry._

John watched his sister and a cop he recognized as James Donovan arguing animatedly with the head of SWAT before turning back to the tawny-eyed man. "So who exactly _are _you?"

**.**

Donovan, red-faced and annoyed that she'd taken so long - "You ain't allowed a personal life when you work with yahoos and thugs, Doc." - escorted Dylan personally up the stairs leading to the roof of the Hudson Mall. Even through the warm tunic, the icy air conditioning blasted down on her.

_Why is there AC on in November? Jeez. _The psychiatrist already had a plan of attack. Rather, a backup plan. Even thinking about it made the thick scars at the bends of her elbows tingle. Lisa had asked about them before. Dylan had said she preferred not to talk about the ridged, pale scars. Now she would. If Lisa thought her therapist didn't know where she was coming from, the older woman could definitely prove her wrong.

_It's gotta be Rafael, _Dylan thought as she struggled up the steps. _Something happened to him. I'm such an idiot. I can't stay in Faerie, _she realized, ignoring the chatter of the police on the staircase. _I have to get back home after this. This can't happen again._

"So, what's the plan, Doc?" The sergeant asked, breaking her concentration.

"Same as always. I don't care what you hear, or see," Dylan said, struggling to ignore the throbbing in her bad leg. Mall stairs of icy concrete and unforgiving tile were murder on a good day. Rushing as she was, the pain flared like fire. "Do not open fire on that girl. Even if she points her freaking gun at me. She's not going to hurt me. You have to let me handle this. Understand?"

"She points that gun at the crowd," Donovan replied, frowning, "we take her out. We're not letting innocent civilians get hurt." The psychiatrist opened her mouth, concern flashing in her eyes, and the cop held up a silencing finger. "Them's the breaks. Don't get in the way." They came to the final door. "Okay. Show time, Doc. Good luck. Don't get shot, okay?"

_Heavenly Father, don't let me mess this up. Please. _She glanced over her shoulder as a shiver ran up her spine and the hair on the nape of her neck prickled in warning. It suddenly felt as if someone were standing right behind her. Not Donovan - he was off to the right a ways. But there was a presence behind her, warm and comforting despite the fact that it was hidden from her sight and her Sight.

Then there was a faint blur. A shimmer in the air, like heat above pavement in summer. A flicker of golden eyes and pale skin. Something calloused and warm slid against her palm, a familiar touch after the evening and night before. Nuada's voice murmured in her mind, _I am here. I will walk beside you in this._

Dylan frowned, surprised. _Why? I thought you'd wait by the Chariot._

_My honor demands I keep you safe, _the Elf prince replied in a lofty yet oddly matter-of-fact tone. She fought not to roll her eyes at the return of Prince Prissy-Pants yet again. Did he have to sound so stuffy all the time? Unless he was doing it on purpose, to make her smile. _I must protect you, both from my people, and from the incompetence of your own. And this way, _Nuada added with no little ire, _my father cannot argue that I did not have an excuse to leave Findias._

_Okay. Just don't get shot, _Dylan said silently, laying her free hand on the push-bar of the door. The ice-cold metal practically burned. _If you do, I'll be so mad. I can't even tell you how much that will ruin my day, Your Highness._

_As you shall most certainly henpeck me if I am injured, _the Elf prince, invisible at her back, said, _I shall endeavor to remain unharmed. If I am forced to allow you to act the shrew with me again, I may eschew my honor and commit murder, just so that I may have some peace from your sharp tongue._

_Uh-huh. _But she could feel the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. Drawing a deep breath, she pushed on the bar. The click of the mechanism hit her like a gunshot. She heard Donovan and some of the SWAT team on the stairs conferring softly behind her, but Dylan ignored them. Donovan she trusted; she'd worked with him several times before. He had a good head on his shoulders. Usually trusted her judgment. Thought she was a little too involved with her kids, but acknowledged that that seemed to work for her.

But Dylan wished Lieutenant Peabody, her standard partner in this sort of situation and one of her oldest friends, was available instead of the gruff seargent. Peabody _always_ trusted her judgment. Trusted that Dylan had a connection to her kids that could usually be counted on to help. If not, why was she considered one of the top youth psychiatrists in the city (at least when it came to kids like Lisa)?

Just before she stepped out into the biting November cold again, Dylan let her breath out slowly. Fought against the dread threatening to make her sick. Felt the heat and shimmer of magic from behind her and knew that dealing with Lisa and worrying about Nuada at the same time was going to be very difficult, though she prayed not impossible. But at least she didn't feel quite so alone against such high stakes.

Dylan said silently, _Thank you for being here, Nuada. Thank you. And please, no matter what you think is going to happen... you can't interfere. No matter what happens, stay hidden and don't get involved. Lives depend on it._

Then the psychiatrist pushed open the door to the roof and walked onto a very familiar battlefield once again.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay! And (to quote the Joker), "And here... we... go." Yeah, except there's no exploding boats. Anyways, how are we feeling about "Once Upon a Time" so far? Oh, ow, my lip split and it's bleeding hellaciously. Ow. Stupid desert heat. Eh, whatevs, at least it's a dry heat. That actually does make a difference, believe it or not. So, we're seeing some conflicts between Dylan's job and her interest in Nuada's safety/well-being/life. How is she going to reconcile this?_

_So, our lovely review prompt: stuff you loved, stuff you hated, funniest part/line, etc. Also, question one. Why do you think Balor gave Dylan (a small little bit) of control over the Butcher Guards? Two, who thinks Nuada's gonna get super busted for leaving without the King's permission? Third and fourth questions: How do you think Nuada's gonna take the news that Dylan thinks she can't stay in Faerie? And how do you think our girl is going to reconcile her life in the human world and her life in Faerie as Nuada's "truelove?" And final (standard and most important) question: le Prince of Awesome, he is in character - yes or no? Thanks, guys! Love you all!_

_**Double Flash-Fic Challenge**_ _for the WIN! I love that phrase, for the win. It's like someone tried to say WTF and scrambled the letters. Anyways..._

_**Nuada Challenge:**_ _the story of his fight with the Twrch Trwyth. No word limit (__**all word limits for any challenges are forwith slain**__, because all they're doing is limiting you guys - hence the phrase "word __**limit**__" - and I don't want to do that). As long or as short as you want; although short stuff that shows there's no effort (like "Once upon a time, Nuada fought a giant boar and killed it. The end.") those don't count. Same reward system in place. You can write this as if it's actually happening to Nuada (I'll give you a hint, he was only about 1400 at this point; that would make him about 14 if he were human) or as if he's telling someone about it._

_**Dylan Challenge:**_ _the scars on the insides of her elbows. How did she get them? When? Where? What's the story behind them? Like the Nuada challenge, you can write about it as if it's actually happening, or as if she's telling someone about it. Same reward system in place. So yeah! And she was 12 when she got them (the same time John disappeared into the Black Hole of Timelessness or whatever you wanna call it); no, nothing happened to John to make the wounds appear on Dylan magically or whatever; random tidbit, when John vanished, his parents thought he was dead, and that's what they told Dylan). __**Remember, everyone, you MUST**_ _**have a canon character in your entry or it's apparently against the rules.**_ _Possibilities: __**John**__(maybe alternate between him in the hell dimension and Dylan in the institution); __**Professor Broom**_ _(he ends up tracking her down and talking to/working with her at some point because the government finds out about John getting sucked into the dimension, and they want to use her connection to him to see if they can get him out); or __**Liz**__, who also was in nut houses as a kid after setting her hometown on fire. The name of the institution Dylan was in is "Saint Vincent's."_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"For the dead, they travel fast" is a quote from _Dracula _by Bram Stoker. It's referring to... if I remember right, the carriage that takes Jonathan Harker to Dracula's castle. This carriage is being driven by Dracula, who is incognito as a carriage driver for some reason. Anyway, apparently people have said this phrase for a long time in "the Old Country" (probably various Old Countries). I don't exactly know what it means (ghosts have really fast ponies?) but it actually totally applies here because Annwn is one of the Otherworlds, and some myths say that the souls of the dead go there (this was added after Christianity popped up in the British Isles). So the Chariots of Annwn are super, super fast (as in, seven-league-boots-times-fifty fast... so three-hundred-fifty-league-boots fast, I guess) and they come from Annwn, also called the Land of the Dead._

_._

_**Important Warning:**_ _do not read the new-ish book, _iDrakula_. It is __**SO**_ _stupid. And I pretty much love every book there is that isn't chock-full of sex and copious usage of the F-word, so that means it's actually pretty bad. It's supposed to be a new version of Bram Stoker's _Dracula_; you know, a modernized classic (in the same vein as _Jane _by April Lindner, _Another Pan _by Dan and Dina Niyeri, and _Pride & Prejudice: A Latter-Day Comedy _- that's a movie), but _iDrakula _is stupid. _

_It totally changes the plot; turns the hero (Jonathan Harker) into a womanizing, philandering putz; turns Lucy Westenra into a slut-tastic ho-bag who cheated on her best chick friend with said chick friend's boyfriend (that would be the womanizing, philandering putz); hooks up Mina Harker (actually, Mina Murrey in this one, since she never married J. Harker, which happened like, half-way through _Dracula_) with Van Helsing; makes Van Helsing a total nerd and a college kid instead of a vampire hunter and professor of the paranormal; and the entire trip to Transylvania and the actual real fighting with Dracula and every other exciting action sequence in the book is taken out. So they literally cut the book into quarters and only used the first quarter and the very, very end. _

_I was like, "For real? I will __**kill **__you, you stupid book. I will set you on fire. With exploding lemons." I have never wanted to do that to a book (that I can remember). So, yeah, _iDrakula _is absolute lame-sauce and should go die in a hole. With mold in it. This is only relevant because of the chapter title. End transmission._

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The royal guards are referred to as Butcher Guards in the behind-the-scenes stuff on the _Hellboy 2: the Golden Army _DVD, by Guillermo del Toro (the director of the film).

- "You bucolic nonentities" is actually an insult from the manga _Naruto_. It basically means spineless invertebrate.

- "By your command" will always make me think of _Battlestar Galactica _(the original show was about the Book of Mormon and Mormon doctrine; yep) but if that line was inspired by my exposure to _BSG_, I didn't do it consciously.

- I explained who Arawn was previously.

- The Fell Crochan is another name for the Black Cauldron, of which Arawn Death-Lord is master in the book series, _the Chronicles of Prydain_, by Lloyd Alexander. Many of you may know it from the Disney film _the Black Cauldron _as well.

- The Chariot of Annwn is inspired by three things: the Car from the _Meredith Gentry _series, and the black chariots that look like cars/carriages in Cassandra Clare's _the Mortal Instruments _and Holly Black's _Modern Faerie Tales_.

- The pig-goblin skeletons aren't any kind of faerie. But I combined the story of the otherworldly swine of Annwn with stories of goblins (one of the few faerie races that look a variety of different ways, even if they're the same species) and the fact that the Black Cauldron (in Lloyd Alexander's book) was used to create the Cauldron-Born, undead warriors.

- I first learned the word "coarsers" in reference to things that draw a vehicle from "T'was the Night Before Christmas." The line is "More rapid than eagles, his coarsers they came. Something-something and shouted and called them by name: On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and blah-blah-blah."

- The song Dylan sings is "Holding Onto You" by Jenny Phillips. I love her music. For real.

- Other Kin is another name for the Fae.

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_ _I do not have one, because I haven't been reading much lately. I've been writing instead. Sorry, guys. OH! OH! Chicks in Chainmail! Good anthology, high-larious. Actually one of a trilogy. Anthology series. Goes like this:_

- Chicks in Chainmail  
- Did You Say "Chicks?"  
- Chicks and Chained Males

_Hilarious stuff. Love it. Read it. Go forth!_


	23. Once Upon an Autumn Eve

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made In This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Ugh! Taking so freaking long! Originally this chapter and chapter 24 were one chapter. But my beta said it's too long, and told me to cut it in half. I'm thinking about bashing my head in. Seriously. I despise taking this long. Okay, not seriously gonna bash my head in. Just getting antsy, a la Charlotte Le Bouff. __**BUT!**_ _Good stuff in chapter 24 and 25! I hope. And some important secrety back story on Dylan in this chapter. So yay! And Lt. Charlotte Peabody and Sergeant Donovan will show up throughout this fic; they are recurring characters._

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _werewolf. Just for kiggles. A werewolf, also known as a lycanthrope (from the Greek __ﾉﾒﾈ__ά__ﾋﾆﾏﾖﾎﾍ__ς: __ﾉ__ύ__ﾈﾍ__ς, lukos, "wolf", and ά__ﾋﾆﾏﾖﾎﾍ__ς, anthrōpos, man), is a mythological or folkloric human with the ability to shapeshift into a wolf or an anthropomorphic wolf-like creature, either purposely, by being bitten by another werewolf, or after being placed under a curse. This transformation is often associated with the appearance of the full moon, as popularly noted by the medieval chronicler Gervase of Tilbury, and perhaps in earlier times among the ancient Greeks through the writings of are often attributed superhuman strength and senses, far beyond those of both wolves and men. The werewolf is generally held as a European character, although its lore spread through the world in later times. Shape-shifters, similar to werewolves, are common in tales from all over the world, most notably amongst the Native Americans, though most of them involve animal forms other than wolves._ _This creature is included because of the Red Riding Hood overtones to this chapter._

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**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**Once Upon an Autumn Eve**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Forbidden Love, Red Girl's War, a Promise Made, Scars, and Negotiations**

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The wind knifed her through the thin cotton tunic as soon as she stepped out of the shelter of the mall. Frigid wind stung her eyes and gnawed at her face. Boiling clouds overhead threatened the shivering woman with needle-like sleet at any moment. But the cold could go play in traffic for all Dylan cared. Right now, there was a sad, scared little girl camped out on the roof who needed her. How had she let this happen? How had she allowed herself to be so irresponsible? Dylan had known that there were kids who depended on her to be there for them. Why hadn't she been there?

_Because I let myself get distracted by Nuada and the whole flogging thing, _she reminded herself as she crossed her free arm over her chest to conserve her body heat. Dylan's teeth chattered in the face of the November iciness. The fingers wrapped around the grip of her cane were slowly going numb. At least it wasn't snowing. _Good reason to get distracted. But this can't happen again. I can't let any of my kids get hurt like this again. This is my fault; I should have been there. _

Dylan knew Nuada had drifted from her side the moment the wind slammed against her back. As soon as she could no longer feel the heat of him near her, she felt the first moment of panic. _Oh, get a freaking grip. Jeez. I've been doing this job for over five years. I can handle this without my Elven_ _security blanket._

Yet she couldn't suppress the nervousness - or the grief, sharp as a sword to the gut - when she saw Lisa huddled under the shabby red and white windbreaker that Rafael had given her two years ago for her birthday. The then-thirteen-year-old boy had bought it from a second-hand store, completely legal. His first gift to a lonely, mostly-ignored twelve-year-old with bruised eyes. Red and white: the colors of the Rojos, and the Lobos. Rival gangs, hers and his. Little Red and her Big Bad.

The psychiatrist made sure to clear her throat loudly before getting too close. The security lights on the roof glinted off the polished wood of her cane and the barrel of the gun in the girl's hand. When Lisa looked up, hope and heartache in her face, Dylan said, "Hey, there, Lisa."

"Doctor D?" Lisa murmured, sitting up straight. Her bottom lip began to tremble. In a choked voice, she whispered, "Dylan?"

Carefully (the cold, on top of the arduous trek up the countless stairs, was playing havoc with her bad leg despite the drugs in her system), Dylan limped over to the shivering teenager and sank down beside her. Donovan's SWAT guy on the roof of another building - both women could see the sniper, who wasn't even trying to hide - was probably reporting the fact that now she was in the line of fire to the police sergeant down on the ground.

Well, he could get over it. First of all, it was freezing. Common sense said she and Lisa huddle together for warmth. Secondly, the day she became afraid of one of her Sight-kids, she was throwing in the therapy-towel. And Nuada wouldn't let her get hurt. Somehow, despite her admonition to stay out of everything, she knew if her life were in serious jeopardy (and he was one of the few she trusted to make an accurate assessment of that sort of thing), he would protect her.

Though holy crow; this wall she and Lisa were leaning against was like reclining against a glacier.

"Awful cold up here," Dylan said conversationally. Her teeth still chattered. She was careful not to look at the girl who currently struggled for composure. "Why don't we go downstairs where it's warm?"

"Don't play me, Doc."

_Good girl, _Dylan thought with a slight smile. _She's still got brains. That hasn't changed._

Aloud, the psychiatrist said, "Not trying to. I'm just really, really cold. I know what's going on - sort of - so I know that nothing I could say is gonna get you to budge before you're ready." Lisa gave her a penetrating look, as if searching for the trick. Then the girl relaxed a little. Dylan managed to unhook one of panic's piercing claws from her heart. "So, why exactly are we still camped out here in all this frigid wild nature? Girl Scout merit badge?"

Lisa choked on a laugh. No pussyfooting around for her therapist. Dylan always got right to business, trying to get her patients to laugh while she was at it, even when things were dark. Some of the Sight kids thought it was annoying, but she wouldn't do it to them. Only the ones who didn't mind.

_Like me, _Lisa thought, and then couldn't help the whisper that followed after: _I'm going to miss her so much._

"Is it Rafael?" Dylan asked carefully, her voice deliberately neutral. Even so, she didn't miss Lisa's reaction. Flinch. Hunch down as if trying to avoid a blow. A small sound like a wounded animal escaped the fourteen-year-old; a sound Dylan knew very well. How often had she made that sound herself when she was younger? Especially after getting the "news" from her parents that John - her twin, her other half, her only true friend - was dead? She'd made that same sound at eighteen, six years later, when her twin had stumbled home, still a twelve-year-old kid, beaten half to death, staggering up the driveway with dazed, haunted eyes and magic clinging to him like a thousand glittering leeches.

And when she'd seen Nuada, chained by iron, slumped between the whipping posts, golden blood sheeting down his back. When her heart had screamed and her terror and desperation had nearly choked her. She'd made that strangled sound then, too. Dylan knew this sound, this sort of pain.

"What happened?"

"Doesn't matter," Lisa mumbled, closing her eyes.

Dylan saw the way tears clung to her lashes but didn't fall. And she knew exactly where _those _words had come from. _Sometimes, I could cheerfully throttle her parents._

"Obviously it matters," she said aloud, "or we wouldn't be freezing to death out here." She thought for a long, hard moment. Felt warmth shimmer like a tiny seed in her chest as she made her decision. "How did he die, _mihita?"_ Lisa's shocked face, edged with brittle pain, made Dylan's eyes sting. _Oh, Heavenly Father... Rafael's gone. I can see it in her eyes - he's dead. He was just a kid. _"You wouldn't be up here if you two stood any kind of chance against all those idiots down there, which means he's gone, doesn't it?"

Lisa drew her knees up to her chest, struggling against the black thing in her ribcage slamming down hard against her. The sleeves of her windbreaker were red, dark as fresh blood in the dingy light of the late November afternoon. Just like the blood spreading across Rafael's shirt. Dark and red soaking his white button-down shirt. The fourteen-year-old shivered as her brother's voice etched itself like acid against her mind. _Killed us a Grande Mal Lobo, didn't we, Niña Rojo?_ _Killed us a Big Bad Wolf. Good job._ And her parents' voices and the voice of the policeman who'd been first on scene, their words all the same: _just a punk. Forget him. You're better off._

_Better off?_ The girl echoed now. _Better off without Rafael?_

Better off without late nights on the roofs of their apartment buildings, watching the stars and complaining about Mr. Molina while they tackled algebra together, since Rafe was actually smart with numbers and she wasn't. Better off without "mystery" notes and flowers in her locker every morning; poems about eyes like Spanish Harlem at night; the wall of the gym, usually reserved for gang tags, sprayed with the most beautiful aerosol art of a girl in a red cloak sleeping curled up against a huge, gray wolf that guarded against the other, black wolves with bared teeth and tawny eyes. Better off with her parents screaming at her about being a nothing-gangster like José and never being able to get into college, with José hassling her day after day about refusing to get jumped - or screwed - in.

_Yeah, I'm so better off, _she thought bitterly.

"Who did it, Lisa?"

"José," she whispered. "Me and Rafael took a walk in the Park yesterday, ya know? Neutral territory, full of crazies. Can't afford to start nothin' over in the Park unless you wanna maybe die. And the Park, that's where _you_ live; everyone knows that. Ceśar'd kill the Lobos for startin' stuff there. And Tito, he'd kill any of the Rojos."

Not everyone wanted to ghost Doctor Myers. Some of the gang leaders had been forced to see her when in juvie or in school. Liked that she respected them, even if she was open about the fact that she didn't like the Life. If she'd been street instead of the school's top head shrinker, what Lisa's brother had gotten his friends to do to Dylan would've gotten José and his friends executed. But you didn't kill your best guy over a white woman who wasn't family or nothing. You just beat the hell out of 'em. And Lisa's brother had limped for days after that. Dylan had actually gotten a text from Tito a few months back, making sure nobody was messing with her. It helped, having "friends" in low places.

"And then what?" Dylan pressed when Lisa had fallen silent for several minutes. She could tell that the fourteen-year-old was far away. Thinking about prowling the woods in the Park with Rafael?

_My big, bad wolf, _she'd called him during their sessions. _And me, his little Red Girl, his Niña Rojo. It's like one of your stories, Doctor D. _If only her story hadn't ended the way the fairy tale had, with the wolf lying dead at the hands of Red's brother. Little Red's tears and blood as red as Lisa's windbreaker on the ground.

"Gunshots," Lisa mumbled. Her breath hitched. "Rafe pushed me down but... he didn't... he got hit. I called the cops. Took 'em thirty minutes to get there. Thirty _minutes_. He was already... And you know what them cops said when they got there?"

_Served the little thug right. Respectable people want to walk in this park. These gangsters just breed like cockroaches. _With quivering chin and hate in her eyes, the fourteen-year-old stared at Dylan, who looked calmly back at her without so much as a twitch to bely her haunted thoughts or churning emotions.

"They didn't even _care_. He was dead and _they didn't care. _They're not even gonna have a funeral for him. His dad said they can't afford to spend that kind of money on a 'traitor.' Just 'cause he loved me, he's a traitor, his dad said. His dad, Dylan! _Nobody_ cares that he's _dead!"_

With deliberate slowness, her stinging eyes never leaving Lisa's face, Dylan said, "_I_ care." When she saw that the words had penetrated Lisa's brain, she added, "And that..." She'd been about to say "boy," but changed her mind. "That young man is getting a funeral, even if I have to make the arrangements and pay for it myself. He deserves to be remembered with respect. You have the right to be able to visit his grave if you want."

Deep inside where she would deal with it later, her heart was throbbing like she'd been stung in the chest by a wasp. Rafael. Dead. Only fifteen and shot down in the park like he was nothing. Something black pulsed through Dylan once, twice. Pain lanced through her temples. Subsided. She didn't have time for hate or rage now. Not if this was going to end with anything other than Lisa's death into the bargain.

"You... you'd do that? But it's..." Lisa floundered, trying to think of a reason why this couldn't happen. "It's expensive-"

"I've got money to burn and you know it," Dylan replied. "I'm a doctor with no student loans. I live in an itsy-witsy cottage _this _big, and don't pay a gas bill except in winter. I don't have car payments or insurance and get most of my groceries and stuff through bartering and junk with the Amish community. I've got enough saved up that I can arrange for Rafe to have a decent funeral; this is important."

_Another funeral, _she added with a touch of moroseness. _How many of these am I going to have deal with? How many of these kids are going to die before they even hit eighteen?_ But she didn't show the exhaustion or the heaviness in her chest. Only kept coaxing the skittish girl.

"And I know that you'd want to be there for that, right? Didn't you promise him once that if he died, you'd go to his funeral? Even though José and even Ceśar wouldn't want you there." Dylan had had a brief word with Ceśar, leader of the Lobos, about the neutrality of funerals before, on behalf of one of her other Sight kids. She'd gotten his little brother out of getting sent to juvie once, so he'd given in, called them even. And Tito would let Lisa go because José was still on Tito's short list and José wouldn't want his little sister going to the funeral of a rival gang member. "You promised Rafael, Lisa."

_Promised I'd put red and white roses on his grave, _Lisa remembered. Red for true love, white for eternal love. The two combined for togetherness. Thornless, for love at first sight. _I did promise that, didn't I? But... _"If I give up now, they'll lock me up. I won't get to go anyway." Her small hand tightened on the trigger of the gun. She saw Dylan tense just a little bit. "You know it's not your fault, right, Doc?"

"It's not yours, either," the psychiatrist replied softly. "I can't guarantee you won't spend at least a night in lock-up, but I think I can pull some strings. Maybe get you sent somewhere a bit less-"

"Saint Vincent's again? With Doctor Westenra?"

"Doctor Westenra can take a flying leap off a cliff," Dylan snarled. She felt a faint, far-away sizzle of surprise and confusion that she was pretty sure was Nuada (well, of course - she'd never talked about anyone like that in front of him before). Ignored it. "I'll keep him away from you. Maybe you'll get lucky and Doctor Hollis will be there. He's pretty cute." Another claw of panic unhooked from Dylan's heart when Lisa smiled. Weak. Wobbly. But it had some of the spark Dylan loved about the girl. "And you like the French toast at Saint Vin's, right?" Dylan said, and relaxed a little more when the girl gave a small chuckle. It was weak, and tired, but at least it was a laugh. "Decent breakfast every Monday sounds pretty good," she added. "Bacon, eggs, sausage. Good stuff. And they got those apple juice cups with the tinfoil - you like those."

"Better than my parents' place."

"If I can keep you out of juvie, will you come down with me?" Dylan asked. She'd deal with Lisa's parents later, and Rafael's, after talking to Donovan. "I know what you're up here for: a quick and relatively painless death, so you can see Rafael again. And hon, that option is still open even if you come downstairs with me." She would just have to make sure Lisa didn't want to take it. But candidness was what had won the Hispanic girl over during that very first meeting a year and a half ago, and Dylan was pretty sure it was what would win her over now. "But don't you want to go to Rafe's funeral like you promised?" She could see the battle raging inside the too-thin teenage girl. See how much the girl wanted to put the gun on the ground, collapse in Dylan's open arms, and just sob. _Where has your mother been all this time? You should have been able to cry to her. _"I'll even buy the flowers, okay? Put the gun down, Lisa. Let me help you. I know what you're feeling. If anyone knows, I do. Let me help."

"You know what it's like to see the person you love more than anything else in the world die in front of you?"

_Die in front of you. _Nuada, beaten to death by Eamonn's men. Just a nightmare, but so very real. Each breath a struggle under the weight of broken ribs. Golden eyes blinded by blood and suddenly his chest no longer rose and fell with his breath. Dead. Gone. Just like John had been gone when...

_Die in front of you, die without you, _Dylan thought, and remembered when the phone call from her parents had come through, the day before her twelfth birthday. The day before her twin would come to her in the institution with a cupcake and a new book as her present. His own allowance spent on the book, his time spent on the cupcake. No lit candles - they were against the rules - but he would sing to her anyway. Just like he always did. Tell her to make a wish. Blow out the happy ghosts of birthday flames.

But then the call. Then Doctor Fitzpatrick, the head therapist, pulling her into his office to tell her there would be no more visits, no more books, no more cupcakes on her birthday. No more healing-balm of her brother's love in the face of torture. No more John. Dead, her parents had said. Missing for two weeks. Assumed dead. Dead. And Dylan, all alone in the dark again. They hadn't even had the decency to tell her themselves.

_Nuada dying in front of me, John dying without me, _she thought, and knew now was the time to push back her sleeves. She just hoped that Nuada couldn't see what she was about to do. The explanation of what he'd see would have been really awkward.

Dylan stretched out her left arm and shoved back the tunic sleeve. She ignored the cold raising goosebumps on her bare skin and touched the thick, fleshy scar at the bend of her elbow where the large vein showed pale blue against the skin. The scar was the approximate size of a fifty-cent coin. Sprawling like a fat, many-legged spider the color of dead flesh. Burning from the cold. Lisa's eyes were wide in her face now. Then Dylan switched to the other arm and showed another mound of scar tissue at the bend of that elbow. Still the same icy whiteness. This scar was even sloppier, though, and concave, as if someone had scooped out a piece of the older woman's arm.

"There are three more that look about like this," Dylan said softly. Lisa's breath from her slack jaw turned the icy air to puffs of mist. "One on each thigh, near the artery and big vein. There's another over my heart, right here." She touched right above the left side of her chest, very near the center. "Each one, I almost died. My parents told me that my twin brother had died. They were wrong, but we didn't know that for six years. When they told me, I cried of course. After that, though... some things... happened. And I thought that if this was what my life was going to be like, then screw it. I didn't have to deal with this. Even dying was better than being alone. Being unwanted. Living in hell. So I tried to cut open the artery, here," she touched her left arm, "with a broken piece of plasticware. It almost worked, but the barricade I had in front of my bedroom door didn't hold up when they tried to get in. Whole thing hurt like blue fire, too. Had to get a tetanus booster, and you know I hate needles.

"Next time I had the chance, I broke off a piece of the framework for my bed - they were cheap back then - and stabbed myself in the femoral artery. Same story. Tried to hack open my right arm with a sharp stone (I was getting desperate at this point); tried to claw my way to the big vein in my other leg. Both times, the goon squad caught me. Finally I said 'Screw it, I'm gonna do this the easy way - straight to the heart.' So I took a pencil - just a little stubby thing; we didn't have pens, too dangerous - and tried to stab my way to my heart so that I could finally just end it."

Every time, the blood had been hot and slick on her hands. The pain had screamed at her to stop, to just let the emotional hurt be and stop the physical agony no matter the cost. But she had kept stabbing and hacking at the flesh over her heart. Focused on the blood pumping hot from the wound. Until she'd seen him - John, terrified and shivering in some dark place she couldn't reach, John, her twin, alone in the darkness - begging her with horrified eyes to stop now. _D, you gotta stop now. Stop!_ And the red-slicked, blunt-ended pencil had fallen to the floor in a spreading pool of blood and she'd fainted from the pain, the exhaustion, the thoughts swirling together and clashing in her head.

She'd phased in and out of consciousness for what felt like years. Finally woken up in a padded room in a straitjacket, the half-healed wound over her heart throbbing. No more chances. No more escape. No more freedom, even the limited freedom they'd let her taste until then. Nothing but blank white walls and the ravenous dark that fell upon her every night at precisely seven o'clock, at lights' out. And when she finally got out of that prison, there had been yet another hell waiting for her.

"And yes, Lisa," Dylan added, forcing those memories away. She wasn't in the dark anymore. Wasn't a little girl anymore. And John was just fine. "I've seen someone I care about very deeply beaten to death in front of me. It was a hallucination - faerie glamor - but while it was happening I thought it was real. I saw someone I... someone I love very much die in front of me in the most brutal ways, over and over again."

There was a sudden shimmer of awareness to Dylan's left, as if someone were staring at her. She saw golden eyes full of puzzlement flash through her mind. A frisson of embarrassment skittered down her spine. _Like that's not distracting as heck. He needs to quit doing... whatever he's doing to make me notice him like this._

"So yes," the psychiatrist added, ignoring Nuada's glamored presence. "I know what you're feeling right now: like every breath hurts, like the pain is crushing you and you can't think or move or even breathe without it hurting more and more. Like you'd do anything to erase what keeps playing behind your eyes. It's not even that you want to die. You just don't want to hurt anymore. You don't want to feel anything ever again as long as the pain stops. I've been there." She could see the teenager's chin quivering. See the single tear rolling down the cold, pale cheek. "Now come on, Lisa. You know you can trust me. You _know_ that. Let me help you. Put the gun down, honey."

Blue eyes locked with dark brown. Such pain and heartache in those eyes. Dylan put everything she felt for Lisa – regret; sorrow; desperation; hope; and fierce, fierce love - into her own gaze. Realized the moment the girl saw exactly what she was feeling.

Something brittle inside the teenager cracked. Shattered. The gun slid from Lisa's hand and hit the ground. And the girl threw her arms around Dylan and began to cry.

"Let it out," Dylan murmured, sliding her arms around the thin girl. Lisa's tears were like ice water on her neck. Several feet away, Dylan saw a shimmer of air that flickered every other second with Nuada's image. A "don't-look-at-me-you-don't-see-anything" glamor. But she saw him: his carefully neutral expression, the deep amber of his eyes studying her silently, the questions behind his eyes. Dylan closed her eyes and said only, "Just let it out. I've got you. I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. I'm so sorry, Lisa. I'll be there next time, I promise. I'm so sorry."

The sparkly, pink cell phone on the ground suddenly buzzed. Dylan glanced at the readout. She didn't let go of Lisa, just kept holding her as the girl sobbed into her shoulder. The psychiatrist recognized the number, though. Donovan. Probably checking on whatever his SWAT team had reported. Well, he'd have to wait. If she broke the moment now, broke the rapport in any way, there was no guarantee Lisa would come down with her. She'd put the gun down, yes - but she could always pick it up again.

"You can answer it," the girl mumbled as the phone continued to buzz. She swiped at her face, the streaks of mascara like black tears on her cheeks. "Probably your cop calling."

"Oh, please don't ever call him my cop again, okay?" Dylan replied, picking up the phone. "He's like my brother. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little." Lisa choked out a watery laugh. The phone beeped when Dylan clicked TALK. "Donovan?"

"Are you done with the hugging yet? Females." There was just a hint of teasing under the gruff words, but Dylan could hear the relief in his tone as well. Obviously he'd been informed Lisa was no longer armed.

"Depends; are you finished being a sexist pig with the sensitivity of a paleolithic troglodyte?" Before the cop could do anything but laugh - this was a familiar "argument," so Dylan knew exactly what the sergeant would have said anyway - she added, "All kidding aside, what are the odds Lisa ends up at Saint Vincent's on suicide watch instead of being shuttled off to juvie?"

A long moment of silence. Then, "You've finally cracked, Doc."

"Don't make me call in my big guns, Donovan." Her voice was quiet, soft as a falling snowflake. Just as cold, too. "You know I hate doing that. And I thought we were friends."

"You think I'm scared of your baby brother The Fed?" The policeman demanded. Dylan didn't say a word. Just waited for several seconds, hoping he wouldn't actually challenge her. John wasn't exactly on her side right now. Or very intimidating. It was more that Donovan didn't want the headache of dealing with the government agent who seemed to have a vast array of high-end contacts and no set place of employment. But a federal agent was a federal agent. The sergeant finally muttered, "Ah, I'm gettin' soft. Your fault, Doc. If you can convince the LT, then I'll pack the kid off to the nut-house instead of lockup. And since I know you, you're plannin' something. Goin' after the parents, huh? You think she's really worth it?"

"I don't waste time," Dylan replied, thinking of José, of Lisa's parents. Of Rafael, dying in his own blood, unmourned, alone... except for a crying fourteen-year-old girl in the woods. _This shouldn't have been your story, _Dylan thought. _But don't worry, Lisa. I'll take care of Rafael now._ "I _never_ waste time, Donovan. So you know the answer to that." Softer now, she added, "Please, James. Consider it a personal favor. Okay? She's worth it. _Please._"

He sighed. Dylan never called him by his first name; not at church, not even when they did the social-friend thing sometimes. Which meant this was really important to her. So Sergeant James Donovan said, "I'll call Peabody."

"Thank you," she said softly, and he could tell she meant it.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Here I am, wanting to still bang my head against a wall. Maybe that's the heat, though. It's crazy out here (and apparently crazy across the country). But anyway, things pick up in chapter 24 and at least this chapter was short (as per my beta's orders). Danger looms, problems pop up, blah-blah-blah. Sigh. Anyway, so hope you're enjoying so far. Chapter 24 is coming with this one, so unless you found this right when I posted this latest chapter (and you read at the speed of light), you should be able to go to the next chapter after this one. Enjoy._

_Now, are you guys wondering why the Lisa-on-the-roof-with-a-gun-thing didn't get too-too-too heinous? Because Lisa is a recurring character, and because the point of this chapter was to do several things: introduce Lisa; introduce her brother Jose and the gang he's from, the Rojos; introduce Ceśar, who's going to be important; and semi-introduce Doctor Westenra, who is also very important (considering Dylan hates his guts, even more than Eamonn's). Also, Dylan has more patients. There's plenty of potential for dangerous stuff in that quarter._

_And now our completely optional, hopefully fun and this time rather short review prompt: who thought Dylan would ever have considered suicide (and actually attempted it, especially more than once)? Doesn't really strike you as the type, but then again, this was before she was all cheerful and happy and always looking at the glass half full. What do you think Nuada's reaction to those scars - and that story - will be when they have a moment to discuss things? Since Nuada didn't really show-up in this chapter, the standard (in character?) is not really applicable. The end. See, short. _=D _Loves to all of you! Especially Strangely Tawny, who is semi-MIA._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the third book in the faery tale series by Dennis L. McKiernan, _Once Upon an Autumn Eve _is a retelling/adaptation of "The Glass Mountain." Good book. Strong heroine. Love it. Love the series so far (haven't read books 4 & 5 yet, though). Vaguely relevant to this chapter, as in _OUaAE, _the Princess Liaze has to journey to the top of the glass mountain to save the life of her chevalier, who will die (of the cold, as well as from the evil machinations of the witch spying on him) without Liaze's interference. In this same vein, Dylan must ascend the "mountain" of concrete and steel to save Lisa from herself and stuff. So yeah._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Mihita is a Spanish endearment for girls. Wow, only two. That has never happened before. Cool.

- Lt. Charlotte Peabody is vaguely inspired (as in, name and occupation only) by Peabody, Detective Delia from the _In Death_ books. However, she has no connection to the character herself. Not a relative, not an ancestor. She's not even (in fic-verse) named after her. I just needed a good, solid sounding name for a policewoman that didn't start with D, B, or N, because those keep popping up. Blargh. So yeah. They don't even have similar personalities. This is not meant to be fanfiction for the _In Death_ universe in any way, shape, or form. Just saying.

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_ _Inspired by Red Riding Hood!_

- _the 10th Kingdom_ (Hallmark miniseries starring a girl named Virginia and a half-wolf named Wolf, grandson of Red Riding Hood)

- _Cloaked in Red_ by Vivian Vande Velde (she lacks respect for the fairy tale, but she's good writer and her retellings are okay)

- "Little Red" by Jane Yolen (found in the anthology _Firebirds Soaring; _disturbing and draws on themes of insanity, abuse, and revenge)  
- "Little Red Riding Hood" by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs (a song; redone by Bowling for Soup)  
- _Lon Po-Po: A Red Riding Hood Story from China_ by Ed Young (children's book)

- _Petite Rouge: A Cajun Red Riding Hood_ by Mike Artell (children's book)  
- _Pretty Salma: A Little Red Riding Hood Story from Africa_ by Niki Daly (children's book)

- _Red Hood's Revenge_ by Jim C. Hines (book 3 in the _Princess_ series)  
- _Red Rider's Hood_ by Neal Shusterman ("Red Riding Hood" with a male protagonist, involving gang warfare and werewolves)  
- "Red Under the Moon" by OceanFire9 (online; go read it; it's on our website)

- _Scarlet Moon_ by Debbie Viguie (one of the Once Upon a Time series from Simon & Schuster)  
- _Seriously Silly Stories: Little Red Riding Wolf_ by Laurence Anholt (children's book)  
- _Sisters Red_ by Jackson Pearce (combines "Red Riding Hood" with themes from "Snow White, Rose Red")

- "Wolf" by Francesca Lia Block (found in her anthology _the Rose and the Beast_)  
- "Wolfland" by Tanith Lee (found in her anthology _Red as Blood_)


	24. By or Before Midnight

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Mythological Being of the Day  
References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, so this is the second chapter to be posted today. Woot! And that's mainly because I loathe short chapters but they seem to be doing okay and I have heard some complaints about length, so I'm trying to go for short and multiple, not long and singular, if that makes sense. So, yeah. And I'm gonna beg shamelessly for reviews again because my life actually really kinda sucks right now (the economy is killing us) and I'm depressed as heck and... yeah. Anyway, enough complaining. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Happy fun time is on its way... next chapter. Hehehehe._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _there's this great "Cinderella" retelling called _Before Midnight _by Cameron Dokey (part of the _Once Upon a Time _series by Simon & Schuster). And because everything in this chapter is on a time-limit or near to it (everything has to happen before midnight, or happens right after it), I figured that would work. Except that not everything happens _before _midnight, so I added "By or" to the title. Anyway, everyone should read _Before Midnight. _It explores something most people don't know - in the original Grimm and Perrault versions of the fairy tale "Cinderella" ("Ashenputtel" for Grimm, "Cendrillon" for Perrault), __Cinderella's father was still alive_ _at the time of the whole slavery-scullery-maid-royal-ball thing. So yeah; good book. And it more realistically explains the whole love-at-first-sight thing, too._

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**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**By or Before Midnight**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Appointed Tasks, Cinderella's Curfew, and a Dark Whisper of the Past**

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Peabody had been on board after Dylan had explained the situation.

Part of Dylan's field studies in college had forced the psychiatrist to work with the police fairly early on in her career. At twenty-one, the same age as Dylan at the time, Charlotte Peabody had been an officer fresh out of the Academy. Dylan had been in her third year at NYU. That first case - Officer Peabody the first on scene, and Dylan brought in by one of the department's negotiators - had been the start of an almost decade-old partnership and casual friendship, which had then extended to Sergent James Donovan.

The only thing that kept the three from being real friends was that Dylan knew if Peabody and Donovan ever heard that the psychiatrist talked to fairies in her backyard, they'd think Dylan had lost what few marbles people thought she had left.

John and Nuada were both a bit harder to convince.

"I will not leave you among these..." The prince trailed off, biting back the word _humans. _Though the pitiful and irritating human male who claimed kinship to Dylan knew that Nuada was fae, the warrior also knew he did not need to announce his true identity to the herd of shuffling mortals milling about.

Yet she could not be serious. _I'll be fine - you should wait for me at the cottage. I'll be there as soon as I can._ An attempt to send him away, as if he were an unruly child or a lady's lapdog. A dismissal. A subtle command to go away. Well, he would not.

Fury sparked in his eyes. Even the glamor could not hide his anger from the mortal woman. His honor - and any peace he might ever manage to scrape from his father's ire for haring off with Dylan - demanded he stay at her side. Of course the Elven warrior did not _want _to go to a human police station. The very idea made his skin itch. All that iron and the noxious stench of humanity...

A sharp longing to draw his lance made his fist clench. But it had to be plainly obvious, even to someone as naive as Dylan, that her safety from any of Eamonn's men was not guaranteed by pathetic human police.

"And I'm not taking you anywhere until you tell me who this guy is," John snapped, absently rubbing his wrist. Already pale blue bruises were spreading like a sickness under the skin. Who _was _this faerie with his sister? "Today's supposed to be my day off, Dylan."

Nuada opened his mouth, hate burning in his eyes, but Dylan - exhausted, freezing cold, leg aching abominably, and irritated with the entire world at the moment - beat him to whatever scathing insult might have been coiled like a snake on his tongue, waiting to strike.

"All right." A quick glance told her no one was close enough to hear, but just in case, she dropped into the old "twin" language she and John had often used as children when whispering secrets to each other. "Yem demeste droll, sih layora nesigh, hrone eckinfra Nuada Silverlance, ere ot da yalla char fol Bethmoora." Then, with a smirk, she added just to be cruel, "Nad seya, eh si yem yobniefen."

John blinked at her in shock as her words translated in his head: _My esteemed lord, His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, Heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. And yes, he's my boyfriend._

_"What?_"

The tired amusement in her eyes and her smirk told the twenty-one-year-old that his sister was probably jerking his chain, at least on that last part, but... she had said _"my_ lord." Esteemed lord, even. What did that mean exactly? He knew his twin. She always chose her words with care, except when exhausted or under some serious strain. Years of dealing with the Fair Folk had taught them both to do so. So when she said "my lord," that meant something. Loyalty. Trust, which was not the same thing. John's sigh was half a growl as he shoved a hand through his hair.

"Whatever. This the guy that saved you before?" Dylan nodded. John stuck his hand out toward the tall blond man. "Then I can't thank you enough for protecting my sister."

Nuada eyed the proffered hand with revulsion, then stared down his nose at the human. "I do not want your pitiful, meaningless thanks for succeeding at the task in which you failed." He ignored the razor-edged glare Dylan shot him. "Only humans are so careless with that which is supposedly precious to them."

"Now wait just a minute-"

"Guys!" Maybe if she pressed really hard against her temples, the headache taking root inside her skull would wither and die before it bloomed into a migraine. And maybe Nuada would drop down on bended knee and propose. _Pfft. Yeah, like that would ever happen. _"What are you, four? Jeez. Nuada, I'll be fine with John. Really. I can't have you distracting me, okay? I need you to not be... I can't have you there."

The look she gave him now held none of the defense and anger from when he had called out her brother for his inefficacy at protecting her. Now there was only equal parts determination and beseeching, gilded by a shine of pain. The prince realized, from the way Dylan kept touching her temple, that she had a headache. Why did she never give voice to her pain? It irritated him to no end. And what did the human mean, _I can't have you distracting me?_ If she could not focus on whatever needed doing, it was no fault of his. Only mortals blamed their lack of mental discipline on others.

Yet now was an opportunity to take what he had wanted for a while - to get away from her. To have a moment of peace away from all who watched him with voracious expectation. To escape the farce of courtship, as well as the frustrating awkwardness so foreign to his nature that had plagued Nuada since recognizing the intimacy of the night before. And of course, an opportunity to plan his next maneuvers in the dangerous game his father played. With the idiotic urge to smile constantly assaulting him around the irritating (albeit often amusing) mortal, the Elf prince could not think clearly when around her. She twisted up everything somehow, including the honor he guarded so preciously.

Dylan was a living contradiction: a mortal with honor where none should exist; a human who strove to fight for his people in nearly all she did, despite her iron-laced blood; a Child of Mud with a fey-like heart where only a dark hollow should have been. Somehow this infuriating human had managed to win his protection more than once. Bought her honor with his own royal blood. Her peace of mind had been paid for with the coin of his own humiliation. He had even - he realized, suddenly and with a jolt of shock - defied his father and king for her. Risked punishment yet again for this mortal woman who did not even want him by her side. Who preferred her ineffectual and pathetic human kinsman over an Elven prince and warrior.

Suddenly Nuada could hardly stand to be near her. To even breathe the same air as she. How had he fallen so far without realizing it? Was this how it had been for his father all those centuries ago? Had the sucking tar pit of humanity slowly pulled King Balor further and further away from the path of true kingship as time - and the plague of mortality - eroded Balor's honor? Was the prince cursed to have it be so with him, as well? Nuada prayed not. To any god that might hear him, he prayed not.

"Very well," the prince said in a voice carved from ice. He had to get away. This instant. "I await you at your cottage. Try to be quick." And he turned and strode back to the carriage, leaving Dylan gazing after him with a sudden heaviness in the pit of her stomach.

"You were kidding about the boyfriend thing, right?" John asked after the thing that looked like a limo - a shiny black limo that seemed to blur into the November bleakness like mist and glowed faintly with eerie green ambiance, even to his pitiful excuse for faerie Sight - drove away. "Because if he's really your boyfriend, I'm gonna have to protest the way he talks to you."

"Oh, yeah?"

Dylan turned to study her brother - her twin, though he was so much younger now. Six years trapped in a place where time never passed. Only the briefest of mental contact every year on her birthday, when their connection was the strongest.

And then he'd come home. Somehow, on his own power, fueled by desperation and maybe a little of her own need, John had broken through whatever barrier stood between him and the regular, mortal world and come back. Still twelve years old. Still a kid. But they'd known each other the moment they locked eyes, even though she was eighteen then and she'd changed so much. Even though he hadn't changed at all.

Their parents had refused to take him. Refused to believe he could be John, though he hadn't changed at all. So Dylan had let him live with her in her tiny apartment while she went to college and worked weekends as a waitress at the Pandemonium Club and early mornings at Persephone's as a cashier. It had been so strange to come home from work or classes and find her twin, long thought dead, doing homework and scarfing down cheesepuff, peanut butter, and pixie-stix sandwiches that had made her nauseous to even look at, much less try. It had been strange and yet... it had made that tiny apartment home, too, in a way that their parents' house had never been for either of them.

Home for her, she realized, had been John. Just John. Now, in some ways, it was Nuada, too.

_I'm such a sap-sucking idiot, _Dylan grumbled silently. _He doesn't even like me, but I... love him. He really_ is _like my best friend._ _I trust him completely, and I can probably tell him almost anything and his regard won't change. But that's because nothing will make him hate me - or like me - more than he already does. No wonder John's all brother-bear about him._

"Don't worry about it, John," she said only, and laid her forehead against his upper arm. For just a moment she let herself relax and only think about how much she loved her twin. How much his solid presence reassured her. Comforted her. "He's not really my boyfriend. And he's just having a bad day." _More like a bad year, _the psychiatrist thought, remembering gunshots echoing in the subway; golden blood sheeting down a bare back under the bite of an iron-tipped whip; the shattered look on his face when the courtship scheme had come out. Dylan fought back a sigh and said, "Let's go to the cop shop, yeah?"

"And then are we the ones taking Lisa to Saint Vincent's?"

Dylan shook her head as they started for her brother's Mustang. A few kids standing near an old yellow van waved to her. She recognized some of her Sight kids - the three Grace children; a small girl, maybe seven years old, with dirty-blond hair and the wild eyes of a changeling; twelve-year-old Jaenelle with her maelstrom eyes and diluted faerie blood; Rosie and her older brother Gus. When the changeling, Kate, hopped up and down and waved her arms in exuberant greeting, Dylan waved back, gave the children a smile that made her face hurt. The older kids immediately relaxed. They knew she wouldn't be smiling if Lisa were in any kind of serious, unfixable trouble.

"She's already being processed, I expect," she said to John as if there'd been no pause in the conversation. "No, what I'm setting up is how long she's going to be there. Hopefully not long. I also want to see if I can figure out how much her bail is going to be so I can pay it in advance and keep her from getting chucked back into jail when the suicide-watch time limit ends; gives me about a week. If - _big_ if - Peabody's managed to set the court date and stuff already, I can maybe phone the judge."

Not that she had that many judges on her contact list. More like three, max. All of them went to her church, along with Peabody and Donovan. Most of her "legal connections," in fact, were people she knew from teaching their kids or younger siblings/cousins during Primary and Nursery. But she could always hope.

"And," the psychiatrist added suddenly, in a voice like shards of ice, "I'm going to make sure Doctor Westenra isn't her primary counselor while she's there. If I have to break legs or bite someone, it doesn't matter. _He_ is not going anywhere _near_ any of my patients. I want either Doctor Hollis or Doctor Colfer."

John didn't say anything to that. When Dylan talked about Doctor Westenra, one of the top psychiatrists at Saint Vincent's, it was best to stay silent until there was a chance to change the subject. Not that he could blame her.

The twins slid into the car and John started the engine. Sting's low voice crooned from the crummy radio speakers. John offered his twin a water bottle. She took a third painkiller, as the first dose of the morning had long ago worn off. Then the twenty-one-year-old government agent took the opportunity to switch the subject. "Where's Lisa gonna go if you post her bail?"

She remembered stricken eyes as dark as the New York City night already beginning to fall. Lisa's trembling mouth as the teenager fought tears. The fear warring with determination and trust in her expression as Donovan slipped handcuffs on her. And Dylan's own unwavering, encouraging gaze locked on Lisa's frightened eyes as she watched the girl being driven away in the back of a police car. "She can stay at the cottage."

"They'll make you stay with her." Under the simple words were a thousand questions. Two of the biggest were, _Will His Royal Pain-in-the-Butt allow that? _and _Does your new life have room for the people you're responsible for?_

Dylan bit her lip and looked out the window at the city zooming by. In a single eyeblink, the boiling sky ripped open and torrents of freezing rain and sleet smashed down on New York. She could tell John wasn't mad (or at least not as mad as he sounded). But he was right in his subtext, if not in the actual questions. Dylan knew she had to reconcile the situation with Nuada with her life in the mortal realm. One could not take precedence over the other.

A fork of lightning, electric pearl against black skies, reminded her of the night before. Reminded her of the feel of Elven arms holding her against the dark and the fear. A soft voice like lullabies singing away the shadows. Something feral and otherworldly that soothed every dark thing inside her. It had been raining then, too.

Dylan suddenly remembered the words to one of her favorite songs: _I dream of rain. I dream of gardens in the desert sand. I wake in vain..._ An odd frisson of what felt like precognition sizzled down her spine. Gardens in the desert sand; an impossible dream. Just like trying to meld the two pieces of her life? She hoped not. Because she'd promised her life to the children who needed her... but her life would be poorer for losing Nuada. Just the thought left her feeling like one of those baubles her brother hung at Christmas - hollow, thin, and fragile as hand-blown glass.

"Then I'll cart her around if I have to, when I go to work and stuff."

The "and stuff" could be a problem, but right now, she didn't care. This could _not _happen again. Her kids had to be able to get in touch with her whenever they needed to. Nuada would have to understand that. And if he didn't...

_Deal with that if and when it comes, _she told herself.

Aloud she continued, "And I have to talk to Garret, the chief medical examiner. Have to figure out the paperwork for getting Rafael's body released to someone who's not family. I'll have to call his parents - how exciting; his dad's ticked because apparently two teenagers from the wrong parts of their respective neighborhoods falling in love makes Rafael a traitor. And I have to talk to him. Get him to agree. Make some preliminary arrangements for Rafe's funeral. Hafta call Ceśar, too, and talk to him about letting Lisa go to Rafe's funeral; since she's not actually part of the Rojos, he might not give me too much trouble."

And if the leader of the Lobos did decide to give her some grief, she knew how to get around it. Her trump card was eight years old, lisped badly still from the time he'd broken his jaw in the school yard, and his breath whistled through his gappy teeth whenever he spoke. He was still on her patient roster, came to her house one Tuesday a month, and she was half of the reason he wasn't wasting the best part of his childhood in juvenile detention. His mother called him Miguel, but his older brother called him Mickey because of his gap-teeth, and so did she.

"D..."

His twin wasn't looking at him, or seemingly at anything. She'd changed since her attack back in December. At first, he hadn't realized how much. But she was more serious now. Less likely to let herself off the hook over something. Everything was life and death to her. Sometimes it actually _was _a matter of life and death, but not always.

And right now... he could tell by the weird, cold heaviness in his stomach that she was blaming herself for what had happened today. John knew nothing he said would change her mind about that; in fact, what he'd said before had most likely contributed to it. He hadn't meant it; he'd just been so worried. So now he only murmured gently, "I can do some of this stuff for you, ya know."

Dylan shook her head. "No, it's fine." It wasn't her brother's responsibility. He had his own issues; like dealing with the government trying to fit him into an appropriate slot in one of their super-secret-but-not-really departments. So far, every job interview he'd gone to had turned up zilch for him. That was probably at least partially her fault, too, now that she thought about it. Like the time with the MIB where he'd passed out during a moment of super-connection between the two of them.

_Ugh, whatever. Gotta focus on this right now._

"Besides," she added, giving nothing of her thoughts away. "I promised Lisa I'd handle it."

"You sure?"

"Yep," Dylan replied, forcing lightness into her tone. She smiled at her brother. "I got it covered."

John knew she probably did. It was one of the things she was really good at - planning, plotting, figuring out ways to get around the obstacles in her path. But he also knew she was tired. He could hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes. He even felt it in the strain in his own face, an echo of hers, that told him her forced smile almost threatened to crack her face in two, like fragile glass. But he didn't say a word; just kept driving.

**.**

Feral golden eyes sliced to the little clock perched on the stone mantel above the fireplace. Nearly midnight. Over six hours. What could possibly take that infuriating mortal more than six beastly hours to complete?

_Father is _not _going to be pleased. _Nuada bit back a snarl and crossed one leg over the other, glaring into the crackling fire. He could sense Becan's little eyes on him, guaging his mood. Well, no matter. Let the Wee Fey do as he pleased. It was not the brownie who drew the prince's ire, after all.

_Try to be quick, _he had commanded. Could she not obey a simple order? How had he let her convince him to leave her in the care of her brother? The simpleton clearly did not recognize the value of his sister; or, if he did, did not treat the woman accordingly. Imbecilic hollow creature that he was.

_Could it be you are worried about her? _A small voice, one Nuada had not heard in some months, niggled at him. _Concerned for a human woman's safety?_

_If my honor depends on it, _the prince replied with the venomous sharpness of a hornet's sting, _of course I am. How I allowed her to convince me to compromise it, I do not know. If any harm befalls her, it will disgrace me. And Father will not be pleased. Or forgiving._

_Is it your honor that concerns you? Or is it that Nuala has it right? Has the human perhaps... snared your affections?_

Nettled, the Elf prince frowned at the fire. _Do not be ridiculous; I hold her in the same esteem as a well-bred hunting dog. She is merely useful, and only stands above her kind because she is an annoyance only _some _of the time. _

This was what came of brooding in a human dwelling: half-mad thoughts influenced by the late hour and Dylan's continued absence. He should not have left her behind. What if Eamonn...? But no, Wink had only recently appraised him of what he had learned last night and today over the course of the last several hours, including Eamonn's whereabouts. The silver troll had left not half an hour ago, to gather more information on the dark Elf and his potential allies.

The Elf of Zwezda was holed up somewhere in the kingdom of Cíocal. That did not surprise Nuada in the slightest. Cíocal was one of the Irish fayre kingdoms that was rather... imparticular about who they let within their borders. So long as the immigrants paid homage to King Elatha, the Fomorians accepted all and sundry who had been turned out of their own homes: refugees and criminals alike. It had always been the law of Cíocal; even if Nuada brought this information before his father, nothing would be done. Balor would remind the prince of the alliances between the thirteen Elf kingdoms and command him to leave be. Even Nuada's old friendship with Crown Prince Bres would not be enough to have the dark Elf extradited back to Bethmoora.

_And so now I know the price Father has laid on my blood, _Nuada thought with no little acrimony. The fire crackled and blazed, and the seconds ticked by in the near-silence. _On my sister's blood. On the blood of the royal family of Bethmoora. On Dylan's honor. Stars curse you, Father - how could you do this to Nuala? To Dylan? How am _I _the monster, when you have sold 'my lady's' honor and your daughter's blood as the price of your peace with Elatha?_

Wink had brought his prince even more ill news than that. As Nuada recalled the silver cave troll's words about Princess Ming Xian, the prince scowled. Wed a child of barely three centuries? Even the Jade Emperor, mad as he was, would not insist on _that; _three centuries for an Elf was as perhaps a mere three or four years to a human. The Dilong princess was practically an infant. But what would the fallout be from King Balor's machinations regarding Dylan, once the Emperor Huizong learned that the prince his eldest daughter had been saved for was courting a human woman of no status?

_Why did Father never nullify that promise, after the Empress of Dilong did not produce a girl-child for so long? _He had thought the informal arrangement a thing of the past. Now, on top of the courtship charade with Dylan and Eamonn's attempted coup (had King Elatha, or any of the nobles of Cíocal, been involved in the assassination attempt? The prince knew his father refused to even consider the idea that his allies might be false), now Nuada had to concern himself with a stiff-necked, half-mad Elven Emperor who took offense at every little thing, and a potential child-bride. _And here I thought exile would spare me these political games. How foolish I was._

And _why_ was the human not returned yet? Bronze eyes sliced to the clock as it began to chime the midnight hour. Where was Dylan? _That fool of a brother had best protect her, and keep her safe, or I will hunt him down like a-_

A clicking sound from the direction of front door drew Nuada's attention. The prince turned in time to see the last bolt slide back and the heavy granite door swung open. Dylan stepped in and quickly shut and locked the door. Then she leaned back against the stone before letting herself slide to the floor. Her cane clattered to the wooden floor of the entryway. As Nuada rose from the chair, surprised and furious (and perhaps a little concerned?) at the mortal's haggard appearance, Dylan dropped her face in her hands and sighed heavily.

"I hate my life," she muttered, her voice shaking. "And my leg is killing me."

**.**

Politics was a game - let no one ever say different - but the stakes were high; often lethally so. Tonight, as whispers of the crown prince's whereabouts circulated through the court, the stakes were not quite deadly. But pride, honor, and kingly standing were on the table tonight. As three distinct penants flew from Findias' high tower - the king's banner, and the personal standards of the crown prince and the princess - the king's twin children should have been in the receiving Hall when the envoy entered.

By rights, the prince should have greeted Bres as one warrior to another. They had fought side by side long ago, in the final war with the humans. And all knew that Bres was interested in Princess Nuala's hand in marriage. She, too, was meant to greet the prince of Cíocal that night. Yet only the king and princess were there when the great double-doors swung open and the envoy from Cíocal entered.

Balor did not let his eyes waver from the prince that strode forward, head held high and an affable smile fixed on his face. Blue eyes like the summer sky gleamed with good humor as Crown Prince Bres of the Kingdom of Cíocal came forward and bowed, as a foreign prince to a king. Behind him, his four retainers made obeisance to the One-Armed King of Elfland as well.

The king of Bethmoora studied the six core members of the Fomorian envoy: Bres himself, of course; the tall, wiry bodach with his dark, feral beauty on the prince's right, whom the herald introduced as Lord Lí Ban of Gomrath; the hideous, fleshless nuckelavee, Arrachd, who stood as another guard to Bres; and the ancient crone with the rheumy eyes who stood to Bres's left, that powerful sorceress known as Biróg. Guarding the prince's back was a Fomorian Elf with eyes as dark as malachite and a pale, thin scar running the length of the side of his sun-kissed face. But it was the young woman in the party who stole King Balor's very breath.

Memory, even immortal memory, could be a slippery thing. The mind - and the heart - could, and often did, play tricks. So when the king's old eyes rested on the young Fomorian noblewoman that Bres had brought along, it was not with his power and his own kingly Sight that he saw her. It was with his ancient and twice-broken heart, and his sorrow, and his memory. It was with the ghost of a wise queen still haunting him. And so the glamor passed over him without trouble, and no one knew the true identity of the jade-eyed woman.

Green eyes like emeralds shone out from a moon-pale face. Thick, glossy hair like spun rubies twisted and coiled in intricate braids atop the woman's head. Dark jade ribbons wove between the braids. The green velvet gown, and the eyes and garnet-dark hair reminded Balor of someone. Someone from long ago, that he could scarcely remember. Someone he had forced himself to forget.

_Cethlenn, _the king thought. _Cethlenn, _the king's heart pleaded.

_Cethlenn, _the glamor whispered.

She looked so much like Queen Cethlenn. Not identical. Not even as if they could be sisters, or cousins. Only that it had been so long since Balor had seen one of the jade-eyed Fomorian women with hair like spun garnets. They were a rare breed in ancient days. Even rarer now. When the king saw her, his heart bled and the festering soul-pain of his wife's passing lanced him.

"Your Majesty, allow me to present my most trusted companions," Bres said, with another short bow. "Biróg and Lí Ban have been named and presented, but I give you _the _mac Aengus of Caer Ibormeith and his honorable sister. Lord Ciaran mac Aengus," and here the dark-eyed Fomorian bowed to the king once more and gestured to the fayre behind him. "And the lovely Lady Dierdre."

"You are _most_ welcome, Lord mac Aengus. Lady Dierdre," the king murmured. Ciaran bowed. The fiery-haired noblewoman swept into a low curtsy. No one saw the satisfied smile curling her coral-painted lips. If they had, the Butcher Guards would never have let her survive the night.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, so the thing is, a king (not a prince, or a princess, but a KING or QUEEN) supposedly has the ability to see through any and all glamor, no matter how powerful it is, and to glamor any and everyone, no matter how strong/resistant their Sight. _

_But I figure from the movie, King Balor is old and set in his ways and tired and stuff, not to mention grieving for his son that he thinks is lost to him (I actually feel a lot of sympathy for the One-Armed King of Elfland, poor guy, he's probably super depressed about a lot of stuff) and grieving for his dead wife because that's how immortals - and a lot of guys - are in literature (case en point: Elrond, Amroth, Dracula in Francis Ford Coppola's film, Kenshin Imura, Jace Lightwood, Superman in the universe where Lois Lane died, etc). And his grief has weakened him a lot, in a lot of ways. And then suddenly, when he's depressed as heck and pissed off and everything, suddenly here's this beautiful woman that looks enough like his wife (who had rare coloring) that it's like, "Bam!" _

_Soooooo... yeah. That's what that's about. Why would it be important for Bres to have someone who reminds Balor of his wife? Same reason Bres (and not one of his brothers) is in the envoy as well - they want to inspire comraderie, friendship, and trust of the Cíocal envoy in Bethmoora's royal family. And of course we all know why. _=D

_All right, time for our lovely review prompt! Wootness!_

_1) Nuada, our dearest Prince that we love - in character? Especially the "ew, human man trying to shake my hand, gross" part? I'm curious if I pulled that off. And also did I give His Royal $$-Ness (I rarely call him that, but sometimes he can be such an idiot) a good reason to be in a bad mood by the end?_

_2) Top three funniest parts of the fic so far?_

_3) Anything that isn't clear to you guys yet?_

_4) And our usual - 5 things you love, anything you hated or disliked or was unsure of, etc._

_I love you all! Make me happy in some way because me and my roommate are totally depressed with life and the economy and rent and the world and I kinda feel super depressed about everything, especially since Once Upon a Time is taking SO LONG to evolve romantically, which is nice for you guys, but kinda sucks for me to write because it's fast to read but super slow to type, sigh._

_Wow, I'm such a whiner. Meh. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! And I'll be back on the 1st of October (unless I get evicted in which case I don't know when I'll be back). Love you all!_

_._

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _The bodach (since we have one today). A bodach as borrowed into English, is a mythical spirit or creature, rather like the bogeyman. In Modern Scottish Gaelic the word simply means "old man", colloquially often used affectionately. Historically its meaning is "mature person", from _bod _"penis" and the suffix _-ach, _literally "someone who has a penis". In regions of Wales and Scotland, a bodach is a term for an imp or a faery, often one of the shapeshifting, mischievous variety; this term, though derogatory in nature, was often used with affection, translating closest to "scoundrel" or "rascal."_

_"A bodach is a mythical beast of the British Isles, a sly thing that comes down chimneys during the night to carry away naughty children. Bodachs are ink-black, fluid in shape, with no more substance than shadows. Soundless, as big as an average man, they frequently slink like cats, low to the ground." - Dean Koontz_

_._

_**References Made in the Chapter**_

- I did some reading on twins (both identical and fraternal) and found that the whole "freaky twin things" like made-up languages just between the two of them and speaking in unison at times are fairly common (though most children tend to grow out of such things). I figured though, based on the nature of Dylan and John's life (both possessing the Sight and having lots of experience with freaky things they can't talk about openly) the made-up language might not have gone by the wayside.

- John's idea of a good sandwich is inspired by Alison's lunch in _the Breakfast Club_. Pixie-stix, cheese balls... 'nuff said there.

- Saint Vincent's is (or was) an actual hospital in New York City. It is the hospital that Vincent from the television show _Beauty and the Beast_ is named after (in canon).

- The way it works in the state I live in (and from what I can tell, every state) is that if someone commits a crime but there's a strong enough suspicion that they're suicidal, instead of going to prison they go to a mental institution. However, once they're off suicide watch, they go back to prison/jail.

- Who is Doctor Westenra? And why does Dylan seem to dislike him so strongly? Hmmmm. Wouldn't you like to know?

- The song playing on the radio is "Desert Rose" by Sting. Just so y'all know, though, it's not impossible to have gardens in the desert. Speaking from personal experience. I live in a desert, and it's absolutely beautiful (except in winter, when it's freezing cold and raining/hailing/sleeting and everything's brown because the frost killed it).

- Miguel (aka Mickey-the-Bargaining-Chip) is a co-creation between me and OceanFire9. Mickey gets his debut in OceanFire's brilliant side-fic to this fic, _And Twice Beneath a Space_. It's amazing. You should read it.

- About the rules of Cíocal: I read once that the Fomorians are very much like the Titans of Greek mythology (as the Tuatha de are like the Olympian gods). I also read somewhere that the Titans/Fomorians/etc. were more likely to take in and shelter other disenfranchised beings. Then I saw SyFy's _Tinman_, which has this place called the City of the Unwanted. That's where I got the concept for Cíocal. Yes, this will be a problem later; of course it will. Why bring up a problem if it won't actually _be_ a problem?

- "The Jade Emperor" is a mythical emperor from Chinese mythology.

- Huizong is the name of one of the heavenly dragons in Chinese myth (as is Dilong).

- The Emperor of Dilong (also called the Dragon of Dilong or the Jade Dragon) is crazy because China in ancient times was known for its psychotic rulers.

- Ciaran and Dierdre's surname, MacAengus, means "child of Aengus." Aengus is the Irish god of love. Caer Ibormeith is the name of Aengus's true love, but here it's a small village-type place in Cíocal. And saying Ciaran is _the _MacAengus means he is the laird (ruling lord) of the lands ruled by the Clan of Aengus (that would be, among others, the gancanaugh) - hence why he's allowed to be in an envoy with the crown prince of the kingdom he's from.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- _Before Midnight_ by Cameron Dokey (AMAZING book! Very strong, 3-dimensional female characters)

- _The Coachman Rat_ by David Henry Wilson (mingles the stories of "Cinderella" and "the Pied Piper" in a beautiful, dark story)  
- _Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister_ by Gregory Maguire (very strong female characters and a surprising narrator)  
- _A Countess Below Stairs_ by Eva Ibbotson (OMG I LOVE HER WORK! Very cute historical adaptation of "Cinderella" set right after WWI, without the wicked stepmother but with a wicked princess in the way)

- _Ella Enchanted_ by Gail Carson Levine (is there anyone who doesn't know the story of Ella of Frell? Because if you don't know it, you should read it)  
- _Ever After_ (good movie; and there's a bad guy besides the stepmom, the prince isn't perfect, it has Leonardo daVinci, and Cinderella doesn't rely on the Prince to be rescued like, ever)

- _Phoenix and Ashes_ by Mercedes Lackey (Cinderella only has 9 fingers and some seriously cool magical powers, and the Prince character is strong, smart, and a pilot in the Royal Air Force)  
- _Princess of Glass_ by Jessica Day George (sequel to _Princess of the Midnight Ball;_ MC is not Cinderella, but ends up helping her and the Prince fight the evil fairy godmother, woot!)

- _The Stepsister Scheme_ by Jim C. Hines (combines Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and Snow White with some seriously kick-butt, _Charlie's Angels_ action)

- _Underworld: Rise of the Lycans_ - I saw it a couple days ago and HOLY CRAP! It's AMAZING! But watch the version aired on SyFy and cover your eyes during the sex scene (otherwise it's rated R and therefore I do not support it being watched). And be warned, for those who have not seen the other 2 films and don't know what the 3rd film is about... there are seriously sad bits. Seriously sad. But it is worth watching.

- "When the Clock Strikes" by Tanith Lee (very dark re-imagining of the fairy tale "Cinderella," found in her anthology _Red as Blood_)


	25. Words Like Pale Stones

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
References Made in the Chapter_  
.

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, so here we come to save the day! And we look FABULOUS! Okay, actually, I don't know how you guys look, but you probably look fabulous anyway. Anywho, now we have chapter twenty-five and twenty-six, with some more evil evolution as well as some Dylan & Nuada fluff/relationship evolution (this applies to both chapters). And other fun things, too! So yay for that. Especially because in later chapters (33-35ish) things are pretty dark. So charge your batteries now._ _See you at the end!_

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _Oni are creatures from Japanese folklore, variously translated as demons, devils, ogres or trolls. They are popular characters in Japanese art, literature and of oni vary widely but usually portray them as hideous, gigantic creatures with sharp claws, wild hair, and two long horns growing from their heads. They are humanoid for the most part, but occasionally, they are shown with unnatural features such as odd numbers of eyes or extra fingers and toes. Their skin may be any number of colors, but red and blue are particularly are often depicted wearing tiger-skin loincloths and carrying iron clubs, called kanabō. This image leads to the expression "oni with an iron club,"_ _that is, to be invincible or undefeatable. It can also be used in the sense of "strong beyond strong", or having one's natural quality enhanced or supplemented by the use of some tool._

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**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**Words Like Pale Stones**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Harsh Words, Defiance, the Love of a Sister, Ghosts of the Past, Blood Spilled, and a Confession of Affection**

.

.

"You are late," Nuada snapped as irritation - and relief, loath as he was to admit it - flooded through him. The human looked as if she had been trampled by wild horses: rumpled, face tight with pain and weariness. The twinge of concern made his voice sharp enough to cut the wind when he demanded, "Was I unclear when I said to be quick?"

What had she been doing out there? _I hate my life. _What had happened?

But he did not want to know. Did not want to feel the relief washing over him like crashing surf, unstoppable. Being relieved meant he had been worried, and he did not want to worry over the infuriating human who slumped against the door looking so forlorn.

Surprised at the sharpness in his voice, Dylan lifted her face from her hands and studied the Elven prince silhouetted by the sullen glow of the dying fire. His face was in shadow, so she couldn't read his expression. But listening to his voice was like walking through nettles: prickling, stabbing, biting. Exhaustion and hunger were making her slow. Dylan knew that was why she didn't understand why Nuada was upset.

_When was the last time I ate? _She wondered. Realized it had been before the court appearance the night before. And she'd barely had any real, non-magic-induced sleep in days. _So that's why I feel so out of it. Okay. Um... time to focus._

"I am waiting," the prince said, every word chiseled from ice. _Do not soften, _he commanded himself. _Do not soften towards her. We should have left hours ago, yet here we still are. Father is going to be furious. Do _not _soften._

Dylan blinked, tired confusion fueling the headache burning behind her eyes. Blinked again. "For what?"

"For an explanation as to why you find it impossible to obey even the simplest order."

That was anger in his voice, she realized. Her stomach began to churn as the pain in her head expanded. Real anger, not just annoyance or exasperation. Anger of the kind she hadn't seen from him in months. What had she done to make him so upset? _Or what haven't I done? _Dylan added with some disparity. She couldn't deal with this yet. She needed to change, maybe take a quick shower, eat. Then she'd deal with whatever Nuada was angry about. _Although if I don't answer his question, _Dylan thought, _he's going to bite my face off._

"You said _'try _to be quick,'" she reminded him. Using her cane as leverage, she managed to get to her aching feet. Her bad leg wobbled, but she leaned on the sturdy rosewood stick until she could stand. Bat trotted toward her, mewing plaintively. Dylan nudged him with her foot until he flopped over and wriggled.

"I _did _try," she added. "I really did. I had to let a pissed-off gang-father scream at me for an hour before I got what I wanted. Then I had two furious parents ranting at me for even longer about how their fourteen-year-old daughter was turning into a hooligan and what was I going to do about that? Well, that's to be expected; most parents don't react well to official involvement like, _ever_.

"But _then _I had to deal with the SWAT-liason, and the leader of the Lobos, and the head of Saint Vincent's teenage psych ward - although I'm very fond of Doctor Hollis - and a whole bunch of other people I'd rather see get eaten by dingoes just so they'll stop giving me paperwork to sign-"

"You speak as if I could possibly care about these things," Nuada said.

Dylan felt her blood begin to frost. What was going on here? Why was he being so mean? _He's not just angry and taking it out on me, _she realized as a hollow emptiness took root in the pit of her stomach. It pulsed in time with her heart, and with the pain in her feet, leg, and skull. _He's actually angry _at _me._ And before she could stop herself, the day's events smashed into her like a tsunami and she let the bronze-eyed Elven prince know exactly how she felt about _that._

"Great," she muttered. Raked her fingers through her hair. Dylan ignored the fact that her hand was shaking. "That's just great. You're mad at me. So now, my sisters are probably furious with me; my so-called 'boss' is irritated at me and some of the cops are mad at me because, let's face it, every time this whole stand-off thing happens we all get mountains of obnoxious paperwork and we _hate _that. Ugh, those little forms are _so _evil. My sort-of-partner is semi-ticked at me for the same reason; four parents are probably plotting my imminent demise; John is mad at me for disappearing but won't admit it, and now you're angry too. So the two most important people in my life - and everyone else in the world - are mad at me. Fan-freaking-tastic."

_Okay, not the time for a pity party, _Dylan reminded herself as tears threatened. She quickly beat them back before she embarrassed herself. _Don't be a whiny baby. People get mad at people. It happens. Suck it up; I'll survive if Nuada doesn't feel all warm and fuzzy toward me every second of every day. Or ever at all._

"You know what, never mind. Out of everyone, I probably actually deserve _you_ being mad at me. You don't get mad for no reason. Whatever it is, Your Highness, I'm sincerely sorry, but can we talk about it in fifteen minutes?" She pushed away from the door and began limping toward her bedroom. A hot shower, a change of clothes, and she was pretty sure a pluot or four were waiting for her in there. "Just fifteen minutes; I need fifteen minutes before I let you rip my head off. Okay?"

"No, it is _not_-" Nuada began, but Dylan limped past him, holding up one hand as if to ward off his fury.

"Fifteen minutes, Your Highness," she said sharply, and walked into what he assumed was her room. The door creaked shut behind her. Locked with an audible click.

Nuada glared glacial topaz knives at the closed door, feeling murderous. How dare she walk away from him? How dare she ignore him and attempt to command him when _he_ was the royal, not she? He had been too lenient with the human. This showed what came of being soft with mortals. Disrespect. He, the Silver Lance, son of King Balor, would not be overruled and humbled by a mortal woman.

And what was she doing in there, anyway? Gritting his teeth, he stalked toward the door, determined to find out, but stopped when a timid voice murmured, "Your Highness... I would not go in there if I were you."

Nuada glared at the door. "Indeed?"

"She is listening to the messages left on her phone."

Of course. That idiotic piece of human machinery was more important to the mortal woman than anything he, Nuada Silverlance, could possibly have to say to her. Never mind that they both currently sat in the middle of a political tangle that could cost him nearly _everything._ And she needed fifteen minutes to deal with the blasted thing? He despised telephones - and computers, televisions, video games, and all the other imbecilic inventions humans had created over the centuries to waste the precious moments they were unfairly blessed with in life. Perhaps she was, in fact, like every other human he had ever met: obsessed with the material, wrapped up in her own life.

He knew he was being grossly unjust, but anger bordering perilously close to rage simmered in his veins. She needed fifteen minutes to check her _phone messages?_ They were already in a vast load of trouble, they were hours past when he had hoped to return (and thus avoid most of the king's fury) and she needed fifteen minutes for _that?_

_Father is not going to accept that as an excuse. _

Aloud, he replied coolly, "And I am to be concerned by this for what reason? I care not for the trivial, petty concerns of mortal lives-"

"Highness, if I may be so bold..." Becan swallowed hard when the prince turned a lethally frosted gaze on him. "Please... I beg you to wait for her. This night has been hard for her. It will be harder yet - her sisters have left messages for her, and she feels honor-bound to hear them." The brownie took a bit more courage when the crown prince's eyes softened from bronze to deep amber. "She relies very much on your favor, Your Highness, your... consideration. Your continued kindness gives her strength and peace. I beg that you not take it from her tonight."

"Why would her sisters' words make..." Nuada trailed off as an odd sound came from the other side of the door. Not weeping. A strained, almost strangled sound. The golden-eyed prince focused on any sounds that might come from beyond the door, curious now despite his only-slowly-fading irritation. What was the human doing in there?

"Why did you call all of them, John?" Dylan's voice, a mere thread of sound through the door. Exasperation and... was that hurt? "Or any of them? You know it just makes them angry. Why did you call them? Well... better face the music now. Who knows? They might not be that bad. Shouldn't make assumptions, right? And at least I have my pluots." There was a series of electronic beeps, some static-filled mumbling that was probably Dylan's phone, and another beep. The sound of someone biting into fresh fruit. The voice that spoke next was loud, strident, and clearly infuriated.

_"Dylan, this is Victoria - what the hell? Why is John calling me about you? What did you do, get picked up by a serial killer? Fall in the river and drown on one of your stupid walks? That would be so like you. You better call the little whiner-baby back before he calls me again. I've got a date tonight; I don't have time to be worrying about your sorry ass. And answer your stupid phone next time_ _like you promised." _There was the sharp click of disconnect.

"Well," Dylan mumbled. "One down; only six to go. Dare I hold out hope?"

There was another beep. Another message (from a woman named Gardenia) demanding Dylan's whereabouts, complaining about her absence. _"And thanks for ditching my Halloween party, by the way, Sis. Why did I even invite you, anyway? You said you wanted to go, then didn't even call to say you weren't showing up. Forget coming over for Thanksgiving, if that's how you wanna be. But seriously... stop getting into trouble or whatever. You're freaking John out." _

A third voicemail: _"Okay, Brat, why are Victoria and Gardenia bothering me about you being a complete and total spaz? I told them not to be surprised - it's _you, _after all - but they flipped out anyway. And John's freaking too. Have some consideration for other people, would you please? And call me back so I know what the hell's going on. You know you freak us out when you disappear like this."_

"Knew I'd forgotten something. Sorry to be an inconvenience, Pauline," the human said on a sigh. "Jeez, John. Seriously? I really hope you didn't call Petra. She's going to eat my face off. With tobasco sauce and a tropical-flavored wine cooler. You know they all get crabby when they're freaked."

In a low voice, Nuada demanded of the brownie, "They call her 'brat?' Her sisters speak to her this way?"

Becan only shrugged helplessly. His mistress did not get on well with her seven sisters. Never had, really, as far as he could recollect. In fact, none of the Myers children got along with each other apart from their respective twins.

The Elven prince frowned and glared at the door, soaking up this new information as a fourth message, this one containing several vile expletives and insults to Dylan's virtue and breeding, as well as intimations of a lascivious nature, snarled through the door from Dylan's phone. The brownie explained that this was most likely the second-youngest of the eight women, Francesca, who had a particularly foul mouth (even when in a good mood, which Becan insisted she was in) and a filthy mind.

A fifth - Gardenia's twin, Simone - was a bit more sedate, layering on guilt instead of attacking with profanity and anger.

The next, from Dylan's sister Mary, was merely a reminder that it wasn't _her _job to keep track of Dylan's whereabouts, and wherever she happened to be, the psychiatrist needed to keep John appraised so he wouldn't interrupt Mary's yoga class, thank-you-very-much.

Another was soft and muffled. Nuada only heard the beginning, a woman's voice saying, _"Hey, Dylan, it's Renee. Where are you? Are you..."_ The Elven prince glanced at Becan.

"Milady's favorite cousin," the brownie explained. "She, too, is Sight-blessed, but her parents knew about the Hidden Folk and so did not react as my lady's family did when their daughter began telling tales of magical people."

The last message was from the dreaded Petra ("Milady's oldest sister," Becan explained softly), who informed her youngest sister that disappearing at a moment's notice was immature, rude, and stupid, and that Dylan was old enough to know better.

_"Next time John calls me asking about you, I'm coming over there and kicking your ass. In case you haven't noticed, I've got better things to do with my life than worry about my stupid baby sister and whatever dumbass thing you're involved in this week. Be a freaking grownup for once in your life. Jeez."_

Softer now, Petra added, _"And call me back, you brat. The last time you disappeared, we didn't see you for three_ _months. You'd better call me back, do you hear me?_ _Stop scaring us." _What followed was a phrase of human profanity that Nuada was unfamiliar with, that ripped a small sound of shock from Dylan's mouth. Then the line went dead.

"Why is she listening to these?"The prince snapped at the brownie. "Can she not simply... erase them? Ignore them?" _She does not deserve this..._

"I believe..." Becan trailed off, unsure how to explain. Marshaling his thoughts, he murmured, "I believe my lady holds out hope that one day her sisters will not speak so to her. They do not always, you know, Your Highness. Sometimes the eight of them get along very well... for a little while. She tries to give them new chances every day to renew their broken relationships. So does Master John. I sometimes try to encourage her to break ties with them, but family means much to my lady.

"And she believes it is not her sisters' fault, but her own - for possessing the Sight. Always she insists that they do not understand, and that if they did, things would be very different between them. And they do not hate her, Sire. I know that her sisters love her. They... just have an hard time showing it because of the past. But when she needs them, they are always there for my lady... when she is willing to ask them to come."

_"Having the Sight... that secret between me and them... it's pretty much ruined my relationship with my sisters because they don't see what I See. They think I'm crazy."_ Dylan's words from last night. Was this why she valued Nuada's presence in her life so highly? Who else did she truly have in her life, who could she be completely honest with, besides one idiotic and ineffectual human brother, a brownie, and a Prince of the Hidden Folk? Apparently no one.

Her words from earlier suddenly shimmered into the forefront of his mind: _I saw someone I... someone I love very much die in front of me in the most brutal ways, over and over again._ Him. She meant him. _Someone I love very much._ But how could she possibly mean him? And what kind of love did she mean? He would have to think on that, and what he had learned just now about Dylan's so-called family. And he knew that he owed her an apology (the thought made him grind his teeth) for snarling at her, as well.

Nuada heard the mortal woman sigh before she finished off the fruit she kept in her room. There was a thunk of something small hitting the floor, then another. The sound of suddenly-bare feet on soft, lush carpet. The hum of electric lights flickering on, and then the creaking-rattling hiss of water flooding copper pipes in the walls.

"It has only been five or six minutes, Your Highness," the brownie murmured. "I believe my lady plans on taking a quick shower." Becan hesitated before adding, "If that is unacceptable to you, Sire, I can speak to Lady Dylan-"

"No," Nuada said. He was frowning at the door, thinking. Black tendrils of anger swirled and coiled inside him, but they were no longer directed at the human woman. "No. Simply make sure she is out in the allotted time."

"Highness," the brownie replied, bowing, as Nuada strode back to his chair and sank down into it to stare into the glowing coals of the dying fire.

Dylan stumbled out of the shower, knowing she had at least two minutes to spare. The hot water had done a bit for the pain throbbing like an abscessed tooth in her knee, but not as much as she'd hoped. Thankfully, Becan had made her life a lot easier by laying out clothes for her: underthings, a pair of black jeans and a large, black sweater her twin had bought for her ages ago, worn over a red shirt. Bat curled up on the bed beside the clothes, the black cat purring in his sleep.

_Still with the matching, _Dylan thought when she saw the clothes, but couldn't fight her tired smile. Would the fact that she wore red and black like the prince appease Nuada's anger, or make it worse? _Whatever, it's cold outside and this is my favorite sweater. _It was one John had bought for her when he'd been in college. Half a size too big, it hung like a micro-mini dress on Dylan now. _But that's why I'm wearing pants. _Slipping on a pair of black socks sprinkled with red hearts, she started toward the door when her cell phone rang.

_Ugh, what now? It's almost one in the morning!_ Then she saw the readout for caller ID. _Oh, no. Why is Francesca calling me now? Actually, I know the answer to that - she probably just got off shift. Be nice, _she reminded herself. _Be nice. And if I can't be nice, I'll tell her I can't talk and hang up._ Dylan clicked TALK. Forcing cheer into her tired voice, she cried, "Hey, hon!" Pushing open her bedroom door with her hip, she added, "What's up?"

_"You are such a-"_ Dylan pulled the phone away before her sister could finish that statement. Brought the phone back after the string of shrill curses tapered off. _"Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick!"_

"I was helping a friend in trouble," she replied, glancing at the prince who sat brooding in her living room. He glanced her way, and she held a few fingers away from the phone, mouthing, "Five minutes. Sorry." Moving into the kitchen, she added to her sister, "I left John a note. I'm sorry he called you. I didn't mean for you to worry."

_"Eh, whatevs, it's all good. So, a friend, huh? A guy friend? Like, one of those Harry Hard-Lucks you're always wasting your time on? Or a smexy friends-with-bennies friend? 'Cause if it's Harry Hard-Luck, then there's this bodacious guy at Olivia's you've gotta meet. He's got muscles like-"_

Slightly annoyed, Dylan leaned against the counter and said, "No thanks, and neither one. He's _just_ a friend." Why was her big sister always trying to set her up with someone? It was one of the few things that Dylan and her other six sisters were united about: Francesca always dated losers, and always tried to hook up those of her sisters who were single with similar losers. And, even more annoying, if she found out one of her siblings had even just an acquaintance of the opposite gender, Francesca assumed they were having sex. _I really want to smack her sometimes._

_"Yeah, sure, whatever. So that's where you were for the last week or whatever. Finally got laid. About freaking time. You lucky duck - a romantic get-away for two, I bet. Did you have fun?"_

The headache screaming behind her eyes slowly began scraping across the top of her skull towards the nape of her neck. Once it got there, no amount of ibuprofen or Tylenol would knock it out again. She'd have to crawl under a rock and die. Dylan almost felt nauseous from the pain and lack of food. Four pieces of fruit weren't gonna cut it. "I'm not gonna argue with you because you never listen anyway when it comes to me and men."

_"Ha! So you admit it! Yay! Dylan got laid!"_

_Oh, for pity's sake. Why is she like this? _Aloud, all the younger woman said was, "Look, he's just a friend. There was no laying! Okay?" Could Nuada hear this conversation? Heat flared in Dylan's cheeks at the thought. _Oh, please, please no. That would just be... no. I beg anyone listening. In the mood he's in, he'd probably rip off my head and play kickball with it._ "He's _just _a _friend_," she insisted. "And he's here right now, so can you-"

Big mistake. Big, _big _mistake. _**Huge**_**.**

_"Oh-my-effing-gawd, you guys were doing it, weren't you? You were having sex! I'm so proud of you! Come on, give me the details! Gimme!"_

"No!" Mortified, Dylan poked her head out to see Nuada, looking slightly scandalized, glaring daggers at the kitchen doorway. Dylan flushed. Oh, yeah. He'd heard that. _Oh, my gosh. Why? Why is my sister so perverted? Seriously, why? _She grimaced and mouthed, "Sorry!"

The Elven prince demanded, "What sort of filthy mind does your sister possess?"

"A really, _really_ salacious one. Just ignore her. She's... yeah." There was a burst of rapid chatter from the cell phone. "Hang on just a sec." To Francesca, Dylan snapped, "What?"

_"Is that him? I wanna talk to him! Can I talk to him?"_

Her grip on her cane tightened. "No, you can't talk to him! He's busy!"

_"Oh, wow, he's naked, isn't he? Is he hot? Please take a picture of his shirtless glory and send it my way! It's been so long since I've had any decent eye candy and I'm starving!"_

"Will you grow up?" Dylan growled, knuckling her eyes to try and push back her searing headache. It had taken up residence right behind her left eye now. "You're thirty-one, not twenty-one! I'm not sending you a picture of my shirtless boyfriend!"

_"So you admit he's shirtless and your boyfriend!"_

_Oh, crud. Why don't I _think _before I talk? With my luck, she's going to spread this around to the others and I'm gonna be so screwed. _Reminding herself that throwing her phone against the wall wouldn't even put a dent in her older sister's thick skull, she drew a deep breath and said, "Okay, know what?" Dylan let just a small bit of bite enter her voice. She could feel Nuada's eyes boring holes into her. He was going to be _furious_ when she got off the phone. "Good night, honey. I'll talk to you later."

_"Dylan! Don't be such a frigid fish! Just tell me! I want to talk to the stud muffin!"_

_Frigid fish. Wow._ How many people had said that about her? Ex-almost-boyfriends, their friends, catty girls in college. Even her last (actually, first and only) real boyfriend in med school. And of course, her sisters, who thought it was due to some defect in her wiring that she wasn't shacking up with Joe (or Joanna) Schmuckitelli every weekend. Why she never had a date. No amount of protesting on her part made a dent in their suspicions.

_The practical cons of having the Sight; that and random ghoulies wanting to rip your eyeballs out of your head._

Throttling back the hurt and irritation simmering in her stomach, Dylan replied a bit too brightly, "Bye, 'Cesca!"

_"Wait! Wait, wait, wait! Talk to meeeeeee-"_

She clicked END. Went back into the kitchen and laid her phone on the counter before dropping her face into her hands and groaning with embarrassment. Less than a full minute later, her tinkling "New TXT Message" ringtone chimed. She glanced at the readout and saw that Francesca had written _"Ur a greedy b!tch. Luv ya."_

Dylan sighed and tried to ignore herself when she thought, _Sometimes I kinda hate my family._ Well, that hadn't taken five minutes. She still had some time. And she didn't _want _to deal with Nuada's anger. Not yet. _Not when everyone else, including John, is ticked off at me in some capacity. _And especially not after the prince overheard Francesca's comments. _Oh, my gosh. I'm going to kill her so dead. After he kills me dead._ So she'd get a drink first. Maybe an apple or something to ease back the hunger-nausea in her stomach.

Dylan grabbed a bottle of cider from the fridge and pulled down a mug. Thought for a second. _Well, it's hand-pressed cider from the Amish market. Glass bottle. No contaminants or preservatives or anything. Maybe he'd like it. And I kinda owe him for today and last night. And I never_ really _feed him. Maybe I should start. And maybe he won't be so mad if I give him something to drink - food-bribery usually works on men._

So she grabbed her favorite mug (white porcelain, painted with poinsettias and big-eyed cartoon penguins; the last real gift from her mother before her death four years ago) and started to pull it down.

Tired and in pain, she fumbled it. The mug slipped from her fingers.

**.**

Doctor Lucian Westenra sat behind his desk and fumed, staring at the memo his secretary had put on his desk along with his coffee. The coffee, once steaming hot, had gone ice cold in the time the older doctor had spent staring at the hastily scribbled message. The words bled crimson against the pale ivory paper like the slices of a razor against flesh.

_Dr. Myers had you barred  
from the Ramirez case.  
Dr. Hollis is primary._

Oh, she had, had she? That upstart little slut had had the gall to make her snotty little phone calls and have him barred from the Ramirez girl. He was one of Saint Vincent's top psychiatrists. Who did Doctor Dylan Myers think she was, trying to bar him from anything?

It was petty vengeance, he knew that. Revenge for her time at Saint Vincent's, for what had happened during those first six years. Especially bringing in Hollis. Hollis was a good doctor. One of the best. And Myers trusted the young, handsome shrink.

Still... she was sticking her nose into Westenra's hospital. _Again_. Territory meant nothing to her. Jurisdiction meant nothing. She didn't want him near her precious patients because of their shared bit of history.

Well, he knew secrets about the little witch that would shock the police department, shock the boards of the schools she slaved for, shock everyone of any standing that she sought to impress. How many people really knew the true stories behind those five vicious scars the female therapist bore on her body? Not to mention the other scars she carried.

_But to expose her risks exposing myself. I got a second chance from the adminstrative board. They won't give me a third. Not after last time. _Westenra rubbed at the thick, livid scar that marred his left wrist. Dark as blood, it spread over the cuff of his shirt sleeve like a stain. He'd gotten that scar from Myers. Years ago. Almost two decades ago, but he remembered the most minute details from that day.

The succinylcholine should have kept her docile. Should have kept her from thrashing around like a wild animal desperate to escape. Lithium should have left her dazed and glassy-eyed. And they'd been sure it had. The nurses had spoken gentle encouragement to the then-twelve-year-old girl. _It's all right. We only want to help you get better, Dylan._ She'd been quiet, sleepy-eyed almost. Tractable.

Then he'd tried to put the depressor in her mouth to keep her from biting her tongue during the shock therapy.

She'd flailed then. Thrashed. Whipped her head back and forth to avoid the oral violation. Screamed like she was dying. And when he tried to grab her, her vicious little teeth had sunk deep into his wrist. Deep into the vein there. And she'd wrenched her head back, ripping flesh and muscle. Tearing open the blood vessels. Only the combined efforts of all the nurses in the room had kept the little brat still long enough for them to sedate her. Heavily.

Westenra remembered the things she'd screamed at him while his blood had pumped from the wound. The nurses had ignored it, dismissed it as the insane rantings of a paranoid-schizophrenic child. They knew the kid was disturbed. But the words - her accusations - still rang in his head, even now: _You let them_ _do it! You let them_ _do it to us! Them and that man! I'll tell everyone! When I get out of here, I'll tell everyone. They won't be able to save you, you bastard! We'll bring you down and you'll pay for letting them do it!_

And she had. She'd told anyone who would listen for five seconds what Doctor Westenra had let "them" do to Dylan and the other kids at Saint Vincent's. Luckily for him, there had been three problems with her story: one, most people wouldn't believe a mentally disturbed eighteen-year-old girl who refused to take her medication (even if she was backed up by two others), and that included the trustees on the hospital's adminstrative board; two, the "them" were very, very influential people; and three (the one that had filled those bizarre blue eyes with hatred), the statute of limitations on what Westenra had allowed to happen was five years. The little witch had been forced to wait a year too long.

_Now she just makes hell for me in my own hospital, _he snarled, _and that Lt. Peabody lets her because they're old friends. Damn them both._ The old psychiatrist stared with fresh hate at the memo and tapped it with a pen. Almost stabbing with the red tip. He wouldn't stand for this. He'd been a top player in his medical field longer than Myers had been alive. Like hell would he let some psychotic nutcase who believed in fairies dictate how he ran his hospital. And just to make sure she knew exactly who was in charge at Saint Vincent's, Westenra had to make a phone call.

Picking up his office phone, he pressed the button to page his secretary. Gripped the pen in his opposite hand until his knuckles were white. Imagined it was Doctor Myers' throat.

"Helena," Westenra murmured into the phone. The pen creaked in his grip. "I know it's late. After this, you can go home, but I need you to make a call for me. Yes, dear." The plastic grip on the pen was beginning to crack, just slightly. "Please call Mr. Ivan Blackwood. Tell him it's about his sons, Patrick and Xander. Yes, and our mutual little friend. Tell him she's starting to cause some problems for me again. For all of us. Yes, Helena. Thank you."

The pen shattered in his grip. Crimson oozed between his fingers to drip onto the white paper.

**.**

Nuada's head whipped around when he heard dual crashes like shattering glass, followed by a sharp cry of pain and then a muffled yelp. In an instant he was in the kitchen. He blinked in surprise when he found Dylan standing on one foot, leaning one arm on the cluttered kitchen counter for balance while she cradled her other hand to her chest. Her cane lay on the floor amidst the shards of glass. She met his eyes and the prince was surprised to see the shine of tears in her gaze. Her face was paler than before; exhaustion? Or pain?

But all she said was, "Don't come in here, Your Highness; there's broken glass everywhere. You might step on it."

As she had. He could see tiny drops of iron-laced blood dripping from her elevated foot to the floor. A sliver of porcelain jutted through her sock and had embedded itself in her heel. She was balancing on her bad leg, Nuada realized, which trembled under the strain of supporting most of her weight. Another piece of broken glass thrust deep into the mound at the base of her thumb. Crimson blood flowed freely from the cut onto the counter. The rest of the glass lay in jagged pieces all around her, trapping her there.

"Tonight," Dylan said with a strained laugh, "is just not my night, is it?" More softly, she added, "Great. That was my favorite mug. My mother gave that to me before she... well, whatever. Tonight is really _not_ my night." The human began to look around, as if searching for a safe path through the razor-edged slivers. Nuada knew there wasn't one, since she would have to hop on her weak leg. The odds of her injuring herself further were incredibly high.

Ignoring the crunch of porcelain under his boots, the amber-eyed prince went to the mortal and scooped her up in his arms.

"Hey! Whoa!" Her voice was a breathless squeak laced with pain. "I can walk, really, you don't have to-"

"Be quiet," he muttered, shifting her weight a little. Her damp hair, which tickled his face, smelled of sweet pea blossoms, violets, and the fresh scent of clean water. "Becan," he added sharply, knowing the little faerie could hear him. "Hot water, soap, washcloths, and Dylan's medical supplies." Then he carried her to the front room, where he deposited her in his chair. The Elven prince crouched down in front of her.

"Hold out your foot," Nuada commanded. Despite the confusion and tiredness in her eyes, and the banked fury he knew smoldered in his, she obeyed him. Deftly he plucked out the glass sliver. Noted with approval when she did not cry out in pain. Then he carefully peeled off the blood-soaked sock so he could get a better look at the wound. With a brief thought he eased what he knew from experience to be biting hot pain with a bit of cool, soothing magic. "Give me your hand." She obediently held it out, and he repeated the process on the cut at the base of her thumb. Then he went back to her foot.

"Um... you don't have to do that," Dylan murmured, trying not to fidget. The magic under her skin was like a cool breeze in spring, easing the burn of pain. His fingers holding her ankle still were warm and gentle despite the rough calluses. Hadn't he been mad at her twenty minutes ago? Now suddenly he was being so sweet. Well, sort of. "I can do it." She started to pull her foot back.

"Be still," he commanded. Studied the cut on her heel. It was not deep; would not need stitches. A flash of red light on silver caught his eye as a basin of soapy water floated past him to settle on the coffee table. Two washcloths and the rest of the supplies requested quickly followed. Nuada wet one of the cloths and, taking Dylan's foot gently in one hand again, began to wash away the blood. Magic whispered through her foot and up her calf to quench the fire searing her knee. In moments the pain had faded to a memory.

_I saw someone I... someone I love very much die in front of me..._ She loved him. Dylan loved him? How did she love him, that was the question?

Nuada remembered her professions of friendship. Recalled the affection always shining in her eyes when she saw him. Platonic love, then? That was acceptable. Preferable, in fact, to her disdain or contempt. The cold knot that tightened in his belly at the memory of her flashback the night before told him that much. Platonic love was perfectly acceptable. It fit with the loyalty she had already professed more than once.

_Someone I love very much... _And if it was... more than Platonic? More than the love of a friend? Would he know if it was? What would he do in that event?

"Nuada," Dylan said, breaking his thoughts to pieces and scattering them on the wind. "It's okay, you don't have to-"

The Elven prince wrenched his thoughts away from the words running circles through his mind and focused on the task at hand - and the reason why she might be trying to stop him from aiding her.

"Do not seek to command me, woman." How did the human always manage to do this? He always set out to teach her her place, to show her that he would be obeyed in all things, whether she willed it or no. And almost always, something happened to divert him from his purpose. _She is more frustrating than Nuala ever was._ "Since you finally have time to converse with me, perhaps you might explain how this happened. And leave your hand there, on your knee," the prince added when Dylan started to move her blood-smeared hand to cradle it against her chest. "Now, explain."

"I was going to get a drink - I don't know about you, but I'm really thirsty. And I figured if you were going to yell at me, you didn't want the effect ruined by your voice cracking from dehydration. But I guess I wasn't paying attention... anyway, I dropped one of the cups and it broke. Some of the glass got on the counter and some got on the floor. I stepped on a piece. Lost my balance, planted my hand on the counter, cut myself again like an idiot," she said, slumping back into the cushy chair.

Her head was swimming. Blood loss? _No,_ she thought. _Not enough blood. Then why... oh, wait._ She'd slept for only three hours in the last nearly-forty hours, had barely eaten anything in more than twenty-four hours except a couple pieces of fruit, and was now bleeding and in pain, with a headache slashing its way to becoming a migraine. No wonder she was woozy.

"Ugh, today's just been... crazy. And hectic. Oh, and I have to go to work tomorrow." She rubbed her throbbing temple with her good hand. "Not till, like, noon, but still. Work. I hate going to work after crummy days and it's one o'clock in the morning already. Someone kill me, please. Oh, put that green gel stuff on the cut before you bandage it. It's aloe sap, makes it heal faster, kills infection, blah-blah."

"You have a headache," Nuada said softly as he began to spread the cool, translucent green gel over the wound. Dylan's breath hissed through her clenched teeth, but she made no complaint. "Are you unwell?"

"Huh? No."

Something warm fizzed in her stomach. Was he actually worried about her? _Maybe that's why he was so mad when I got home late - because he was worried something had happened. Worrying against his will, too, probably, which just made him madder, knowing him._ And she remembered what she'd said to Nuala that morning: psychology one-oh-one. _That is probably _exactly _it. And he's under a lot of stress anyway and it's so late. No wonder he was so angry. And has he had any sleep since putting me to bed last night? _

"No, I'm fine," Dylan repeated. "Thank you. I just haven't really eaten since..." She had to think about it for a minute. "Since Caspar fed me yesterday afternoon."

His grip on her ankle tightened fractionally, but Nuada said nothing. After a moment of tense stillness, he relaxed and continued his ministrations.

"I would've had breakfast," Dylan added, a bit defensively. "But it's Fast Sunday, so I was fasting for the first two meals of the day. I planned on getting something after church but then I got the idea for us to escape for a while and thought maybe you and I could eat together or something while we were out. Then Wink and Becan showed up and everything went kaplooey. I had a snack in my room, though."

"'Kaplooey.'" He arched a brow as he began bandaging the wide cut on the bottom of her foot. "This is a technical term?"

Dylan grinned, despite the burning in her foot from the healing gel. "Yep; one of my favorites." Was it her imagination, or was the corner of his mouth quirking up just a little? _Well, he doesn't look ready to chew my face off anymore. Maybe now's a good time to..._ "Nuada," she said. He glanced up at her as he finished tying off the little bandage. "May I ask..." He raised both brows in question. "Why were you so angry before? Did I do something wrong?" When the Elven prince frowned at her, she hastened to add, "I'm sorry I was so late. I know you need to get back. Things just took a lot longer than I thought they would-"

"It does not matter," he said, rinsing the cloth. Traces of pink swirled in the soapy water. In his mind's eye he continued to see scarlet drops of blood stark against white tile; and like an echo of nightmares, he remembered crimson blood soaking white linen. "I am not angry with you now."

_In fact, it is your kin who have earned my anger. Your kin, and all the others who kept you so long, but especially your "sisters." _How dare they - they, her sisters who should have treasured her, should have held her in high esteem for her Sight - treat her so harshly? _They call her brat, whore. Bitch. _That last made hatred sing through his veins like blood over a knife blade. _I remember what she told me of them; they were the ones to fill the creek and the woods near their home with human trash. Only the ties of their blood to hers prevent me from ending their pitiful existences._

_Someone I love very much... _He needed to cease thinking about that. Now. This very instant.

"But you _were_ mad at me, though." Swallowing hard, Dylan reached out and laid very light fingertips on his shoulder. Nuada went absolutely still beneath her touch. She thought about pulling her hand back, but then he met her eyes and she saw no anger in them. "What's up? You can tell me. I can't fix it if you don't tell me."

What to say to her? That the worry at her continued absence and the relief inside him at her return should not exist? That he despised the fact that seeing her smile at him nearly always made him smile back at her? That her too-fey eyes, shining with joy whenever she saw him, had the power to make him forget (albeit briefly) that she was human? That her happiness in his presence always served to remind him that she was the only one who rejoiced in his company? And then there was his father, his sister, Eamonn, the hidden blades of court intrigue. All of it infuriated him. Almost all of it possessed the power to hurt him, in so many ways.

In the end, Nuada settled for, "For one thing, I am frustrated by your inability to follow my orders. Your hand."

Dylan offered him her injured hand. The cut still oozed. The Elf warrior's frustration was belied by how very gentle he was when he took her hand in his and began to clean away the blood with the damp cloth. His touch was cool and soothing as he pushed a bit more magic into the wound.

She said softly, "I _do_ listen to your orders. The only time I didn't was when you were going to fight the guard captain. Your dad would've been furious, and you would've gotten in trouble, and then I would've gotten killed because I'd have yelled at your dad about him being a jerk to you - which I still have to do, by the way, so maybe you should see about picking out a burial plot for me - and then where would we be? Well," she added when he shot her a look, "there _was_ the thing with Eamonn, but you already said you'd kill me if I did that again and I kinda like living, so that's not a problem anymore. But I needed to stop you from fighting that guard so your dad didn't rip your head off because I'd have had to protest really, really loudly."

"You would have yelled at my father for rebuking me over my fight with Oisin?"

"I plan on yelling at your dad for a lot of things," the mortal woman informed him sharply. Paused to think while he began to spread aloe sap on her palm. "Well... maybe not yelling. Speaking to. Sternly. With some grown-up maturity for good measure."

The thought of the human chastising a faery king on his behalf made him smile. _Though it should not, _Nuada reminded himself. _She could get herself killed doing such a thing. _But aloud all he said, in a deceptively mild voice, was, "And if I ordered you not to do so?"

"You'd order me not to defend you?" There was a hint of steel in her voice now.

"I am a prince and a warrior, Dylan," he reminded her with some steel of his own. From the periphery of his vision, he caught the scowl on her face. _Like an angry kitten with its fur puffed up. _Nuada fought the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. _It is not amusing, _the Elf warrior told himself, though he could not rid himself of the image of the human woman as a hissing kitten with a bottle-brush tail, which made him sharp when he added, "I do not _need_ you to defend me."

"But you _deserve_ someone defending you, Nuada," she murmured. He paused in bandaging the cut on her palm, but did not look at her again. His fingers curled around her wrist to hold her hand still. Her heartbeat drummed steadily against his fingertips. No quickening pulse to show she lied. No scent of deceit about her. Just utmost sincerity as she said, "You should have someone in your corner besides yourself." In a voice barely audible over the crackling fire and the strange, bittersweet feeling humming in Nuada's blood, she added, "It isn't right that you're so alone all the time. Someone should stand by you."

Her words swirled around him like delicate mist as he finished with her hand. Nuada did not release her, though. Only held her wrist in a loose but implacable grip. When he finally met her gaze, the prince was surprised to see a flicker of sorrow there. "I have Wink." He was unsure if he was simply telling her, or trying to console her. Why did she look so sad? _Someone I love..._

"Well," Dylan replied firmly, "you have me, too, my prince."

Still truth in her voice. Still that same sorrow in her eyes. It gave him a distinctly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. To push the feeling away, he smirked and replied, "Then do as I command you, woman. And my first command, as of this moment, is to take better care yourself. You place yourself at risk if you become ill. You need to eat more."

"I'll eat as soon as we get back to Findias, I promise."

_Wait, _she thought, a flash of panic sparking in her skull. _I can't go back to Findias, I have to be available if something happens. I... but he's worried about me. And he's going to be in trouble when he gets back and it wouldn't be fair if I didn't go to defend him. Ugh, this is so complicated. Well... one more night won't hurt, I guess. I have to go to work tomorrow anyway, so I'll just go back with him tonight, explain everything, and then come home tomorrow... erm, this morning, I mean, so I can go to work. I'll leave my phone with Becan so he can come get me if someone calls between now and eight-thirty. It's not even eight hours - what could happen? And who needs sleep, anyway? _

Her self-preservation instincts whimpered. She ignored them. She had a scheduled visit to Saint Vincent's at noon, but she would get home early, at around four or five. She could take a power nap on the way to and from Findias, and then sleep for real when she got off work. Besides, if she was exhausted when she got to Saint Vincent's, dealing with Doctor Westenra would be a lot easier because she'd be cranky and less likely to throw up from nerves.

"I have a better idea," Nuada said, releasing her at last. Her wrist tingled faintly where his fingers had been wrapped around it. Residue of faerie magic? Or something else? "There is a place I wish you to see. We will eat there. And then I will show you something else that you might be interested in." He owed her a debt for speaking so sharply. For making her the target of his anger. Perhaps this would erase that debt.

"A place to eat?" Her stomach chose that moment to growl at her, and she laughed. "You're making me hungry. Where is it?"

The prince's smile was brief, but held just a touch of little-boy mischief. She'd never seen him smile like that before. "A dragon's cave."

"Oh." Considering who she was talking to, Dylan tried to decide if that was supposed to be taken literally or not. When she couldn't figure it out, she just shrugged and said, "Okay, cool."

Nuada eyed her as he rose to his feet. "Just like that? I tell you I wish to take you to a dragon's cave and you acquiesce without hesitation."

Dylan shrugged again. "Well, if you're planning on taking me there, obviously it's safe. Either the dragon's dead, or in an ensorcelled sleep, or friendly or really, really old and decrepit or something. So why not? If you tell me we're going somewhere, I know it's either safe, or someplace we have to go anyway. Either way, I know you won't let anything happen to me."

Taken aback, the feral-eyed prince studied the human woman for a long moment. Nuala had once had such faith in him... but they had been children then. Such sentiment had faded as the two of them had gotten older, more wise to the world. Yet now this mortal woman looked at him with such trust...

"Why do you have such faith in me?"

She blinked. "Because... because I know you. I know who you are, what you are. What kind of person you are. And I know that you'd never hurt me, unless I went totally crazy and turned against you, which would never ever happen. I would never betray you, and you'd never hurt me or let me be hurt. I trust you with my life. Besides, you make me..."

She struggled for words, gesturing helplessly with her uninjured hand.

"Happy? Content? I guess. I like being around you. It makes me feel safe, and unless you're upset with me, I feel happy. Some of my fondest memories are of reading to you in front of my fireplace. I..." Why was this so hard? Was she blushing? Dylan fervently hoped not. And she hoped Nuada wasn't going to get mad at her over this next part. "I like you. As a person. I generally tend to dislike untrustworthy people, but I like you, so obviously you're trustworthy, right?"

Nuada tried to wrap his mind around this newest train of bizarre, female logic (he knew it to be feminine in nature, and not human, because his sister - and a few past lovers - had sometimes said such circumlocutious things before). Because she disliked untrustworthy people, and yet liked him, he was automatically trustworthy? There was a hole in that. Somewhere. And he knew, from her own lips, that it was more than a matter of "liking."

Instead of worrying about the complexities of the feminine mind (and the laws of those minds, which somehow passed for logical thought), or brooding over the nature of human love, Nuada held out his hand and helped Dylan to her feet. After making sure she was steady on her bad leg and injured foot, the prince carefully laid his fingertips against her temples and let a little more magic ease the pain reflected in her gaze. Immediately the strain in her eyes and the pinched look of her face faded away.

Dylan's eyes slid blissfully closed as the headache that had been gnawing at her for the last seven or so hours finally vanished, leaving behind blessed peace. "Oh," she breathed and laid her hands against his wrists, holding his fingers in place. "Oh, _that._ Do that. Thank you, Nuada." Her lips curved into a slow, dreamy smile. In a breathless voice she moaned, "That is absolutely perfect."

"Better, then?" Judging by her reaction, it certainly was, but he wanted to be sure so he would not have to repeat the process. Her fingertips on his wrists were feather-light, but hot as desert sun against his skin. An odd feeling bloomed in the pit of his belly as she made a small, purring sound of pleasure.

"Yes," she whispered. She hadn't realized how vicious the pounding in her skull had been until it was gone. Her new cuts still hurt, and her leg throbbed, but Dylan could handle that. It was the jackhammers in her brain that had been the problem. She let her forehead fall against his chest. Felt him stiffen. She'd get up in a moment; right now, she just wanted to enjoy the fact that her skull wasn't about to explode. "Oh, yes, thank you. Please... please don't stop."

_Please don't stop. _Did she know how she sounded just now? A slow, lazy smile of one-hundred-percent male satisfaction curved the corners of Nuada's mouth as Dylan sighed and melted against him. The Elven warrior knew she could feel the steady beat of his heart against one of the hands she pressed to his chest, though her touch was soft as falling shadows. He should have been offended by the familiarity with which she touched him, but perhaps he would let it pass for a few moments more. She was making this intriguing little humming sound low in her throat that made that strange warmth in his belly flare hotter.

"Thank you, Nuada," Dylan murmured after a minute. "For everything."

Why did her words sound like more than simple thanks? _Someone I love..._

_Enough, _Nuada commanded himself. _I will not think on that any longer. _But the Elven prince had to swallow once before he managed to say, "You are welcome."

They stood that way for a moment longer, her head and hands against his chest and his fingertips lightly pressed to her temples. Nuada could just barely feel her pulse, slow as a drum. Humans were so fragile, he realized. So easily damaged. He had fought humans before, but never had to oversee the care of one. Never realized how many things could hurt them. With that thought in mind, he carefully disengaged from her and stepped back. Her eyes were soft and dreamy when they met his. "Go get ready," he said. "And," with some asperity, "walk carefully."

"Yes, Mom," she said, rolling her eyes and grinning as she went to find her shoes. Inexplicably, Nuada found himself smiling after her and shaking his head in exasperation.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and here we are, at the end, ready to save the day! And we still look abso-fab. Wootness! So, that's chapter twenty-five. A little sensual tension, a little bad guy intrigue, some damsel-in-distress-sort-of, some humor. All that happy (or scary) stuff. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. And seriously, everyone should eat red plums (unless you're allergic). They're __**SO**_ _good!_

_And for our lovely review prompt:_

_1) Dylan's sisters - who hates them? Just curious. They're not one-dimensional harpies who should die (see chapter 8 and chapter 27), but I'm just wondering._

_2) Nuada - as usual, he is in character?_

_3) Who has an idea about the outcome of Westenra's phone call? Who has a theory about what this is going to do to Dylan?_

_4) The part where Nuada soothes Dylan's headache - how do we feel about that part? And who likes the noises she made? Besides Nuada, I mean._

_5) Favorite parts, least favorite parts, funniest bits, darkest bits, etc. Love you guys! _

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Words Like Pale Stones" is a short story by... someone. I can't remember. But it's from one of the anthologies I love so much, as edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, though I also can't remember which one. Anyway, it's about "Rumpelstiltskin," but the miller's daughter isn't a nimrod and the prince is a bad guy instead of a moron. And Rumpelstiltskin is neither a villain, nor a misunderstood dwarf-midget who just wants some love. It's very well-written and makes use of maternal themes._

_._

_**References Made in This Chapter**_

- A pluot is a plum-apricot hybrid. All the tastiness of plums, but with the bigger size of apricots (so more plum tastiness). Yum.

- I realized that if Sunday was the first of November, then Saturday was October 31st, which is Halloween. Hence the mention of Halloween parties (also to remind everyone where we are in the year). Oops. Heehee.

- I got the phrase "Harry Hard-Luck" from Disney Pixar's _the Incredibles._

- Olivia's is the bar my oldest brother is a DJ at. It's somewhere in North (or was it South?) Carolina.

- I heard the phrase "Joe Schmuckitelli" (as opposed to Joe Schmoe or whatever) from an LDS missionary.

- The phone call from Francesca owes much of its silliness, immaturity, and humor to my roommate and beta.

- Lucian Westenra is an homage to Lucy Westenra from _Dracula_.

- The statute of limitations on rape and other forms of sexual assault in New York is between 1-5 years. If a crime goes unprosecuted for that long, the offender cannot be prosecuted after that. Sucks and is totally stupid, but true. The only crime that has no statute of limitations is murder.

- Anyone recognize the name Blackwood? Hmmm...

- Aloe sap kills infection and speeds up healing. It is safe to be applied to open wounds. It also works sweet wonders on burns and sunburns. It does sting in cuts though if the cut isn't clean. But it's so worth it. Good for preventing scarring as well.

- The puffed-up kitten image was borrowed with respect from Anne Bishop's _Dark Jewels_ series. The MC, Jaenelle, is referred to as "Cat" by her older brother Lucivar for this reason.


	26. One Good Elf Knight

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in the Chapter_  
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_**Author's Note:**_ _Yay! We're on the happy chapter with the fun stuff! Finally! Our favorite interspecies couple (besides Red/Liz and Abe/Nuala) finally get some happy relaxation time! Who's excited? Oh, but wait! Darkness also looms. Dun-dun-dun._

_Okay, done applying the lame sauce now. Time to sautee my mushrooms in butter and then... (LA has been watching too much _Hell's Kitchen _and _Master Chef _with her roommate/beta. Sigh)._

_PS - Say hello to yourselves, xxyangxx2006 and OceanFire9. Lol. _=D

_**Necessary Translation:**_ Eure Hoheit _means "Your Highness" in German (at least, according to Google Translate)_. Denka _is "Your Highness" in Japanese and _Watashino Purinsu _is "my prince" (again according to Google Translate)._

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _Nāga (Sanskrit: _नाग_)_ _is the Sanskrit and Pāli word for a deity or class of entity or being, taking the form of a very great snake_ _(specifically the King Cobra), found in Hinduism and Buddhism. The use of the term nāga is often ambiguous, as the word may also refer, in similar contexts, to one of several human tribes known as or nicknamed "Nāgas"; to elephants_ _(though I have no clue as to WHY); and to ordinary snakes, particularly the King Cobra and the Indian Cobra, the latter of which is still called nāg in Hindi and other languages of India. A female nāga is a nāgī or nāginī._ _Oh, gee, I'm pretty sure at least some of us know someone named Nagini in some random fandom. It's coming to me... something about pig warts and blizzards and moldy shorts... and a guy named Larry... I got it! I got it, I got it, I got it... aaaaaaand I lost it. Oh, well. Lol._

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**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**One Good (Elf) Knight**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Dinner (or Breakfast), More Than One Kind of Poison, an Exchange of Gifts, the Coming of Dawn, a Request, and Interference**

.

.

The East Village was quiet, though not silent, at one-thirty in the morning. Most of the bars had closed early due to the day, so only the twenty-four-hour establishments still kept their windows lit. glamour kept the Elven prince and the human woman hidden from the rest of the city as they slid between the shadows of the world. Nuada kept a firm grip on Dylan's uninjured hand to keep the faerie illusion in place. It was a simple "don't-look-at-me" spell, but glamour tended to shy away from humans unless kept firmly in place by sheer will.

_A dragon's cave,_ he'd told her. She looked around at the familiar streets as they passed Alphabet City, which consisted of Avenues A-D. She and John had lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment on Avenue C while she'd been in college. Expensive as all get-out, but the government (on John's behalf) and the Fair Folk (on hers) had been more than generous to the siblings. _Where_, Dylan wondered, _are we gonna find a dragon's cave in the East Village?_

They stopped in front of a hole-in-the-wall place on the corner of an intersection Dylan vaguely recognized. Both the Pandemonium Club and the supernatural coffee shop known as Persephone's were on this street. The crumbling brickwork in front of them and the layers of garish graffiti that covered it slithered and shifted in front of Dylan's eyes. When she blinked hard, the decay disappeared for a brief instant. In its place stood an old-fashioned looking building with a sign in glittering gold over the faintly-rounded door that read _Fafner's Cave._ A painted golden dragon coiled beneath the words. Another sign on the door read _Closed. _Then the cracked bricks, boarded-shut door, and spray-painted obscenities returned.

Nuada rapped sharply on the door. After a few minutes, a light flicked on in the grimy window. The door jerked open to reveal a beautiful - and rather irritated-looking - faerie woman.

The first thing Dylan noticed was the woman's eyes: even glazed with sleepiness and hard with annoyance, the golden eyes were still striking. And they really were golden - the exact same color as the bracelets that jingled on the woman's slender wrists and the delicate chains hanging around her swan-like neck. She had a waterfall of coal-dark hair that fell a ways past her trim waist, and the fairest skin Dylan had ever seen. Gold sea-shells glinted from her delicately-pointed ears in the light of the street lamps. More chains hung from the belt-loops on her black jeans. Her dark t-shirt was flecked with drops of golden fabric paint. The fresh scent of deep water surrounded the woman, but underneath the clean scent was the faintest trace of coppery blood.

_Eyes cold as dragon's gold,_ Dylan thought with a twinge of what might have been precognition. _Skin white as new snow, lips red as fresh-spilled blood, hair black as darkest sin..._

The woman demanded something in what sounded to Dylan like German, though all she managed to catch was the snarled, "_Was willst du?_" Then she blinked and took a good look at Nuada. "_Oh! Eure Hoheit! Was kann ich für Euch tun?_"

Since he still held her hand (though, Dylan noticed, out of sight of the beautiful faerie woman), Dylan asked, _Who's your friend and what is she saying?_

_First, she wanted to know if we had any idea what time it was, and then demanded to know what we wanted. The second time she asked a bit more politely. She is... an old friend from my exile. A rhinemaiden. _Aloud, the Elven prince added, "Milady, this is Lorelei von der Strom, the owner of Fafner's Cave. Lorelei, may I present my lady, Dylan of Central Park?" It was growing easier to refer to the human as his lady in public, Nuada realized. He knew that should have bothered him, but for some reason it did not.

"_Your_ lady?" Taking her cue from the prince, Lorelei switched to English. "Finally settled down, _Eure Hoheit?_"

Nuada scoffed. "Not quite." Lorelei's sharp eyes noticed both the faerie prince's disdain for the idea, and the very subtle wince from the human woman at his side. _Interesting, _she thought, but said nothing, only made way for the Elven warrior and his lady.

As the faerie woman stepped back, Nuada swept inside, pulling Dylan with him. They moved swiftly through the front room, which looked to her almost like the main room at a sanctioned rave. Then the faerie led Dylan and the prince down a short flight of stairs into what looked like the main room of an old-style tavern, dimly lit. At a word from Lorelei, twinkling faerie lights flickered into brilliance. A few bieresal looked up and blinked at their mistress, then quickly left when she gestured them from the room. Somewhere, a radio was playing. Dylan vaguely recognized "Love" by the German band Oomph.

_"...You make me feel like I'm losing my breath._  
_Don't take me higher, don't light my fire,_  
_'Cause I'm afraid it could burn me to death."_

"Your normal table is obviously empty," Lorelei said, gesturing to a far corner. "The usual?" Nuada inclined his head. "And... your lady?"

The prince glanced at Dylan, who pushed at a lock of hair tickling her face and said, "Whatever's he's getting, I guess. Thank you." Nuada added something in an undertone in German before leading Dylan to the far-off table. She was so tired it was all she could do to focus on the warmth of his palm against hers and the reassuring pressure of his fingers wrapped around her hand. At the table, though, Dylan rallied enough to ask, "What did you tell her?"

He didn't smile, but his golden eyes were softer than normal when he said, "As you object to alcohol, I told her to get you _schorle_ instead. I thought you would prefer that over wheat beer."

"Ew. Wow," she mumbled, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I _am_ tired if I didn't think of that. What's _schorle_?"

"Try it." He nodded to the bieresal that approached with a tray holding a fizzy amber drink in a classic Cola glass and a foaming tankard. "It's safe, I promise you. No alcohol, no enchantments." Dylan, eyeing the prince, hesitantly tasted the golden drink. Her surprised expression made the corners of his mouth quirk up. "Do you like it?"

Nuada sipped from his tankard while Dylan nodded and took another taste. He could see she was tired - there were circles under her eyes like dark bruises - but they needed to get back to Findias. More importantly, Dylan needed to eat (and he did not wish to suffer his father's wrath while he and the mortal woman tried to enjoy a late dinner - or early breakfast, as it were - in the palace kitchens; after every other means of humiliation Balor had employed, chastising his heir like an unruly child in front of the servants did not seem that far-fetched). Nuada did not even wish to consider the implications of his current paternal tribulations at the moment. He came to Fafner's Cave to relax; at least as much as he ever did. Bringing her here was a way to make up for his sharpness earlier.

The prince studied the human across from him over the rim of his mug. Studied her, and thought of her so-called family. A cowardly brother who seemed incapable of protecting her; parents who imprisoned her for doing what was right; and sisters who should have respected and cherished her, yet shunned and abused her instead. As often as he and Nuala fought, as children and adults, he had _never_ called his twin a brat, or a bi-

_If I think more on this, I_ _shall grow angry again, and upset her, _Nuada thought, forcing his teeth to unclench. _Seeing as the human can somehow always read my moods. The food comes; I will focus on that._ After all, he was hungry, too.

"Oooh!" Dylan chirped, sitting up a bit straighter. "Persipan apples!" With a quick look at Nuada for permission, she plucked up one of the faux-fruits made of peach paste and popped it in her mouth. "I like persipan. Way better than marzipan. Sweeter, but not so sweet your teeth will fall out."

Nuada was inclined to agree, but suddenly noticed Lorelei's curious aurulent eyes on him. What did she want? He shot her a look, and the rhinemaiden laid her head on her arms on the bar and closed her eyes as if about to take a nap. Doubtless the river faerie was still listening. Nuada said nothing, to either the mortal or the river maid. Only reached for his favorite dish - if one could call the simple peasant food a "dish."

"Wow, that's a lot of..." Dylan trailed off when Nuada, Prince Prissy-Pants himself, dipped a small piece of fresh white bread in a little pot of honey and took a huge bite of the golden-slathered mess. Her teeth ached at just the thought of all that super-sweetness. "Oh, yech. Your Highness, how can you _eat _that? Especially when there's real food right here! What are you, five?"

"Humans have horrendous taste when it comes to food," the prince replied, and took another bite of the sticky-sweet honey and bread. He smiled slightly at her disgusted expression. "You find the sweetness revolting, then proceed to consume that foul concoction that's sold everywhere - soda."

"I don't drink soda, thank you," she replied with a smile. "I'm fine with juice and Gatorade when it's hot. I have no sweet tooth at all, really. I don't even like chocolate except in very small quantities... oh, my gosh, that's _rote grütze."_ Dylan gasped, sitting up straight. The exhaustion was not gone from her eyes, but it had eased, and her usual joy had returned, at least in part. "I love that stuff!" She scanned the tray in front of her, which had some of the Elven prince's favorite breakfast foods, and she grinned as one of the little serving faeries placed a bowl of the berry dessert before her, drowning in fresh cream and sprinkled with vanilla sugar. "Oh, my gosh! My mom used to make this for us when I was little." Nuada opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a finger and murmured, "Just a sec. This is a private moment." She took a bite and her eyes slid dreamily closed. "Mmmm. Yay. I love you."

Nuada choked on his bread. "What?"

Dylan blinked and realized what she'd just said. "Oh." Softly, so the faerie woman who may or may not have been snoozing at the bar didn't overhear, she whispered, "Sorry. I didn't mean... it's just something humans say sometimes when someone does something really nice for them."

"Simple thanks would suffice," he said a bit coolly. _Someone I love... I love you. _The words hummed in his brain as a distinctly bizarre feeling coiled in his belly.

"Well, it's more than just 'thank you.' It's thanks when the thing done is really important," Dylan replied. Why had she said that, though? What was wrong with her? She blamed it on exhaustion, hunger, and the stupid weepy feeling that suddenly swamped her when she'd tasted her favorite childhood dessert. It had brought back memories of before being institutionalized. Back when things had been so much easier, simpler. Happier. Still, that was no excuse to freak Nuada out like that.

"And this is, as you say, 'really important' to you?"

"My mother was German-American. And when I was little, before my parents realized I wasn't pretending about the faeries, my mom used to make us breakfast every Sunday. Things from where her mother had grown up. My favorite was _rote grütze. _I haven't had it since college, but whenever I taste it, I remember my mother smiling at me. Hugging me, ruffling my hair." Dylan laughed softly, and even she could hear the melancholy in it. "I had a real mop then. My mom loved to mess with it." Brushing at the hair tickling her face, she added, "That was before I messed everything up."

"It was not you," Nuada said, distracted from his own discomfiture by her words. He had brought her to this place - his favorite place to eat - to ease her weariness, not add to it. "The Sight is a gift, and those who possess it should be cherished, not abused."

"My parents didn't abuse me," she protested gently. "At least, not on purpose. They just didn't understand. Couldn't. They didn't see what I Saw, so how were they to know? They had no idea what to do with me, and they had eight other children to worry about. I think... I _know _they were scared that I might do something to one of my siblings. Everyone kept telling them I needed help, so..." Now she shrugged. "If I'd told them I was making it up, maybe things would've been different."

"They gave a little girl the choice between truth and lies and punished her for tru-"

"It's not a big deal, Nuada," Dylan murmured softly. Did he realize, she wondered, that he was jumping to the defense of a human? Somehow, she doubted it. "Really. It was a long time ago. I had my brother back then, and my aunt and uncle. And my two cousins, Dolph and Renee, are both Sight-blessed, so once they were old enough we became really close. It wasn't as bad as it seems, honestly."

And though it had taken her years to reconcile with her parents, she'd finally managed it a couple years before they'd died. She was grateful - beyond grateful - that her heart had softened in time to have some kind of relationship with her parents before their deaths. Dylan knew that without the influence of her faith (and the wise, gentle counsel of her bishop) that she'd never have become close to them again. As for her sisters...

She could understand. She _could._ They resented her more than a little because of her time in the institution. They'd had no part in putting her there and she couldn't blame them for being upset, for remembering all the times they'd wanted to go to Coney Island or the zoo or the theatre or any other place they should've been able to go because New York City had everything a girl could ever want... and then they hadn't been able to. Their parents hadn't been able to afford it, because of how much it cost to keep Dylan at Saint Vincent's. Never mind the cost to put her siblings into sports, or fine arts classes, or after-school clubs. The Myers family couldn't afford that either, because mental hospitals were expensive. And then there were the school bullies.

Dylan took a bite of _rote grütze_ as she recalled John's letters: about Francesca coming home covered in mud and other, grosser things because someone had called her little sister a "pixie freak" and she'd taken offense; Petra, who never lost her temper to the point that fighting was involved, getting suspended (and grounded) for punching another girl in the face over the same thing; Simone and Gardenia's lockers covered in graffiti and cruel taunts about how craziness ran in their family. So many things that Dylan was glad she'd _never_ had to deal with... and all because she was trapped at Saint Vincent's and her brother and sisters had to deal with the outcome. That, and the conditions of her faith, helped her not to resent the sisters who still resented her... usually.

"Don't worry about it," she added softly to the Elven prince who watched her gaze turn inward and far-away. "It's okay." Then she shook herself and returned to the present. "But," Dylan added more cheerfully, taking another bite of the breakfast-dessert, "the point is, this is one of those 'I-love-you-thank-you' moments. So thank you, my prince."

After a moment of scowling into his tankard, he muttered, "You're welcome."

"So," Dylan said after they'd eaten in silence for several minutes. The _rote grütze_ had already been devoured. Now she was nibbling on a pastry dusted with powdered sugar that the prince said was called _auszogne_. Tiredness made her feel loose and languid, as if everything floated around her in a haze. Her sisters had sometimes described being drunk as feeling about the same way. Feeling daring, she said to the Elf, "So." Nuada only arched an inquiring eyebrow. Hiding her smile, Dylan asked, "So... is this like... I dunno... a date?"

He frowned. "A what?"

"You know," she said, giving that oh-so-casual half-shrug that was strangely graceful. Dylan cocked her head, and her hair spilled across her face, curling darkly against her pale throat. "A date." Her lips curved into a slow smile. "A human courtship event. An amorous experience, a romantic rendezvous, a tryst that doesn't (usually) end in carnal oblivion. A step on the seduction ladder. You know - a date." Seeing the Elven warrior's expression, she grinned and added, "Better be careful, Your Highness, or your face will get stuck like that. But I'll take that as a 'no.' Just checking." And she laughed and took a sip of the gently fizzing _schorle_.

Nuada was silent for a long time, only speaking to ask for a refill on his drink. Dylan wondered if her sleepiness-prompted teasing had made him angry. _Why do I always get punch-drunk stupid when I'm tired? Or cranky. It's always ticked-off, or drunk-stupid. Why? Maybe that old saying is true about the Holy Ghost going to bed at eleven._ She was starting to regret the question about dates when Nuada smirked and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Do you know why this is not a 'date,' as you call it?" The Elven prince asked softly, and stretched his hand across the table, palm up. Instinctively, Dylan laid her uninjured hand on his so he could speak directly into her mind. Like butterflies in her skull, Nuada whispered, _Because if my goal was to seduce you, I could do so without such extraneous ploys._

Dylan frowned. _Are you saying I'm easy?_

_Never that. I am saying, _the prince replied, with that familiar smirk of smug, male satisfaction, _that I have thousands of years' experience... and considerable skill._ And he chuckled when she blushed and pulled her hand back so she could hide behind her drink. He knew he should not bait Dylan this way, but she was still so innocent in some ways, and her blushes were rather amusing.

As if reading his mind, she kicked him lightly under the table, and he laughed louder. He was gratified when she smiled, although it was a bit shyly, in response.

Once breakfast had been eaten (or devoured, in Dylan's case), they left Fafner's Cave with only a brief goodbye to the beautiful Lorelei. As she escorted the prince and the mortal woman to the door, Nuada turned to the rhinemaiden and commanded, "Sag das niemand."

_Tell no one? _Lorelei wondered, and studied the prince's face. She had known Nuada since she was a child in Bavaria. He and Wink, his vassal, had often visited her mother's tavern there. The rhinemaiden had grown up hearing stories of the mighty Silverlance. She imagined that as long as the feral-eyed warrior wasn't trying to hide anything from her, she could read him fairly well. She _was _an empath, after all.

But Lorelei couldn't separate the different threads of emotion she was picking up from the Elven prince right then and make a coherent picture of them all. Mild gladness at seeing her again was easy to pick up on, and so was the seething darkness of rage and hate that always smoldered deep within him. But there was also fond amusement; a wealth of deep affection for the woman at his side, carefully tucked away behind a defensiveness that was new to him, which made it hard for her to gauge the exact depth of that affection; a strange sense of peace that cooled some of the heat of his fury and loathing; and underneath everything, she found a faint shimmer of lust and a shadow of dread.

But the rhinemaiden didn't say anything about what she'd sensed from her prince. Only bowed slightly and replied, "Of course, _Eure Hoheit_. As you wish."

Nuada took Lorelei's hand and laid a brief, polite kiss to the back of it. The water faerie noticed the brief flicker of resigned sadness in the mortal woman's eyes and wondered at it, but said nothing about that, either. Just watched the prince take the human's hand in his again and draw her out into the dark, between the shadows, where they disappeared.

_She's desperately in love with him, _the faerie woman thought. _Poor girl; I wonder if she even knows how deeply she's fallen. _Somehow, the golden-eyed water faerie doubted it. Only Lorelei's empathic senses had allowed her to pick up on the tangle of absolute adoration, gentle sorrow, yearning, fathomless love, joy, worry, and lust surrounding the mortal, the knotted threads of which all leaned toward the Elven prince.

But the rhinemaiden was pretty sure the human would figure it out fairly soon.

**.**

Winter nights are long and hard, and time goes by but slowly. Still, eventually the reception for the envoy from Cíocal wound down as the night wore on. Courtiers and sovereign all sought their beds as the moon began to sink beneath the shadow of the mountains. All except one, however.

Dierdre, glamoured to look like a simple hob-maid, slunk through the dark on cat-quiet feet. The dimly lit halls of Findias were icy, and the gancanaugh couldn't wait to return to her room. Or perhaps Prince Bres' room, which would likely be even more lush and lavish than her own. Yet before she could do that, she had two tasks to complete this night. One was simple, the other not quite so. Ciaran had already fulfilled his part of the plan for the night - he had slipped into Princess Nuala's room before the Elf maiden retired, and let fall but three drops of Branwen's Tears upon her pillow.

Now it was Dierdre's turn. The shifting iciness around her neck hurried her on.

Silent as a poisonous snake, she found the prince's suite and slithered inside. The door shut with a barely audible click of the latch. Then Dierdre glided over to Nuada's weapons rack. Closing her eyes, she let images of violence and blood slide like poison through her mind. When she opened her eyes again, the moon shone on the slickness of gancanaugh venom on her bare hands.

The gancanaugh lifted the sword of Elven silver from its place of honor and ran one hand along the leather grip, soaking it with the poison on her skin until the leather itself was slick and shining in the glow of the moon. Every time Prince Nuada touched his sword, more of the Tears would seep into his flesh and he wouldn't even know. And she had more things to infect.

Dierdre made sure to touch everything the prince might touch; made sure to coat it all with even just a trace of Branwen's Tears: bedposts, weapons, the chair near the fireplace, the mantel, clothes' presses, everything. But especially the sword. Dierdre soaked the grip in the gancanaugh poison three times before she was satisfied with the amount of saturation in the leather. It wasn't enough to turn the prince into a ravishment-minded brute by any stretch. But that wasn't the point - yet. What Bres wanted was for Nuada to be... open to anything Dierdre might suggest to him. Of course she'd have to work her way up to turning him against the human and his own honor, but in the meantime, they could drive a wedge between the crown prince and his precious, oh-so-loyal lady love.

_By the time Bres sets him on the little witch, the Lady Dylan will have turned against Nuada anyway, _the gancanaugh thought, and smiled. _How long can he stand against my power, anyway? Not long, I'd wager. _And neither, she was sure, could King Balor, though that was a power of a different sort altogether.

She slipped into the shadows of the corridor as easily as she'd snaked her way into Nuada's room, and slowly Dierdre made her way towards Balor's suite. Of course getting into the king's bedchamber would have been impossible. Luckily, she didn't have to. Instead, she stopped just shy of the end of the hall leading to the king's chambers and lifted the ice-cold thing coiled around her slender neck. Kissing the tiny _naga_ on the head, she whispered, "You know where to go, Kadru. Find the king, and sink your little fangs into him where no one will see the marks. Then come back to my room, and your warm little basket. I promise to reward your success."

_"The king will not die from only one bite, Love-Talker, but many," _the _naga_ hissed, flicking out a tiny forked tongue the color of rotting flesh. _"Must we do this every night? This place is cold, and makes my blood sluggish."_

"You are a creature of shadow, Kadru. I trust you can do something so simple as sneak into a room and bite a man. The king's blood is warm - it will quicken your heart and battle the cold in your bones. And always think of your basket by my fire."

_"As you wish, Love-Talker."_

Dierdre knelt amidst the cloaking shadows and let the tiny, ash-gray faerie cobra slither down her arm and glide away into the darkness. A knife-edged smile curved the gancanaugh's lips as she watched the little serpent fade into the gloaming. Yes, it would take a long time for the _naga's_ poison to work on the One-Armed King of Elfland. Yet every day he would grow weak, and weaker, and Bres would have the chances he needed to make his moves, and eventually take the Golden Crown for himself.

_And the little princess will never know that it is not virgin's blood, but her heart's blood that her future husband means to spill on the sheets of their bridal bed, _Dierdre thought, and her smile widened until her teeth gleamed like moonlight on a knife blade.

**.**

Though it felt like sand scoured her eyes and her vision blurred with tiredness, Dylan found her mind oddly awake and alert as Nuada led her to one of the small neighborhoods that had once made up New York City's Japantown (back when there had _been _a Japantown for the City to have). In an alley between two towering apartment buildings the Elven prince pulled down a fire escape and gestured. "After you, milady."

There was that "milady/my lady" thing again. Nuada's voice had just the right touch of tenderness to make her feel the way she had that night at court - unsettled and shivery. Only this time, there was no one for the Elven prince to be putting on a show for. So why...

_Oh, just enjoy it, _Dylan ordered herself. _How often do chivalrous Elven princes call me 'milady,' anyway? Rarely, if ever. And maybe he's just practicing._ Trying to follow her own advice, she ascended the fire escape with Nuada behind her. When they reached the roof of the apartment building, she looked around and saw nothing but some scattered trash and leaves. She glanced at the amber-eyed warrior.

"Come with me," he said and led her to the edge of the roof. A ledge about a foot-and-a-half wide ran the length of the building near the top. Nuada said something in Gaelic, too low for Dylan to catch, and the air above the roof's raised edge began to shimmer. When she reached out to touch the shimmer, it actually resisted, as if it were an inflatable cushion instead of stagnant air. Nuada helped her step onto the ledge so she could then sit on the air cushion. His firm grip on her hand was a promise that she wouldn't fall.

And suddenly the City - most of it, anyway - was spread out before her, glittering jeweled lights twinkling against the darkness. The wind sang icily through her hair, loose and tumbling down her back. Dylan caught her breath. She hadn't seen New York like this since she was a young woman in college. Almost ten years ago, she realized. It had been so long since she'd stopped and taken the time to see such beauty in the shadowed city. Even the frigid bite of early November night - a bite that threatened to bring sleet at best, and heavy snow at worst by morning - couldn't detract from it.

"It's beautiful, Nuada," Dylan whispered.

"It was, once," Nuada replied softly, seating himself next to her. The cushion of air he had created with a bit of magic was far more comfortable than sitting on the icy stone. The mortal must have been colder than he thought, because as soon as he settled, she leaned against his shoulder. Even the Elf was a bit chilled by the cold, so he let her stay pressed to him, warming him a little. "This place, when it was forests and rivers, lakes and hills... the world was a beautiful place once upon a time, Dylan. But every century, every decade - every _year_ - the humans destroyed more and more of that beauty."

He felt her stir, as if she meant to speak, but he added, "That is not why I brought you here, however. This autumn has been unseasonably warm, almost like summer. Because of that, Hyakki Yakō will be in the city for one more night before they depart for warmer places. Do you know what Hyakki Yakō is?"

"The Night Parade of One Hundred Yōkai," Dylan said, shifting to look up at him with wide, moonlit eyes. "The summer faerie procession from Japan. They'll come here tonight?"

He could hear the excitement and wonder in her voice, and let a smile curve his mouth. How many humans would have reacted with fear or greedy interest or hate, instead of this childlike awe? She was so different from others of her kind. Sometimes - often - it frustrated him.

_But tonight, I will merely allow myself to enjoy her company, and forget for a time that she is mortal. She has had a hard day, and I was one of the causes. This will erase that debt, and besides... I am in no hurry to return to court this night. If my father's chains did not drag me back, somehow I doubt I would ever return._

Aloud he said, "Would you like to see them?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then look over there," Nuada said softly, and pointed.

Dylan turned to see several white horses walking through the night air, prancing in elegant parade gear. Moonlight shone _through _the horses, and their armored riders. Around them, tiny balls of blue spook-fire bobbed and danced. Behind them came so many different types of faeries that Dylan only recognized a handful.

There was a pair of great owls, one with feathers of burnished gold and the other of sparkling silver. She saw _kirin_, the so-called Japanese "unicorns;" fox maidens in beautiful silk brocade kimonos; and herons with luminescent feathers. There were women made of crystal-clear ice, riding giant white wolves; bird-people juggling balls of blue flame; what looked like dogs made of lightning bolts; and one-horned, blue- and green-skinned ogres clad only in leopard hides. There were ghostly shapes and half-beast people and animated wheels with faces and giant tea kettles with racoon-eyes and so many other things she couldn't keep track of them all. Sinuous Japanese dragons in jewel-colors danced and twisted into intricate shapes above the procession. The air echoed with the song of bamboo flutes and mandolins.

"This is amazing," she breathed. Her hand slid into his without conscious thought as she said silently, _I've never seen so many different kinds of faeries in my entire life. They're all so... so magical. I love it, Nuada. Thank you for bringing me here. I love it so much. Oh... what's that?_ She nodded toward what looked like a shuffling mid-sized tower of seaweed and red kelp that was slowly slogging its way over to them from the procession. _Should I be worried?_

_No, _Nuada replied. _I know her; she is a _shōjō_, a sea sprite of the Kingdom of Onibi. She is a flower seller from this area; she sometimes takes part in the procession. _Aloud, he said, "Yang. A pleasure, as always. Have you new wares tonight?"

The pile of seaweed shifted until Dylan realized that the green ocean weed was woven into dark auburn hair that hung nearly to the creature's knees. She had skin the color of ripe tomatoes and eyes like the bluest ocean water. The blues and greens of her kimono shifted and shimmered like the surface of the sea. The sharp tang of brine mingled with the sweet scent of rice-wine as the faerie came close and bowed low to the prince.

When she straightened, she said, "I am here for my own amusement, and not for business. But a gift I have, _Denka_, for your lovely companion." Yang held out both hands. Cupped in her left palm was a jeweled flower on a golden chain that Dylan thought might have been orange honeysuckle. In her other hand was a simple, pale pink peony blossom, freshly picked. "A choice I give you, my lady. A honeysuckle of carnelian and jade for yourself, or this peony for the prince. I warn you - the honeysuckle cannot be given away, and the peony cannot be taken for yourself, or given to you by the prince."

Without hesitation, Dylan took the peony and handed it to Nuada. Brow furrowed, he asked, "Why did you..."

Dylan shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. "In Japan, the peony are called 'the King of Flowers,' and stand for honor and bravery. I thought it fit. Besides, what do I need jewels for? I have this." She tapped the golden medallion around her neck. Silently, she added, _Maybe it's just me, but it seems like not a lot of people give you stuff just as a simple gift. So I wanted to give you something._

Before Nuada could even come up with a reply to that, Yang added, "And a gift for you also, _Watashina Purinsu_." She held out her hands again. This time she held a gold-cast chrysanthemum in her left hand, and a freshly plucked crimson tulip in her other. "Another gift, another choice. The golden chrystanthemum for you, _Denka_, or the red tulip for your companion."

Nuada hesitated. Dylan had chosen the flower that represented what she thought of him. _Honor and bravery. I thought it fit. _In Japan, the chrysanthemum was a symbol of royalty, of ruling bloodlines and pride in nobility. As for the tulip... did it fit how he felt about the human woman at his side? _Honor and bravery. I wanted to give you a gift._

Coming to a decision, he reached out and took the scarlet tulip from Yang, then carefully tucked it behind Dylan's ear. The last time he had seen her with flowers in her hair, they had been small and pink. Somehow, the crimson bloom fit her just as well.

_Tulips, _Nuada said to Dylan through their link, _for trust._ The surprise and happiness on her face made him smile more openly than he had for days. _Do you like it?_ He asked, though he knew he did not need to. In answer, she wrapped her arms around his arm and hugged it tightly. Such a childish - or perhaps childlike? - gesture. No one had hugged him like that in thousands of years. Not since he and Nuala were children. But Dylan did. And he recalled her words: _I consider you my best friend... I love you..._

"My thanks, Yang," the Elven prince said softly to the _shōjō_.

"It is my greatest honor, _Denka_," the sea sprite replied, bowed, and went back the way she had come as Hyakki Yakō continued.

**.**

As the very last of the _yōkai_ faded away toward the east, where the faintest kiss of dawn brushed the cloudy sky with soft dove gray and palest pink and soft twilit blue, Nuada turned to the human woman that had fallen asleep on his shoulder almost an hour ago. Her dark hair slid against his skin like silk as she shifted a little and made a small, contented sound. He should not have allowed her to sleep - should have probably taken her back to Faerie after receiving the flowers - but she had been so delighted by the faerie procession. He hadn't wanted to bring an end to that. Dylan's joy had been the first simple, easy thing he'd experienced in a while.

As he'd been doing for the last hour while she slept, he once again studied the peony she had given him. There had been no hesitation in the gesture. No flicker of indecision. No glint of greed for the jeweled honeysuckle blossom that Yang had freely offered to the mortal woman. As soon as the sea sprite had told Dylan she could only give Nuada the peony, it had almost been as if the other flower didn't exist. The children of men were born with holes in their hearts that could never be filled... but this human didn't act like it at all.

_Honor and bravery_. She had chosen this gift for him because she found him honorable and brave. Nuada stared at the many-petaled bloom for another long moment and tried to reconcile everything this king of flowers implied about the human at his side with what he knew of the breed.

In the end, he found he could not. Dylan made no sense. She was one-hundred percent human, yet behaved very much like one of the Hidden Folk. She actually accepted the truth of the empty hole in her heart, in her soul, and strove to constantly fight against it. Despite the inherent cruelty and hatred in men, this mortal was kind to human and fae alike. Gentle. Compassionate. Honorable where no honor should have been able to reside. Very much against his will, Nuada found the distant proprietary affection he'd thought he felt for the mortal was actually... fondness. True fondness. He actually _liked_ her.

Ah, well. The Elven prince supposed he could do worse in his allies. At least she was loyal. And she cared for him. _I consider you my best friend... someone I love very much... I love you._ Somehow he couldn't find it in himself to doubt her sincerity. Even with that last, he believed her.

But now was not the time for rumination. The crown prince tucked the bloom away inside a pocket, unconcerned about it being bruised or crushed. Yang's flowers, even the natural ones, had something special about them. Instead, very gently, Nuada touched the human's wrist and murmured, "Dylan. Wake up, now."

"Mmmm-mmm." She nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder. One arm slid around his neck to half-hug him to her. Nuada knew he should've been disgusted - or at least irritated - but the barely-awake mortal made the corner of his mouth quirk into a brief smile. Usually she was alert, almost on edge but without being irritatingly defensive. Now she was as soft and boneless as a sleeping kitten. He had never seen her so before. And her fingers were twining in his hair, her fingertips brushing against the pulse beating at the base of his throat, a warm and completely unconscious caress that Nuada was suddenly very aware of. Human or not, she was still a woman. "Morning off," she added in a sleepy mumble. "Go far, far away." Belying her words, she cuddled closer to him.

"Come on," he said, and carefully pulled her to her feet and back onto the solid safety of the roof. "It is nearly dawn. We need to head back..."

The Elven warrior trailed off as realization hit him. Nearly dawn. How had he allowed himself to become so distracted by a simple flower (and the smile - and the rat's nest of problems - that came with it)? The Chariot would vanish, returned automatically to Annwn the moment the sun peeked over the horizon. He and Dylan had walked to Fafner's Cave and the apartment building. Even his Elven speed would not take them back to her cottage in time.

_Which means that we will have to find another way back to Bethmoora. _

At that moment, Dylan tripped and almost fell. The mortal yawned and muttered something about having two left feet and needing a nap.

_Yet she is so tired. She needs to sleep. And she mentioned having to go to work today as well. _Nuada sighed inwardly and thought, _I suppose we can go back tonight. Father will be just as angry then as he is now._

"I can walk," Dylan mumbled, trudging toward the fire escape. "Maybe not in a straight line, but I can... walk... No more talking... Need to concentrate." Rubbing at her face with a loose fist, she started down the wrought-iron stairs. Nuada, grinning when the mortal had to actually stop walking so she would not trip while yawning, followed after her.

The City was beginning to wake up as the night moved steadily toward dawn. More buses choked the streets. More pedestrians shuffled like cattle to their stalls and pastures. The rare bird, slowly awakening, began to cheep from stunted, iron-fenced trees. Aware of the humans spilling like poison into the streets, Nuada took Dylan's hand before they reached the alleyway below and cloaked them both in the simple "don't-look-at-me" glamour.

The tired woman simply blinked at him sleepily and smiled before shifting her grip to lace her fingers with his. He knew he ought to pull away, but as exhausted as she was, if he did anything but simply walk beside her, she would probably trip again. And there was something loose and comfortable in the way she held his hand. It did not feel constricting or discomfitting, as he had expected. It was so casual, as if she did this all the time. Her nonchalance served to ease the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm really... really tired," Dylan murmured after they'd reached Central Park. The rising sun painted streaks of palest coral across a sea of pearl gray clouds. There was a stillness and a heaviness in the frigid air that promised snow. Dylan pushed her hair out of her face and added, "And my knee kinda hurts. I'm cold, but I'm _not _cold. I mean... I'm cold, but I don't... feel cold? Yeah. Does that make sense?" She asked the Elven prince. Nuada could see that despite the fact that she could speak, the mortal was nearly asleep on her feet. "I don't think that makes sense, but that's how I feel. Jeez, I need to just crawl into bed and sleep for a decade."

"I am keeping us warm with a bit of magic," Nuada replied with a shrug. It was an indulgence, true, but tonight was supposed to be a sort of vacation - another kind of indulgence he rarely allowed himself. He could afford to waste a little magic. Besides, it was bitterly cold behind the bubble of warmth he had created, and the magic would help with the ache in her bad leg and the one beginning in his arm. "Your body knows it is cold, but it is not really affecting you. If it gets much colder, however, it will not work."

"Huh. Very convenient. Is that 'cause we're holding hands?" Dylan asked. The prince inclined his head. "Cool. Ya know, I like holding hands with you. You have nice hands. I like them."

After a long moment, he replied, "Thank you." _I suppose, _he added silently, but kept his puzzlement hidden from her. No one had ever said that about him before... except, of course, a woman or two. Yet comments like those had been in a completely different sort of situation. Still... a sudden impulse seized him, and he asked, "So... you like my hands?"

"Actually," Dylan said, with the air of someone coming upon a point of supreme enlightenment, "I like everything about you. The whole deal. You are the most amazing person I've ever met in my entire life. I love being around you." She glanced at him. There was a softness in her eyes that he had never seen before. "There's this song I love, called _The Best Thing I Never Knew I Needed. _You're like that." She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and her fingertips brushed the scarlet tulip tucked into her hair. Her smile then was tired, but bright and sweet. Almost dazzling. "I'm _so_ glad I know you."

Nuada was reminded that Dylan sounded drunk when she was tired. Still, he knew her sentiment was a true one. Which surprised him, since no one but Wink had ever felt that way about him, at least as far as he knew. She was certainly the only one to ever say such a thing to him. And there was also... _I love you._ A jest, true, but...

Before the Elven warrior could think better of it, tiredness and the lateness (or earliness, as it were) of the hour found him replying, "I am... glad to know you as well."

_I shouldnot have said that, _he thought with some exasperation as the mortal hugged his arm with her free one. Then she tripped again.

"Ow. Move, feet. Hey-" Nuada swept her into his arms, since he could see the cottage nestled amidst the green not even fifty feet away. It would be faster to carry Dylan than have her tripping over everything and nothing. "Know what?" The human asked, her voice slurred by tiredness. "I don't even care. I'm just gonna... enjoy not having to walk. My foot and my knee hurt." Instead, she hunkered down in his hold and laid her head against his shoulder. "Do you enjoy... carrying me or something? You do it all the time."

"Would it surprise you to learn that I do?" The ache in his right arm sharpened, centering just above the elbow joint. He knew then that it was going to snow soon. Nuada remembered telling Dylan, that first night in her cottage, about how he had taken a barbed arrow through his arm as a young warrior, and how snowstorms made the old injury flare with phantom pain. The passing centuries had only made the storm-induced ache worse.

"Cheater. That's not... an answer," she mumbled. Somehow, her injured hand found itself curled against his chest, right over his heart. She could feel his steady heartbeat against her hand, feel the heat of his body against her cheek. His shirt was soft as silk and shadow against her skin. She cuddled closer, enjoying the reassuring strength of his arms holding her against him. "Mmmm. You're warm."

Dylan, on the other hand, was shivering a little, and almost completely asleep now. Nuada tightened his grip, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling simmering in his chest just where her hand lay curled against him. A tiny white snowflake drifted down to alight on her cheek before melting into a water droplet that rolled down her cheek like a tear. Dylan made a small sound of distress and turned further into him. Another snowflake fell, and another. When they reached the door to Dylan's cottage, snow had begun swirling in miniscule icy flurries around them both. It was a testament to Dylan's sheer exhaustion that she did not awaken.

The door swung open and Becan stood in the entryway with wide eyes. "Your Highness, is she hurt?"

"No," he said shortly, and strode inside. The brownie hastily shut the heavy granite door and bolted it while the Elven prince went to the open door of Dylan's room. Nuada found her black cat - Bat, wasn't it? - curled up on one of the pillows of the large bed in the center of the room. At a glance from Nuada, Becan used his magic to draw the blankets back so that the Elven prince could lay the shivering mortal woman upon the bed. The brownie pulled off his mistress's tennis shoes before tucking her blankets around her again. The amber-eyed warrior plucked the tulip from her hair and laid it on the bedside drawers.

After a few moments, Dylan's shivering began to subside. Nuada was about to step back from the bed when suddenly Dylan caught his hand.

"Ná téigh," she said softly, dreamily. _Don't go. _Her eyes were still closed; her lashes made dark crescents against her scarred cheeks. Was she truly even awake? Or did she already walk some Morphean road? "Nuada," she added, and this time her sleep-dulled silvery blue eyes flickered open and met his. "I don't want to dream again. Not like... before. Tabhair fan liom. Tabhair." _Please stay with me. Please._

Exasperated, Nuada grumbled, "Dylan-"

"Tá mé scanraithe," she whispered in a voice like that of a lost child. _I'm scared. _Her grip on his hand tightened a little. Suddenly he could feel her dread swirling just beneath the surface of her thoughts like a cold wind in the darkness. "Tabhair ná téigh, tá mé scanraithe." _Please don't go, I'm scared._ And like the ghost of a whisper he heard an echo of an afterthought through the link of their clasped hands: _I wish he would call me _'mo duinne' _again. It makes me feel safe for some reason..._

There was the scrape of wood against wood, and Nuada glanced behind him to see Becan pulling a chair into the room. The brownie scooted the chair over to where Nuada stood. The prince fought not to growl at the little faerie. Now that he had a place to sit, the Elven warrior could not refuse the mortal who clung to his hand like a forlorn little waif. Instead, he turned back to Dylan, who gazed up at him with sleep-clouded and beseeching eyes. Against his will his resolve softened.

_Oh, very well, _he growsed silently, sinking into the chair. Surprisingly, Dylan scooted closer to the edge of the bed, so that he could feel her soft, warm breath on the hand she clasped so tightly. She sighed and loosened her hold. Her fingertips just lightly grazed his palm.

On impulse, Nuada reached out and brushed his knuckles along the thick scar slicing down her cheek. Marveled anew at the softness and the warmth of her skin. "Ná bíodh scanraithe," he said softly, the words _don't be afraid _spilling out against his will. "I'm here. Sleep now, _mo duinne."_

A sleepy smile curved her mouth and her eyes slid closed as the human woman fell asleep with her hand in his.

**.**

"I want her file," Westenra said coldly. Eyes the color of graveyard dirt zeroed in on the young secretary behind the desk and he leaned in until the old doctor and the young college girl were almost nose to nose. He'd come into work early to get this information. Some stupid little teenager wasn't going to stand in his way. _"Now."_

"But, Doctor Westenra, there's a note here that says you're not supposed to-"

"Do you like your job, Miss..." He flicked his eyes to the badge pinned to her breast. "Cottingley?"

"Y-yes, Doctor, but-"

"Then give me the damn file, or you'll lose that job." Westenra snatched the manila file from the girl's trembling hand and flipped it open. Scanned it. Ah. The Ramirez girl had her first therapy session at two o'clock this afternoon. He glanced at the clock. That gave him about six hours to prepare. As soon as Doctor Myers got wind that he'd been the one to handle the little gangster's session, she'd blow into Saint Vincent's like a whirlwind. He had to make sure everything was ready before then. And this was only the first step.

Never had the little witch actually barred him from handling one of the patients here. The only way she'd managed it was because the girl had committed a crime and Myers had some unholy pull with the police lieutenant in charge of the blasted case. Well, she'd pushed him too far this time. And she'd pay for it.

_First thing on the list was the file, _Westenra thought as he walked to his office. _What's next? Ah, yes. Syringes. Everything has to be ready before the little witch shows up. _

And it would be.

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_**Author's Notes:**_ _Oh, crap. Yes, we have so many villains. Since this fic is going to span ten years, I figure we need a lot. I've studied some of the best book series that span a long time (_the Dark Jewels _series is a really good example) and one thing that makes books like that one so interesting is the vast cast of characters and the various subplots that weave together to scare the bajeebus out of the MCs. So yes, Westenra is a BIG villainous player in our chess game of _Once Upon a Time_._

_But enough about the depressage. Onto the happy. Awwww! How cute! Nuada and Dylan went on an almost-date! He actually took her out into sort-of-public. Progress. Yay! And he actually enjoyed himself. Wootness for him._

_So, our lovely (and again, totally optional) review prompt._

_1) Who do you think is the more dangerous villain - Bres, or Westenra? And of course, tell me why._

_2) What was your top five favorite things in this chapter?_

_3) Who is curious about getting more of the back story on Dylan and Westenra? Who has some theories? Because I would like to hear them._

_4) Our Elven prince, he is in character?_

_5) Favorite moments of the "date" - what are they?_

_6) Who thinks the longer they stay away from Findias, the more trouble they're gonna get into? And who thinks Nuada cares anymore?_

_And of course, things you hated, any tyops you noticed (like that one), any questions, comments, concerns, blah-blah. I love hearing from you guys, I totally do, and I love each and every one of you! So hugs to you!_

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The thing about moldy shorts and Voldemort I got from my husband. Don't know where he got it.

- The thing about Larry instead of Harry was from the episode of _Wizards of Waverly Place_ where Alex and Justin have to go to Wiz-Tech. Alex tells Justin he reminds her of someone, and she gives off like, 4 names that rhyme with Harry.

- The East Village is a neighborhood in Manhattan. It used to be the home of the largest concentration of Japanese-Americans in New York City, and I believe was once called Japantown before other ethnicities began to move in. I figured that, in the same way settlers brought their faeries and beliefs across the oceans to America, so did they bring certain mythical events - like Hyakki Yakō.

- In the story _Das Rheingold_, three Rhinemaidens have to guard the Rhine Gold from any who would take it (a dwarf takes it anyway and forges a ring of power - wait, a ring of power? Didn't Peter Jackson make a movie about that? Lol). In another version of the story (_Der Ring des Nibelungen_), the Rhine Gold is also guarded by a dragon called Fafner. As Lorelei is a rhinemaiden, I thought Fafner's Cave would be a suitable name for her establishment.

- The character of Lorelei is not mine; she's OceanFire9's cameo (and most, if not all of her specs, came from the brilliant Ocean's genius mind).

- The song "Love" by Oomph was pointed out to me by OceanFire9 as a great song for Nuada when he's trying to fight his feelings for Dylan. Since Ocean/Lorelei own the bar, I thought it would be cool if it was playing.

- Wheat beer is a common type of beer in Germany (called _weissbier_ or white beer).

- _Schorle_ is sparkling water mixied with juice or wine. In this instance, it's apple juice and mineral water.

- The honey-dipped bread thing I got from Holly Black's _Tithe_. In _Tithe_, the silver-haired faerie knight Roiben (see, silver-haired Elf Knight sounds so familiar, doesn't it?) has to stay at the MC's house for a night. For breakfast, he has plain white bread drizzled (see _doused_) with honey. I personally find that vile and disgusting and way too rich and sweet, but it actually makes sense since faeries love honey and bread, so... yeah.

- _Rote grütze _is literally "red grits" or "red groat." It's grit/groat and starch mixed with red summer berries (red and black currants, strawberries, raspberries, stoned cherries, bilberries, and blackberries) cooked in sugar. Served with cream, vanilla sugar, custard, whipped cream, milk, that sort of thing. More of a dessert, but I can see it being eaten for breakfast.

- "This is a private moment" was inspired by this adorable scene in _Naked in Death_ by JD Robb. The MC, Eve Dallas, gets a mug of real coffee (she's used to what's basically soy coffee because real coffee is crazy expensive) from her love interest, Roarke, and then he tries to talk, but she says, "Excuse me. This is a private moment." Nothing else, just that. And then she smells the coffee (even though I hate the stuff, I have to admit that coffee smells good unless it's super-super strong) for a minute. Then she takes a sip, savors it, then takes another one. I think it takes like, five minutes before she's ready to actually talk to the guy. But then she is, and they get down to talking about murder (she's a homicide cop). I think they're in a helicopter... no, a limo? I think they're in a limo at this point, driving home from a morning funeral.

- Remember it mentioned in chapter 10 that Dylan sounded/acted drunk when she was tired.

- "Winter nights are long and hard, and time goes by but slowly" is a paraphrase of "The winter nights are long and cold, and times goes by so slowly" from the song "At the Ceili" by Celtic Woman.

- A naga is actually a human/snake faerie hybrid, but in India and similar places, "naga" is also another name for a cobra. Here, it is a poisonous faerie snake.

- In Bhuddist mythology, Kadru is the mother of all serpents.

- The cushion of hardened air was inspired by _So You Want to Be a Wizard_ by Diane Duane. In that book, the two MCs build a staircase of hardened air to get from the top of a skyscraper to a portal floating like, 40 feet in the air.

- The rooftop scene was inspired by one of my favorite episodes of the show _Parenthood. _In this episode, my two favorite characters, Haddie and Alex, watch a movie (I believe it was _Pretty in Pink_ by John Hughes) on the roof of a building using a special slide-show-movie-thing. I thought that was the most intimate, romantic thing I'd ever seen in my entire life, and wanted to use it. I wasn't sure at first, but then I found similar instances in shows like _Gargoyles, Law and Order_, that kind of thing. And of course, we all know our Prince is totally comfortable with chilling out on rooftops (forest elemental scene).

- Kirin aren't actually unicorns; they're more like one-horned faerie deer than one-horned faerie horses. They are considered the purest of creatures, so pure that even the scent of blood will make them very sick. They're a main component of the anime/book series (not manga, but chap-book), _The Twelve Kingdoms_. Good series. Kirin can take human form and usually appear as a white/pale gold deer or person with a long blond mane/hair. There are also the uncommon red kirin (with more of a rose-gold color to mane/hair) and the incredibly rare black kirin (black/steel-gray hair in human form, steel-gray mane and black fur in deer-form).

- The women of ice are called _tsurara-onna_, icicle women. The wolves they rode are called _okami_ (they don't actually ride them in myth, but it's a parade, so yeah), and are seen in the Miyazaki film _Princess Mononoke._

- The bird people are called _tengu. _You might have seen an adaptation of them in _the Power Rangers Movie _from like, 1996.

- The dogs of lightning are _raijū_, thunder beasts. One makes an appearance in the anime _Cardcaptors_ as the Thunder Card.

- The ogres with horns and leopard skins are called _oni_. They appear in the _Mortal Instruments _novel, _City of Glass_, as well as the anime _Yuyu Hakusho_.

- Dilong is the Elf-version of China (also includes the Koreas, Vietnam, Thailand, Taiwan, and Laos due to geographic proximity).

- "Morning off; go far, far away" is from one of JD Robb's _In Death_ novels (said by Doctor Louise DiMatto when woken up at like, 7am by the MC, in _Origin in Death_, I believe).

- "The Best Thing I Never Knew I Needed" is the ending-credits song from Disney's _the Princess and the Frog_.


	27. Book 3 Correspondence

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
__Dedication__  
Challenge_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, I have a few __**VERY IMPORTANT**_ _things to say before you guys read this chapter. I will make a list to make it easier for you to see/read. I would ask that you read them. Please._

_1) I have been informed by a few people that Dylan is a Mary-Sue. Concerned, I ran her through the Universal Mary__-__Sue Litmus Test. She scored a __**1**__**2**__._

_2) It has been pointed out to me by a few people that there are remarkable similarities between my fic and a few others. I can only say that any similarities are the result of chance and were in no way intentional on the part of the author, __**except where mentioned in my references sections.**_ _An example of _that _would be the term "lily-white prince," which I got from "Saving Nuada" by Gwenfarr. This source material is mentioned in the reference section for that chapter. Any other similarities are purely unintentional._

_A large bone of contention, apparently, is chaper 26, with "the date." All I can say is that the situations in those chapters were hashed out between me and two other people (OceanFire9 and xxyangxx2006) to accomodate those FF(dot)net users' cameos, which they had earned by doing challenge entries. _

_No fanfiction written by another author or authors, and no original novels or movies, inspired that or any other chapter. Television did have some influence on chapter 26, though. The brief bit of inspiration I received is from the show _Parenthood_, because in _Parenthood _my two favorite characters watch one of my favorite movies (_Pretty in Pink_) on the roof of an apartment building using a slideshow-projector-movie-thing. This is mentioned in the reference section for chapter 26._

_If anyone has a question about a particular point, and where I got the idea for it, I will be happy to answer you in PM and Review Response._

_3) On a somewhat lighter note, I know "Once Upon a Time" isn't finished. However, __**I am starting **__**a**__** new **_**Hellboy **_**fanfic **__(not related to this one) in the next month or so. One is called __**"Snow White, Blood Red." **__Yes, that is the name of that anthology I like so much. Guess what? Titles __**cannot **__be copyrighted in America. I don't know about other places, but titles are not subject to copyright laws in the U.S. And I chose that title because of one of the fic's inspiration sources - the fairy tale "Snow White and Rose Red."_ _I am still continuing "Once Upon a Time," and will update as regularly as I have been._

_That's all._

_- LA Knight_

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**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Chessboard**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of an Emperor, a Lieutenant**** and Her Orders****, a Command, a Soldier**** and His Sister****, a ****So-Called ****Healer, and a King**

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In far-away Dilong, on the other side of the world, night had fallen. The Jade Emperor sat upon his porcelain throne, eyeing the messenger with an icy green gaze that promised a thousand horrible deaths if the courier did not repeat this particular message in _vastly_ different words. Unfortunately for the royal courier, the oral message attached to the letter had been memorized properly. Emperor Huizong glared at the Elf who cowered upon the floor.

"Do you mean to tell me that the King of Bethmoora has dishonored my daughter by allowing his heir to plight troth _with a mortal?"_

The courier pressed himself as close to the floor as possible. "Forgive this unworthy one, Your Imperial Majesty. This humble servant of the Jade Emperor seeks only to convey accurate news of the other kingdoms to imperial ears. Your spy among the court of Bethmoora sent this letter and swears to its truthfulness. There are rumors flying among the courtiers that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance has taken a mortal to his bed, that he has gotten her with child, that he means to wed her. That is so far rumor only. Yet it is no rumor, but truth, Your Imperial Majesty, that the Silver Lance has presented this human woman to Bethmoora as his truelove."

A fist slamming down on porcelain made the courier, Li Po, jump in fright. A swift glance upward showed Li Po that the Jade Emperor was on his feet, pacing back and forth with his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his dark green yuanlingshan. The courier immediately looked down again.

"We will not stand for this!" Huizong snarled, jade-green eyes blazing like dragon fire. "Qing Long, bring Us the letter."

Prince Qing Long, the youngest of the Jade Emperor's sons, got to his feet and obeyed his Emperor. When the Jade Emperor broke the green wax seal and scanned the words hastily written by his spy, rage bloomed hotter than the fires of the Celestial Dragon. The lines were few, but they were enough to infuriate the Elf known as the Dragon of Dilong.

_There are rumors of a war brewing between Bethmoora, Cíocal, and Zwezda.  
Crown Prince Nuada's heart belongs to a mortal woman of common birth.  
The One-Armed King of Elfland supports his choice.  
The Royal Family of Bethmoora give no thought to a union with Dilong._

No thought to a union with Dilong? After thousands of years of waiting - Prince Nuada had been a youth of merely eleven or twelve centuries at the time Huizong had spoken to Balor - Bethmoora would throw away the good will of Dilong for the sake of a base-born mortal slut?

To the court assembled in the Great Hall of the Porcelain Palace, the Jade Emperor said, "Make ready to go to Bethmoora. We will find out the truthfulness of this report, and if the mighty Silverlance has betrayed his promises, We will not let it stand. The Dragon of Dilong has spoken."

**.**

Lieutenant Charlotte Peabody of the NYPD scowled at the official document on her desk, wishing she had the guts to shred it to little pieces. She glanced up once at her sergeant. He glared over her head out the office window. So. Donovan didn't like what was on that frustrating bit of paper. Well, neither did she.

_We get these stupid complaints every time one of our shrinks has to deal with a stand-off, _Peabody thought, raking a hand through her short red hair. _There's always something one of them did wrong. We break procedure as a matter of course because that's how the job works. Being a stickler for the rules when instinct is pulling_ _you in the opposite direction can sometimes get people killed. Sometimes the rules have to be ignored. _Which was what Dylan had done. Dylan had been on the job, in one capacity or another, since college. She had the experience - a lifetime of experiences - to do the job right. And after years working with Peabody, the psychiatrist knew when to chuck the rule book.

"So, what's Matlock's real problem, do you think?" The police lieutenant asked her sergeant. It wasn't the paper she hated, actually. Her top five favorite shrinks to work with had files of them. Professional hazard. Dylan was in the middle, between Dr. Colfer and Dr. Zendaya. The worst of them for getting these little complaints was Hollis, who was the best in the field and the best the NYPD had (and thus able to ignore such petty inconveniences).

No, the problem was the signature at the bottom. The one next to Sergeant Matlock's. The captain's signature.

"Matlock needs to take out that stick he's always sitting on, is the problem," Donovan growled in a voice like poisoned honey. "Can't be too comfortable. Sir," he addd belatedly.

Peabody laughed, though there was sharpness in it. The edge of that sharpness wasn't meant to cut Donovan. Wasn't meant to cut any of her people, including Dylan. _Crap, this is _really _going to wreck her day. _She knew how much Dylan valued the job. How important it was to her. They'd basically been on this part of the beat together since they were so wet behind the ears Peabody's superiors had been able to smell the greenness. If anyone on the NYPD really knew the shrink, Peabody was pretty sure it was her. And she _knew _this was going to make the other woman very unhappy.

"Does... does the captain have anything to say?" Donovan asked his LT when she didn't speak for a long moment.

She flipped over the complaint and studied the post-it stuck to the back. The sharp handwriting, tight and controlled. The hastily scribbled initials. And Peabody was suddenly very, very glad she didn't ride a desk.

"He says that it's a trade. Matlock has some powerful people behind him, apparently. Friends-in-high-places kind of deal. So does Westenra." Peabody saw Donovan stiffen. Nodded in acknowledgment. "Yeah, there's probably a connection. Anyway, the captain says that Dylan has to take the suspension and testing, as per procedure, if we want to keep Doctor Westenra out of the loop, since he's pretty high up in the foodchain over at Saint Vin's."

"Sir, the Doc's gonna hate that," Donovan muttered. Not to mention, it wasn't fair. Dylan had done exactly what Peabody would've told her to do, if the LT had been there. That's why they had Dylan on their team - her, Hollis, Colfer, Zendaya, and Viguie. They weren't the top five shrinks in New York, but they _were _the top five who could work with cops like Lt. Charlotte Peabody and her unit. And Matlock, who went after any cop who didn't stick to the rules to the absolute letter, had finally hit where Dylan was weakest - with Westenra. "This ain't right, Sir," Donovan added. "And she's gonna hate it."

"We all hate it. Westenra's a pig and should have his license revoked," Peabody said with sweet venom. "Unfortunately, timing is everything. And timing sucks right now. So Dylan will deal. She'll whine for a bit, but she'll deal. But call PA Shirelle, give her a head's up. She can help keep Dylan informed if this goes on too long."

"Can't you do that, LT?"

"Unfortunately, no." Now the police lieutenant glared at the post-it. "Because if the captain finds out, it could mean suspension for me too. He's being careful with this. I don't know if Matlock's friends and Westenra's friends are one and the same. It doesn't matter, though. They both have some serious pull. Remember the Blackwood incident back before you went into the Academy. So if either of them get so much as a whiff of me playing favorites or whatever, I could be the one up for suspension."

The police sergeant sighed. Eyed his commanding officer for a long, tense moment. Then he rolled his shoulders and said, "In that case, Sir, I request permission to call Doctor Myers and inform her."

"Granted."

**.**

The shrill ring of a cell phone ripped Dylan from sleep. Nuada, half-dozing in the chair, jerked awake at the harsh, strident sound. A swift glance at the window told the prince that snow continued to blanket the world in icy whiteness, and that perhaps two or three hours had passed since Dylan had fallen asleep clinging to his hand.

"Ugh," the human grumbled, flailing around like a landed trout. "Too early. Too early! Where's my phone?" Becan scrambled up onto the bed, dragging the blasted contraption behind him. Dylan picked it up, pressed a button, and held it to her ear.

In a forcedly cheerful voice she said, "Hey, Donovan. Don't tell me there's a problem with Lisa already? She just got to Saint Vincent's yesterday."

A burst of static. Dylan's brow furrowed.

"What? What do you mean, there's been a complaint? From who?" More static, so garbled Nuada could not make it out. All he could read was the sudden spark of fury in fey-blue eyes. "The SWAT-liason? Why?" The mortal chewed her tongue for a long minute before growling, "I _told_ you I would do that. You can't really... what d'you mean, an indicator of job-related stress? My job is stressful by definition! Of course I... what?"

Irritation melted away into hurt, shock. "But... but Donovan, I... I know it's procedure for a week of... testing? Yes, I know, but we never followed that procedure before! Well, who cares if that bozo Sergeant Matlock says... _no,_ I'm not gonna... that's not fair! I got her off the roof without anyone getting hurt, didn't I?

"This is bogus, Donovan. I'm not taking a week off work just because some idiot says... well, what does Peabody say? What d'you mean, both your hands are tied? What kind of pull does this Matlock goon have that... how much money? Don't tell me that. Please, please don't tell me that. Is this personal or... oh. He's a stickler. Great. That's worse than if it was personal. I'd rather he hated my ever-living guts than have it be that he has a problem with us breaking procedure, seeing as how we _always _manage to do that. If it was personal, we could take him down. Great. So..."

Dylan's bottom lip trembled for a moment. She sank her teeth into it until it stopped. "So I'm suspended for seven days? After I cleared this week to catch up on the juvie kids and the... I don't _want _a week of paid vacation! I _want _to do my job!

"Yeah, I know it's seven _business_ days and the weekend doesn't count... actually, I can handle snow; I've got a secretary who grew up in Montana. No, the winter Ren-Faire doesn't start till December so I'm not filling my so-called 'vacation' with 'fun medieval stuff,' as you put it. In fact, I've got PT coming up in a couple days. _Not_ fun, I'll have you know. Painful. Very painful. No, the Vicodin doesn't help.

"I'm sorry I'm so snarly," Dylan added, her voice softening as she ran a hand through her hair. "I know it's not your fault. You're not in trouble, are you? Oh, good. I'd have to file my own complaint if you got in trouble for something so ridonculous. What about Peabody? Okay, yes, that _is _a relief. But now I'm basically stuck until Wednesday and there are people counting on me... I know, I know, I'm only human. Yeah.

"Please make sure Doctor Hollis or Doctor Colfer are handling my current cases, okay? Hollis doesn't normally deal with kids Lisa's age, but he's the best at Saint Vincent's. Colfer can deal with my juvie kids. And keep Doctor Westenra _away_ from Lisa. You know _exactly _why. Thanks. Yeah, thanks for the head's up. I appreciate it. Yeah, yeah. I'll file my report sometime tomorrow, then. Be careful out there. Bye."

Dylan hung up and stared for a long moment at her phone before throwing it onto the bed and flinging herself back onto the pillows. "Great. I'm on paid suspension thanks to some pompous little beaurocrat filing a complaint because I got between Lisa and the sniper. Ugh," she growled into her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. "I hate beaurocracy. I hate procedure. I hate 'vacation.' I don't _want_ to think of it as 'vacation.' I want to do my job." Dropping her arms to her sides, the human blew a few stray wisps of hair out of her face. "Whatever. Going back to sleep now."

"What happened, milady?" Becan asked timidly. Dylan sighed.

"Nothing major. I'm on 'vacation' until Wednesday because someone complained about my 'conduct." I broke the rules by deliberately putting myself between Lisa and the SWAT sniper. Donovan just has to smooth things over, it's okay. I'm not actually in trouble. It's not like I could get fired or anything. They just have to give me a little time off and set me up with an Eval so they know I'm not suicidal or overworked or anything. Don't worry about it, Becan."

"Are you upset?" Nuada asked. He had been unwillingly fascinated by the speed with which Dylan had come out of sleep to wakefulness and begun negotiating - or trying to negotiate - with her policeman friend on the phone. The prince suddenly realized with a little irritation that Dylan had forgotten his presence in the face of her phone call. The mortal rubbed at one bleary eye with a loose fist before shaking her head.

"Not really." Dylan yawned. "Donovan's an old friend, and a good cop. He'll take care of things for me. And as long as Peabody doesn't get into trouble because that would _so_ tick me off. She's a good cop, too. Sleepy now. Bedtime. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention - make yourself at home... Your Highness. Just please don't go into the... room at the end of... the hall..."

And the human drifted off to sleep again, leaving Nuada to ponder what he had heard.

Donovan. Peabody. Friends of her? Doubtful they knew of her second life amongst the denizens of twilight, but still. She spoke of them with warmth and affection. Unlike that other. _Doctor Westenra._ He had never heard Dylan speak of anyone, even Eamonn, with such venom. Who was he?

Well, he would ask when she was awake and more lucid. The Elf prince turned to the little brownie, who patted his mistress lightly on the head before picking up the disgusting cellular contraption. Becan slid down the blanket to the floor and scrambled over to a dresser covered in snowglobes. He climbed up the dresser using the drawer handles and laid the phone between a snowglobe with a forest scene within the glass and a waterglobe of a glittering undersea city. Both were nestled on silver bases engraved with the words _I Do Believe in Faeries._ All the globes bore those same words.

_A reminder,_ Nuada thought. He counted twelve snow- and waterglobes on the dressertop. All but one bore fantasy scenes. The twelfth was a tiny, snow-dusted graveyard and the words read instead _We Do Believe in Faeries._ And the year. Nuada calculated and knew Dylan would have been twelve that year. The year she'd thought she lost her twin. _Yes,_ he thought. _To remind her, and for remembrance._

Nuada studied the other glass globes for a moment - centaurs, wood nymphs, mermaids and dragons inside crystal balls full of sparkling water - before catching the brownie's eye. _Make yourself at home,_ she had said. Well, then. He certainly would. He had much to think about. And he'd ask about the mysterious room at the end of the hall when she woke up.

"Becan, I require the largest room in this cottage."

"Of course, Your Highness."

**.**

John opened the door to walk out of his apartment and froze. Petra, hunched against the swirling snow in her thick red peacoat, stood on the front stoop. One hand was extended, as if she'd been about to push the doorbell. John blinked and swallowed hard when his oldest sister fixed him with her hazel eyes.

"Um... hi."

"Is Dylan okay?" Petra demanded. When her little brother stepped aside and gestured her in, the forty-something woman swept into the apartment and began to pace the length of the entryway. "I haven't heard from her. None of us have but Francesca, and she said Dylan hung up on her."

Thinking of his exuberant (and highly sexualized) sister, John wasn't surprised to hear that. 'Cesca and Dylan specifically had always rubbed each other the wrong way because Dylan was not one for high levels of sexuality in her every-day, casual contact with other people. Meanwhile, Francesca lived for that sort of thing. Back when the youngest Myers sister had been trying to save sick, helpless faeries, Francesca had been chasing the neighbor boys and trying to kiss them with her bright pink or dark red lipstick that she'd snagged from their mother. They got along better than Dylan did with the rest of their sisters, but eventually 'Cesca's sex-capades got on even Dylan's last nerve.

"Dylan is fine," the government agent replied. "Why didn't you just call her?"

"I did, and left a message." Petra stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, still shivering from the November ice. "She hasn't called back. Francesca said she's got some hot new boyfriend - yeah, right - who's staying at her place and they're screwing like rabbits in March. Does that sound like Dylan to you?"

Thinking of the tall, lethally graceful Other Kin that his twin had brought with her to the situation yesterday, he replied slowly, "Noooo. But that _does_ sound like one of those random and absolutely ridiculous conclusions 'Cesca often jumps to when a man is in any way involved with any of you girls." John absently rubbed the light bruises shackling his wrist. _Would _that Faerie prince of hers harm her? He wasn't sure.

"I'm worried about her, John." Petra's words snapped him back to the present conversation. "Gawd, she worries all of us. She's always wandering off and disappearing for a weekend or something. Camping with those friends of hers or just being... somewhere. What if she gets into trouble?"

_Like last time? Like in December?_

The words remained unspoken but the twenty-one-year-old could taste them shuddering through his big sister. They _all _remembered what Dylan had looked like in the hospital after vanishing for almost than three months. Only John knew the whole of it, because of his (rather weak) Second Sight. Only he knew about the faerie prince that had saved their sister's life and, most likely, her sanity. But even that unearthly warrior hadn't been enough to prevent the vicious damage to Dylan's body... or her brutalized, mutilated face.

The first stirrings of anger (at the men who'd hurt his twin) and sympathy (for his sisters who never knew what to do with the youngest of them, the wildest of them, who rarely made any sense and had always been such a "difficult" child) whispered in John's chest.

"I worry, too," he replied, going to his sister and putting an arm around her. "But I don't worry as much... now." When Petra glanced up at him, puzzled, he knew he had to pick his next words very carefully. "There's someone... looking out for her. Taking care of her. I don't mean spiritually or metaphorically or whatever," John added hastily when Petra frowned at him. "I mean a real, flesh-and-blood person. He won't let anything happen to her."

"A boyfriend?"

"A friend," John said. "But he's a..." He thought of how to finish that sentence. _He's a good guy _didn't work. John didn't know the Elf - Nuada, that was his name - enough to be able to vouch that way. _He cares about her. _Didn't work either. Finally he settled for, "He's not someone to tangle with. He'll look out for her."

After a few more words, mostly on inconsequential things like Petra's kids or John's "job hunting," the siblings parted ways. John slid into the icy chill of his Mustang, ready to head towards the Warehouse posing as an IRS building, while his sister headed for the subway.

_She worries all of us. _

Of _course _Dylan worried them. She worried _him_. Having the Sight made her a huge target. It basically stuck a neon sign to her that read _Fresh Meat Here_ to any faerie with an interest in a bite of human flesh - or something more. And life in New York City was _not_ safe, no matter who you were. People died in the streets every day. What was to keep Dylan from becoming one of those unnamed, unknown corpses? And her profession just made it all the more likely. No wonder his sisters were always so snarly. He knew it exasperated them (and frightened them) when Dylan acted like nothing could hurt her; when she refused to let common sense and self-preservation stop her from doing whatever it was she'd set her sights on. Most of the time she ended up okay but sometimes... sometimes she didn't.

_Like last December,_ he thought with a shudder. What could keep his twin from becoming just another crime statistic?

An image of tawny eyes, the phantom memory of otherworldly strength grinding his wrist bones together, eased the sudden stab of worry. _That _one wouldn't let anything happen to Dylan. He was too proud, too arrogant to let her get hurt. He'd consider it an insult.

Smiling a little now, John eased into the slower-than-molasses-in-January New York traffic.

**.**

Westenra slammed his fist down on his desk and glared through his office window at his trembling secretary. He snarled into the phone, "What do you mean, she isn't coming?"

"She's on suspension, Doctor," Helena murmured, wondering if she was still going to have her job at the end of this conversation. But strangely, the old psychiatrist began to chuckle, then to laugh. "Doctor?"

"Helena, my dear. You've made me a happy man. Thank you for the information." With those cryptic words, he hung up on the startled woman. So. Doctor Myers was on suspension. He hadn't had a hand in it, but it worked for his plans. It worked much better than what he'd intended, at any rate. Now Myers wouldn't be back on the job until next Wednesday at the earliest. And she had to go in for psychological testing, just to make sure she'd scraped through the rooftop ordeal with no unfortunate side effects. That gave him over a week to poke at the Ramirez girl before Dylan found out.

_And I'll put in to be the one who puts her through testing, _the psychiatrist though, smiling. _She'll have to answer my questions. She'll choke on that bone and rebel, which will get her in more trouble and keep her out of my hair, or she'll submit and I'll finally get another whack at her. Excellent._

With that in mind, Westenra sat back and studied his own patient files. He had a session in fifteen minutes. Just enough time to make another phone call. Pull another string. And make sure that when Doctor Myers had to go in for a psychological evaluation, she would be at his absolute (and non-existent) mercy.

**.**

"Where is your brother?" King Balor demanded of his pacing daughter. Nuala's skirts rustled over the stone floor as she strode back and forth in front of her father's desk. The king glanced at the window, where the sun was slowly sinking towards the horizon. His son and the mortal under his protection had been gone from court for more than a full day. What could they be doing?

"I do not know, Father," Nuala replied, pausing also to glance at the sunset. Stretching out her consciousness towards her twin, she tried to read him. There was very little for her to pick up on at all. Several nearly-fruitless moments passed. "I only feel that he is unharmed," the princess finally replied. "And that he is... very content, wherever he is."

"I shall send the Butchers to every whorehouse in the city, then," Balor groused.

Nuala gasped in shock. "Father!" At the One-Armed King's raised eyebrow, the princess added, "I know that Nuada has often been... a disappointment to us. Still, to assume that he has left us for simple carnal pleasure is unjust of you, Father. Wink told me - as I told you - what my brother said of why they left: Dylan had an emergency in the mortal realm and Nuada did not wish to leave her."

"You can imagine, Princess, that I am reluctant to abide by your brother's word. Especially regarding a human woman. He seeks to destroy our most sacred truce, and shatter our honor - the only thing we have left in this world of mortal metal and machines." Balor sighed and pressed a hand to his temple. "There are times I think this human woman may be a good influence on Nuada - the way he defended her and fought for her, endured for her. And what you told me of the night before last... that he held her, sang to her to give her solace. Surely she has some effect on him, and yet it is too much to hope that he may change after so long. I have mourned Nuada as one dead for so long, for I believed him lost to us. I find it... difficult to believe he could be salvaged at the eleventh hour."

"As long as they remain together, we will be fine either way, Father. Either she will change him, or she will be the means of removing his support. Either way..."

"And if Our designs put her in danger, Your Highness?" Balor sat back and studied his daughter. Her connection to her twin brother - and his connection to her - made her an unsuitable candidate to be queen. Yet Nuada could not be king, either. Not so long as his hatred for humanity burned like hellfire in his heart.

Did his daughter have the stomach for putting an innocent mortal in danger to protect thousands? Unrest simmered beneath the silken surface of the court of Bethmoora in the wake of the prince's return and the revelation of his mortal "lady." The king's spies had whispered much into his ears - courtiers pulling their support, both financial and political, from the crown prince. Even more dangerous, there was talk that the Silver Lance had somehow been bewitched by human magic, and that the prince would probably reward any woman who freed him of the spell.

Yet Balor would not - _could _not - free his only son and the mortal from the trap of court politics that had been set around them. Would Nuala side with her king, or her twin in this?

"If your plans put Lady Dylan in danger, Majesty..." The Elf princess trailed off, gazing out at the oncoming dark. Nuada was out there somewhere. With Dylan, if Wink was to be believed. Safe. For the moment. She remembered her brother's eyes whenever the human woman came into the room: fierce, protective, every instinct on alert to danger. "If what we must do places Dylan in danger, Nuada will protect her. Of that I am sure."

_Just as she protects him._ Nuala did not know how she knew it, or even what the words meant. Only that they were true.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and now we get to see a softer side of Petra again. Yay! Petra actually has a brief appearance in chapter 8, if anyone remembers. I remind you because I know it's been a while since we've seen her and my beta says I have to remind people of characters that don't show up often or they get forgotten. _

_Anyway, so there's not too much super-actiony-danger in this chapter, and Nuada and Dylan don't have, like, any screen time, really. But the point of this chapter isn't them. It's the machinations going on around them. So who's excited about the machinations? We've got Dilong pissed as hell and readying to come down on Bethmoora, we've got Dylan "in trouble" with her job, Westenra plotting some nasty things, and Balor trying to find our semi-happy couple. Oh, dear._

_So, our lovely review prompt:_

_1) Who was glad to see a nicer, gentler, more sisterly side of Petra again? I say again because you see it in chapter 8 as well._

_2) Peabody and Donovan - so far they're just side-characters (tertiary, 3-tiered, not even secondary). Who would like to see them become a bigger presence in the fic?_

_3) Who sees the Dilong thing ending very badly?_

_4) Top 3 favorite parts, least favorite, funniest bits, least funny bits, etc._

_5) Who's going to go read Nightmare's ficlet, "All Good Fairy Tales?" You should. It's awesome._

_._

_**Dedication:**_ _to the inestimable __**WhenNightmaresWalked**__, for her lovely and adorable piece, __**"All Good Fairy Tales." **__I absolutely adore it, and that piece has made the last three crappy, soul-sucking days bearable. With that in mind, our dearest Dream has earned not one, not two, but __**three **__extra updates in addition to the two that should be coming on October 1st. So that means 5 chapters in the next week or two, posted as they're available. For those who are excited, say "Thank you, Nightmare!" You guys only get one chapter today because the others aren't ready yet, but the other 4 will come. I promise. _

_Thank you so much, Nightmare. For everything._

_._

_**Challenge:**_ _this is more because I'm depressed as hell and kind of want to rip out my own heart right now. But would anyone like to write a brief little ficlet about __**Nuada dreaming**_ _at the beginning of this chapter, and what he's dreaming about? I'd like to see some fluff, or some steam, or some romantic development in a dreamscape. Something to lift my spirits. Or you can write about __**what Nuada does while Dylan sleeps all day**__. Or you can do both, and basically write the whole day from Nuada's POV. __**Actually, that would make me super happy.**_ _The reward is 3 spoiler questions __**AND**_ _2 chapter updates because I really, really want this a lot. So yay for anyone who wants to do it._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- NONE (right now - maybe I'll fiddle with it later when I'm in a better mood)

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- NONE


	28. Almost a Proposal

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter  
**__Author's Note  
Challenge_  
_References Made in the Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, here's #2 of WhenNightmaresWalked's 3 chapters for her happy, super-sweet challenge ficlet that made my heart swell with joy. So this one is also dedicated to her. Who's excited? This is chapter #6 of the ones posted this month. That's pretty cool. We've made such progress. Especially since it's only September 26 and back in June, we were on chapter 8. Three months and twenty chapters later and look where we are. Yayness. Who loves the happy fun?_

_So anyway, hope you guys enjoy this chapter. There's some interesting stuff mentioned in this chapter. Yay! Who's excited? Enjoy._

_**Happy News:**_ _Dylan's score on the Mary Sue Litmus Test. This makes me so freaking happy because I loathe Mary-Sue (unless done in a funny way). Her score is a 1__2__. A t__w__e__lve__. Yay!_

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**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**Almost a Proposal**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Old Memories, Displays, Confessions Over Dinner, War Councils, and a Realization**

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Night has a way of playing tricks on the mind. The intimacy of the dark can conjure up feelings of closeness, deep thoughtfulness... or a sense of being hunted. In the cottage amidst the icy woods, the night stalked a mortal woman and the child she once was. Memory howled in the darkness; memory of days and years gone-by. Memories that even the passage of more than a full decade had not managed to erode.

Nuada woke on Dylan's sofa to the sound of a choked scream. Instantly he was on his feet and stalking silently through the little cottage toward her room.

Becan stood beside the half-open door, twisting his tiny hands in distress. At seeing the prince, the brownie said in a tremulous voice, "It is only an ill dream, Sire. She is not hurt." The Elven warrior moved to stride past the brownie, but the little faerie snagged the leg of his trousers and said, "No, Sire. She cannot be woken yet. This is a dream I know well - she has had it nearly every night since I came to this cottage. Milady cannot be woken until the nightmare releases her, and when she wakes she will want no one at her side."

From the dimly lit room - Nuada realized belatedly that night had fallen while he and the mortal slept - there came a voice. Dylan's, and yet... that terrified child's voice could not be Dylan. Everything in the prince rebelled at the idea.

"Mommy," she whimpered. Each word was ragged with tears and terror. "Please, Mommy... let me out. It's dark. I'm sorry, let me out. Please. I wanna go home. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please let me come home. Don't let him hurt me. He's a bad man, Mommy! John! John, where are you? Help me, John. John..." She thrashed against the tangle of blankets and bedding, moaning the word "no" over and over. And then the mortal let out a scream that froze Nuada's blood.

_Danu's mercy,_ he thought, and took a half-step nearer. He had heard such screams before, but from men and women being tortured. What kind of hell could she possibly be dreaming of?

With another tortured cry she bolted upright, one hand going reflexively to her throat as she dragged in shuddering lungfuls of air. Her hands shook as she pushed tangles of dark hair away from her face. A strangled, whimpering sound escaped her and she covered her mouth with both hands.

Nuada expected her to break down, to cry as she had their last night in Findias. Instead she drew in a deeper, steadier breath. Blew it out slowly. Then she threw back the covers and got out of bed. The Elf prince cleared his throat to alert her to his presence. She froze. Shot him one wild-shy glance before staring at the floor. "How long have you been there?"

"A few moments only," he said. The easy companionship of the dawn had vanished. He could see that in her eyes. Or maybe it was the echoes of her dreams that shimmered in her haunted gaze. "Are you... all right?" A foolish question, but it was all he could think to ask when she looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Dylan mumbled, "I'm fine."

Uncertain, and despising that he felt so, his reply was a tersely muttered, "Good."

"If you give me a minute," the human said as Nuada moved to walk away, "I'll make breakfast. Erm... dinner, I guess." She stared up the clouded moonlight filtering through the curtains of her bedroom window. "What time is it?"

"An hour after sunset," Nuada said. Dylan moved toward what the prince knew to be a bathroom, but every movement was hesitant. Slow. As if pain burned in every step. Almost as if she were quietly bleeding to death. Unease trickled down the Elf prince's spine like meltwater from mountain snows. "Dylan... are you certain you are all right?"

"Yeah. Give me a few minutes, I'll be right out."

And she disappeared into the other room. There was the sound of water running in the sink as Nuada turned to go back to the room he had fallen asleep in a couple hours earlier. Becan trailed after him, a tiny bundle of nervous energy. Once in the place the brownie had called a "den," which the prince had converted into a training space before falling asleep, Nuada dropped to the sofa and sighed, rubbing his arm with one hand to ease the echo of old aches. The brownie scuttled up onto the mantel and sighed as well.

"_Is_ she all right?" Nuada asked after a moment. "What was that dream?"

"She will be well in a few minutes, Sire. As for the dream, I believe it is a memory. Or many memories. From when she was a child in... in that place."

That place. _They electrocuted me. _Words from a night long ago when hate and rage were the only things that stood between an Elf prince and a mortal woman. _They beat me. They locked me away in the dark. They starved me. _Just the briefest glimpse into her past. _They drugged me._

And suddenly the hate burned again, hot as hellfire when Nuada thought of a little girl's innocence - and possibly her sanity - shattered by those who should have protected her. A little girl cruelly punished for the sin of defending his people. That midnight-black hate seared his veins, simmered in his blood. Scorched his tongue when he spat, "Humans. Disgusting, hollow vermin they are, that they terrorize a child, and haunt a woman."

Yet his father insisted on maintaining that accursed truce. A truce with creatures more monstrous than any found in Faerie, a truce based on shame. King Balor thought it honorable to give way before the humans, even when they committed such atrocities against their own young ones. Against someone like Dylan.

Nuada suddenly wanted his lance in his hand, scarlet blood singing over Elven silver as he put an end to the demons from Dylan's childhood hell. He clenched his fists and throttled back the bloodlust and fury screaming for vengeance when he thought of a terrified, brutalized child crying in the dark. _Mommy, please let me come home. _An unsettling, albeit childlike, echo of his own long-abandoned sentiment so often ignored: _Father, how I long for home. _Wrenching himself away from such sentimentality, he sighed again. _She will never have peace from the past. She will be haunted by it all her days, as I am. What a pair we are. May the stars_ _curse her family, and all the other demons of her past._

"I'm all right, Nuada," a soft voice said from the entryway of the den.

Becan hurried out of sight while Nuada slowly lifted his head to find Dylan's eyes, clear and gentle as moonlit lakes. There was no trace of the horror from moments ago. She lounged against the doorframe in a baggy sweater of deep rose and stretchy white jeans with glittering green vines running up and down the legs. Oddly, he found the sight of her pale green sock-feet peeking out from under the hems of her pants reassuring - as if those tiny patches of green meant everything was well with her. Catching the direction of his gaze, she rocked back on her heels, careful of her injured foot, and wiggled her toes at him, and he could not help the wry chuckle that escaped him.

She added, "Don't worry about me. So... when are we going back to Findias? Are we ever? Because I happen to like living, so standing in front of those guards when they try to beat you up is going to put a serious crimp in my lifestyle choices, especially the ones I've made about breathing."

Nuada sighed. "If all I desired in this life could be accomplished without returning to that place, I would never go back," he said bitterly, "but I must."

Once, his dearest wish for himself had been to return home. To be his father's joy again. To find happiness with his sister. To be the returned prince and hero. Now, though... now that he had found sanctuary (_Of a sort,_ the prince thought, but Dylan's cottage _was_ sanctuary nonetheless), that desire did not burn so fiercely any longer. As for Findias itself... after the humiliation he had endured before the royal court of Bethmoora, the thought of going back was like ashes in his mouth. Not to mention the dangers that lurked there. Mostly dangers to Dylan only, yes, but danger nonetheless.

"I must," he added with no little irritation, "though I would much rather stay here. And if I return without you, my father-"

"Forget your father for a minute. If you go back there without me, I'll follow after you."

The Elf prince glanced at the human when she said this. Saw the steely determination, and the undercurrent of fear, in her eyes. Recognized the words for the threat - and the promise - they were. _I go when you go._ Not just when, but where. Words of loyalty. Words of fealty, which wasn't the same thing. He recalled plucking a tulip, with petals red as human blood, from Yang's hand and tucking it into Dylan's dark curls. Tulips for trust. Recalled Dylan choosing a flower for honor and bravery without a moment's hesitation.

"I do not plan on leaving you behind," he said. "I would be a fool to walk onto a battlefield, even merely a political one, without my staunchest allies. However, I feel like being reckless for a change." Nuada smirked when Dylan's eyes went wide. With a half-mocking little bow, he added, "If the lady of this demesne does not complain, I would stay here for a few days more. My father will be angry no matter when we return, so I intend to, as you say, 'take a vacation.' I also mean to show the king that Prince Nuada Silverlance will not be kept a prisoner in Findias, nor will I allow you to be held there against your will."

_And using me as a hostage against you counts as such,_ he thought, but did not say.

Dylan gave him a searching look. "I just have one question: is this going to get us killed or tortured? And when I say 'us,' I actually mean 'you,' because if your dad does something awful to you I'm going to have to try to kill him and then the guards will rip me into little pieces."

"No." Eleven months ago, a human threatening his father would have ended in the shedding of mortal blood. Now, though... Nuada knew Dylan would stand between him and almost anything if he allowed it. That thought eased some of the chill that had come when she had mentioned returning to the capital of Bethmoora. "Publicly chastised, possibly, but killed? No."

"Tortured?"

"No."

"Flogged?"

"Possibly," he replied truthfully, "but doubtful."

"Then okay. Now I have another question - what did you do to my furniture?"

There was a long moment of tense silence. The Elf prince thought of nightmares and memories, scars as pale as death, and a woman terrified of the dark. All the things he wanted to ask her - about the girl, Lisa; the boy Dylan still had not allowed herself to truly mourn, Rafael; and the flash of memory he had seen on that icy roof when Dylan spoke of trying to end her own life.

But there was a wall behind Dylan's eyes that begged him to leave be for now. So finally, Nuada forced his lips into a smirk and replied, "Your furniture? I moved it." He cocked his head. "As you see."

"Yes, I _do_ see." She folded her arms. Her wry smile cooled some of the fresh hatred smoldering inside him. "My question is, why?" Dylan scanned the den. Her two chairs, coffee table, and sofa were pushed against the wall by the door. This room was the biggest in the cottage besides her room, and with the floor cleared, there was at least thirty square feet of free floor space. "What were you doing in here?"

He pushed to his feet. Assessed the stiffness in his arm. Asked her, "Would you like to see?"

Dylan scanned the moon-pale face, the raised eyebrow, and the challenging half-smile. Watched as eyes that had been blood-red slowly faded to familiar amber again. The icy knot of dread in her stomach loosened, faded. Dylan found her own smile, still edged with a trace of nightmares, softening and matching his. She shrugged. Sank into one of the chairs and tucked her feet beneath her. "Sure. Show me."

Intensely aware of the eyes on him (for the first time in a long while, someone other than Wink would witness what he could do in a non-combative setting), Nuada took up his lance and turned his wrist, letting the spear spin for a few rotations before slashing at an imaginary opponent. He slashed and spun, twisted and thrust and twirled the spear. Dodged an imaginary opponent. Somersaulted backwards, rolled forwards. Elven silver sang as it sliced through the air. His blood hummed as he fell into a familiar rhythm of acrobatics and razor-sharp strikes. The glow of the fireplace edged his lance with carnelian light.

And Dylan watched him with awe as he moved through the simple forms, hands clasped under her chin and eyes shining. He came to a sudden, sharp stop, the weapon held at arms' length in front of him, as if presenting the Silver Lance as an offering to her. He had not even broken a sweat.

"Nuada," she said softly, eyes wide. She'd seen him do very simple fighting forms during their time together in the sanctuary, but that was nothing compared to the lethal acrobatic grace the feral-eyed warrior had displayed just then. "You're absolutely incredible. Where did you learn to do that?"

He shrugged, oh-so-casually. He would not preen like a cocky youth because of her praise... but part of him wanted to. "I am an Elven warrior."

"Well, then you are the _most amazing_ Elven warrior ever," she said, rising to her feet. "And for that splendid performance, I'm gonna make you dinner. Chicken alfredo, it's one of my favorite things to make. You'll like it, I promise."

She was walking towards the door when he asked nonchalantly, "Oh, will I?" Dylan turned back to him, a hand on her cocked hip and the sparkle of challenge in her eyes. Smiling, she asked, "What's the matter, Your Highness? Don't you trust me?"

Becan watched the prince, who was chuckling to himself, follow the human woman out of the den. The brownie smiled. The two of them were good for each other. He still thought his lady remained unaware of the Crown Prince's consideration, but surely the Silver Lance could see the wealth of affection that always shone in Dylan's eyes. Becan slipped from his perch and trailed after the pair.

**.**

It took Dylan merely fifty minutes to make dinner. It surprised Nuada to see that everything was fairly fresh - the meat, which Becan had purchased from the Floating Night Market in Manhattan; the pasta itself. Dylan even made the creamy, white sauce from scratch (constantly referring to the cook book on the counter). The herbs were from her garden's store.

The Elf prince watched her from where he lounged against the doorway to the kitchen while she cooked, and listened to her sing along to a little radio perched on the counter not currently in use. For once she was actually (mostly) in key. Her voice was sweet in counterpoint to the too-modern guitars and drums, the only thing that made the music tolderable.

_"My best friend gave me the best advice.  
He said, 'Each day's a gift and not a given right.  
Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind,  
And try to take the path less traveled by...'"_

Sitting down to dinner at a human's table, however, was awkward.

Dylan said a brief blessing over the food. Then she set to eating as if she'd been starving for weeks and only just rediscovered the glory of food.

_He_ ate slowly, cataloguing the different tastes and textures. Considering this was made by a human, from a mortal recipe, the dish was oddly palatable. Nuada would have even gone so far as to say it tasted... _good. _And though he usually preferred wine or ale with his food, the sparkling grape juice Dylan had provided worked well enough.

The prince got the impression she was trying very hard to make up something to him. He was simply unsure as to what. Well, whatever it was, it would have to wait until after they talked about the current situation.

"Dylan," he said, and she glanced up from her plate. "We have much to discuss."

"Uh-oh," the human replied, and took a sip of juice. "That sounds ominous. Did you figure out a way to break off our almost-engagement?"

"Unfortunately, no," the prince said. Sighed. "But there are now... complications." Quickly, he outlined what he had learned from Wink the night before about Eamonn, about Princess Ming Xian, and all that the information on both Elves meant regarding the human and the Crown Prince of Bethmoora (including the fact that if the Crown Prince ventured into Cíocal to drag Eamonn out - or simply to kill him - it would most likely spark a war, or at least serious trouble, between Cíocal and Bethmoora).

Nuada realized suddenly that he was discussing what essentially boiled down to political strategies with a mortal woman over dinner that _she_ had made, that was actually edible, in a human dwelling. Would wonders never cease?

"So this place, this Kingdom of Cíocal... they take anyone? Indifferent to status, moral values, anything - they take everyone?" Dylan mulled this over while wolfing down more pasta. "How does that affect their citizenship and their rights? I mean, does the refugee have the exact same rights as the serial rapist, and vice-versa?"

The Elf prince scowled. "Loath as I am to admit such a thing, yes. And by going in without the kings' leave - and I would need both King Elatha's, and my father's - and executing Eamonn, I would break the treaty between Cíocal and Bethmoora."

"Then don't worry about it, Your Highness," the human replied between bites. "As long as he stays in there, we don't have to worry about him. Not that I don't want you to rip him into little pieces and sprinkle him on your toast because I absolutely do, but if you're going to get in trouble then I don't want you to worry about it. The minute he comes into Bethmoora, you can kick his butt or lop off his head or whatever you have planned for the scumbag. On a different note, shouldn't your almost-engagement with this princess negate our almost-engagement?" Dylan asked, and took a sip of juice before wolfing down more pasta.

"If it came down to marrying an infant princess in two hundred years and finding myself bound to the Dragon of Dilong by ties of matrimony, or marrying you, I would choose-"

"Yeah, I know," she interrupted, trying to ignore the needle-sharp prick of pain behind her chest. Of course she knew what choice he would make. Nuada had always been perfectly clear on his preferences. "You'd pick the adorable Elf princess over the gross human-"

"Actually, I would choose you."

"Well of course you..." His words penetrated and she trailed off, her mouth dropping open as she stared at the amber-eyed prince seated across from her. It took her a minute to remember how to form words. "But you... but... wait... no, you wouldn't." Nuada arched an eyebrow, as if daring her to call him a liar. "But Nuada, you _wouldn't_. I'm human. You hate me. Er, severely dislike me."

"Dylan." He had been about to take a drink, but now he set his glass down and studied the woman across from him. When she caught him watching her, she looked away and took a hasty sip of juice. "You are a very clever and intelligent woman. Consider for a moment: I spent the day sleeping on your couch and training in your home. A _human _home. I'm eating food prepared by mortal hands. I do not have to stay here. If I did not wish to be here, I could return to any of the dwellings I have scattered throughout the city. Instead I choose to remain. _With you_. Would I choose such if I truly felt the way you seem to think?"

"But... but _why?"_ Dylan demanded. This was so completely outside her experience - and her expectations - that her head was swimming and her pulse was overly loud in her ears. "Why would you ever choose me? Over an Elven princess? That makes no sense."

"Because the Emperor of Dilong is a madman, and his daughter is a mere infant. She would be but a child when it finally came time to marry her, and I would be nearly as old as my father when that marriage would be consummated. It would be unfair to both of us, and the odds of siring a child to take my place as monarch at that age would be... unlikely. And again, the Dragon of Dilong is a madman. The political tangles and the headache wrapped up in having him for a father-in-law would be enough even without all the rest.

"As for _you_, Dylan," he added, and moonlit blue eyes met sunlit gold. "I would choose you particularly over Dilong because... I am..." Honor demanded he say this. Honor forbade him from allowing her to believe he held any sentiment other than his true one. Curse it, he _would _say this. Forcing his teeth to unclench, he confessed as tonelessly as possible, "I am fond of you."

The way her mouth dropped open would have been almost comical if it hadn't stung so much. She blinked at him in absolute shock for several seconds. He raised an eyebrow, and she snapped her mouth shut with an audible _click_ of teeth. Finally Dylan managed to speak.

"You..." _You are? _was the question sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't ask it. Couldn't. This was something she had never, ever expected to hear from him, of all people. There was a weight on her chest so heavy it almost hurt. Fond of her. Nuada was fond of her. That meant he liked her. Even though she was human, he was fond of her. How could Nuada, who despised humanity with a heat that rivaled a wildfire, feel anything for her except dislike and, if she were lucky, reluctant tolerance?

Dylan wanted to think about that. Wanted to hold onto the words for a few minutes, just turning them over in her mind until they made sense. _Later, _she thought. _Time for that later. _Until then, she had something else to point out.

"But you don't love me."

"Of course I don't." His matter-of-fact tone somehow turned the simple words into a slap, but he didn't know it. And would he even care if he did know? For some reason, she suddenly doubted it. "Dylan," Nuada added, "I am a prince. I never expected to marry for love. My father was lucky in his choice, but I did not expect to be so. If I must marry, if I _must_ make the choice between a mortal woman who has sacrificed so much for my people and a child I do not know - one that comes with inconvenient and most likely highly dangerous ties to the Court of Dilong and the Jade Throne - I choose a mortal woman. Specifically, you."

It would be a hard and bitter choice, Nuada knew. He did not wish to marry anyone. And it would be embarrassing for him, and dangerous for both of them. Yet Dylan was mortal. It would only be for a relatively short time. Once her life was spent, he would be free of matrimonial bonds again - as he preferred. With Ming Xian... even if he lived to be older than his father, she would most likely outlive him. Then the Dragon of Dilong would have direct control over the court of Bethmoora through his daughter.

_I will never allow anyone but members of my family to rule Bethmoora, _the prince thought. _Never._

"What happened to all that 'I will not sully myself by joining with a human' stuff?"

"I would not have to," he replied with an easy shrug. "Unless I needed heirs quickly, which I do not, there would be no need. When I'm king, yes, but as I said to Nuala, your life will be long since spent by then. We would be wed in name only."

_He doesn't get it, _Dylan realized as dread coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach. _If I marry him - I can't believe I'm even thinking those words - but if I marry him, that's _it _for me. Royals don't divorce in Faerie. I'm with him until I die. _Condemned to a loveless marriage, without hope of romantic affection or children. A stranger among the ethereal Fayre. Would she even be able to see John again? Her sisters? Her friends? What about her patients, and her Sight kids?

Dylan knew that Nuada wasn't really thinking about all that from her point of view. He was too focused on what was best for the people of Bethmoora and what was best for him. For the first time, there was a tiny sliver of resentment pricking at her heart.

She realized then that this was probably part of Balor's trap in the whole courtship-engagement thing. If the One-Armed King of Elfland did manage to force the two of them into wedlock - all he had to do, after all, was threaten Nuada's life, which Dylan would _not_ put past him - the king was banking on a wedge being driven between her and Nuada over it. Over the conditions Nuada would insist upon if they ever married.

And there _was _a wedge there. Dylan could feel it slowly sliding between them with every word, though she was pretty sure she was the only one to sense such a thing. If she didn't stop it now, what would happen to them? What were the consequences of breaking away from Nuada even a little bit? Dylan didn't know... but when she thought about it for even a few seconds, a heavy sense of dread bore down on her.

_I care about him, _she thought. _He's as dear a friend as John is a brother; just that close, that important. That dear to me. But how dear _is _that, exactly? What is such love worth? _She'd thought herself wholly dedicated to the Elf prince. Despite his disdain for humans and (she'd thought) for her. In the face of this new possibility, could she still be so unequivocably loyal to him?

_Well,_ Dylan thought as all this new information swirled in her brain. _My two main concerns - lack of love, and no children. The question is, would I have ever had children? I have the Sight. They probably would too. Any child I had would be at risk. The average life expectancy of someone with the Sight isn't even eighteen; the only reason I've lived this long is because I was locked up safe. I've always held out hope, but... now it's down to the wire. But how can I commit to this nebulous idea when it's still just a far-off possibility?_ She took a long, slow sip of grape juice to buy herself a little more time to think.

_Heavenly Father... what do I do?_ She never asked that question except under severe duress, but now... now, Dylan found herself at a loss. Inexplicably, there was no flicker of soothing warmth in her chest. The Spirit was _there_ - Dylan could feel that much - but she suddenly knew that this decision would have to be made almost entirely on her own. _That means I know everything I need to know in order to make it. So... what do I know? _

_I know that Nuada is dearer to me than anyone or anything except John. I know that Balor is trying to split us up emotionally with this, trying to weaken my loyalty to him. I know that the odds of me marrying anyone else are slim to none, because most people with the Sight die before they hit eighteen, twenty at the most, and I could never marry someone who wasn't part of that world. Which means I'd never have children anyway. _

_And if, by some absolute miracle, I found someone better than Nuada - yeah, like _that _would ever happen - who had the Sight, who was a member of the Church, who I could fall in love with, would I be willing to bring forth a child into such a dangerous life? Could I do that to my children? And if not... then what am I risking, or losing, by giving Nuada my support in this choice? Nothing. So why not agree to this? Especially since it's just a far-fetched possibility? Can I... can I _do _that? I don't think I can do that._

"Dylan," Nuada said softly. Though she still held the glass to her lips, her gaze had turned inward, as if she wandered some far-off mental road. What was she thinking? He caught just a brief glimpse of some sort of struggle behind her eyes. Remembered the hollow torment from when she had awoken from the nightmare. "Dylan, are you well?"

After a moment, she nodded and put her glass down. "Yes. I'm fine. Sorry, I was just... anyway. So, the plan is, if it comes down to it and we have no choice, we marry, but in name only? You're okay with that?" She wasn't. The idea filled her with a hollow sense of panic, like electricity sizzling through her blood, making her feel skittish as a wild horse. She couldn't marry Nuada. She couldn't!

Dylan remembered the stroke of callused knuckles against her cheek and along her jaw, the way her stomach had lurched. The momentary flicker of awareness that yes, Nuada was a man, a handsome and sometimes very charming one. She knew herself well enough to know that just that tiny sizzle, that frisson of awareness, could morph into something very dangerous. Was _already _morphing into attraction. But that attraction could be quashed if she had enough time and could put enough space between them. Not so if they went through with what the prince was proposing.

Marry Nuada. Marry him, and have to go to court functions with him, have to dance and dine and ride with him. Probably have to sleep beside him every night, knowing that this powerful warrior was so very physical, and could easily grow tired of charade. Grow tired of pretense and cold, empty nights and finally one night trap her beneath unconquerable Elven strength and take...

_No, _she snapped at herself. _No, don't be stupid. He would never do that. Never. _But the fear had suddenly taken root. Spread tiny, icy tendrils of dread through her chest and into her stomach. _He wouldn't, _she told herself again. Her hand was shaking, so she hid it under the table. _Nuada would never. It's the too-likely possibility of getting a crush on him that's the problem, not that. _

Still... so many reasons to say no. So many reasons to refuse him. The fear, and the dread, and the hurt that she was his choice because she was the least wrong, not the most right. Balor had built this trap very well. She would have to choose whether to walk away, or throw herself headlong into it.

And what was at stake? Only her heart. Only her loyalty. Only the person she loved more than anyone or anything else except God and her brother.

"No," Nuada said slowly, bringing her back to the conversation. "I am not, as you say, 'okay' with that... but you are the safer, more acceptable choice. The only choice, unfortunately."

Her laugh was strained to her own ears, but Nuada didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn't care that she was upset. _No, _she admonished herself. _Don't think like that. He's my friend. Remember, he said he was fond of me. He cares for me, at least a little. _For some reason remembering the prince's words made something warm fizz in her stomach, and something icy slide around her heart. But aloud all Dylan said, in a self-deprecating and forcedly cheerful voice, was, "You make me sound like a car. Safe, acceptable - add reliable and maybe resilient to that and you've got a stationwagon."

"As a mortal, you're hardly what I would call resilient."

Dylan knew he meant it to tease. Knew that Nuada would never say something to her with the intent to hurt. Yet the conversation about marriage and politics - and the thought of what _could_ happen, any of what could happen, even if it never would - had left her unsettled, ill-at-ease. _Overly sensitive, _she told herself. _Get a grip. _Still, something cold in the pit of her stomach made her say very softly, "You'd be surprised how resilient I am, Your Highness. If you'll excuse me." Dylan got to her feet, gave a brief bow, and walked to the corridor that led to her room.

"A moment... my lady," Nuada said softly, bringing her to an unwilling halt. He'd said those words just to make her stop. Known that without 'my lady' tacked onto the end, she would most likely have kept walking until she escaped to her room. Had he used that odd sprinkling of tenderness in his voice for the same reason? Or was it, as she'd thought the night before, just practice? Practice for the charade. How long before she couldn't tell the difference between true sentiment and that stupid, cruel court facade he was busy perfecting?

_It hurts to breathe, _Dylan realized in shock. _Am I having a panic attack? Why does it hurt to... doesn't matter. I have to get out of here. Just for a minute. _But amber eyes held her pinned at the entrance to the hallway. Nuada rose slowly from his chair and strode toward her. She wanted to back up, but the wall pressed hard and icy against her back, preventing escape. But why did she even want to get away from him? He wouldn't hurt her. _And if he did, I'd survive it, _she thought, _because I'm "resilient."_

Surprised by the bitterness in that thought, she frowned. Struggled to assess herself while watching him come closer. _My feelings are hurt, _Dylan realized. _Well, okay, of course they are. He basically said if it came down to a choice between marrying me or having burning hot splinters shoved under his fingernails, he'd marry me _then_. And he made me sound like a car commercial. But why does that upset me so much? Is that my feminine pride? Gag me if it is; I'm almost thirty - even Nuada's dismissal shouldn't hurt me like this. It shouldn't feel like the room is choking me, like I can't breathe. It's something else but... no. No, I..._

"What is your decision in this, Dylan?" Golden eyes scanned her face. Why did she look so pale? Why did she refuse to meet his eyes? "Do you stand with me, or no? What will you do?"

If she said no... if she refused him this... what would happen? He would probably take it as a betrayal. She would definitely feel as if she had betrayed him. Hadn't she promised, sworn that she would stand by him no matter what? _I go when you go. Whatever you say, I'll do._ In Faerie, those words were the equivalent of a sworn oath. If she'd given an oath of service as his vassal, Dylan couldn't have been bound more tightly to the crown prince.

"I will do what I have always done, Your Highness," Dylan said softly. Fighting the strange nervous tension sizzling in her blood, the tendrils of cold dread, she added even more softly, "Whatever you command me. Do with me what you will." She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see the concern - or maybe it was just irritation - in his face. The gentle warmth of the Spirit confirming the rightness of her choice helped the nervousness, but didn't erase it completely. _I... I think I know what's wrong, but... oh, but it can't be that. It _can't _be._ "Now if you'll excuse me, please."

Dylan slipped away from him and walked swiftly down the hall, folding her arms protectively over her belly as she moved toward her bedroom. It felt like someone had planted a gauntlet-armored fist right in her solar plexus. Nuada's gaze on her back felt like something dragged at her shoulders. As if he could pull her back with sheer will. But she had to get away from him. Away from everyone, everything. Just for a minute.

Once in her room, she shut the door and sank to the floor. Drew a ragged breath and let it out slowly. Beyond her window, the wind howled and falling snow smothered the night. The cold had already crept into the room. The cuts on her palm and heel throbbed with it; her bad knee ached from it; her bones shivered with it. But her hands shook for an entirely different reason altogether.

_I'm in so much trouble. I'm in so much trouble, _Dylan repeated over and over again. Each shuddering breath felt as if it would choke her. _How did this happen? How could this have happened? I'm so screwed._

Pushing to her feet, she tried to pace the length of her bedroom. Her legs gave out after only two turns around the room and she sank down onto her bed. With one trembling hand she reached out to the crimson tulip on the nightstand beside her bed. Caressed the cool, silken petals with a fingertip. Remembered against her will the way Nuada had tucked it into her hair. How he'd held her against the cold. Dylan felt her bottom lip trembling, and sank her teeth into it until she tasted blood. _Ow._

She suddenly had the urge to call Francesca. Or better yet, Petra. When things were truly tough, when she honest-to-goodness needed help, Petra would always help her. They almost always fought like wet rabid cats whenever they were together, true. But Petra was her big sister. When Dylan needed help, the oldest Myers girl would always answer. After all, what did Dylan know about this kind of thing? About the shivery, fluttery feelings that were scaring her to death? Making her feel like she couldn't breathe?

_And what would I tell her? _Dylan realized. _That I'm almost-engaged to an Elf prince that I... that I might... what would I tell her? _Same with Francesca, or Pauline, or Mary. Same with Simone, Gardenia, or Victoria. All of them were so much more experienced with this kind of thing, and they'd give advice and even give her a shoulder to cry on if she really needed one. And for a while, at least, the eight sisters wouldn't fight. The older ones would just offer to beat the stuffing out of whatever douche bag had brought her to tears (which Nuada could do with alarming frequency) while the younger ones offered her hot chocolate and miniature cream puffs because they were her favorite comfort food.

For a long moment, Dylan wished with all her heart that she could call her sisters. Ask their advice. Go over to Francesca's, have a sister-slumber party. Sometimes (albeit very, _very _rarely) the eight of them did that.

But what would she tell them? What could she say that would erase the suspicion and the worry they always felt toward and for her? _Nothing I _can _say, _she told herself. _Crud._

_Oh, Heavenly Father, this can't happen. With everything else going on, this _can't _happen. It's just too much. Too much all at once. I can't deal with this. If anyone finds out about this, we're going to be in even more danger than we are already. I'll be a liability, to myself and to him... and he's going to be so angry if he finds out._ The thought of Nuada being mad at her - truly angry, as he hadn't been since before she'd left his Underground sanctuary - made her eyes sting.

Dylan covered her face with shaking hands. Focused on the wall that her hands made against the rest of the world - an old trick from her childhood. She ignored the panic clawing at her throat. Pretended there was nothing beyond her wall of flesh. Nothing. No job, no suspension from that job, no gang kids probably hungering for her blood, no silver-eyed Elven madmen wanting to rape, maim, and/or kill her just because they were deluded into thinking Nuada cared about her.

Not even an Elf prince out of a fairy tale who made her feel safer than she had since early childhood; an Elf prince with eyes like molten gold and a voice that sang lullabies. No potential future marriage that was more like a prison sentence. No political intrigue. Nothing. Not a single bad or scary or confusing thing.

Just herself, and the warmth of her breath curling against her palms. The sound of her slowing heartbeat. Darkness that wasn't real darkness behind her eyelids. _I'm okay, _she thought. _Everything's okay. This is not a big deal. I can deal with this. I can handle this. We can... _But no, not this time. This time, there was no "we." She would have to handle this, this... this mistake that she had somehow made, on her own. She couldn't tell Nuada about this. Not ever. Not and keep him as he was: her friend, fond of her, willing to put up with her even though she was human. Dylan knew she'd have to handle this on her own. And she could. She _would_. She had to.

She dropped her hands from in front of her face and opened her eyes. Ignored the tulip. Shoving a shaking hand through her hair, Dylan finally admitted to herself why thoughts of marrying Nuada, of his "fondness" and his casual disdain at the idea of more than fondness, thoughts of him angry (or even furious) at her, turning his back on her, made her feel as if she was going to be sick.

_I... I think I love him. _The words sent a shimmering, liquid-silver thrill through her body. Made her heart jump, just a little. Squeezing her eyes shut, Dylan groaned silently, _Of all the impossible, stupid things to do, I went and fell for him. I'm _in love _with Nuada. How could I be so stupid? I'm totally sunk. And if he ever finds out, he'll kill me._

It was then that her bedroom door swung slowly open. She glanced up and met unfathomable golden eyes.

_._

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_**New Author's Note:**_ _so, I wasn't sure if anyone saw this chapter or not (couldn't access my story traffic stats for some reason) and I wondered if maybe there was a mix-up because of the appendix (my hubby said there would be) so I'm reposting this chapter. Here it is. Hope you enjoy. Loves to all of you!_

_**Original Author's Note:**_ _yeah, I'm kind of pissed off right now, actually, because there's a d*** cactus thorn (one of those short, hair-thin brown ones that hurt like crazy but you can't get out of you without tweezers and a d*** flashlight, which of course I don't have) poking me in the shoulder. And because I'm behind schedule (again). And because there's just so much s*** going on right now. I kind of just want to lay down and let a semi squish me so I can have a f****** break. That would be nice. I would like a f****** break from being a responsible adult right now. Or a responsible anything. I would just like to grab the d*** Matrix, jack myself into the computer, and write my story so I could sink into the beautiful and deadly world of "Once Upon a Time" and never have to do another single gosh d*** thing ever again that would somehow make someone I love hate me. That would be so f****** nice. Seriously._

_Jeez. Okay, I'm done whining now. I'm not pissed, I'm just sad. Really sad. And worried. That probably came out in this chapter, but since I was going for panicked and frantic and sad, that's probably a good thing so I'm not gonna worry about it. And to make myself not sad anymore for a while, I'm gonna go read "And Twice Beneath a Space" (Nuada being a geek is so hot) and "All Good Fairy Tales." Then I'll read the rest of all the wonderful challenge entries my adoring fans have done for me._

_So, our happy review prompt._

_1) First and foremost - Nuada training. Yeah, he's wearing a shirt, but so what? Eye candy? Or not? Who liked that whole part?_

_2) So, conversation over dinner. Any thoughts on that?_

_3) Our handsome prince - he is in character? (Yes, Nightmare, I know, but it must be asked, just in case)_

_4) Top 6 favorite things (I'm being greedy today) as well as why; things disliked, things uncertain about, typos, etc._

_5) Dylan's realization/reaction to her realization - what do we think of that?_

_6) Oh, dear, he went to her room. Who's got an idea how that's going to go?_

_._

_And there's another __**CHALLENGE**_ _because I still want that semi and it would make me happy if I got happy challenges. Or just challenges. Challenge is this: in the time between when Dylan walks away from Nuada into her room and Nuada opens her door, __**what is His Highness thinking and doing?**_ _Simple, no word limit, rewards offered are the standard, blah-blah. Thanks, love you all!_

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- _Demesne_ means domain.

- I don't actually know how to make chicken alfredo from scratch. Just so you guys know.

- The Floating Night Market is _not_ a Troll Market, but it _is_ a faerie market. The Floating Market is from _Neverwhere_ by Neil Gaiman.

- The song Dylan is singing along with in the kitchen is "Like Your Last Day" by Nickelback.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- _How to Read Literature Like a Professor _by Thomas C. Forster (I think; anyway, this book is helpful for developing character relationships, plot points and concepts, and working with subtext. Also taught me the importance of rain and sharing - or not sharing - food in a story)  
- "Like Your Last Day" by Nickelback (good song; everyone should listen to the lyrics because it has an important message)  
- _Neverwhere_ by Neil Gaiman (great fantasy guide to the London Underground)  
- _Once Upon an Autumn Eve _by Dennis L. McKiernan (where I learned the word "demesne")  
- "Swing, Batter, Swing" by Trace Adkins (cheerful, upbeat song that kept me from crying while I went through and re-edited this stupid chapter because I was so freaking miserable and I had to make sure I wasn't copying anyone's work)


	29. The House in the Wood

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Bat Challenge_  
_Regular Challenges_  
_References Made in the Chapter_

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_**Dedication:**_ _this is the last of WhenNightmaresWalked's 3 reward chapters for her marvelous piece, "All Good Fairy Tales." Hope you're enjoying them all, my dearest heart. Hugs for you!_

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, so our happy couple need some time to just have some fun togetherness, with some relaxation and silliness. Not that we're just focusing on the vacation. The world rages beyond Dylan's walls, and the two of them are at peace within them. However, the world is still raging. _

_Balor is waiting, Eamonn's still out there, political intrigue is moving forward slowly, rumors are flying, the Dragon of Dilong is coming, and most of this stuff, Nuada and Dylan don't even know about. Not to mention the non-physical but still important issues that are still sizzling between the pair of them - Dylan's suicide attempts, the fact that she's got to undergo psychological testing for her job, Nuada's plan for the Golden Army, and the fact that she can't go back to Findias because she's needed in the mortal realm. How fun. _=D

_And for those who are wondering, I'm in a better mood than before, thanks to several things (my readers and their love, and because Dylan's score on the Mary Sue Litmus Test is a __**12**__;but mostly you guys). Thank you for your kind thoughts and prayers. *hugs* I love you all. And I mean __**all.**_

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**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**The House in the Wood**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Questions, Rumors and Messages, Silken Traps, Teasing and Tangles, a Rescue, Laughter, and the Threads of Sanity**

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It was then that her bedroom door swung slowly open. Dylan glanced up and met unfathomable golden eyes. Her heart, only recently returned to its normal rhythm, sped up again. She swallowed and waited for him to come into the room, but he didn't. He merely stood in the doorway, as pale and ethereal as moonlight in winter. Only his eyes were alive. They blazed like amber fire as they studied her face. Dylan had the uncomfortable feeling that the Elven warrior saw a lot more than she guessed at, or wanted him to see.

"I want to ask you a question," Nuada said into the silence. "Do not lie. Do not prevaricate. Speak the plain truth. Understand?"

She nodded.

For a long moment, he watched her. When the question finally came, Dylan saw that each word weighed on him like a stone. "If I were... some other, would you agree to this? Would you have agreed to any of this?"

Meaning the courtship, yes, and the marriage thing. But also the sacrifice, nearly dying, always trying to save him no matter the cost. All of it. And darn it, Nuada had asked for the truth. She couldn't lie to him.

"Probably not. Well... if it was someone I didn't know as well as I know you, someone I didn't..."

_Love, _her heart whispered.

_Shut the heck up, _her brain snarled. _I can't afford to fall in love. Not with how screwed up everything is; me, my life. I can't do this!_

"If it was someone I wasn't as loyal to, someone I didn't care for as deeply as I do for... for you, then probably not." Dylan looked away then, to study the intricate patterns of flowers and trees on the bedroom carpet. The interminable silence between her and the Elven prince seemed heavy as winter snow. Finally she asked, "Does that make you think less of me?"

More silence. She couldn't meet his eyes. Why couldn't she meet his eyes? _Because it would hurt for him to tell me he's fond of me and then have that sentiment snatched away because I've been revealed to be a coward in his eyes, _Dylan thought bitterly. _And he thinks I'm a coward now. Or something. He thinks less of me for this. Or else why doesn't he say anything?_

"Another question. And Dylan," the Elven warrior added, each word slow and deliberate. "I will know if you lie." He waited until she glanced up at him and nodded tentatively. "What are you giving up by agreeing to this?" Nuada frowned when, instead of answering, Dylan dropped her head into her hands and groaned. "What is it?"

"Why do you have to ask such inconvenient questions?" She demanded, tangling her fingers in her hair. "Why do you even _care _what I'm giving up?"

A good question, and one for which he possessed no answer. He only knew that it _was_ important. So instead Nuada said, "I demand an answer."

"Well, good for you, but I'm not your dog and I don't have to give into your stupid demands," Dylan snapped, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry. Your Highness, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was so rude. I'm sorry."

She groaned, then sighed. She didn't want to tell him... well, _any_ of it. It wasn't his problem. It wasn't something she had the right to burden him with, especially considering what was going on at Court. And really, he would probably think it was stupid. It kind of was, in the grand scheme of things. Yet he wanted to know. Maybe... maybe if she explained, he could do something.

_Do what, exactly? _She growled at herself. _Nothing. What do I think is going to happen? That he'll what? If it comes down to the wire, he'll marry me for real and we'll have cute little kids like I've always wanted to have and I'll be his little human princess and we'll live happily ever after? Oh, yeah. Like _that'll _ever happen._

And then she blinked as the bitterness suddenly penetrated her brain. _Whoa. Where did all that come from? _Maybe she was more upset by this than she'd realized.

"I..." Dylan dropped her gaze back to the floor. Bat, who'd slunk into the room between Nuada's ankles, scrambled up onto the bed and butted his head against her elbow. She absently rubbed behind his ears. "If I do what you ask... if we have to get married... I'll never... never have a child."

The sudden, sharp pain was like the stab of a needle in her chest. She imagined that for just a moment - never having a baby. She'd known that the Sight would interfere with her plans for marriage and family. Probably even make it impossible. So would the damage she'd incurred to her body throughout her life. That didn't mean she was okay with just losing every possible chance of being a mother in one fell swoop. At Balor's whim! Or the whim of this other Elf king, the one Nuada called the Dragon of Dilong. Dylan knew it would take a long time for her to be all right with losing that dearest dream of hers: carrying life inside her; bearing the child of a man she loved more than anything; and having a family, a _real _family, which so many had said she could never have.

And that was the hardest part of it, she realized. Dylan wanted the kind of family she'd missed out on as a kid. Two dreams, two hopes, sacrificed because of her loyalties.

_This is what it means to serve a royal, though, _she told herself. _To be loyal to a prince. It means that I have to put what is best for him first. Nobody else will._

Letting that thought sink in, knowing she had to stand by him unless the Spirit told her otherwise, Dylan swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and said, "I'll never have a real family."

_Except my brother, and you, _she wanted to add, but didn't. Instead she bit down hard on her tongue to keep any other stupid words that wouldn't help the situation locked behind her teeth.

Nuada studied her for a long moment. Did she know that he could see the grief in her face? Doubtful. Dylan despised crying, or showing any kind of weakness. Seeing her pain was a testament to the strength of it. She would not thank him for commenting on it. And yet... _Never have a child. _Her voice had been brittle, the look in her eyes even moreso. _Never have a real family. _From somewhere far away, he remembered Becan's words about Dylan's love for her sisters: _family means much to my lady. _

And he thought of Dylan: the softness in her voice when she spoke of her "kids;" the way she had cradled the halfling child to her breast as if it were her own. For a split second Nuada saw an image in his mind of the mortal woman, belly gently rounded with child, the quiet joy found in that tiny growing life shining within the depths of her fey-like eyes. And whose child would it be? Not his - _never mine,_ he thought, bewildered the idea had even occurred to him - so why did it even matter? Yet for some reason it all did... and for every reason he could think of, he could not let it. Nuada was sorry for that, though it took him a moment to recognize the sentiment as such.

_Father, if it comes to this, _the Elven prince thought, _if it comes down to hurting her so deeply to save my people, because of this foolish scheme of yours... I will never forgive you. She has been more loyal to me than any other, save Wink. She deserves better than this._

But if he had to choose between a mortal of whom he was inexplicably fond, or his kingdom and people, the choice _was _clear. He was a prince. The crown prince. He would sacrifice, and so would she, if the Emperor of Dilong - or someone, _anyone _else - became a threat to Bethmoora.

After another moment of silence where she could not seem to bring herself to look at him, Nuada asked softly, "Do you wish me to leave your home?"

Dylan's eyes flew wide and she straightened.

"No!" Instantly, vehemently. Surprised he would even ask, she put the cat aside, slid off her bed and marched over to him. Mind-numbing personal revelations or not, there was no possible way she was going to let him walk out into a blizzard simply because she'd just realized she had a crush on him and that her life had to be shuffled to one side. Having him in the cottage for however long would probably suck (_No probably about it, _she thought) but no way in Hades was she kicking him out just because of _that._ "No! Besides, it's freezing outside," she reminded him. "And it's snowing! You'll catch pneumonia or-"

"I am an Elf, Dylan. My body is stronger than-"

"Then you'll catch Elf-pneumonia," she growled in exasperation, crossing her arms. A lift of her chin dared him to contradict her. "Haven't you heard of it? It's very catching and extremely fatal. Don't you dare leave this house when it's storming outside, Your Highness."

She thought of Nuada disappearing into the blinding snow swirling outside. Never coming back. She had to fight the sudden stab of panic and sorrow. What if something happened to him?

Softly now, Dylan added, "You'll freeze out there. You... you don't even have a coat or anything. And," as a sudden afterthought, "begging Your Highness's pardon, but I'll hunt you down and kick you in the shins if you leave me in the middle of a blizzard." She'd been saying all this to Nuada's chest. Now she took a moment to steel herself before glancing up into his face. The easy half-smile curving his mouth took her by surprise. "What?"

Dylan had to fight the instinctive flinch when Nuada brushed back a stray lock of her hair. The gentle rasp of warm, calloused fingers against her temple made her stomach flutter and her already-thumping heart speed up.

_Oh, for crying out loud. I feel like I'm twelve, _she mentally grumbled. _Get a freaking grip._

"It is... nice, to be wanted somewhere," the Elven prince said softly. "That's all."

"You're always welcome here, Nuada." They locked eyes and she forced herself to smile. "Always. And sorry for running away or whatever. I needed a..."

"A female moment."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

His shrug was easy as he turned to walk back down the hall. "It is what my sister calls them, when a woman needs to be alone for a time. I understand, Dylan." His grin, when the Elven warrior glanced over his shoulder at her, was wicked. "Of course any female offered potential access to such a fine example of male pulchritude would need a moment to compose herself."

She rolled her eyes, laughing, and followed after him. "Oh, yeah. That's it, that's _exactly _it." One hand to her heart and the other cast to her forehead, she affected a mock-swoon. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but just the idea of even being in the same room as your incomparable self makes me feel faint."

Nuada's wry chuckle made her grin. He needed to laugh more often.

_And just like that,_ Dylan thought, still laughing, _I have a grip on myself again. Thank goodness; maybe it was just a momentary lapse in judgment. Or maybe I was having a flashback or something and it was making me over-sensitive. Here's hoping._

Dylan didn't feel like being honest with herself just then.

**.**

Jenny Hob, head housekeeper of the palace of Findias, gestured for the servant girl to rise from her curtsy. Then she glanced at the hastily scribbled message in her hand. The hob woman would have paced, but the girl would've taken that as a sign that her superior was worried. Jenny could _not _give the lower servants an inkling that she was in any way concerned about the halfling babe below stairs. Things were not bad... yet. At least, she hoped they weren't.

"How long has the child been ill?" Jenny asked the girl - Lilé was her name, wasn't it? Yes, Lilé.

Lilé bowed her head and murmured, "Since Sunday morning, ma'am." The hob girl twisted her fingers together as she added, "Mistress Siobhan said at first it was only the babe cutting teeth, that sometimes bairns suffer little fevers when a new tooth is ready to come. But the fever has slowly gotten worse. It would not be so bad, Mistress Siobhan says, except that it has been three days now and every time she manages to get it to break, it comes back the next day even hotter."

Jenny stared at the note again. Siobhan was one of the midwives and nurses for orphaned servant children. She knew her business, and if she could not break a simple child's fever and keep it broken... Jenny did not know what to think, about that or the missive.

_Find Mister Wink and tell him the child is terribly sick. The crown prince will want to know._

Find Wink, the one-eyed troll who served the king's son. As if such a thing was as easy as soothing a frightened child, or cleaning the palace windows. Find the silver troll and give him a message for Prince Nuada, who would not be found if he didn't wish to be (and from all accounts, he did _not_ wish to be).

And if one of the servants did find Wink or even the prince, what then? What did Siobhan expect His Highness, who had no useful healing gifts, to do about a sick halfling child? Unless the rumors were true, and the bairn was in fact the get of Lady Dylan, the prince's truelove.

The Silver Lance _had_ given the babe an unusual amount of attention in the few days he had been in Findias. Especially unusual, as all knew His Highness was uncomfortable around small children. Yet the mortal woman had not been to see the child even once. Surely she was not its mother. Surely... and yet humans were a cruel race.

Would it have surprised Jenny to find a human who cared nothing for her own brood? Not in the least. Such heartless beings existed everywhere in the mortal world. But for the prince to give his heart to such a one...

_Unless she has bewitched him somehow, _Jenny mused, staring into the fire. _There are rumors flying about that she is a witch. Humans are cunning, and ruthless. Cruel, too. Perhaps somehow she has snared His Highness against his will. _After all, how else had a mortal woman won the heart of Nuada Silverlance, who loathed mankind with his whole self?

"Pardon me, ma'am, but... what are we going to do?" Lilé murmured, jerking the older woman's attention back to reality. "About the child? Should we send one of the stable lads to find His Highness's valet?"

"Yes," Jenny replied, coming to a swift decision. "Fetch Colum McCleod and bring him to me. He should have just finished supper. He knows the township better than the rest of the lads; he will find Wink, if anyone can."

Lilé bobbed another curtsy and hurried to obey. As the door swung shut behind the hob maiden, Jenny crumpled up Siobhan's note and tossed it into the flames. As the paper curled and began to brown in the heat of the hearth, she sighed. The servants loved their prince - as did she. Jenny could still easily recall the impetuous, but almost always courteous boy from millennia ago.

_Caspar used to sneak him currant buns before dinner when His Highness was just a wee thing, _she remembered. _And the prince was always willing to open a door for a maid, or carry something heavy. _When he'd gone into exile, the palace servants had mourned. Now he was returned, but under a dark and heavy cloud. If he was under the human woman's wicked spell, were those who loved His Highness best not obligated to break it?

_And how are we to break it? _Jenny wondered. _Legends say to kill a witch is to break her spell. Do we kill the human, then? The prince can have no inkling of such a plan or he will try to stop us. And what if their love is a true one? The Lady Dylan was kind to all the servants and never had_ _a cross word to say to any. Is_ that _the sign of a witch? How can any of us be certain of her? _

Jenny didn't know, but if more proof came forth that the human woman was not what she seemed, if the Lady Dylan was a danger to His Highness... she had no doubt that if no other would, _she_ would bring an end to the mortal who had stolen Prince Nuada's heart.

**.**

Bres smiled as Dierdre finished tying a knot and laid the strange braid she'd been fiddling with on the vanity before the large mirror in her room. Ciaran leaned over his sister's shoulder to study the piece. The female gancanaugh glared at her older brother. Ciaran merely ignored her and took in the intricate braidwork of the spell his sister had put such time and effort into. Finally, he leaned back.

"You forgot the blue."

"You're joking," Dierdre snapped, startled, but groaned when she studied the thread-spell and realized that, amidst the scarlet, black, burgundy, silver, and blood-red threads, there was not even a hint of blue silk cord. "I cannot believe I did that. Ugh!"

"Stand aside, Sister," Ciaran said, and gently pushed her out of the way with a rustle of her voluminous skirts. Dierdre hissed at him.

Folding her arms, she leaned back against Bres and pouted. "If I hadn't been so distracted, I wouldn't have forgotten. I _know _how to do dream spells," she insisted. "Scarlet for anger, black for madness, burgundy for sex, silver for memory, and blood-red for violence. Thirteen knots for a dark purpose. Silken cord, for a silken trap. I _know_ how to weave a dream spell!"

"Easy, my sweet," Prince Bres murmured, watching Ciaran deftly unknot and unweave the braid. Unlike Dierdre, her brother wore gloves to keep his tactile poison from infecting the threads. "No one is doubting you." When she continued to pout, the Fomorian prince pressed his lips to her temple. "But you forgot that blue is for nightmares... and we _want _Nuada to have nightmares, don't we, beloved?"

Silken cord for a silken trap. How many sides did a trap have? How many hidden pitfalls full of deadly spikes and spears? Bres had made sure that, before setting out for Bethmoora, everything was taken care of regarding those traps. There were snares for the princess, snares for the One-Armed King and the Silver Lance. Snares for a mortal woman who'd given her heart to the scarred warrior prince who (it was _said, _at least) had given her his own immortal heart in turn.

And then there were the traps meant not to snare, but to attack. To slip in under the guard, to weaken that guard, the walls that any warrior kept around them, until those walls crumbled. Traps to patiently scrape away at a king or prince's strength. A king or prince's grip on reality. Traps to shatter the tenuous hold any magical being had on the tangible world, and the thin veneer of civilization that all fae hid behind, no matter who they were.

Even Nuada Silverlance hid behind that civilized mask. At least when he wasn't on the battlefield. Even he was close to the wildness of the magic that flowed in Elven blood, royalty or no. In fact, his royal blood probably held him just a bit closer to that wildness than other Fayre. Then there was his exile, and the effects of dwelling so long amongst the humans and the poisons of their world.

All of which meant that his grip on the wild magic in him and the vicious, violent rage that mingled with it (not to mention the grip on his sanity), was tenuous at best. It meant that, with enough of that pricking and scraping, the Elf's grip would loosen. Stretch.

Eventually, it would snap.

The problem - the very complicated, delicate, must-be-carefully-handled problem - was that Bres _wanted _that control to snap at a very specific point: when Nuada was alone with his human lady. Out of reach of any who might help either one of them. Even out of reach of the silver cave troll that wouldn't hesitate to throw his life away in defense of the prince of Bethmoora. And _that _meant that the Fomorian prince's faithful companions would have to be very, very careful about the effects of the dream spells they were weaving now. If the leash the prince kept on his feyness snapped before they were ready, things could go very badly for Prince Bres. They had to time this absolutely right.

Luckily, Dierdre and Ciaran were very good at timing. And both gancanaugh were very good at weaving Birog's well-timed illusion spells into the dream spells Dierdre had prepared. Once the spells were finished, they could be delivered to Iolo, who was still keeping an eye on the human's cottage when he could. And if he could not unleash the spells... well, there was always Eamonn.

"Which do you think Nuada will dream of, my love?" Bres murmured in Dierdre's delicately pointed ear. She shivered, and her pout melted into a smile. Ciaran continued to braid the silken threads together into a thirteen-knotted braid. An unfinished noose of silk and magic and poison. "Which do you think will haunt him when we unleash the first spell? Remembrance and regret, or brutality and rage? Violence, or vice?"

She turned to slip her arms around his neck. Her fingers twisted in his golden hair. "Maybe we'll get lucky and it will be all of them." Bres grinned and kissed her. Tasted the poisonous Tears on her lips. Kissed her harder.

Maybe it _would _be all of them. He hoped so. After all, there were more spells where this one came from.

**.**

At first Nuada, reluctant to venture too far from Dylan's side in case of another vile memory-dream, slept on the sofa in the den. Dylan tried to protest that he could sleep in her bed and that _she_ would take the sofa - for one thing, she actually _fit _on the two-seater without her lower legs dangling off one end or getting a crick in her neck; for another, Nuada was a prince and she was a commoner; he was also, Dylan pointed out, a guest. But for the first four nights he spent in the cottage, he wouldn't hear of it. So she slept in her room, Becan slept curled up on a cushion in front of her door (acting as a sort of faerie guard dog/chaperone, the prince supposed), and Nuada occupied the sofa in the den (which had now become his make-shift training room).

Her only condition had been to forbid him from wearing his boots while he slept. Unfortunately, Bat had a fierce affection for exposed toes. After the first night of insistent pouncing on unprotected feet with razor-sharp kitten claws (and being awoken by very inventive Gaelic profanity being snarled by an irate Elven prince), Dylan kept the little beast in her room with her.

Their only contact with the outside world in those four days of snow-bound confinement had been three things. The first had been when Dylan emailed Peabody her report on the rooftop-incident Monday night, using her smart-phone (since she didn't have a computer and couldn't get through the snow to the library without outside assistance). The second had been when her twin had picked her up for her physical therapy appointment Monday afternoon.

The third was when Wink had arrived on the edge of dawn Tuesday morning, bearing a large leather satchel and Nuada's sword in its black leather sheath. The Elven prince and the silver troll had exchanged a few words in the Troll tongue before Wink turned to Dylan and grumbled something. Dylan glanced at the amber-eyed warrior with raised brows.

"He says you are too skinny and need to eat more," the fae prince translated, and grinned when Dylan folded her arms across her chest and mock-scowled at the troll. Wink had offered her a casual salute - which she'd returned with a smile - and trudged off into the swirling snow.

Nuada watched his oldest and dearest friend disappear into the storm, his heart heavy. He had suggested Wink stay with them, phrasing it as a casual thought instead of a royal command because the silver troll despised being cooped up in cramped quarters. He barely fit through Dylan's front door, which had been crafted with large fey in mind. Wink had cautiously suggested that he would better serve his prince gathering more information about the third Golden Crown piece.

"After all," the burly troll had rumbled to the Elven prince with a carefully straight face, "eventually you'll have to leave your fair lady's side, my prince, though it must pain you. Even _her _charms cannot compete with finding the final piece and completing our mission." Nuada had glanced at Wink's too-innocent expression, rolled his eyes and reminded the troll that while he was larger, the prince was faster, and in the practice ring the Elven warrior could - and would - make him pay for such mockery. Wink had only laughed. The Elf knew his friend thought it good to hear Nuada jesting again. It seemed to be happening with more and more frequency the longer he was around the human he had inexplicably grown fond of.

"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, Nuada," Dylan said suddenly, breaking him from his thoughts. He shut the door and turned to where the mortal stood in her pajamas - a thin, long-sleeved blue shirt and black pants. Blue and white striped socks poked out from beneath the hems of her pants. She was scrunching her toes again and leaning a little on her rosewood cane. "I won't be mad or have hysterics if you go back to your lair or whatever it is."

"Oh?"

"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself," she said, smiling. When he just looked at her, faintly incredulous, she scowled in mock-outrage and flexed one bicep. "I _can!_ Look at that. Almost as big as yours." She rolled her eyes at herself and giggled, a surprisingly non-irritating sound.

He scoffed and shook his head, mouth twitching. "Hardly."

"Because of course, being an Elven warrior, you've got Herculean biceps of steel."

Actually, come to think of it, he probably _did, _she realized. Well, whatever. She could see a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. That's what she'd been aiming for anyway. He'd gotten that same wistful look on his face watching Wink walk away as that day in his work room. It had hurt her heart to see such an unguarded, lost expression on his face. Hence the teasing and the silliness.

Nuada arched a brow. That had sounded an awful lot like a challenge. His pride as an Elven warrior and a prince kept him from letting such a challenge go unpunished. With an imperious gesture, he brought her to stand beside him.

"Wrap your hand there."

She laid one hand on his upper arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. Her touch was surprisingly warm through the silk of his black shirt. Almost distractingly so. Dylan glanced up at him from beneath her raised brows, a challenge clear in her eyes. The Elven warrior tensed his arm, just a little, and grinned when Dylan's mouth dropped open as her fingers were prised apart by the flexing muscle.

"You were saying, milady?"

"I was saying 'holy crow, you've got some serious muscle.' John used to be able to do that when he was in weight-training in high school," Dylan replied, laughing a little. "Men and their muscles; jeez. Though I should warn you, Francesca would have a heart attack if she ever saw you training with your lance. She's got a thing for really ripped guys and their macho muscles," the mortal added, rolling her eyes again. "I'm never showing her your picture or she'd drown in her own drool. Anyway, what's in the pack that Wink brought you?"

The satchel held spare clothes for the Elven prince. He immediately hopped into Dylan's shower, desperate for a chance to finally bathe. Wearing the same clothes from Sunday to Tuesday had been bearable, but the Elf did not particularly enjoy doing so. The hot water sluicing over his body had also eased the residual weather-ache in his arm (and the pain in his back; what was that sofa _made_ of? Stone?) and Nuada luxuriated in the first hot shower he'd been able to enjoy in a while.

The best part was that once he stepped out, he would not have to deal with sycophantic courtiers or his father's disdain or even the ever-present stink of humanity that pervaded the subway tunnels. Dylan's cottage still smelled of lilies and roses - just like the healing sanctuary. And her shower smelled of the sweet pea and violet soap, and the various floral- and fruit-perfumed shampoos she often used; a bouquet of scents that reminded him of the Prince's Garden at Findias, one of his rare sanctuaries at the palace.

Only one thing marred the joy of a blisteringly hot shower in winter. When his hair was wet, it tended to kink up a bit. An unavoidable disadvantage to having hair that hung past his shoulders. Luckily Wink had thought to provide him a comb to untangle the snarls. As Nuada sat in front of the den's fireplace, combing the knots from his still-damp hair, Dylan walked in with a mug of steaming cider, took one look at him and started giggling.

"And just _what _is so amusing?"

"You. Doing your hair." The mortal curled up on a chair beside her cat, wearing another baggy sweater - silvery-blue this time, a tone that matched her eyes and (surprisingly) the tunic Nuada had laid out for himself for after his hair dried - sipping the hot cider.

Bat shifted and rolled around, trying to stretch before he slipped off the arm of the chair and landed on the floor with a _plop_. He immediately began to wash as if he'd meant to fall and why were the silly two-leggers looking at him anyway? He mewed at his female two-legger, an imperious command. She nuzzled under his chin with her foot. This was deemed an acceptable offering of devotion and the kitten began to purr.

Sipping the steaming drink, Dylan studied the shirtless Elven prince seated in front of her fireplace as he combed his hair and she drove Bat to dazzling new heights of feline pleasure with her foot. Nuada looked tired, she thought. Worn down. Even moreso than when she'd first met him. Which should not have been true, because when she'd first met him he'd been sick with iron-fatigue, lead poisoning, and the venom from a magical snake that had bitten him only a few months before that December night; now, he should have been healthier, and for some reason wasn't. The shadows around his eyes were darker than they'd been that first night in the subway so long ago. And the weariness in those firegold eyes... It all worried her.

What also worried her was the fluttery feeling that bubbled in her stomach whenever the light from the hearth danced over Nuada's shoulders and back. She couldn't help the way her eyes lingered on the parallel scars that ridged his right shoulder, or the fading silvery-white lines that were the only evidence of the flogging he had so recently endured. Her doctor's instinct made her look at those marks to double-check the healing. But it was the part of her that was purely woman that kept her eyes on the scarred expanse of well-muscled bare back while Nuada ran the comb through his damp hair.

_I shouldn't be thinking about him like this, _Dylan snarled when she caught herself imagining for the fifth time what those twin ridged scars would feel like under her fingertips. She took a nearly-scalding sip of cider. _That's just... wrong. Very, very wrong. So wrong. I am a _bad _person for thinking these things. Besides, if I keep this up, he'll know!_ She wasn't sure _how_ Nuada would find out, but Dylan had no doubt that he would. He was canny that way. And he had the nicest shoulders... _Jeez! No. No, no, no. Crud._

She'd already embarrassed herself by confessing to liking Nuada's hands. What other various humiliations did she want to heap on herself? He _did _have nice shoulders, though. And a _very _nice back. Dylan had read about "rippling muscles" in romance novels before, and thought it was a hack-phrase to show how manly a novel's hero was supposed to be. She'd never thought the day would come when she could actually say she knew someone who _had_ rippling muscles.

_But he does. _Her eyes drifted over the well-toned muscles that she knew came from hours of relentless training. Dylan absently took a sip of cider. It wasn't fair. It would've been quite a bit easier to force herself not to think about him this way, and what she'd realized about herself, if he wasn't so... so...

_Handsome. _The word came unbidden, and settled into her mind like a block of concrete to pester her, along with one other. _Perfect._

_Shut up! _She snarled at herself. Aloud she asked, "After this, are you going to train some more?"

"That would defeat the purpose of bathing and putting on dry clothes, would it not? As I have limited clothing, in order not to dirty the clothes I wear now I would have to strip and train naked."

Nuada frowned when Dylan choked and sputtered. Relaxed when she winced and muttered, "Ow. Sorry. Burned my tongue." After a moment, she added, "You know, I _can_ wash your clothes if you need me to."

The Elf rolled his eyes at the face she made while she stuck out her burnt tongue to cool it and ignored the offer. "You should be more careful," he said instead. His mouth quirked when Dylan made a small "hmmn" sound of irritation. He glanced back at her. The mortal crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out further in retaliation. "Better be careful, mo duinne, or your face might get stuck that way," Nuada said casually, and was rewarded by Dylan's laughter.

Suddenly she said in a very small voice, "Have I ever mentioned, Your Highness... that I love it when you call me 'mo duinne?' Because I really do." The prince raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the odd feeling her words gave him. He hadn't meant to call her _my brown one_ just then. It had merely slipped out. She made it so easy to relax around her. So she liked the name, did she? Nuada suddenly remembered the way she had grinned when he'd called her "mo duinne" before the court. Recalled the sleepy words from the morning before about how the name made her feel safe.

The prince opened his mouth to say something - he was unsure what it would have been, but _something _- but then Dylan hid behind her mug of cider. He waited, but the mortal said nothing else. After an interminable silence, Nuada went back to combing his hair.

_I love it when you call me 'mo duinne.' _Why had he called her that? They were not at court; there was no one to put on that sort of show for. He knew he needed to get into the habit of calling Dylan _milady _because his father would be keeping an eye out for such things. But the Gaelic endearment was not required. He needed to more carefully guard his tongue around the human. Keep such saccharine sentiments to a minimum. Getting into those kinds of habits would expose him to ridicule he was not in the mood for.

Once again he thought of Lord Finbar and Lord Galen; old friends, and at one time, comrades-in-arms. And yet they'd publicly snubbed him. All for the sake of a single lowly mortal woman. Just one of the first pebbles in the avalanche his father had set in motion with the courtship charade. Did the king even care that an innocent woman and the king's own son were put in danger through this scheme? And what about Nuala? What sort of dangers would this stupid, cruel trap of his father's inflict on his innocent sister? Not for the first time since Balor had tightened this silken noose, Nuada had to suppress the feeling of being stalked and hunted like an animal.

_You're always welcome here, Nuada. Always. _Words, softly spoken, in the dimness. _I go when you go. Do with me what you will. _Words of welcome and words of loyalty. Words spoken in jest and seriousness. Words of total surrender. _I love you. _Mortal words that eased that edgy sensation of some monster breathing down the back of his neck. Mortal words from mortal lips, words that should not ring with the utter convinction he heard in them.

Suddenly he thought once more of a pale pink flower. _Honor and bravery. I thought it fit._ And _I know you. What kind of person you are. I trust you with my life._ Only one other trusted him to such an extent. Wink. Nuala should have trusted him thus. So should his father. But there was only a silver cave troll and a mortal woman.

"Begging your pardon, my prince, but you are _such_ a girl," Dylan said some time later, breaking into his thoughts. "You know you've been doing your hair for almost an hour?"

He scowled at her. The memory of her old words was still circling in his mind like a shark. "And how long does _your_ hair take _you?_"

Now she grinned. He could see it even though most of her mouth was hidden by her mug. "Less than an hour." For some reason, the look he gave her then made her lower the mug of cider so he could see her smile. "Although maybe it's not that you're being girly."

The prince scowled anew at the term.

"Maybe it's me," she continued. "At the institution, you had to be quick in the showers unless you wanted to deal with stepping on cockroaches with wet, bare feet. I washed my hair super-fast, rinsed, and shook it out to keep it from tangling too bad. Didn't take more than fifteen minutes. Wasn't allowed to comb it - combs were considered dangerous weapons - and the other kids kept stealing my brushes."

"Did no adults try to stop them?" He demanded.

She scoffed. Nuada noticed her toes, now in silly pink socks with white hearts, curling and uncurling where they peeked out from beneath the hems of her pants. He knew from the last two days that Dylan only did that when she was agitated. "The banes of my existence had better - and worse - things to do than prevent the loss of my hairbrush, Your Highness. And it wasn't just me. Everyone stole from each other. It was a way for us to feel somewhat in control. Anyway, super-fast hair-washing is a good skill to have when I'm running late for work," the mortal added cheerfully.

"You? Be anything but punctual? I would never believe it," Nuada said with a completely straight face.

Dylan laughed as she sipped her cider. "You think you're _so _funny."

"When I choose, I am the epitome of humor. I have managed to steal a laugh or two from your mouth, have I not?" He allowed himself a brief smile when she laughed again. Surprisingly, the Elven warrior realized he enjoyed making Dylan laugh. She did not do so nearly often enough. Somberness did not fit with her, at least in his mind.

_I will let myself enjoy being here, _the prince decided, _for as long as I can, without worrying about politics or war. This place is... outside of all the world's sorrows. Time enough to worry about my burdens after I am forced to leave._ _And no one will know if I soften towards her a little in private. Perhaps it will help our performance during the courtship charade. It cannot hurt, at any rate._

When Nuada finished with his hair, he withdrew from the satchel two of the three things he had specifically asked for: his carving knife, and the half-finished ebony handle meant for Dylan's dirk. The finished blade was wrapped in cloth in the satchel as well. While Dylan nursed her mug of cider and stared into the fire, the Elf set to work finishing the dirk's hilt. Two days, tops, and it would be finished. Once it was finished, he would teach her to use it. Hopefully she had no objection to learning how to gut a man. If she did...

_Oh, well,_ the golden-eyed warrior thought grimly. _She will learn it anyway, and much more._

Sitting down to dinner that night, Dylan said softly, "I really hope you don't feel obligated to stay here to guard me or anything, Your Highness."

Nuada gave her a look that expressed nothing and started to eat. She nodded as if the Elf had spoken and decided that, at the rate the prince was devouring the four-cheese lasagna she'd made, he probably liked it. _Two dinners, two successes. Hopefully I can keep up my glowing track record._

**.**

Since she couldn't go to work, Dylan used Tuesday and Wednesday to catch up on her records and review her patient files.

And, though the hand that didn't hold her cell phone was shaking, she made the arrangements for Rafael's funeral. It would be simple: pine-wood coffin, flat concrete headstone instead of raised marble. No frills or extra stuff. But at least it was something. The date was set for next Wednesday; the day after her psychological evaluation, the day the psychiatrist would return to work. That way there would be no hissy-fits or any other trouble when she escorted Lisa to the cemetery. Dylan also called Cilfa'lir, her favorite flower shop, and found out the price for two roses, red and white, without thorns.

Nuada found Dylan seated at the kitchen table Wednesday evening, her head cradled in her arms. Her phone lay on the table beside a notepad and pen. Scribbled on the notepad were numbers that looked like prices, a date and time, an address, and the names of several people with phone numbers beside them. The ink on the page was smeared in places, as if from drops of water. The prince studied the mortal from the doorway. Was she asleep?

Just then that obnoxious little contraption shrieked. Dylan groaned and lifted her head. Nuada saw tear tracks staining her too-pale cheeks. But she merely swiped at them with one hand and checked her phone.

"Uh-oh. Well, maybe she's in a good mood today." She clicked TALK. In a cheerful voice that hid any sign of distress, she said, "Hello, Petra, darling. What can I do for you?"

Hatred and fury knotted together in Nuada's belly the instant he realized Dylan's oldest sister was on the line. Seething, he rapped his knuckles against the kitchen doorframe, alerting Dylan to his presence. The moment her eyes fell on him, the tension and weariness in her face eased and she smiled. A real smile. So despite the rage churning within him, he strode in and sank into a chair beside her. Her smile widened.

She held up a finger and mouthed, "Just a sec."

She listened to whatever her shrew of a sister said, nodding. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry you were worried... I haven't called because I've been busy with work and stuff. No, I'm not going to tell you what stuff. Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?"

There was a blast of shrill static-filled chatter that made Dylan wince. Nuada's fingers itched for his lance.

"Please don't call me that. It's not an excuse, it's the law. And no, whatever you heard from Francesca, she's exaggerating. I'm not dating anyone, I promise. I'm not sleeping with anyone, either... I'm sorry I missed Gardenia's Halloween party. I had an emergency. A friend of mine was in trouble and I had to go out of town for a few days."

More crackling static. The Elven prince picked out several rude words among the electronic chatter.

"No, honey, that's not it. I'm not doing drugs aga-"

Nuada reached over and plucked the phone from Dylan's grasp. He had seen her work the vile thing before. Without a word, or a glance in the mortal's direction, he clicked END and dropped the phone on the table with a _thunk_.

"I can't believe you did that," she said incredulously. He did look at her then. Did she see the rage burning molten bronze in his eyes?

"Are you angry?"

"No," Dylan said slowly. Nuada actually looked like he was bracing for something, but at her response, his body slowly began to relax. "Actually, I sort of feel like you just rescued me from a slow death being disolved in verbal acid. If you were anyone else, Your Highness, I'd kiss you, but I don't want you to throw up on me so I'll restrain myself."

The bronze-eyed warrior did not want to think about Dylan kissing him (fondness only stretched so far), so instead he demanded, "Why do you allow her to speak to you that way? Why do you let any of them speak to you in such a hateful-"

"Because she's my sister," Dylan said with one of those half-shrugs. A stretchy, black shape climbed into Dylan's lap and she scratched Bat between his too-large ears. "Because I love her. Don't I, Mr. Bats? I love my sisters, huh?"

The kitten purred and rolled over onto his back so that his person could scratch his furry belly and maintain the order of the universe.

"And," the mortal added, "because _they _love _me_. It's just that their perception of love is skewed. That and I've... done some things in the past that they still haven't forgotten. And because Petra has every right to yell at me about this specifically. I _should _have called, and I didn't. She was worried, but I didn't feel like talking to her. Kept pushing it off and pushing it off because I just didn't want to deal with it. Shouldn't have done that. Even a text would've worked but I just didn't feel like bothering, so...

"After my disappearance back in December, my sisters made me promise not to go disappearing on them again unless I was honestly in trouble and couldn't call in. That's why I left John the note. That's also why they were so angry, because I'd scared them before and this time I wasn't in trouble. John shouldn't have bothered them, but he tends to panic where I'm concerned. I would've actually _called_ him, but everything happened so fast..."

She shrugged.

"Anyway, when I'm the one who messed up, they get to yell. Just like if you got mad at me, I would take the scolding because I probably deserve it. Though the cussing could be dropped. I'm not fond of profanity. But my sisters are the type who swear even when there's nothing actually wrong. That's nothing personal."

"Is this a Christian concept? This acceptance idea?"

"No," Dylan replied as the blue cellular phone began to buzz and chime. "It's a me-concept. Well, actually it's more of a responsible-adult concept. You mess up, you take your licks. You break the law, or the rules, you pay the price. I broke my promise. Hang on, she sent me a text."

Silver-swept eyes scanned the cell phone's little screen.

"Ouch. Apparently I'm an ungrateful... I'm gonna pretend she meant to write 'twit.' And I've been uninvited to Thanksgiving by her, too. I don't know why they even bother with that. I never eat Thanksgiving dinner with them, anyway, even if they _do_ invite me, because they don't like it. I eat with John, unless he's got a thing. It makes Petra uncomfortable for me to be around her children." At his look, she added, "The fairy thing. Makes Petra nervous."

The irritating little machine chimed again.

"Oh, new text... from Simone. Wow. Random. I've apparently been brainwashed and my soul is eternally damned to Hell for being a Mormon concubine. I don't think she's ever going to get over that one." Glancing at the irate prince beside her, she added with a smile, "Simone wanted me to be Bhuddist. Said I was hallucinating because my chi was out of balance. Although I didn't know Bhuddists believed in Hell. Um... oh. That's why. She says Francesca just told her I'd sold my body to a polygamist cult leader. Why would she..."

Dylan trailed off, frowning. Then, remarkably, her face split into a wide grin and she started to giggle, then to laugh. Finally she was laughing so hard she could scarcely draw breath to say, "Oh, gosh! Wow, oh, wow. I think she's talking about _you. _Because 'Cesca thinks you're my boyfriend and that's something Simone's been worried about forever - me being sucked in by a cult. Oh, my gosh, wow. You've gone from being my boyfriend to Charles Manson." She erased both texts and let her forehead thunk against the table, still laughing. "That's just freaking hysterical. Ugh, I love my sisters. Wow."

"Firstly," Nuada said with some chilliness, "I am _not_ your-"

"I know," Dylan gasped, wiping at a tear of mirth trickling from the corner of one eye. "I know you're not but you have no idea how these things get warped in my family. Seriously. I tell Francesca there's a guy friend at my place, _just_ a friend, and she assumes you're my boy-toy and we're playing bedsheet bingo, with extra prizes."

Nuada choked. _Bedsheet bingo?_ He thought about asking where she'd picked up _that_ phrase, but decided against it. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Despite the heat flooding her cheeks, Dylan chuckled again. "Then 'Cesca calls Petra and tells her I've got some delicious piece of eye candy staying at my house, and Petra thinks I'm either putting up a homeless man in my front room or a young junkie or male prostitute with no place to stay. Something like that. 'Cesca tells Victoria or Gardenia, they think the same thing.

"Simone and Pauline hear there's a guy on my couch and assume Francesca got it wrong and I'm shacking up with some whacked-out Mormon cultist who's managed to suck in my unwary 'virginal' self. The only person who wouldn't care is Mary - she'd just assume you're either my boyfriend, or a..." Dylan cleared her throat. "Male escort. Which is all so far from the truth it just makes me laugh."

"You find this amusing? Not insulting?" Humans were so strange sometimes.

"Right now, everything's amusing," Dylan replied, pushing hair out of her face. "I'm really tired. And they're just so wrong about... everything. This always happens. My family suck at playing Telephone. Come on, don't be snarly, Your Highness. I'm really not insulted and you shouldn't be, either. Although I'm sad that Simone thinks I should be Bhuddist just because my chi is messed up or whatever."

"You are fine as you are," Nuada growsed, looking pointedly away from her.

"Really?" She asked, propping her chin on her fist. She quirked an eyebrow. Bat mewed plaintively because the petting and scratching had stopped and not been resumed within a reasonable amount of time. Dylan rubbed under his pointy little chin. The world began rotating on its axis once more. "Iron-laced blood, hack-and-slash face, mortal stench, and all?"

"I have never said anything about a stench." The Elven prince had certainly _thought _it, but she did not need to know that. Besides, with the sweet scent of lily-of-the-valley and pear blossoms clinging to her dark curls, he could hardly smell her mortality. "As for your blood... one gets used to the iron in it after a time. And there is nothing wrong with your face."

Dylan smiled at him. Her eyes were soft as moonglow. "Thank you. You're sweet. Don't glower at me; you are! Okay, choices for dinner are chicken florentine or French toast. Which one do you prefer?"

He made his choice, and she went to fix dinner.

**.**

The fourth night Nuada spent on the sofa, Dylan woke in her room (dimly lit by her half-dozen nightlights) to an odd sound. At first she couldn't place it - it wasn't Bat, purring and nuzzling his furry little face against her neck. Nor was it the sound of someone knocking on the front door, or someone sneaking down the hallway. She was sure if it had been Nuada training late into the night (as he'd done Tuesday night), she'd have been able to tell that, too. What was that weird, far-off sound?

_Get out of bed. _

Dylan felt the prompting like an ember smoldering in her chest. She pushed Bat's warm, purring bulk off of her chest and slid out of bed. Becan had worked some kind of brownie magic to heat the cottage (since she hadn't had a chance to have the gas company turn on her heat yet; magic was more effective, anyway). Thanks to the new warmth, she didn't need to sleep in a sweater or long pants. Instead, she wore a pair of her fun Christmas pajamas that Francesca had given her: a pink-printed black tank and shorts patterned with silver and pink present-boxes. Since she was going to walk out into where Nuada might be, however, she slipped on one of John's old black flannel shirts overtop and stepped into the hallway. Winced when her bare feet touched the cold wooden flooring of the corridor.

Becan was not on his pillow-bed. Even glamoured to invisibility, she'd be able to sense him with her Sight. Glancing down the corridor, she saw the door to the den was cracked. A tiny spill of umber firelight lined the floor. The brownie stood peeking in. Something in the way he held himself told Dylan something was wrong.

_Be silent, and walk softly. _The ember was catching fire, smoldering now. Dylan crept down the corridor toward the door to the den. Becan glanced over his shoulder at her. She pressed a finger to her lips and made it to the door. Looked inside. Realized, when she heard Nuada moan, that the strange sound that had woken her up was the Elven prince crying out in his sleep.

The Spirit whispered, _Go to him._

She motioned Becan to go into her room and stay there. Then she slipped into the den. The slumbering warrior was stretched out on the floor in front of the hearth, shivering despite the heat of the fire. When Dylan was halfway across the room, Nuada whispered, "Máthair... ná, Máthair... Máthair!" _Mother. _A tear rolled from the corner of his eye to drop to the floor. Another. A strangled sob escaped Elven lips.

Dylan's heart leapt into her throat. What was she supposed to do? Wake him? Becan had told her that when he'd tried to waken Nuada that night in Findias, the warrior had attacked first and asked questions later. The brownie was small, and good at dodging. She, on the other hand, was neither of those things. But to leave him trapped in a nightmare, crying for his mother...

"Dylan." She froze when he breathed her name like a prayer. Clutched at the edges of her flannel shirt defensively when Nuada groaned. "Eamonn, tabhair... tabhair, impigh mé leat... spártha di. Ná. Ná!"

_Oh, Heavenly Father, did you hear what he said?_ Slowly, ever so slowly, she stepped a bit closer. He'd said, _Please... please, I beg you... spare her. No._ _No!_ The childlike pleading in his voice hurt to hear. _What is he dreaming about? I have to wake him up._

Dylan knelt. Reached out one trembling hand toward the shuddering prince. She said gently, "Nuada, wake up. Wake up, you're dreaming."

"Dylan," he groaned. His head tossed from side to side as every muscle in his body tensed so tightly her own body ached in sympathy. Elf or not, he would be hurting tomorrow from the strain. His breathing was harsh and shallow. "Dylan, forgive me, I cannot... Eamonn, I beg you, please! Don't make me... not this. Not to her. _Please." _More tears now, silent down his moon-pale cheeks. Everything in Dylan rebelled. This was her Elven prince, her brave warrior, reduced to tears by the demons in his nightmares. Impossible, and yet... and yet.

And suddenly, though she wasn't touching his hand, wasn't linked with him, somehow she heard the softest breath of his nightmare. Echoes of old fears and even older demons. Just a voice, barely a thread of sound. But it was enough to freeze her heart and choke her with her own silent screams as the nightmare swelled and filled the room.

_Do you feel the burning, Silverlance? _Eamonn's voice. Ice-cold and taunting. Dylan covered her mouth with a shaking hand and sank to the cold wooden floor. Hatred and mind-numbing terror shivered deep in her bones. _The gancanaugh's poison burns like acid against your skin. You know what will ease the pain, though... don't you?_

"No," Nuada moaned. Shuddered. His fists clenched. "I won't... don't make me do this."

She couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe. Could only tremble, trapped on the edge of Nuada's nightmare, held in thrall by the vicious voice that snarled at him, _You know you want to. Do it. It's what the little whore_ _is good for, isn't it? Do it. Take her. Spill her blood. End your suffering. __**Do it.**_ She knew exactly what dreams haunted Nuada now. Knew, and shivered in the dimness, too terrified to move as long as that voice urged the Elven prince to attack, to destroy her. There would only be two outcomes to the nightmare because, with the Fae, it was always about sex... or blood.

Images flickered like ghosts behind her eyes; there for a split-second, gone the next. She shuddered. Fought not to be sick as Eamonn's voice slid over her skin, a vicious and violating caress. Urging Nuada to hurt her. It didn't have to be sex. Bloodletting eased the pain of the poison, too. Violence soothed the burning as well as, if not better than, sex. But sex, like this... that would hurt him the most. After what had happened to his mother when he was a child, she _knew_ that Eamonn had wanted to make Nuada suffer this way because it was the most efficient way to break his heart and shatter his spirit.

_Get up, _the frantic part of Dylan shrieked. _Get up, get away, before he wakes up, run, get away! Get away from him! He'll hurt me, he'll kill me, he'll... help me, he's going to..._

_No! _She gasped for air as everything began to swim before her eyes. Shook her head hard to clear it. She tasted copper on the back of her tongue. Realized distantly that in her panic she'd bitten it hard enough to draw some serious blood. Struggling against the choking, sickening fear, she thought, _No, he won't, he won't, he would never! He won't, he won't, I..._

_Get away from him! Run, run! Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrun!_

_Can't, _she moaned silently as the darkness of the dream swirled around her. Wrapped icy claws around her throat, around her heart. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything. Couldn't even move. The room was suddenly dim, dark. Darkening. Darkening, darkening, until there was only the sullen hellish glow of the fire and the choking dark, and the dark had teeth and claws and was so very, very hungry. And the dark had a voice, silky and familiar and full of vicious promise.

_Come, now, Nuada. Resisting is pointless. Do it. Just give in and do it. Spill that hot, scarlet mortal blood. The blood will make it all better._

Now Dylan could see the dream, see the brutal nightmare that held Nuada trapped. Feel the fear that wasn't just hers anymore. She'd never known him to be afraid. Not of anything. Not ever.

But he was afraid now. And that terrified her more than Eamonn ever could. Because she could see him weakening. See the pain in his eyes. There was no escaping that pain. While it was still quiet and cool and barely there, it seeped into the skin, into the blood, until it reached bone. Then, when it had its claws hooked deep, it erupted in fire and agony. Even his strength couldn't hold out forever.

And when that strength finally crumbled... what would happen to him? To her?

_Have to run, _her fear begged her. _Get up, get up! Run. _And for a long moment she tried. She tried to get up and leave him struggling against that hellish nightmare. Only the trembling in her legs kept her from abandoning him, kept her from being able to get to her feet and run from that voice penetrating her mind. Instead she wept and struggled not to lose herself in the nightmare.

_I'm scared, I'm scared, I can't... John... John, help me... Nuada..._

Eamonn's voice in her mind, in Nuada's mind, black as darkest sin. _Do it, Silverlance. Take her. Take her. Do it! Spill. Her. Blood._

_You are not alone._ The words whispered inside her heart, warmed the ice frosting her blood. _Do not fear. I am with you. You must wake him._ Chilled terror warred with the ember of warmth inside her. Slowly, though, the presence of the Spirit pushed back a little of the fear so that she could heed His voice. _You must wake him_ now. _He needs you._

"Dylan." Her name on Nuada's lips, like the final prayer of the dying. It, and the warmth of the Holy Ghost, pierced the fear enough for her to take a shallow, ragged breath. That first kiss of air pushed at the gray fog across her eyes. Sliced through the panic until she could breathe deeper, until she could think a little. Until she could force herself to focus on the comforting heat in her heart, on the Elven prince who shivered and strained against invisible demons. Focus on the way he fought savagely against the nightmare and the cruel voice whispering, whispering...

"Dylan." A single tear rolled down his cheek. She choked on a sob. "_Dylan_..." Then he groaned as if someone had driven a knife into his chest before savagely twisting the blade. He whispered bitterly, brokenly, "Forgive me." And she saw what Nuada did then in the dream. Saw it, and grieved for him, knowing he would hate himself when he woke.

_Help me, Heavenly Father,_ Dylan prayed, trembling. _I'm scared, I'm still scared and I can't... this will break his heart. I have to help him but I can't move, help me. Please, help me._

It took her minutes - or maybe it was hours - to work up the courage to speak. And even then, she had to wet her lips and swallow hard before she could croak, "Nuada."

She cleared her throat. She _had_ to wake him up. Phantom echoes of his nightmare crawled at the edges of her vision. If they didn't stop, if the nightmare didn't end, she had no idea what would happen to him. To either of them. But it would be terrible.

Hoarsely, she whispered, "Nuada, it's okay, wake up. Come on, wake up." Another groan as his hands clenched so hard that his nails drew golden blood. On instinct, she added desperately, "Nuada, love, _please_ wake up. Please, please, you're scaring me." Gathering her courage, she reached out with a trembling hand. Whispered, "Please. I need you."

Her fingertips lightly grazed his wrist. Eyes like fresh blood, eyes burning with hatred and rage, snapped open, and he lunged for her.

**.**

A woman's scream ripped the night.

"Did it work?" Iolo turned away from the cottage to glance at Eamonn, who strode through the trees toward the Welshman. The Elf of Zwezda demanded, in the excited voice of a child at Christmas, "Did the dream spell work?"

"_You _are supposed to be in Ciocal," the huntsman informed the dark Elf.

Ignoring the other Fayre, Eamonn closed his eyes and sent his psychic senses casting toward the mortal abode. He easily detected the deliciousness of a woman's fear. The little human. Crimson pain shuddered through the cottage, mingling with the fear. Had the Silver Lance hurt the little wench? All the better if he had. The Elf of Zwezda had worked long and hard with Birog and Ciaran on the series of dream spells they planned on using against the Elven prince while he skulked in the little mortal's house. If the dreams could drive him to attack the mortal, well and good. A bonus, as the humans were fond of saying.

The dark-haired Elf very, very lightly brushed the prince's mind. Grinned as the nightmare replayed over and over again in Nuada's head: the death of his mother, every gory detail amplified and extended while the Elven warrior was held captive by unseen enemies; being doused with the Love Talkers' poison until his flesh burned at the lightest touch of wind or water and he was nearly mad with the pain and the lust; and then bringing in the fragile little mortal, her own body wet with Branwen's Tears. Resistance to the sorcerous aphrodisiac was pointless. Yet still Nuada had tried to fight it. Until his Morphean captors had gotten fed up and thrown the mortal against him. The touch of her skin against his, slick with the poison, was too much even for the prince's self-control.

His begging was the perfect touch to the nightmare. Begging Eamonn to let Dylan go; begging _her_ to forgive him as he surrendered to the brutality the poison forced to the surface. Blood and sex; amongst the Fayre, it always came down to blood or sex.

And her screams... The dark Elf had to admit, he enjoyed the little human's screams _very_ much.

One knife-thin brow arched as, just when Eamonn thought the nightmare would finally shatter Nuada's sanity, it abruptly ended, only to replay again. "Did you watch the dream?" He demanded, pulling himself from the replay going on in the other Elf's mind. "Did it finish out?"

"Unfortunately," Iolo replied with an indifferent shrug, "no. The human woke him before things managed to get truly interesting. She has a very bad habit of interfering, doesn't she?" The Welshman added as Eamonn snarled, low and vicious as a rabid dog. "Though before you throw a tantrum, Eamonn, may I remind you of the side-effects of the dream spells. Ciaran said the prince will be... incredibly fragile for a long while after the dream ends. Perhaps, with the right prompting, he could be convinced to..."

"No," the dark Elf snarled. "Damn him, anyway. Awake, all he has to do is seduce the little whore and she'll take care of him. Unless he hurt her. Even then, though, unless we're lucky and his knife found her heart, it won't work. There's nothing left to do until he sleeps again. His sanity is at its weakest then. Until then, all the spells can do is keep him on edge. Keep his hold on his sanity weak, so that he suspects nothing of what we plan in Findias. Perhaps it will even drive a wedge between them. If he is off-balance when we strike, so much the better.

"For now, though, I'm going back to Faerie," he added, muttering about irritating mortals and how sweet it would be when the Elf of Zwezda could enjoy the symphony of her breaking bones. Iolo just shook his head and faded back into the forest, away from the smell of mortal blood and woman's fear.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _well! That was dark and scary as heck at the end. Who thinks Nuada did something awful to her? And it's supposed to be ambivalent about whether Nuada was tempted to give into lust or bloodlust in the dream. Which do you guys think happened? Check out our challenges for details on THAT. Now, onto less depressing matters._

_Has anyone ever heard "Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod" by the Irish Rovers? It's so cute. I'm going to have it somewhere in this fic. I am. It's one of the songs my mom used to sing to me when I was a little girl. _

_So, so much has happened. Nuada is camped out on Dylan's sofa. Wink is trying to find the third piece of the Golden Crown. The Fomori still have Dylan's house under surveillance and are using magical dream spells to give Nuada nightmares to weaken his sanity (that's a mouthful of words, right there). Rafael's funeral is coming up and Dylan still hasn't let herself truly grieve for him. And the dreaded Psych-Eval is drawing closer and closer. Some of you are probably like, "Hurry the heck up, LA!" Well, this chapter should have two others coming up on the 1st of October, so just sit back and enjoy yourselves. And remember, slow and steady wins the race. Lol._

_Oh, and yes, Dylan was about to say to Petra on the phone, "No, I'm not doing drugs again." Oh, dear. What's up with that "again" part? _

_Onto our happy review prompt!_

_1) The conversation in Dylan's room about family and sacrifice and kids: what do we think of that conversation?_

_2) Who wishes Nuada would camp out on their sofa, raise your hand?_

_3__) Seven favorite things (still feeling greedy and a bit of the blueness); also things you didn't like, questions you have, funny bits, sad bits, romantic bits, confusing bits, unliked bits, typos, etc._

_4__) Who loves Bat's natural superiority? What do we think of him?_

_5__) Who enjoyed the Nuada eye-candy of him sitting shirtless in front of the fire doing his hair? Besides Dylan, of course. And if you have to, go ahead and re-imagine that scene before answering this question._

_**Bat Challenge:**_ _someone write a funny short ficlet about Bat and Nuada. I'd love to see it. I don't know what would happen, nor do I care. But just write it for me, please. Or, even better, a scene about Dylan and Nuada, but from Bat's POV. That would just be so cute and funny. Standard reward system, no word limit. _=D

_**Regular Challenge:**_ _write about Nuada's dream. What was happening? Give me lots of grief and anguish. I feel like drowning in someone else's for a change. So yeah, our prince's horrible nightmare about Branwen's Tears, and Dylan, and violence. I would like to see it. A bit of an atypical reward - 2 chapters as a reward instead of the usual 1. No word limit. Enjoy. Loves to you all!_

_**Second Regular Challenge:**_ _potential ending to the chapter. What does Nuada do when he wakes up? Attack Dylan? Almost attack Dylan? What? Again, I'm all for violence, pain, anguish, grief, remorse, and even character death if you want him to kill Dylan off. I'm really feeling into the pain of literary people right now. So yeah. Same atypical reward as the first challenge. Loves!_

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Pulchritude means "beauty."

- The name Siobhan is pronounced "Shiv-Awn."

- It's true that babies who are teething sometimes have minor fevers. Poor things. As if cutting new teeth didn't hurt enough.

- I know the hair-combing thing makes Nuada sound girly. I know. _**BUT **_I was reading "Orchid" by Ariana Lussier, and she mentions in her fic that Nuada's got long hair and when its wet it kinks up. I was like, "Psht. No it doesn't" (Nuada is sometimes a total girl in that fic, and yet oddly in character). But I said that out loud and my roommate was like "What?" So I explained what I'd read and she said "Yes it does, look" and opened up my folder of Nuada pictures (yes, I have a folder on my comp of Nuada pictures *points at personalized NERD label) and she showed me one of the Silverlance posters I'd saved and sure enough, there was Nuada from the film with sweat-drenched hair and it had kinks and tangles and knots in it.

So then we raced to the front room and put in the DVD (this pic was a screenshot from the training scene) and we watched the training scene (yum) and then watched the auction house scene and in THAT scene, his hair is super-super straight and tangle-free and nice and pretty (obviously a wig-job, but for purposes of the fandom not really) and I was like, "Whoa. How did he manage to do that after having the other?"

And that made me seriously think about how much effort Nuada, as a prince, must put into his appearance to make himself look both handsome and ferocious, intimidating and regal. And that's where I got the hair-combing thing from. I thought it would be nice just to see a... a more day-to-day side of the Prince. We see the warrior and the leader in the film. I'm trying to show... the mischief-loving boy, the techno-geek, the artisan, the lover, the gentleman - all those sides of him that we don't see. So yeah.

- I read about the cilfa'lir in "Orchid" by Arianna Lussier and looked them up. I was (oddly) directed to the poetry/artbooks of Cicely Mary Barker (they're adorable, my roommate actually owns a boxed set, which I went and looked through). A cilfa'lir is a type of faerie that is bound to a certain species of flower. If that flower dies out, the faerie dies too. Very depressing. Anyway, so here, Cilfa'lir is a flower store. Is it owned by faeries? Maybe. Haven't decided. Is it owned by flower faeries? No.

- "Bedsheet bingo" is a euphemism for sex that I heard on SyFy's _Tinman_. Episode 2, I think.

- Just an FYI about Dylan's pajamas. They really exist; Victoria's Secret had a set of Christmas pajamas in 2010, a tank and pants (or shorts), with the tank-top reading "On the Naughty List." _**YES**_, Dylan is wearing those PJs. She got them from Francesca as a Christmas gift.

- That concept about "it's always about blood or sex with the Fae" is something I first read in the _Meredith Gentry _series. At first I was kind of like, "Ew." Then I read/reread a whole lot of books about faeries or mythology. _Wicked Lovely, Tithe _and _Valiant, I Was a Teenage Fairy, City of Ashes, Neverwhere, Faerie Tale, the Hogfather, Red as Blood. _And it really was all about blood or sex. Or both. And I thought about that. Thought about why that would be. And I realized that blood and sex represent the same thing, mythically - life. The energy of life and death and rebirth. And the Fae, being tied into nature and the natural world, are all about life and stuff. So, again... yeah.


	30. All Through the Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Darkness Challenge_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, so I'm not as happy as I was last chapter, but I'm not as depressed as I was the chapter before that one. So yay for that. So, just so we're clear, I've never plagarized anyone. Ever. Just wanted to put that out there because there's this niggling little rumor circulating and I want to quash it dead as a drowned rat. So just so we're absolutely clear: I. Do. Not. Plagarize. __**Ever**__. Die, rumor rats, die._

_Now that that's out of the way, happy October 1st, everybody! I know I'm a day early but tomorrow is General Conference, so both Saturday and Sunday are like the Sabbath for this coming weekend and I don't update on the Sabbath. Anyway, first day of October, and Halloween coming up at the end of this month. Fun! So there should be at least 6 chapters uploaded this month. Actually, there should be 8 (everyone say "yay!") because guess what? I promised you guys an update for every solar holiday of the year. I missed September 21 (Mabon). I am so sorry. So I'm posting the 2 chapters that should've been posted then on different days this month. Since I always post 2 chapters on the 1st and the 15th, and I'm supposed to post 2 chapters on the 31st (Halloween, All Hallow's Eve, Samhain), that's 8 chapters this month. Who's excited? Because I so freaking am! Wootness! And a little scared/overwhelmed. Eek._

_**Warning:**_ _this chapter deals in-depth with scars, and discussions of rape, self-harming, attempted suicide, and suicide. I've been told I need to put warnings up. Here is the warning. Read at your own risk. There is also happy stuff, though. And cute stuff. Just saying._

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**Chapter Thirty**

**All Through the Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of the Edge of a Knife, Fealty, Touching, Prom, Another Confession, Hot Chocolate, Another Question, and a Another Tale**

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Nuada's knife was in his hand before he was even truly awake. Only the tenderly spoken _love, please wake up, _and the even more desperate plea of _I need you _had him attempting to pull his strike. He froze, eyes wide in dull horror, with his blade barely a hair's breadth from cutting Dylan's vulnerable throat. The needle-sharp edge of the knife pressed a line against the soft flesh. Golden eyes met a gaze of terrified blue. When the mortal swallowed reflexively, the razor edge sliced a tiny cut just beneath the scar from where she'd been licked by the fear-darrig. A drop of blood welled up, rolled down her neck and soaked into the lace edging her pajama top.

Just a fraction of a second too slow, Nuada realized, just a fraction's delay in realizing who she was, where _he_ was, and it would have been more than a single scarlet drop. It would have been a lethal flood of dark crimson life's blood. Dylan's blood. The thought - and the memory of blood slicking his skin as he succumbed to that hellish voice - almost made him dizzy.

"Gods," Nuada rasped. Swallowed hard before wrenching the knife away from her throat. Raked a shaking hand through his hair and tried to regulate his ragged breathing. Dylan drew a breath that was almost a sob. It, and the memory of sobs and screams, hit him like a blow. Louder now, horrified relief igniting the anger smoldering beneath his words, he snarled, "_Gods,_ Dylan. I could have... do you have any idea what I could have..." He nearly choked. Fought against the urge to shake her, or crush her against him just to feel her racing heartbeat, an affirmation that she was alive and unharmed. That the vile dream had been just that - a dream. Instead the Elf prince demanded, "What are you even _doing_ in here?"

"I... I heard you cry out in your sleep. You were having a nightmare, I..." She trailed off as a sudden realization hit her: she'd frightened him. Not the dream, but her. _She_ had actually _frightened _him. Dylan reached out a trembling hand, and he actually flinched away from her. She jerked her hand back. "I didn't mean to... I just wanted to help you. You sounded so..." So what? _Heartbreaking_. _Desperate. Afraid._ But she could never, ever say that to him or he'd be furious. More furious than he was now. All Dylan could whisper was, "I just wanted to help," one more time.

Then, to her horror, she found herself crying. Not bawling like a hysterical child, as she had two nights ago. Only the slow salt-trickle of a tear or three, and a little sniffle. Still, to cry over something so stupid... but she couldn't seem to stop as the adrenaline faded from her blood and the terror faded from her body and she realized what a close thing it had been and that she was an idiot for thinking she could do anything for Nuada that was even close to what he'd done for her after her own nightmares, and of course the Elf warrior would be angry that she'd done yet _another_ stupid thing that almost got her killed and he would be angry because she'd seen him vulnerable to the nightmare and darn it, why couldn't she just shut up and _stop crying already?_ There weren't even anymore tears. Why was she still sniffling like a baby?

_I'm so pathetic. _And darn it, she'd whacked her hand on the floor when he'd lunged for her and she'd lost her balance. Now the cut at the base of her thumb was throbbing from the impact. _Ow._ She sniffled again.

"_Don't_," he said sharply. Then, more softly, "Don't... Dylan..." He wanted to reach out, to wipe away the tears. But the thought of touching her after that dream filled him with revulsion and shame. He'd given in. In the end, he'd eschewed his honor and given into the poison, to the vicious little voice urging him to... to... And Dylan's eyes. A nightmare only, but her _eyes_. So betrayed. So accusing. He couldn't drive them from his mind. Something had broken in the depths of those so-blue eyes when...

Nuada clenched his fists until his knuckles ached. Tried to shove aside the nightmare. The feel of her skin bruising under his touch and the disbelieving, heartbroken, almost strangled cries as he'd...

Another quiet sniffle shattered the hideous thought.

"Just ignore me," Dylan murmured. Bit down on her tongue until she had absolute control of herself. "It's just the adrenaline let-down," she added, wiping at her eyes. Jeez, could she be anymore pitiful? Crying over her own pathetic fears and a little pain when Nuada had just had a nightmare of blood and hell. What was _wrong _with her? "Anyway, I didn't mean to intrude, it'll never happen again, I just thought..." Thought she could pay him back a little for putting up with her whining. For staying with her after her nightmare and for church and for going with her onto the roof with Lisa. For hanging up on Petra when she couldn't bring herself to do it. For breakfast and tulips and just everything. "I just..." A helpless gesture. "Never mind. I'll leave you alone now-"

She'd barely begun to stand when he reached out and yanked on the too-long sleeve of her flannel overshirt, bringing her back to the floor with a _thump_. When she cocked her head and shot him a confused look, Nuada said almost too softly, "You are bleeding."

Something in his gaze shifted, hardened with sudden resolve. Elven fingers slowly, so slowly, reached up and brushed just under the shallow slice in her throat. Calluses rasped like rough velvet over her skin. A whisper of soothing magic caressed her skin. Blue eyes locked with eyes the color of sun-kissed ivory. The palest yellow Dylan had ever seen Nuada's eyes. For some reason, the sight of those intense, pale eyes made goosebumps ripple along her skin. She was suddenly acutely aware that she was in shorts that showcased a lot of leg, and a tank top. The too-large flannel overshirt seemed a paltry protection. _Protection against what? _She wondered. Didn't want to push the thought any further. Didn't want to think about those brief glimpses into Nuada's terrible nightmare.

Nuada's fingertips brushed against her skin again. Scorched her. She caught her breath. He wrenched his hand back.

"I did not mean to hurt you," Nuada murmured, looking away now. For all that the words were coolly spoken, it sounded to Dylan almost like an apology. And though they still weren't physically linked, she somehow heard the unspoken words: _I would never harm you._

"My fault," she mumbled. Shoved at the tangled curls falling into her face. "I shouldn't have-"

"No," Nuada said firmly, sharply. "You should not have." Noticing the way her shoulders slumped the tiniest fraction as she dropped her gaze, he added more gently, "But no, it is not your fault." At her questioning look, he explained in a quiet voice, "I have been a warrior for more years than even you can imagine. My skills and instincts were forged in training and honed in countless centuries of battle. I should have been able to pull that strike more effectively. And," Nuada added, "now you know better, do you not?"

Dylan nodded. Licked suddenly dry lips, unable to think of a proper response. Her neck itched. She realized it was the blood drying from the inadvertent slice, so she licked her thumb and swiped at the cut. The bleeding had already stopped. The saliva wiped away the blood at her throat.

"Do you want me to leave?" Dylan asked when she caught Nuada with his head cocked, looking particularly alien, watching her. His pale eyes rested on her collarbones. He didn't speak. Only stared at the place where her pulse fluttered against her throat. "Um... hello?"

_Please say no,_ she prayed silently. _Please. _The thought of having to walk down that icy corridor and sleep in her own room which seemed, suddenly, so very dark was more than she could handle just then. Not with the memory of that awful, awful voice urging... She pressed her lips together to keep the rising bubble of hysteria locked behind her teeth. Now now. She couldn't panic now. Couldn't break down now. _No._

"Nuada?" She tried again when she could speak without her voice shaking. "Did... did you want me to leave?"

The Elf prince blinked, realizing his gaze had been fixed on the shadows cast by the fire onto Dylan's skin. Specifically, he found the dancing shadows near her collarbones and the hollow of her throat oddly... captivating. Soothing. The flickering firelight on her skin helped push away memories of the hideous nightmare. Softened the sharp little slice at her throat until it almost wasn't there.

Then Dylan's words penetrated. Nuada snapped back to reality. Focusing on the mortal woman in front of him, he said softly, "Of course; go." He turned away from her. Still attuned to him, still partially locked with him, Dylan heard the unspoken, _I frighten her now. Of course I do. _A viciously muttered curse snarled through the thinning link.

"Nuada, I'm not scared," she murmured, and his eyes found her face. She saw the shock in them before he forced them to blankness. She offered him a watery smile. "It's okay. It's just that you look really uncomfortable right now. I thought... maybe..." She trailed off. She didn't want to leave him. Not with that brittle blankness in his eyes. Not with the memory of her own fear screaming at her.

"I am well enough," the warrior muttered.

"Um... no you're not." Acting on instinct, Dylan reached out to touch the knife-edged scar carved across his cheek. Nuada jerked and grabbed her wrist in a grip so tight it was just shy of bruising. She froze instantly. The half-healed cut on her hand stung.

_"Don't!"_

She could not touch him. Not like that. Not with the memories racing through his skull, knifing him. Not with the image of her bruised eyes filling with tears of betrayal. The warm red wet of her oh-so mortal blood on his bare skin. Her screams and her desperate pleas echoing in his ears, _Please, please, please. No, please... _Over and over again in his head. The dream, the nightmare, hurling against his mind. Her eyes, those terrified eyes, and the blood. So much blood. Rivers of it. Burning iron and hot slickness like death... She could _not_ touch him.

"It's okay," Dylan murmured so gently it was like the bite of a whip. Nuada fought not to flinch from it. She didn't try to pull away, or push closer. She held still as only a wild thing could be still. Her eyes were unfathomably kind. Not like... not like... He shuddered. "It's okay, Nuada. It's all right." With every word she spoke, her own panic faded a little more. Dylan struggled to keep a leash on it as she whispered soothingly, "Nuada. It's all right. It's all right."

"You cannot say that to me," he rasped, voice tight with some emotion he could not name. "You can't, I... you don't know-"

"I _do_ know," she whispered. Moved just a fraction of an inch closer. "I know what you dreamed. I saw part of it. Heard most of it. So I know."

The look he gave her was bleak. He pulled her hand away from his face before releasing her wrist. Wasn't sure if he was relieved or not when she did not attempt to touch him again. "So you do," he muttered bitterly. "So you do." So... she'd borne witness to his shame. All that was lacking to make the wound a fatal one was his father's presence. And yet... and yet Dylan did not shrink from him. "How can you stand to be near me when I... after witnessing that?" In fact, that was something he'd always wondered - how Dylan had managed to stand his presence during those early weeks after her attack. After the first few days in the sanctuary, his presence had actually seemed to comfort her. Yet cold logic told him it could not be so now. Not now, when he had...

_Because I tried to run away from you when you needed me, _she thought, and licked away the tear the streaked down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Would she ever be able to forget that? _Because I betrayed you, even if you don't know it._ But she didn't say any of that.

"You're my friend, Nuada," Dylan said instead. Her voice was still unfailingly gentle. "I offered you my loyalty, my fealty, because you are..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish that statement. But the brittleness she sensed in him needed an answer to his question. "Because," she whispered, "you're my prince. I care about you. I..."

_I love you._

_Shut up, _she told the sappy part of her brain. _Stop saying that. It won't help._

He didn't hear the brief mental argument. Only the last spoken words: _You're my prince. I care about you._

The Elven warrior was on his feet in an instant, putting as much distance between himself and the infuriating, incomprehensible mortal woman as possible without actually leaving the room. His eyes burned like molten copper as he studied her face. His body shook with repressed emotion as Dylan rose slowly and stiffly to her feet and came toward him. She looked so small and vulnerable huddled inside the oversized black flannel shirt. So fragile with the dim light of the fire caressing the criss-crossing scars on her face. Yet her expression was fierce and determined when she came to stand in front of the shuddering Elf.

"Get away from me." Each word was like a sharp stone on his tongue, but he managed to spit them out anyway. They left his mouth bleeding. "Get out."

"If I obey your orders, Your Highness," she said, "then I leave you because you ordered me to. Not because I want to. Think on that, and if you still want me to leave, then I will." When he didn't speak, just looked at her with haunted eyes, she added softly, "I know. Nuada, I know that you're tired and that every day is a struggle for you. I know how much what's happened - _all_ of what's happened - has hurt you. You think I don't see it? You think I don't notice or care that every time you look at your father or your sister your heart bleeds? That you never get enough sleep and you're always on edge, even when you're smiling or laughing? That you're always expecting a knife in the back? That I don't know how afraid you are that your father's right and you're just as bad as he thinks you are?"

The Elf shuddered. She could not say these things to him. She couldn't possibly know, couldn't possibly understand. Couldn't possibly forgive. Yet her eyes told him she did. Impossibly, unfathomably, Dylan _did _understand. And she had already forgiven him.

"But you're not what he thinks you are. You're _not,_ Nuada. I don't know or care how many times I have to tell you that before you believe me but it's the truth. And it was _just_ a dream. Only a bad dream."

Now, finally, Dylan reached out with tentative fingers and brushed the tips over the royal scar. The Elf prince drew a ragged breath, but didn't shove her away. Didn't even try to stop her. Just closed his eyes and allowed it. Allowed her to ghost her fingertips over the scar carved deep across his cheekbones, and higher, to the circular scar at his temple. Her touch was... exquisitely gentle. Just a simple, soothing caress in the face of an unspeakable nightmare that had left him filled with shame and jagged edges.

And she continued to almost croon the words, "It was only a bad dream. It's all right. We're both all right. Nothing bad is going to happen just because we touch. Okay? It was just a dream. Just a dream. It's all right. It's all right."

Ever so gently, Dylan took his clenched fists and loosened the knotted fingers before carefully placing those hands at her waist. When he opened his mouth, as if to protest, the psychiatrist said coaxingly, "I know what I'm doing. I've done this before. You need to know that everything is okay and that touching me isn't going to turn you into some slavering hell demon intent on my imminent destruction, all right? It's okay. It's just a simple stance, light and easy. No pressure. Nothing scary. Consider it payback for trying to kick me out of a room in _my_ house."

As she'd hoped, he chuckled weakly and inclined his head in tacit agreement. Very slowly, giving him time to protest, she laid her own hands on his shoulders. He tensed, but not too badly. "See? Nothing scary. We're all right. We're just fine. Although," Dylan added, smiling more openly now, "I'm suddenly having flashbacks to prom, but that's my problem, not yours."

"Prom?" He frowned slightly.

Laughing a little because she felt absolutely ridiculous, a mortal woman explained to an Elven prince about the American pastime of prom: the supposedly elegant, formal dance that signaled it was time to get the heck out of high school and escape into the so-called adult world. That dance that came complete with the horrendous rituals of dress-buying and picture-taking, hours-long visits to the salon for professional manicures and hairdressing, drunken afterparties where virginity was offered up like a sacrifice to clique idols, etc.

Of course, this meant she also had to explain slow dancing (which was, in her opinion, just plain weird and made her feel kind of stupid, considering who she was talking to). Dylan knew Nuada knew how to dance - real dancing, anyway. He was an Irish prince. Of course he did. But slow dancing wasn't really... _real _dancing. She could tell from his expression that he didn't think so, either, so she went back to explaining prom. At least it was distracting him.

"Not that I went to any of the drunken parties, and I got my dress from a catalogue online because I was still stuck at Saint Vincent's," she added. "Had to do my own hair, too. We had a little mini-prom for the older kids, though, which was nice. Had my first real kiss that night. My only real kiss, come to think of it." Dylan briefly pursed her lips in thought. "Was it? Yeah. My one and only real kiss was at prom. Guy was completely schnockered, though - blech. Tasted like peppermint schnapps. Where he got peppermint schnapps in a psychiatric hospital, I have no idea, but that's how his mouth tasted. At least he didn't try to grope me, though."

The sharp pieces inside him were slowly being soothed and softened by Dylan's chatter. He had a feeling she knew that, too. Instead of trying to block out his nightmare, he focused instead on something he was rather curious about, dulling the memory of the dream further. "What do you mean, 'a real kiss?'"

Dylan just barely managed to suppress the shiver trying to race up her spine when Nuada said the word "kiss."

_I'm so stupid, _she lamented silently, flexing her fingers where they lay on his well-muscled shoulders. _I am so freaking stupid! Yeah, he's relaxing and doesn't look like he's going to shatter if I poke him with a stick, but what about me? What about _me? _I'm getting fluttery again. Crud. _

Aloud, she explained, "You know - _not _the kind of kiss you give another kid when you're like, five years old." At his baffled look, she added in exasperation, "You _know._ When you're little, you stand a foot apart from another kid and lean in with your lips super-puckered and just barely touch mouths before you both squeal about cooties and run off in opposite directions while your friends laugh at you and say 'ew.' A real kiss is... um... well, it's like..." Dylan could feel heat spreading through her face and groaned inwardly. "Can we stop talking about this now? I know I brought it up and it's my own stupid fault but I'm getting kind of embarrassed."

For some reason her blushes always made his mouth curve in a smile, no matter how dark his mood. With a weary chuckle, he said, "Still so innocent."

"I am _not _innocent!" She protested in mock outrage, balling up her fist and thumping him lightly on the chest. "In case you've forgotten, I'm a doctor. I know about the whole birds and bees thing. And just because I'm not some deliriously attractive Elven Casanova who's broken thousands of hearts throughout the centuries and makes a habit of... of... of kissing anything with a pair of mammary glands doesn't mean that I'm... okay, stop laughing at me."

Nuada's grin was tired, but one hundred percent genuine. The last bit of dread in Dylan's chest faded away at the sight of it. She'd seen that grin maybe a handful of times since she'd met him. It was good to see it again.

"You think me delirious attractive?" He inquired with a raised eyebrow, then laughed again at Dylan's horrified expression.

"No!" _Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud. _Her face was on fire. _Why don't I ever _think _before I speak? Crud!_ "That's not- I didn't mean... I mean, I guess you're handsome but I don't... oh, brother. Ya know what? It's late, I'm tired, you scared the living daylights out of me earlier so I'm on an adrenaline-crash, and I just don't care anymore so I'm gonna say it: I don't think you're bad looking, at all. You're fairly attractive, actually." After a moment of silence, Dylan closed her eyes, muttered something that sounded to Nuada like, _Well, I'm dead meat anyways, _and added, "You're hot. There - I said it."

"Hot," he echoed slowly, as if testing the word. She huffed.

"You want me to spell it out for you? Yes, hot. It's human slang; it means deliriously attractive, handsome, dashing, sexy, or E - all of the above. Hot." _Shut up, brain, _she snarled at herself as embarrassment and exhaustion in equal measure flooded her body. _Shut up, shut up, shut up. Stop talking now._ "Okay, now that I've humiliated myself utterly, since you seem to be more relaxed now, I'm going to bed, where I can smother myself with my pillow to put me out of my own misery and _why_ are you _laughing?"_

In truth, Nuada had no idea. Only that the cold, twisting knot in his chest had not only loosened, but faded almost completely. And in the face of his own mirth, Dylan smiled, though he could see she was still blushing hotly. To soothe some of the embarrassment, the prince replied, "I am not surprised that you think me so." He grinned wider when Dylan rolled her eyes. "I _am _an Elven prince, and a warrior. I have spent countless years training my body, keeping myself in top physical form." His grin melted into a smirk when he saw Dylan's gaze drop to his feet and work its way back up to his face, almost against her will, her eyes widening as she went. She swallowed when she saw his smirk. Nuada arched an eyebrow. "Do not most women find such men attractive?"

"Um..." _Work, brain. Work! Say something! _"We're not having this conversation. I am _not _talking about this with you," she mumbled, and dropped her hands from his shoulders. "I'm delirious from exhaustion, so I'm going to bed now, and so are you. Good night."

But when she tried to escape, he caught her wrist. His grin faded and his eyes grew shadowed. "I do not wish to sleep," he said softly.

_Translation, _Dylan realized with a pang, _don't leave me alone yet. Oh, Nuada..._ For him to feel that way; for him to give voice to it in any way, even surreptitiously... whatever he was feeling must've been hideously strong, and excruciatingly painful. But she didn't dare say that. Not out loud, anyway. So instead she very gently corrected him with, "You don't want to dream." Nuada inclined his head and she sighed. "Come with me."

Dylan slipped his loose grip on her wrist and took his hand loosely in hers, leading him toward the kitchen. She gently pushed him into a chair before going to the woodburning stove and pulling down a small frying pan from the cupboards above it. Dylan studied the stove before looking down at her arms. Her sleeves hung well past her fingertips. She flicked a nervous glance at Nuada before shrugging out of the flannel shirt that hung almost to her knees, leaving her in her pajamas.

She laid the overshirt on the opposite counter and then dove into the cupboards and fridge. Nuada caught a glimpse of a cartoony magnet stuck to the fridge door of a penguin with wide eyes. It read, "You did _what?_ With _who?_ For _how many_ cookies?"

"Milk, vanilla, Nevermore, and... ah. Powdered chocolate." Pouring some of the milk and a bit of vanilla into the skillet, she stoked the fire before tapping the powder into the pan and stirring slowly with a wooden spoon. Every so often she sprinkled another tiny pinch of powder into the heating milk.

"What are you making?" He asked to keep his mind on something other than the fact that she wore less clothing than he'd ever seen her in before. Nuada realized with some astonishment that he'd never seen Dylan's bare shoulders but once - that one time he'd walked in on her in the bathing chamber in his underground sanctuary. And then he'd been more focused on the shampoo bottle she'd thrown at him than on her state of undress.

Now he could see the way the dim glow of nightlights cast shadows against the hollows of those narrow shoulders. See the twin smudge-like scars that ghosted along her left shoulder blade. The warrior knew such marks were from gunshot wounds. A dark, hollowed-out line just above the collar of her tank top was from being stabbed with a thin-bladed knife. Another knife-scar slashed across her upper right arm. A burn scar in the shape of a handprint marred her right shoulder. When Dylan shifted and turned a little, he saw the ice-white spill of scar tissue that ran down the inside of one leg. Noted the deathly looking scars at the bends of her elbows, as well as thin silver lines that criss-crossed her forearms. The underside of her forearm bore a strange, jagged mark the color of old bones. A broken circle of pale pink scar tissue graced a spot to the left of her spine at the base of her neck; it looked like a scar from a bite. When Dylan reached up to pull a small container of cinnamon from the cabinet overhead, Nuada glimpsed jagged, long-healed claw marks peeking from beneath the hem of her pajama top. The back of her right thigh, just above the knee, had similar claw marks. Several wire-thin silver lines looped around the flesh right above her right knee, meshing with the claw marks.

But it was the concave, palm-sized scar that covered the flesh over her heart before spilling down over the swell of her left breast and disappearing under her pajama top that drew his full attention. And Nuada remembered what she'd said to the human girl on the roof: _so I took a pencil and tried to stab my way to my heart so that I could finally just end it. _He shoved aside the sudden urge to comment on that scar. On any of them. Not right now. Not when he was still trying to deal with the nightmare.

"I'm making hot chocolate," Dylan murmured, jerking him from his study of the war the marks on her body spoke of. He hadn't realized just how much damage she had sustained in her life. "I used to make it for John when he had nightmares about... we call it the Soul-Sucking Hell Dimension. Not sure what it actually is, but that's our name for it. The place he went when he was twelve, and my parents thought he'd died. Anyway, my hot chocolate always helped him fall back asleep."

"I don't want to-"

"You need to sleep," the doctor snapped. Seeing the prince bristle, she added, "Even _your_ body will collapse without proper food and rest. You tell me to eat more, then I get to order you to sleep more. Don't think I haven't been paying attention." She poured hot chocolate into a mug, then unstoppered the tiny bottle whose contents glittered like bloodstone and, after measuring out a teaspoon-full, dumped it into the mug and stirred it in. Nuada recognized the brew as a troll potion to combat iron-fatigue. Those humans with the Sight called it Nevermore; the fae called it Never. Dylan continued, "Three or four hours a night, every night, is _not _enough rest. You look like death warmed over and left to rot on a highway in August. Now stop snarling and do what the nice doctor lady tells you."

He glared at her, the easy comraderie from earlier gone, but when she gave him the porcelain mug of hot chocolate, he took a sip. Let the just-right sweet drink slide over his tongue. Since it tasted... well... wonderful (loath as he was to admit it), the prince didn't snarl at her again. Nuada even softened his glare when Dylan poured what was left of the hot chocolate into another mug for herself. It seemed the Elf warrior was not the only who feared dreaming enough that sleep remained elusive.

They sat diagonal from each other, Dylan back in her huge overshirt, and slowly drank the hot cocoa in silence. When there were only dregs left in Nuada's cup, Dylan said, "I want you to sleep in my room tonight. I'll take the sofa." When he protested, she held up a regal hand for silence. _Where did she learn that gesture? _The Elf wondered. The mortal added, "I know chivalry or whatever says as the gentleman you have to let me have the bed, but I think you'd sleep better on a real bed than on my cramped little sofa. Or my floor," she added with a hint of bite. "Speaking of which, why _weren't_ you on the sofa?"

"I had a crick in my neck," he grumbled. The glare she shot him was equal parts hurt and annoyance.

"You're taking the bed tonight."

"And if I refuse?" The prince demanded coolly.

Dylan said nothing for a long time, only continued to sip at the hot drink. Finally, she murmured, "If you do this for me, I'll answer five questions for you - since I know you probably have some that you don't think I'll answer - or I'll do you any one act of service that you command of me, no matter what it is." And she let her gaze lock with eyes that flashed between amber and sun-kissed ivory.

For a very, _very _long time there was only silence begging to be broken. Then, finally...

"Both the questions and the service," the warrior prince said.

She shook her head. "Either/or. Not both."

"I demand both," he said softly. Silly girl. She should know better than to try and negotiate with him when _he_ possessed what she wanted. The warrior didn't take his eyes from Dylan's, only watched the battle playing out behind them. Finally she sighed and nodded. He smiled without humor. "Well, then. I will take the bed in exchange for the answers to five questions and an act of service." He would hold the requested service in reserve. The stars only knew when that might come in handy. As for the questions... "My first question is this: why did you try to take your own life?" Remembering hatred smoldering in her eyes when she'd whispered _after that, though... some things... happened, _he added, "The _whole_ truth."

She paled. Hid behind the pretense of sipping the last dregs of hot chocolate from the porcelain mug. Then she laid the cup on the table, clutching it between laced fingers so tightly her knuckles went white as bones. Nuada thought she might refuse. Take back her command for him to sleep in the bed.

But then, in a quiet voice as brittle as old glass, Dylan told him about John. About how, when she was a day shy of twelve years old, her parents had called the mental hospital administration to have her informed that her twin brother had been missing for more than two weeks and was presumed dead. She spoke of the grief and the aching loneliness. It struck a chord in Nuada that felt like a knife between the ribs. To lose Nuala, his beloved sister, the other half of himself... he wouldn't survive.

Then, in a voice like razor-edged shards of ice, Dylan told him about two boys - two ruthless, cruel, twisted boys - named Patrick and Xander. She wouldn't give him their surname. Only told him about the casual blows, the name calling, the pranks and the pinching, the slaps, the hair pulling, and the hands that were always, _always_ touching - to shove against walls and into couches, against counters and into the dirt in the courtyard where the children at Saint Vincent's were sometimes allowed to play. In a tremulous voice Dylan told him about those two vicious boys, and their father. Their father, with his money and his prestige at the hospital. Their father, who encouraged the cruelty, who pushed his vile offspring until one day the two of them went too far. Until three girls and another little boy got hurt.

"Do you know..." Dylan had to swallow several times before she could continue. Her gaze was far away. "Do you know why I didn't bleed to death the night we met?" He was afraid to answer. Afraid not to. She was barely holding on as it was. The wrong word, the wrong gesture, and Dylan would shatter like glass. After a tense moment of stillness, Nuada managed to shake his head in the negative. "Because I wasn't a virgin. If I'd been a virgin, I'd have been dead long before you came. I suppose I should thank Patrick and Xander for that... but," with a mirthless laugh that would have made a lesser man flinch, "I don't think I will."

There was an interminable silence as Nuada fought to control his rage. When he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, he clenched them into fists and hid them beneath the table. He swallowed hard. Finally managed to keep from snarling when he asked in a carefully neutral voice, "Did you ever tell anyone?" So many victims didn't.

Her smile was sharp and hopeless and left him bleeding. "The words were like cold iron in my mouth and I was afraid... but I told. All four of us did. Even though I wanted to escape and be with my brother, wherever he was, and never come back to that place. I told, and do you know what they said? That telling stories about the other kids wasn't going to help me get home any faster and that I needed to be honest with my therapists when I explained to them about _these._"

And she held up her arms, letting the oversized sleeves slide to her elbows to reveal the silvery scars slicing across the flesh of her forearms. Nuada could imagine the feel of the knife parting flesh, spilling scarlet that dripped and spattered the floor and finally gave voice to the truth so many refused to hear or see. Couldn't imagine the desperation behind such an act, like a wolf chewing off its own leg to escape from a trap. No. The Elven warrior couldn't imagine that kind of desperation in the woman he knew. It infuriated him to even try.

"I was young, then, or I'd have figured out some other way to cope. Or maybe I would've just..." She couldn't finish. Could only think of the razor parting flesh. Cutting across her arms, the palms of her hands. She shoved the thought away and added, "Of course I knew better than to tell my parents. My sisters believed me, but what could they do without my parents' help? When I finally got out of that place, I went to the police. And you know what _they _said? That they were sorry, but that the statute of limitations had already passed."

"The _what?_"

"Statute of limitations," she said tonelessly. "The law that says a crime must be prosecuted within a set amount of time. For sexual crimes, the limit is five years. After five years the assailant can't be prosecuted. He could sign a sworn confession and still not be prosecuted. I had to wait almost six before I got out, so..." She let her arms drop to the table. Shuddered. "One of the girls, Allison, and the boy, Gunter... they killed themselves. Because of those monsters. Because of what happened. Gunter managed it while we were still at Saint Vincent's. Allison tried to hold on, but after the police said they couldn't do anything, she... she gave up and..." Another tremor wracked Dylan hard, but the bronze-eyed warrior saw how she swiftly suppressed any and all emotion. How she fought for control and never let the pain swirling through the room break free of her grip and force her to break.

Nuada leashed his fury because it would do nothing for her. Would only make the tears he saw shining in her eyes spill over, fall. Instead the warrior shoved aside the rage and stretched out his hand, palm up, toward the trembling woman across from him. She stared at it for a long moment. Then Dylan slipped her hand in his and closed her eyes as Nuada sent warmth and comfort and reassurance through the link. Dylan's mouth trembled, and then she brought their clasped hands to her cheek and sighed. Let the pulse of magic and warmth wash over her. Let it burn away the ice-cold shadows. A single tear spilled down Dylan's cheek to kiss Nuada's hand before running down his arm like a drop of cool blood.

They sat that way in silence for a while. Slowly the tension drained out of her body. She sighed again. Then she opened her eyes.

"Are all your questions going to be this difficult to answer?"

He stroked her cheek with the knuckle of one finger, a silent apology, and her eyes slid closed again. The feral-eyed warrior would do some digging. Would find this Patrick and this Xander. And when he found them, they would die... eventually. After he had revisited their sins back upon their heads ten, no, a hundredfold. Their blood would paint the walls of whatever hovels they called home. Would turn the earth of their freshly-dug graves to scarlet mud by the time he'd wrung every last drop of pain from them that he could. In the end, it would not be enough to recompense the shattered innocence of the woman he had inexplicably grown fond of, and the child she had been, but it was better than nothing. It had to be.

But Nuada didn't give any of these thoughts away. She wouldn't want him to do this thing. She, with her naive forgiveness and her mercy. So he only continued to caress Dylan's soft cheek as he said, "I do not think they will be. We shall have to see." The Elven warrior had four more questions. He would hold them in reserve as well... for now.

"Would you..." Dylan had to clear her throat before she could continue. "Would you like to start another story, Your Highness? Since you don't want to sleep? We could begin _Once Upon a Winter's Night."_

Which was how he found himself on the sofa beside the human ("This way, if I fall asleep and you try to carry me to bed, I can kick you or something without having to get up," the mortal explained, which hadn't really made sense, but he'd let it go) with a book in her lap. The tome was bound in soft white fur; the skin of an armored bear of Álfhelm, which Dylan said was a gift from one of the fae she'd taken care of some years back.

Dylan tucked her feet beneath her. Gently, lovingly stroked the fur with gentle fingertips before opening the book to the first page.

_"They lived in a one-room, stone cottage on the edge of Faery, there where the world ends and the mystical realm behins, there where golden sunshine abruptly becomes twilight all silver and grey, there where night on one side instead of the other is darkness, sometimes absolute, sometimes illumined with a glorious scatter of bright stars and silvery moonlight, sometimes illumined by small, dancing luminosities atwinkle among hoary trees, there where low, swampy lands and crofters' fields and shadowed forests on this side change on that side into misty fens and untilled meadows and deep, dark, mysterious woods._

_"There at the edge of Faery... There at the edge of the world... There where they lived in days long past, when the mystical yet touched the real."_

And her voice, lovingly shaping the words of the tale, was as the snowflakes falling outside, or the fire crackling in the hearth; the night winding onward toward the pearly gray of coming dawn, and the faintest kiss of dawn behind white winter clouds. Nuada let the story wash over him as Dylan read. Let the pictures it evoked wash away the dregs of his nightmare, keeping horror and shame at bay for a little while longer. Let himself enjoy a tale of a maiden and a great white bear, a masked prince and the evil witch's curse that afflicted him. A tale written as if a minstrel were sitting beside him, telling it from memory as in olden days. Dylan's voice was soft, and the cadence of it soothed him.

Sometime during the hours of reading she ended up leaning against him a little. He could feel the even rise and fall of her chest against his arm with every breath. She was alive. She wasn't hurt. She was alive. Some of the shame drifted away like smoke. He focused on the feel of her breathing. Her hair brushing against his shoulder and neck like dark silk. The soft sound of her heartbeat. Alive. Only a nightmare. Alive.

In the end, as the muted light of a winter morning through snow filled the windows, Dylan's voice began to fade. _"As the notes faded into silence, Alain looked into Camille's eyes and whispered, 'Leave me not alone, my love, come sail away with me.' Camille slid... onto the... bench... and said..."_

Nuada, eyes locked on the fire until now, glanced over at Dylan just as her head dropped to his shoulder. The book slipped from her fingers and landed in her lap before sliding to the floor. She'd fallen asleep.

Mindful of bargains struck and promises made, Nuada very slowly moved to mark their place in the book and then laid it on one of the chairs. The simple action took almost ten minutes because he didn't want to wake her. She needed rest more than he did. Then the golden-eyed Elf shifted Dylan half into his arms so that he could lay her down on the sofa. There were no issues until he tried to let go of her and step back.

Dylan stirred a little. Her lashes fluttered briefly before going still. And then her arms slid around his neck and she cuddled against him in her sleep. "Mmmm," she said softly. Her fingers were unconsciously twining in his hair again. Brushing languidly against the hollow of his throat. She snuggled even closer, her face seeking the warmth of the crook of his neck, and she whispered his name in slumber. Her breath was soft and warm against his skin. That same strange heat from before bloomed in the pit of his stomach and shivered down his spine.

"Dylan," he whispered, reluctant to rouse her, but needing to. Too long in this position and his lower back would begin to protest. Loudly. She shifted again, pressing closer as she snuggled him. Her heart was slow and steady against his chest. She sighed against his neck, and Nuada shivered again. "Dylan."

She started, made a small sound. Her eyes flickered open for a moment. A dreamy smiled curved her scarred mouth. "Hmmm? Hey... look. Prince Charming. Am I... dreaming?"

His own mouth quirked. Prince Charming, was it? "And if I said you were?"

"Then... it's a good dream," she mumbled, and shifted again. Her arms slid down from where they circled his neck, her fingertips lightly caressing his skin with the movement. Dylan curled in on herself, releasing him from her slumberous embrace. She sighed. Closed her eyes. "I love dreaming about you."

She... dreamed of him? Not nightmares, but dreams? He wanted to ask her about that. Wanted to rouse her so he could ask what she dreamed. But she was almost completely asleep again. So he waited. When she'd settled, he grabbed the folded blanket Dylan had laid out for him a few days ago, unfolded it, and covered the sleeping mortal with the soft warmth. She snuggled under the blanket, curling up like a kitten, and sighed in contentment.

Bat padded forward from nowhere on silent paws and hopped up onto the couch, where he curled up against his human. One paw stretched out and patted Dylan's cheek, and the stray curl that rested there. The longer the human was awake, the Elf had noticed, the more tangled her hair became. Always that one curl would escape and flip into her face. Bat patted it again, harder this time.

"Enough of that," the prince commanded softly, reaching out and brushed the curl back from the smooth, soft cheek. The kitten opened his mouth in a silent mew of protest. "Hush. Let our fair lady sleep." Bat glared at Nuada and licked Dylan's nose once, as if to say, _I do what I want, _but then the sleek black cat settled down, closed his eyes, and began to purr softly. Satisfied, the prince turned to leave.

At the door to the den, her sleep-slurred voice stopped him. "Nuada? I'm sorry."

The Elf warrior paused, more because of the regret in her voice than the actual words themselves. He waited a beat for the mortal to continue. When she didn't, he asked, "For what?"

"For... everything." Silence. Then, even more softly, "Good night."

After a long moment of stillness, he turned back. Saw she was asleep once more. Would her sleep remain easy and free of nightmares? He hoped so. For both their sakes, he hoped so. But what did she mean, _I'm sorry for everything? _What did she mean? He would ask her when she woke.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _All right! One down... seven to go. Oh, boy. My fingers are going to be bleeding by the time I get to the end. Sigh. And I have to have reserve chapters, too! In case any of you do the challenges! Eeek. Oh, well, I love this story. I can't wait to finish it! Ha. Finish it. Like that'll happen before I die of old age, lol. So, any questions? Comments? Smart remarks? Then let us turn to our lovely and completely optional review prompt!_

_1) So who thought Nuada had actually seriously hurt Dylan at first? How do you feel about the fact that he didn't? Who would've preferred that he had?_

_2) Who liked seeing Dylan comfort Nuada for once? Or was it ridiculous and pathetic? I'm hoping it was believable and heartwarming, but you never know._

_3) Speaking of Nuada (and kisses, and hotness), how do we feel about that enlightening little conversation?_

_4) Of course, 6 favorite things, anything you didn't like, typos, funny bits, sad bits, romantic bits, etc._

_5) Who thought it was more believable and made more sense that Nuada was like, "Whoa. Scars." when he saw Dylan in her PJs than if he'd been like, "Whoa, hot mama" or whatever? It makes sense that he'd notice/study the scars first, right?_

_6) Who liked the end of the chapter with Bat and his awesomeness? And of course Nuada and his reaction to Dylan's snuggling. He was awesome too. But what did we think of that?_

_**Darkness Challenge:**_ _so, here's today's challenge. One of them. What if Nuada hadn't been able to pull the strike the way he did? What if he hurt Dylan? How would that go? He could attack her, caught up in the awfulness of his dream, without realizing it. He could cut her throat, as he almost did in this chapter. He could stab her in the heart. Anything. __**What would happen if Nuada didn't come out of the dream fast enough to prevent himself from hurting Dylan?**_ _That's your challenge. No word limit, and standard reward system. Loves!_

.

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The inspiration for the opening scene with the knife and Nuada freaking out came from WhenNightmaresWalked, whose genius insights into my story has proved invaluable over and over again.

- The thing Dylan does with the touching is actually something I read about (and saw in a movie). When there's issues with trust (in another person or one's self), a good way to handle them is through physical contact. What Dylan does is show Nuada that, despite what he fears, there really is nothing _to _fear just because he happens to be touching her (which the nightmare contradicts). So it's a real-life technique and comes in a variety of sub-techniques.

- For those who don't remember what happened to John, it's explained in chapter 11.

- "Do what the nice doctor lady tells you" is something Dylan said to Nuada in chapter 5 when he ripped his stitches like a moron.

- I do believe the statute of limitations on rape in NYC is 5 years. Which is disgusting and ridiculous, but I'm pretty sure that's what it is. It might be 7 years. It's no more than that, though.

- I first heard of/read about hot chocolate as a means for curing insomnia/social bonding in the book _A Wrinkle in Time_ by Madeline L'Engle. Great novel. Seriously. Written for like, 7-year-olds, but still a great book. And the first chapter opens with the MCs, Charles Wallace and his sister Meg, getting together with their mom (and maybe their two older brothers, but I'm not sure) and their dog Fortinbras to have hot chocolate and I think liverwurst sandwiches (gross) because there's a thunderstorm going on outside. This is when one of the three very interesting ladies of the book, Mrs. Who, shows up.

- Dylan adds Never to the hot chocolate because chocolate is naturally high in iron. Never is the potion created/brewed by Ravus, the male lead in Holly Black's Valiant, to combat iron-fatigue/iron-sickness in the fae. Of course Dylan would have some.

- "You look like death warmed over and left to rot on a highway in August" is something my beta/roommate says. Especially if I haven't slept or eaten.

- Deals with the fey; I didn't rip that off, either. People make deals with the Fae _all _the time. One of the earliest examples? Thomas the Rhymer. In exchange for seven nights sleeping with the Faerie Queen, he was stuck in Faerie for seven years. There's also "Rumpelstiltskin," "the Frog Prince," "Beauty and the Beast," and even "Snow White." A couple more modern examples are _the Secret of Roan Inish_ (a girl convinces the caretakers of a magical island to return so that the faeries that live there too will give her back her younger brother) and _Artemis Fowl_ (a boy gives a faerie some wine in exchange for a lot of important magical information). It's just a part of faerie lore.

- I did not make up the concept of armored bears. They pop up in a lot of different things (including various versions of "White-Bear King Valemon," _His Dark Materials_ by Phillip Pullman, and Disney's _the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ - not the book but the Disney version of the film). I just like the concept of sentient animals in armor because it's so cool. And I've always had a thing for polar bears. Too bad they actively hunt humans if they know you're there. Sigh. So yeah. Not my idea, but a common concept in fantasy and I thought it would be interesting to slowly explore the idea of faerie animals (faerie hounds, faerie horses, faerie bears, faerie fish, that sort of thing; even faerie mice would be cool).

- Álfhelm is a real place in Norse mythology, home of the Álfar (Nordic/Viking Elves). It's also called Álfheim. So in this fic, Álfhelm is the Kingdom of the Álfar, one of the 13 tribes/kingdoms of the Elves.

- The book Dylan is reading from is _Once Upon a Winter's Night _by Dennis L. McKiernan (book one in his fairy tale series, inspired by "East of the Sun, West of the Moon"). The last line read is from page 87 (it's one of those big hardback books). So they stopped a page-and-a-half shy of finishing chapter 11.

- The whole "then... it's a good dream" is possibly inspired by something Arwen says in _the Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers _film. There's this lovely scene where it's Arwen and Aragorn having a moment in Rivendell, where Aragorn's lying with his eyes closed and Arwen kisses him and says "Sleep." And Aragorn says, "I _am _sleeping. This is a dream." To which Arwen replies, "Then it is a good dream." And then Aragorn gets up and they talk about the quest for the Ring and it's all depressing and melancholy. Sigh.

Anyway, I wasn't intentionally going off of this scene. But the dream thing popped up because originally Dylan was going to say something else after "then... it's a good dream," but I thought it was too soon for that. What was she gonna say? Guess. But anyway, I didn't take that part out until near the end. So I needed a reason for her guard to be down, for her not to be as careful around Nuada as she normally is when she's not super-tired.

And then I remembered how, when I first started dating my husband, we used to sit on the couch at my house (where my parents were, so no hanky-panky or anything, perfectly chaste) until about two or three in the morning. And I'd always been so tired by the time we got to the couch, so I'd just cuddle my husband (boyfriend at the time) and listen to him talk while I drifted on that haze between sleeping and waking. And it was during one of those hazes that I proposed to him (yes, _I _proposed). I mumbled, "Hey, you love me right?" And he was all, "Yeah." To which I replied, "So... are you gonna marry me?" And he said, "Yes." It was nice. =) So that's where the whole thing came from.

- The cheek-pat that Bat does is inspired by my cats, Shadow and Spot. Spot still does this, and Shadow did it before he died: they would curl up next to me when I was trying to sleep and whack me in the face with their paws. Almost like they were trying to make sure I was still alive or something. They didn't use claws (except Spot, and he'd only do it if I didn't open my eyes and pet him) but they'd pat my face with their paws while I was trying to sleep. Little attention hogs.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- _Beastly_ by Alex Flinn (a great modern-day "Beauty and the Beast" novel with love blossoming over books)  
- _Beauty_ by Robin McKinley (a great olden-times "Beauty and the Beast" novel with love blossoming over books)  
- _East_ by Edith Pattou (same story, "East/Sun, West/Moon," but in olden days with some changes and a few bits of "All-Kinds-of-Fur" as well)  
- _Ice_ by Sarah Beth Durst (same story, "East of the Sun, West of the Moon," but set in the modern day and with some twists)  
- _Once Upon a Winter's Night_ by Dennis L. McKiernan (because it's in this chapter; "East/Sun, West/Moon" in French faerie-ballad style)  
- _The Secret of Roan Inish _(they do _NOT _make movies like this anymore; sadly)  
- _Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow_ by Jessica Day George (same story, "East/Sun, West/Moon," but with some twists about the MC and her brother)  
- _A Wrinkle in Time_ by Madeline L'Engle (OMG it's amazing! And scientificky without being tedious or unintelligible; there's a movie too)


	31. One Cold Winter's Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**__**:**_

_Disclaimer  
Author's Note_  
_Bedtime Snuggle Challenge_  
_Other Challenge Whose Name Cannot Be Posted Here Because It Includes A Spoiler_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in the Chapter_  
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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, and here we are with today's second chapter. Who's enjoying the ride? I hope you guys are enjoying reading this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I'll see you all at the end. Oh, and for all you Dylan/Nuada shippers out there... you're gonna LOVE this chapter. So love it. And yet, possibly hate it. We'll see. Hehehehehe..._

_**Warning:**_ _this chapter contains violence against women, a scene in a mental hospital, and a rape flashback._

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**Chapter Thirty-One**

**One Cold Winter's Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Touches, Antics, a Spilled Secret, a Token, Monsters, Winter Joys, Hanging by a Moment, and a Phone Call**

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Despite the fact that Becan had stripped the bed and replaced the linens with fresh, the scent of the mortal still clung to the bed. The pillows smelled like her hair, like night-blooming jasmine and chamomile. The moment Nuada realized that, he tossed both pillows onto the chair beside the bed, where he wouldn't have to smell them. He did _not _want to fall asleep breathing in one of the sweet scents that always clung to Dylan's curls after she'd gotten out of the shower. He just wanted to sleep. And for some bizarre reason, the blankets smelled like her, as well. He thrust them aside and stretched out on the now-empty bed, grateful for finally being able to do so. The Elven warrior hadn't realized until then how cramped that little sofa had been.

_I love dreaming about you. _What exactly did she dream about? He tried to focus on that, and not the biting teeth of his nightmare, which had managed to resurface once he left Dylan's presence. Eamonn's voice hissed and snarled inside Nuada's skull. Urging. Always urging. _Take her. Use her. Spill her blood. _And he had. In that vicious dream he'd given in and let her pain and that mortal blood soothe the awful burning.

_Stars_ _curse you, Eamonn, _the prince thought, rolling onto his stomach. The dark Elf had known just how to strike at Nuada's heart. It was common knowledge the legendary Silverlance abhorred rape. Common knowledge how Bethmoora's queen had died so brutally when her children were still young. Eamonn had known that seeing someone he cared for, someone he was fond of, being hurt in such a way would enrage him. Would send despair ripping through him like claws. And to be the perpetrator of such a vile act against one whom he owed, one whom he'd sworn to protect...

Nuada knew that if Eamonn ever returned, he would do all in his power to capture, torture, and rape Dylan to death, just to make the prince of Bethmoora suffer. The Elven warrior realized that any of his enemies now knew just how to strike at him to bring him the lowest - by raping and killing his sister, Dylan, or any other woman under his protection. He could never allow such a thing to happen.

Struggling to capture elusive sleep, with the same memories and thoughts circling and circling in his mind like hungry sharks, Nuada closed his eyes. Tried to relax his body enough that he could at least meditate, if not actually sleep.

_Breathe in, hold, breathe out._ He tried to think of something - anything - that would push aside the Morphean echoes. Finally settled on the way Dylan's arms had twined eagerly around his neck when he'd tried to shift her. The way her warm breath had tickled his skin. He remembered her fingers twining in his hair. Brushing against his throat, where the pulse beat strongly. _Breathe in, hold, breathe out._

It was working. Slowly but surely, it was working. Nuada deliberately recalled the feel of her fingertips gently tracing the royal scar across his cheeks. Her touch like a butterfly wing at his temple. A soft voice crooning gentle comforts. Smooth skin under his stroking finger. The nightmare faded a little more as the tension began to ease out of him. For now, he wouldn't worry about why memories of a mortal's caresses and companionship soothed him. Time enough to think on that in the morning.

_Breathe in, hold, breathe out._ Small mortal hands on his shoulders. His own hands circling her waist, only the thin material of the tank top between his cold hands and the warmth of her skin. Her fingers lacing with his while the air threatened snow. The silk of her hair against his knuckles as he tucked a tulip behind her ear. Silky petals of the flower she'd gifted him with for honor and bravery, soft as her breath on his skin. Her arms flung around him in embrace that night in the subway.

_Breathe in... and hold... breathe..._

And he fell into sleep, deep and dreamless. When the not-quite-latched door pushed open, and the warm body crept inside the room and slipped into bed beside him, Nuada was so exhausted that the slumbering prince didn't even stir.

**.**

Dylan woke around noon, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she sat up and looked around. Her bedmate was gone. _Typical, _she thought. _That's gratitude for you. I keep him warm at night and what does he do? He ditches me. _She got to her feet and went to the door and down the corridor, searching for the one she'd fallen asleep beside at dawn. She stopped at the door at the end of the hall and smiled when she caught sight of Nuada, shirtless and sprawling.

_Wow, _Dylan thought, struggling not to giggle and possibly wake the sleeping prince. Bat, curled up on top of the Elf's head with his swishy tail draped across the black-lipped mouth, opened one amber eye and winked at her. Then the kitten stretched languidly and began to purr, gently kneading the Elf's scalp with his tiny paws. Since Nuada didn't wake up swearing (in fact, he surprisingly didn't wake up at all), Dylan figured her sneaky cat wasn't using his claws.

The bedclothes had been cast aside at some point. His moonbeam skin was pale against the black fitted-sheet. The silvery blond hair spread out across a single pillow, and Nuada clutched another black-covered pillow to his chest with a loose arm.

"You're supposed to sleep with me, you traitor," she whispered, grinning. The cat yawned hugely. Flicked the tip of his tail against Nuada's mouth. The prince snorted in his sleep. "Get off him and let him rest."

Instead of obeying such a disrespectful order from a lowly two-legger, Bat climbed laboriously off Nuada's head, trotted halfway across the mattress, and parked his magnificent self on the prince's lap. Stretched out, the kitten covered from Nuada's thigh to the middle of his well-defined stomach muscles. Bat yawned and began to knead Nuada's belly. The Elf prince grunted and shifted, but still didn't wake up. Dylan clenched her teeth to hold back her laughter. Then she was struck by the sudden question of whether Elves drooled in their sleep and had to bite her tongue.

Bat continued to purr as he began rolling and wriggling between Nuada's sprawled legs. The prince _still_ didn't wake. Only pulled the pillow closer until his face was buried in the smooth pillowcase. If she hadn't been able to see the steady rise and fall of his chest, Dylan might've been worried. How did someone as tense as Nuada usually was manage to sleep through Bat's antics?

Then Dylan realized that Nuada wasn't tense. At least, not right then. He was actually cuddling into the pillow, almost completely at ease despite the energetic kitten who had no concept of personal boundaries and seemed to be on a mission to molest the prince in his sleep. Unlike every other time Dylan had caught him sleeping, there was no frown on his face, no furrowed brow. No tense shoulders or clenched fists. Just a peaceful expression and loose limbs. And the occasional snore.

_Good, _she thought. Bat continued to wriggle and twist until he was in a very comfortable donut shape. Now his tail was swishing against Nuada's belly while his front paws kneaded the exposed skin. _He actually got a decent bit of sleep. Good. Oh, my gosh, what is my cat doing to that poor man?_

"Bat, stop that," she hissed, and he mewed softly before nuzzling his face into Nuada's thigh. "Bat!" If she smiled any wider, her face would crack. But the cat ignored her. "Oh, whatever. Just make sure you can look him in the eye when he wakes up." And she went to down the hall to the room she'd told Nuada to stay out of. The door was thicker than all others but the front door, to hold in sound. This room held her piano.

After she'd spent nearly two hours at the keys practicing (after six months she'd finally learned how to play a song that had one sharp or flat), she went out to the kitchen to start making breakfast, giggling at her kitten's antics and her memory of the comical picture of the furry black beast curled up on an Elven prince's head.

**.**

Nuada drifted on the edges of wakefulness. He'd been dreaming about... something. Something simple. Easy. Happy. The word was so foreign to him when it came to dreaming, but it had been a happy dream. Warmth and the scent of... strawberries? Night-blooming jasmine? He couldn't remember.

A soft, smooth something caressed his cheek. The Elf prince shifted, began to stir. Again, that soft caress came, a gentle stroking. Dylan? Why would she...

Five tiny pricks of sharp pain hit him just above his jaw, and he bolted upright, fully awake now. Bat tumbled from his perch on Nuada's chest, scoring more thin scratches along the Elf's belly before plopping into the prince's lap. The Elven warrior glared at the indignant beast and swore. Bat hissed and leapt off the bed, scrambling for the doorway. Nuada swung his legs over the side of the bed, half-prepared to hunt the little monster down and teach him some manners. A low laugh stopped him.

"I warned you," Dylan scolded the kitten, who was hunched up by her feet, tail swishing back and forth in fury. The cat glared balefully at the Elf before giving a fierce, albeit tiny, growl. "Didn't I? 'Get off him,' I said. 'Let him sleep,' I said. You were perfectly comfortable. Why would you go and scratch him?" Flicking her eyes to Nuada, she flashed him a sardonic grin and said, "Good morning, starshine. Breakfast is ready if you want it. Well, lunch, seeing as how it's afternoon."

_Starshine?_ He arched a brow. Dylan grinned wider.

"Strawberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and ham. The strawberries are fresh, too. Sound good to you?"

The Elf blinked in surprise. It sounded wonderful, actually, but... "Where do you find fresh strawberries this late in the year?"

Dylan's grin softened to an affectionate smile as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. The muted light filtering through the window made the silvery words on her white shirt glisten. "I am one of those blessed to be allowed to pick strawberries in December's frost."

"It is November."

She laughed. "_I_ know that, and _you_ know that, but don't tell the Months of Manhattan. They'll get all confused again."

The Elf prince blinked. She knew the twelve local _tempus_ fae? She would never cease to surprise him.

Brushing at an imaginary curl, Dylan scooted Bat out of the room with a gentle nudge of her foot before coming fully into the room and shutting the door behind her. All mirth faded from her eyes as she leaned against the door. "Are you all right?"

He wanted to laugh, despite the fact that there was nothing amusing about the question. He'd had no more dark dreams. Did not need to. The memory of that nightmare still hissed and coiled in the back of his mind, waiting to spring at him like some ravening cankerworm. Nuada met Dylan's eyes. Saw nothing but concern and affection in their depths. No condemnation. None.

He looked away.

"Nuada?"

"Do you still trust me as you did Sunday night?" The Elf prince asked softly.

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

He stood up and walked toward her. She didn't flinch from him. Didn't press herself more firmly against the door to get away from him. Just watched the feral-eyed Elven warrior come until he was mere inches away. Nuada looked down at her for a long moment. There was nothing but concern, trust and affection in that so-blue gaze. His fingers itched to brush against the thick scar slicing down her cheek. He kept his hand at his side. After last night, touching her had the potential to become a very large mistake. Instead, he demanded gruffly, "Are you certain of that?"

Dylan laid her hand against his bare chest before he could think to stop her. Their eyes locked as his heart beat hard against her palm. There was something in her eyes that he couldn't fathom. A promise, or... something. He did not know.

Then she said, "I know you, Nuada." The corner of her scarred mouth quirked. "Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. Prince, warrior, protector, lord and friend. Paragon of honor, courage, and all those other impressive, princely virtues. I know who you are. So yes, I'm certain. And," the mortal added a bit tartly, "if you ask me this question one more time I'm going to knock you flat on your butt with your own lance and then beat you over the head with it. Understand?"

Nuada compromised on the no-touching by taking Dylan's hand (a perfectly acceptable courtly gesture, and one that politeness dictated reasonable; it meant nothing) and raising it to his lips. The warrior noticed the mortal's blush when his mouth brushed lightly over her knuckles. Still so innocent.

"Then," he murmured against her hand, and the heat of his breath made her shiver, "I will join you for breakfast once I am properly dressed... my lady."

**.**

Lisa pulled her feet up onto the oversized armchair, huddling behind her drawn-up knees. She made a smaller target that way. The little throw-pillow that had been on the too-comfortable sofa was clutched in her arms. She used it to hide her expression as the gray-haired psychiatrist came into the room. The fourteen-year-old watched him sit down across from her and pull out a legal pad and a pen. The click of the pen was like a gunshot. The ink was red as fresh blood. The point of the pen glinted like the point of a prison shiv. Lisa couldn't quite suppress her shiver of fear.

The date, day, and time was slashed onto the page: _November, Friday, 6:45 PM_. She'd been here for six days. When would they let her out? When would Dylan come?

"Now, Lisa," the old psychiatrist said, smiling gently. That smile held all the bite of deep winter. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head behind the small throw-pillow. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to _be _here. Did Dylan know Westenra was conducting her sessions? Did Dylan know Doctor Hollis kept getting waylaid by someone or something every time he and Lisa were supposed to have a session?

The air conditioner blasted frigid air down on her. The institution-issue scrubs were no protection against the raging cold. Goosebumps ripped through her skin. Only her clenched jaw kept her teeth from chattering in the cold. Westenra looked like he was all warm and cozy in his sweater and white lab coat.

"Well, I know it's about Rafael." Westenra's predatory gaze caught the girl's flinch. "Tell me about Rafael, Lisa." Another flinch. Every time he mentioned the hooligan's name. "Were you on that roof because of Rafael?" He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and leaned in a little until he caught the scent of unwashed teenager and salt tears. "Did Rafael tell you to go up on that roof?" Flinch. A look of mute misery flashed behind those dark eyes. Was that the gleam of a tear? The whisper dropped to a hissing croon. "Did Rafael tell you to hurt those people?"

"I w-wasn't gonna h-h-hurt anyone," Lisa protested, then clamped her mouth shut. _Don't talk to him, _she ordered herself. _Don't say anything. Don't say a word. Shut up. He's the enemy._

"No? Well, that's good to know, Lisa. That's very good to know." The knife-sharp edge of an icicle held more warmth than Westenra's eyes when he studied the shivering girl. "I know Rafael wasn't exactly the best kind of person and-"

"You shut your mouth," she snapped. Rage simmered in her veins, thawing the cold a little. Cracking the icy shell of grief. "Don't you talk about him."

"I'm only telling you the truth, Lisa," the psychiatrist murmured gently. Noted with satisfaction as another piece of the girl's frozen armor cracked, shattered, and fell away. "A thug and a gangster? Not the kind of boy I'd be comfortable letting my daughter go on a date with."

"He wasn't a thug!"

"Rafael was a known member of the Lobos. That makes Rafael a thug. A thug, a gangster, and a petty criminal. His rapsheet was very extensive. Breaking and entering, robbery, assault, sexual assault, attempted rape, rape-"

Lisa hurled the pillow at him. "Liar! He never hurt nobody! Nobody who wasn't..." _Wasn't Rojos, _she thought. _Wasn't one of the Reds. _And even then, it had always been straight-out fists or knives. She _knew _her Big Bad had never shot anyone. Never raped anyone, either. Rapsheet? Rafael had never even been arrested before. Stupid old white guy. "You don't know nothin'. Nothin'. Don't you talk about Rafael!"

Westenra caught the pillow with ease and tossed it over his shoulder. Now he was getting past the grief. Past the carefully prepared shields Myers had taught the girl to put around herself. Now he could start pricking at her until she did exactly what he wanted her to do. Luckily the audio portion of the sessions wasn't recorded on the security cams. He'd been counting on that.

"We have to talk about Rafael, Lisa. He's the reason you're here. In a way... it's Rafael's fault you were arrested."

"No," she snapped. Hunched down further. "No."

"Yes. Lisa, it's not normal for a young lady like yourself to contemplate suicide just because her boyfriend died. Besides, you're too young to have a boyfriend." Oh, and there it was - that flash of outrage. That smolder of black hate. Westenra knew better, of course. Knew not to tell a gang-kid (even one who was only attached to the gangs through a sibling) that they were too young for anything. Their lives were a constant and bloody war. But he wanted her to get mad. He wanted her furious. "Did Rafael tell you to kill yourself if he died? That you two could be together then? Always together; no more violence, no more being afraid, no more gangs bothering you... is that what he told you?"

She was crying now, but she didn't know it. He kept his smile easy and gentle, a kindly grandfather talking to a grandchild. Never let her see the frisson of excitement in him at the sight of those slow-leaking tears.

"No," she protested weakly. "No, that's not it. That's not what happened. You're twisting it."

A pack of hyenas coming in on a wounded gazelle had more compassion than Doctor Lucian Westenra. "How am I twisting it, Lisa? Rafael's dead, and you wanted to join him. Of course you did. Rafael made you think you were nothing without him. Made you think that you could never be happy without him. Isn't that right?" The girl was frantically shaking her head. Sobbing now. "Made you think there was nothing special about you. No reason you could live a good life without Rafael in it. Isn't that what you told Doctor Myers? And she confirmed it, didn't she?"

"No! Dylan's nice, I didn't-"

"Then why is she paying for Rafael's funeral, Lisa? Why is she making the arrangements, unless they had a special relationship?" Westenra paused, as if considering a new possibility. "_Did _they have a special relationship, Lisa?"

"What... waddya mean?" Lisa sniffled, scrubbing at her face with furious fists. Never cry in front of them, never! But she couldn't stop and her heart was slamming hard against her breastbone like a breath-stealing drum and she couldn't wrap her mind around what was happening. Every time Westenra said Rafael's name it was like a fist in the gut. "They didn't really know each other. They met like... like twice or something."

No, she remembered. More than that. But she couldn't tell Westenra about that because the reason they'd met so often was because Rafael had the Sight, too. Rafael wasn't one of Dylan's Sight kids, but he went to the group sessions at her cottage every two weeks. But Dylan had warned all of those kids with the Sight not to talk about the gift with anyone who didn't also have it. Especially not a psychiatrist, and especially not Doctor Lucian Westenra.

"Maybe they saw each other more than that," he suggested gently. Saw the flinch again. "Maybe they had a special relationship. I know Doctor Myers is on fairly good terms with the leader of the Lobos; perhaps-"

"No," Lisa said. Swiped at her tears. "I don't wanna talk to you anymore. You're not listening. No. I want out of here."

"Doctor Myers said not to talk to me, didn't she?"

_Yes, _Lisa thought, and felt the first shiver of true fear. "No," she said. "No, she didn't. She didn't say nothin' 'bout you."

_Gotcha._

"You're lying to me, Lisa." Now Westenra leaned even further forward. Lisa could feel his hot, fetid breath on her drawn-up knees. "I know what that little witch says about me to her patients. Now you've made a big, big mistake because you're lying to me. And do you know what happens to little girls who lie to their therapists in this place?" Wide-eyed, she shook her head. "We lock them up and don't let them out until they tell the truth. Doctor Myers told you not to talk to me, didn't she?"

"N-no, she d-d-didn't-"

"Tell me the truth, Lisa." There was something moving behind Westenra's eyes. Something awful. Fear was a fanged, clawing knot in her stomach. _Help, Dylan, help, help me, help! _"Tell me the truth!"

"I am!" Fear, fear, fear; it shrieked at her, clamored at her to get up, to get away from this man with that horrible, awful something shivering behind eyes the color of graveyard dirt. Couldn't tell him the truth! Couldn't let him know! But he wanted the truth. Demanded it with an unholy promise in his gaze. Sobbing now, she pleaded, "I am! I'm telling the truth! I am!"

"Tell me," he ground out from between clenched teeth, "what she said."

"Nothing! She didn't say nothing!" _Help, help, help. _Lisa's fingers bit into her folded arms hard enough the flesh turned white. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, terrified. Tears ran down her cheeks like spilling blood. Her breath hiccuped in her chest.

_"What did she __**say?**__" _And he grabbed her wrist.

In everyone, there is the instinct of fight or flight. There is the primal trigger that can turn a human being into a mindless machine intent on escape, or a savage fighter intent on destruction. Lisa Ramirez had been born and raised in Spanish Harlem. All her life she'd lived in a world of gunshots, knife fights, and blood. Her brother had been arrested for the first time when she was five and he was only eight, for attacking a kid with a baseball bat. Her dad had done time for armed robbery. Her best friend Anita had become a prostitute at age eleven. Been beaten to death by a john at thirteen.

Lisa's world had always been a war. When fear became a living, breathing monster in her stomach and panic screamed in her head, it triggered her instincts. And her instincts had never been to fly. Honed by a life on the fringes of the gang world, her instinct was to fight.

She sprang from the chair, tackling the older man and knocking him to the floor. _Bring the enemy down and make sure_ _they stay_ _there. Then run. _Dylan's words. Dylan when she'd taught Lisa how to get away from someone who wanted what the fourteen-year-old would never willingly give to anyone she didn't love with her whole heart. She used that trick now. Slammed both knees between Westenra's legs. He yelled a vicious obscenity and shuddered as Lisa scrambled to get off of him, to get away from the monster in human skin.

Lisa smacked right into the white-uniformed orderlies who busted through the door. Beefy arms wrapped around her, pinned her to the icy floor. _No! No, no, no! _She screamed and thrashed, desperate to get away. Desperate to run. Distantly she felt the chilling stab of a needle in her arm. _No! No, not that! Not... not that... Dylan... help me... they can't know... can't talk about it... any of... Dylan..._

As the tranquilizer spread through Lisa's blood, she shuddered once. Whispered three words. Then she slipped into the drugged-out haze and knew no more.

Using the desk for support, Westenra climbed to his feet. The pain radiated through him from where the teenager had struck. His knees were still weak from the blow that had briefly turned his vision red. He hadn't expected her to lash out so soon. Glaring at the glazed-eyed girl sprawled on the floor, he turned to one of the orderlies. "Five-point lock-up for the girl. Isolated. Inform Doctor Hollis that his patient attacked me." A trickle of wetness on his face had the old shrink touching his cheek with ginger fingers. "And inform him that she drew blood," he added, feeling the sting of the scratches.

The orderlies moved to obey. While he watched them pick up the sedated girl and drop her onto a gurney, he thought of the three words Lisa Ramirez had mumbled before succumbing to the drugs in her system.

_Don't... say... fairies._ Or maybe it had been _faeries._

"Well, well, well, Doctor Myers. Looks like you've tipped your hand yet again. And the move is still mine."

**.**

Thursday went by without incident for Dylan and the prince. She insisted he sleep in her bed that night as well. Considering he felt more rested that first morning than he had in a long while, Nuada acquiesced. Bat continued to cuddle the Elf as soon as golden eyes had closed in deep and exhausted slumber. Dylan didn't tattle on the kitten. After all, one of her favorite sights in the morning was to find Bat curled up on Nuada's head, or leisurely stretched out on the scarred expanse of bare back (when Elf unconsciously obliged cat by sleeping on his stomach).

They didn't talk about the nightmare. Didn't talk about that night at all, after the initial question of trust Thursday morning. Dylan's professional opinion was that Nuada _needed _to talk about it, but that he also couldn't talk about it yet. Not just yet. Not even to her.

Friday rolled around on the edge of memory. Dylan's own nightmares were fairly standard - simple memories of the institution. Needles and unbreakable straps, darkness and a straitjacket. Screaming herself hoarse in the dark of a padded room. Miraculously, she always woke before the dream shifted to memories of Xander and Patrick. Before the real-life screaming began. That was good, because Nuada needed undisturbed sleep. And she was certain that if she somehow woke from those dreams (even without screaming) with Nuada so close by, she'd do the forbidden and sneak into the bedroom to cuddle against him for comfort (which would no doubt infuriate him, or give him the completely wrong idea). Which was why she'd asked Becan to move his pillow-bed in front of the den door - just in case.

That Friday she also went to physical therapy, had her leg checked out by the doctor, and had lunch with John. Her twin didn't mention the Elf prince, and Dylan didn't see a need to broach the subject with him. Instead they talked about the possibility of John having to move out to South Dakota or some such place to work for some government warehouse agency.

Friday night, Nuada put most of the finishing touches on the ebony hilt of what would be Dylan's dirk. _Scian_ _suirí;_ courtship knife. Hilt finished, blade finished, everything put together and completed, except for the cairngorm stone in the hilt. He would have to go to the Troll Market and purchase one. Until then, it couldn't be used because the weight wouldn't sit properly. But Dylan was happy with the blade even without the stone.

"Wow," the mortal murmured, running her fingers lightly over the jimping on the unsharpened backedge of the blade. The firelight cast dancing shadows across her skin. She studied the leather-wrapped ebony hilt, the single-edged blade of Elven silver with the symbol etched into the metal near the crossguard. "What's that?"

"My personal crest," Nuada replied softly. It had been a last-minute decision, but a good one, he thought. "My spear bears the same mark."

Blue eyes flicked up to his own amber gaze. "Thank you." She carefully laid her hand on his, curling her fingers around it. Her fingertips brushed the inside of his wrist. "Thank you for putting so much work into it. It's beautiful."

He shrugged, uncomfortable with how aware he was of that gentle grasp on his hand. He put the nearly-finished dirk and his carving knife away and got to his feet. "Are you hungry? Perhaps you would like to go out for dinner tonight." Nuada held out his hand and waited for her to take it.

After a moment's hesitation - a hesitation that piqued his curiosity - Dylan laid her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. Through their clasped hands, he felt the sharp twinge in her bad leg. She made no complaint, however. Only said, "Fafner's Cave again?"

_And Lorelei, _Dylan thought, but didn't say. Was she jealous of the beautiful rhinemaiden? _I hope not. That would be stupid, and petty. Not to mention shallow. But... she's a lot prettier than I am, since her face doesn't look like... well, like mine. She's gorgeous. Well, actually, almost any fae woman is gorgeous, especially compared to... _Realizing she'd been about to say "me," she mentally rolled her eyes. _Ugh, when did I become so insecure? This is ridiculous. Especially since I have nothing to be insecure about. He's about as out of reach as the moon to me. Though_ _there's the courtship thing. That just makes it all worse. Good grief, I feel like a teenage girl._

Noticing an odd undercurrent to her voice, but oblivious to her thoughts, Nuada asked, "Do you not wish to go?"

"Um, well... I dunno," she mumbled, shrugging. "It's nice here, just you and me, but I guess we could go out if you're sick of being stuck inside all day. Which is fine if you are, because I know you're a really physical and, you know, go-get-em kind of guy and you don't stay indoors when you could be outside. So we could go out if you want to, but aren't you worried about your dad finding us and dragging us back to Findias 'cause I think that would embarrass you a lot and annoy me on your behalf and then we'd get in bigger trouble because I'd rip your dad's antlers off and just curious, I know I'm rambling but I have to ask, why does your dad have antlers and you don't?"

Nuada blinked. Took a moment to process the rapid stream of chatter. Then he slowly replied, "The antlers are actually my father's crown. A sign of his kingship."

"Oh. Interesting. So when you become king, you get an antler-crown too?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought for a moment. "You are trying to distract me. Why don't you want to go out?"

Dropping her gaze to the floor, Dylan asked softly, "Can this be one of those rare times when I ask you for something and you give it to me without me having to tell you why I want it in the first place?"

His silence spoke volumes.

"Okay, then, that would be a humongous, resounding _no_. Well... okay. The courtship thing. It bothers you. I know it does. And every time we leave the cottage we have to slip back into the charade again. It's a strain for you. Everyone's watching to see how 'in love' we are and I know it's stressful. When we went out last time, I had a blast but you were always just a little on edge. The way I figure it, you've got enough to worry about. So... I figured... we could hide out in here and not deal with the whole thing until we absolutely have to."

Nuada studied her. She had not once looked up, but kept her eyes locked on the fireplace. "I promise, Dylan, that if you actually look at me I will not pounce on you like a cat with a timid mouse."

She finally looked up to scowl at him. "You shush. I am _not_ timid. And if I said something to make you mad, you would totally pounce on me." Though the image that produced in her mind made her smile a little. "Anyway... I just... it's aggravating. I mean, you probably want to go out, but where could we go where people aren't going to be staring at us and whispering and gossiping?" Sighing now, she added, "I'd never really thought about it, but jeez. It must suck to be royalty. Oh! Lightbulb!"

He frowned.

"You know, 'lightbulb.' Like, 'ding, idea.' Um... never mind. Anyway, we could go to the Park, then come back here and eat. That way we can get some fresh air and not have to deal with anyone. Like, I mean actually _in _the Park. Because of the snow there won't be a whole lot of people and in the deeper parts of the woods there probably won't be any. We could... go for a walk. Or something. It's not howling outside anymore. What do you think?"

He surprised himself by liking the idea. However... "It will be cold," the Elf warned.

"Pffft. Oh, my gosh, the cold. Such a hardship. I've got hiking boots somewhere, and super-fuzzy socks. And I'm pretty sure I have a coat. At least I _think_ I have a coat. I think. Maybe I just borrowed Gardenia's. Let me go look real quick."

Dylan dashed to her bedroom. Checked her closet. Sure enough, there was the thick black leather coat John had bought her a few months ago - to replace the one she'd lost in December but she wasn't going to think about how she lost her coat, she wasn't going to think about a blade slicing across her vulnerable face or being stabbed in the back by shards of ice-cold concrete or...

She choked. Hollow weakness flooded her bad leg and she sank to the floor. For a moment things began swirling and twisting, thorns of memory braiding together before slicing at her. Cutting her. One trembling hand crept to the scar over her hammering heart. Blood, blood in her eyes and on her tongue, streaking down her thighs and something hot and then cold mingling with the blood and she couldn't breathe or see or think or...

_Everything's okay, _she told herself. Focused on the soft carpet under her legs. The leather clutched in her hands. _I'm fine. I'm _fine. _Everything is all right. I'm safe. Nuada's just in the other room. I'm safe._ Dylan thought of golden eyes, a black-lipped mouth curving into a wry smile, and a gentle voice singing a lullaby to her in the dark. Felt the sudden panic begin to slowly fade. She was all right. It had been almost a year since the attack and she was alive and she was with Nuada who would never ever _ever_ let anything happen to her and everything was just _fine._

When Dylan came back into the den carrying a heavy leather coat, a pair of _very_ fuzzy socks the electric color of blue frosting patterned with little yellow sheep, and a pair of black boots, she looked paler than before she'd gone to her room. Concern nipped at him. Nuada studied Dylan carefully for a long moment. Relaxed when she flashed him a smile and held up the jacket.

"See? Found it."

**.**

Francesca Elizabeth Dorothy Myers, who'd been a waitress at Yvaine's Diner for seven years, dropped her tray. Dirty plates and glasses shattered on the kitchen floor. Silverware clattered. Francesca's boss, Samantha, whirled around to yell at the thirty-one-year-old waitress and froze. Beneath her thick mane of black hair, the waitress was white as a sheet. Her throat worked convulsively, as if she were about to be sick. Her hands shook and her blue eyes were glassy.

"'Cesca?" Samantha Black-Crow asked hesitantly. "Francesca? What is it?"

"Them," Dylan's sister croaked. She pointed with a violently trembling hand at two men who'd walked into Yvaine's and were currently being led to a booth. Francesca shuddered and backed away, further into the kitchen. Farther from those vicious, evil men. She knew them. Oh, she knew them. The minute her little sister had gotten out of Saint Vincent's at eighteen, all eight of the Myers girls had made sure they memorized every detail of those faces. "Them."

"What is it? Who are they?" When the younger woman began to list to the side, Samantha grabbed her and dragged her towards the break room. Once inside, she shoved Francesca into a chair. "Sit down. Put your head between your knees and take a deep breath. Now what? Are they bank robbers? On _America's Most Wanted?_ What?"

"They... they... they hurt my little sister... a long time ago." Now that the shock was fading, fury was taking its place. Francesca flushed. Paled. Clenched her jaw until her hands stopped shaking. No way were those monsters coming into the diner where she worked and ordering dinner like they had a right to be there. She'd throw 'em out in a split-second, see if she didn't. "I'll kick their fuc-"

"Calm down," Samantha snapped. Everyone knew Francesca had a foul mouth. Everyone also knew profanity wasn't allowed at Yvaine's. The dark-haired woman glared at her manager, but didn't fire back a retort. "You said it was a long time ago. How long?"

"Sixteen years ago." Francesca almost shivered. Throttled it back. Dylan had been just a kid... "Almost seventeen."

"That's a long time to hold a grudge, 'Cesca. If you can't handle being their waitress tonight - yeah, they're in your section - then maybe you should go home. Your shift ends in an hour, anyway."

Blue eyes flashed and Francesca glowered at her boss. Leave early? Just because those two... those two... _pigs_ had come into her place? She'd rather drop dead. Or worse, be celibate for the rest of her life. It was _their _fault Dylan was still messed up. They should've paid for it, paid in blood, and they never had. Not ever. And now she was being sent home because they'd had the balls to walk into her place of employment?

_Screw that, _she growled silently, and shoved to her feet.

"Thanks for your support, Sam," she bit off, sarcasm turning the words acidic. "I can handle it just fine."

And she did. Throughout the hour that was left on her shift, she was all icy politeness as she took their orders, ignored the way they tried to flirt with her to get free apple pie (everyone did that to the waitresses, even the ones with gray hair and wrinkles; Yvaine made some great pie), and brought them their food. She didn't expect a tip. Didn't want one. Not from those dickheads. When they left a rather generous one, she told Samantha to divvy it up between the other waitresses. When they left, she heaved a sigh of relief and hung up her apron. Finally she could go home.

Outside, the winter air was bitter and biting. Francesca huddled inside her quilted coat, a gift from Dylan for Christmas the year before. The psychiatrist said she'd bought it at the Midwinter Faire the city hosted every year in Central Park. The older woman smiled. It was definitely warmer than her old coat.

She blew on her hands to keep her fingers from going numb and hurried toward the subway. Alley cats meowed at her, demanding tuna. The waitress made sure to hurry past the dark alleys. Why were there so many on the way to the subway? After her baby sister's attack, none of the Myers women had wanted to take the subway anywhere for awhile. Unfortunately, Francesca didn't have a car. She didn't have a current man-hunk, either, or she'd have had him pick her up. So the underground train it had to be.

Although thoughts of man-hunks in general and Dylan in particular made Francesca smile at the last phone conversation they'd had. So. Dylan finally had a guy. Good. Not that Francesca would let her get away with being so stingy about details and pictures. If Miss Old-Fashioned was actually letting some hottie stay at her cottage and they were practicing the horizontal monster mash, he had to be something stellar.

Which was just fine in her book. Dylan deserved a stellar man. And contrary to the opinions of their older sisters - namely Simone, who was dead sure Dylan couldn't catch even a semi-decent guy with a billion dollars and a hunk-trap - Francesca could tell from the way Dylan had been talking that this new guy was something really special. That was just fantastic.

Francesca never saw it coming.

Rough hands grabbed her arm and her purse strap, bruising through the thick sleeve of her coat. Francesca opened her mouth to scream and a fist smashed into the side of her face. She staggered. Slipped on a patch of frozen sidewalk. Fell into the arms of whoever was trying to drag her into the alley. Tried feebly to scream again. A second blow to the face jerked her head to the side. She went limp, moaning. Her purse (and her pepper spray) slipped from nerveless fingers.

After Dylan's attack in December, Francesca had been so careful. Her baby sister's face would never be the same. And everything else that had been done to her had given Francesca nightmares for weeks. So her first thought, as cruel fingers wrapped around her throat and slammed her bodily against a greasy brick wall, was that her attacker planned to rape her. Just like what had happened to her little sister.

Instead, a fist drove deep into her stomach. She gasped. Retched. An open-handed slap rocked her head to one side. A second slap jerked her head the other way. Blow after blow after blow left her reeling. She tasted the copper-fear tang of blood. Something hot trickled from her forehead into her eye. Couldn't see! Couldn't see anything. Only the blood and the shadows. Only the silhouettes of the two men who beat her mercilessly into the brickwork.

She managed to scream when they broke her wrist. No one came.

Finally, when she was almost unconscious from the pain burning through her, they let her slide to the trash-cluttered pavement. The impact jarred her glass-fragile bones. Her head lolled on her neck as she struggled to breathe. Not enough strength to hold it up. Then one of her attackers crouched down beside her. She cringed away from him and he laughed.

"Tell your sister that she needs to mind her own business. And tell her Patrick and Xander say. 'hi.' Okay, cupcake?" When she didn't answer, he slapped her hard across the face. Her head smacked against the brick wall. Her split lip leaked fresh blood. "Okay?"

"Okay," Francesca whimpered. "Okay... please... please don't..."

They left her in the alley, shivering and bruised and bloody. After what seemed like a long time, the brutal cold roused her enough that she tried to reach for her purse. Her fractured wrist screamed at her. She used her other hand to drag her purse towards her by one broken strap. Pulled out her phone. Hit a single button for speed dial, then pressed TALK.

As the phone rang, icy tears rolled down her cheeks and froze to her face. When the surprised voice came on the other line, Francesca began to sob.

"Hello? 'Cesca? What's the matter? What is it? _Francesca!"_

"Tori," Francesca whispered her twin's nickname through her tears. "Tori, help..."

"Where are you?" Victoria demanded frantically. "Tell me where you are and I'll come get you, okay? Just tell me where you are."

Francesca told her. Her sister didn't hang up as she scrambled for keys and purse, but stayed on the line as she slid into her car and put it in gear. Only when the beat-up green Caddie pulled up alongside the alley's opening did the line disconnect. Victoria vaulted out of the Caddie and ran to her shivering twin. With Victoria's help, Francesca limped into the car. Tori pulled back into post-midnight traffic, murmuring that everything would be okay, that they'd get her to a hospital.

"No hospital," she cried, shaking her head. Those two had connections at hospitals. Their father... "No. No hospital!"

"Okay, honey," Victoria murmured, reaching out to stroke her twin's hair. 'Cesca's panic began to slowly subside as her sister soothed her. "Okay. No hospital. I'll take care of you, okay? I'll take care of you."

Francesca closed her eyes and wondered if she was going to give that message to her little sister. And she wondered what Dylan would do, if she did. Then she let herself drift on the waves of pain and tried not to wonder or think about anything at all.

**.**

Despite having to cloak himself in glamor that sat ill against his skin, Nuada thought that perhaps it had been worth it. Of course there was the stink of the city; it never faded completely. Smog and poison and burning iron. The hideous glare of electric lights turning the sky from beautiful velvet black to a dirty brown color. Trash littered the more common paths through the park. Snow, once pristine and white, was black with human refuse and filth. The paths were crunchy with rock salt.

But once Dylan led him to where _she _often walked - the deepest parts of the woods in Central Park - these things faded. The stench of the city, the contamination of nearby humans: it was all gone. The moon, silver against the dark sky, shone down on the fresh, diamond-sparkling snow. Nuada even glimpsed a few pale stars.

The clearing held a small playground, but one that looked like it hadn't been used in years. Most of the paint had peeled away from the swing set and merry-go-round. If the slide had ever been painted, there was no sign of it now. Snow covered the balance-bar off to one side. Nuada paused on the edge of the clearing. There was something... different about this place. About the metal here.

"It's not steel," Dylan said softly in the crisp silence. Her breath steamed on the icy air. "It's faerie metal."

The prince frowned. "How did-"

"I have no clue," she replied, shrugging. "The only reason I even know about this place is because when I was in college, I had a job as a cashier at this coffee shop called Persephone's, right? And my boss, Kaye, used to take her little sister here. Kaye's a pixie. Kate isn't - changeling, complicated story, I'll tell you sometime - but Kaye would always bring her here specifically because it was the only playground that wasn't made out of steel. When she asked her boyfriend, he said it was probably made of faerie metal."

Dylan crunched her way across the snow to the swing set and wiped the snow off the seat before parking herself on one of the swings. With a soft grunt of effort, she pushed herself backwards. The swing began to move back and forth. Nuada watched, unaware he was smiling, as the mortal swung her legs back and forth to add momentum. Moonlight shone down on her, turning her hair to shadow and the scars on her face to soft pearl. When she'd managed to swing as high as Nuada was tall, she laughed and let the swing slow down again.

"Enjoying yourself?" He called, approaching slowly.

"Yes, actually," she replied, tilting her head so her hair spilled across her face. "You should try it."

He snorted. "I think not."

"Spoil-sport. Why? Is it beneath your princely dignity? Didn't you play when you were little?" The swing was stationary now. Dylan's fingers were very pale where they wrapped around the thick chains that held the swing suspended. "I mean... swings are really old. At least a few hundred years. You've never played on a swing before?" He shook his head as he circled around behind her. "What about pushing a pretty girl on the swing? Guys do that all the time in movies."

In answer, Nuada grasped where the chains connected to the seat of the swing and pulled it back a ways. When he let go, it creaked a little as it swung forward, then backwards once more. He caught the chains and held the swing still. When Dylan glanced up at him questioningly, the words spilled out before he could clamp his teeth shut. "I have now." He ground his teeth. He had not meant to say that. Why had he said that? Ignoring her wide eyes, the prince added, "Not that I consider you a girl."

The mortal's voice was dry as the desert when she asked, "So I'm what? A boy?"

"Hardly."

"Then what?"

"A woman," he said softly, then gritted his teeth and stepped back a little. That little slip hadn't been intentional, either, stars curse it.

She didn't want to analyze why the way he said that made her stomach do a backflip. _I'm pathetic, that's why, _Dylan thought disparagingly. So instead, she twisted the swing around, back and forth like she and John had done when they were little. The chains creaked a bit louder at the abuse. Then she asked, "Have you thought of your other four questions yet?"

"I have a few to choose from. You're a woman of mystery in some ways," Nuada murmured, giving the mortal on the swing another little push. "I'm hesitant to waste them, however. There are many things I wish to learn about you, but I know if I ask, you will not wish to give me the answers."

"Like what?"

"How you escaped the fear-darrig without harm, and with its blessing." He kept his face carefully expressionless when she glanced over her shoulder at him. "You told me, that very first night in your cottage, that you would tell me another night. It has been more than four months. Will you tell me now?"

He wanted to know because he could not, for the life of him, figure out the answer. The fear-darrig were cruel little things. They would invite the unwary to sit beside their fires, fae and human alike. If they were refused, they would kill the refuser. If the invitation was accepted, the fear-darrig would demand a story or some other form of entertainment. Any refusal was met with death. If the entertainment was considered unsatisfactory, death. And Dylan had only been nineteen at the time of the encounter, a mere girl. How had a mortal girl managed to escape such a fate?

Her answer, when it came, surprised him... and saddened him. "I let him watch my life. They can read memories, you know. So I let him. And I agreed to re-experience any of the memories he chose. He said that... that I was one of the most entertaining humans he'd ever met." Her tone would have left a lesser man bleeding.

"Forgive me," he murmured.

A cold but gentle hand curled around his where it still gripped the swing's chain. Her eyes were lit by the moon when they sought out his face. "No need. And since I promised to answer that one ages ago, it doesn't count towards your four remaining questions. I'll give you a freebie. Any other questions that I may or may not want to answer? If they're not a big deal, I'll answer them for free."

"Have you ever been in love?" Nuada frowned. Now why had he asked that?

"No," she replied, surprising him. "I've had crushes on people. I've thought I was in love but... you can't be in love with someone you don't know, who doesn't know you. And unless I can tell my boyfriend or whoever about your people, we'd never really know each other. So no. I've never been in love."

_Until now, _she thought, but didn't say. It wasn't a lie. Or if it was, it was a faerie lie and Nuada ought to appreciate that. He'd asked if she'd ever _been _in love. The answer was, as she'd said, no. "Been" was past tense. Semantics, but she wasn't about to confess just how much she cared about the incredible, sometimes infuriating Elf prince at her side. At least, not to _him._

"Have you?" She asked, then regretted it when sharp, biting pain flashed behind his eyes. "Never mind. I don't know why I asked; I already know."

"You do?"

"Yes." Choosing her words carefully, she added, "I was informed by your sister that you loved someone... someone that you shouldn't. She told me who."

"And this doesn't bother you?" Nuada demanded, his voice suddenly sharp as a jagged icicle. "You, who follow the Star Kindler? You who are human, mortal, when mortals have always believed-"

"Of course it bothers me, you idiot," Dylan snapped, twisting around to glare up at him. "Stop snarling at me. It bothers me because it makes you miserable - anybody with eyes can see _that_ - and as long as you love this person it's never going to stop making you miserable no matter how long you live. And the one thing I hate more than anything else is seeing you unhappy. You deserve all the joy you could ever possibly hope to have. So yes, it bothers me. It drives me flipping crazy. It makes me wanna scream because whenever you see her, you look like you're bleeding to death and it kills me. All right? Jeez."

_The one thing I hate more than anything else is seeing you unhappy. _Shades of Annwn, did she have any idea how those words made him feel? No one but Wink had ever expressed a sentiment even close to that. And now she was scowling down at the snow, reminding him once more of a kitten with its fur puffed. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

"I have loved others." Did he say this simply to tell her, or to console her? He did not know. Though perhaps "love" was not the proper term. Infatuation was more like it. But if it eased her, then what was the harm? "Before... before _her."_

"Wanna tell me about them?"

He pulled his hand away. Gave her another gentle push. "Another time."

"Can I ask _you_ a question now, Your Highness?"

"Hmm?" The moonlight filtering through the metal bars and chains made interesting patterns against her hair. Silver and shadow and darkness.

"What is your best memory ever?"

Nuada frowned at her. Why did she wish to know such a thing? Well, it was a simple question. He had to think about the answer, though, for several moments before he knew for certain. "The day I received this." When she glanced back at him, he touched the royal scar. "It marked me as a man grown, and a warrior. It meant that I was old enough to be considered an equal - or almost an equal - in my father's eyes. I became the heir to the throne, instead of merely the heir presumptive. And it meant that I could now take up the Silver Lance as my weapon." Pleasure from the memory was a golden warmth in his chest. "What is yours?"

She was silent for so long that he was unsure she would answer him. But finally, in a very small voice that even his Elven ears strained to catch, Dylan murmured softly, "I have three. You calling me 'mo duinne,' you singing to me that night in Findias and comforting me, and..." She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight. "And when we watched the Night Parade from the roof and you gave me the tulip."

"And... and your worst?"

She flinched, and he cursed silently. What was the matter with him? Why did he ask these things? Yet part of him desperately wanted to know, for reasons he could not define.

"The night I ran into your father's hall and saw you chained to the whipping posts," she whispered. Her fingers, wrapped around the swing-chains, were white-knuckled. "I thought... I thought you were dead. Or dying. It felt like... like someone had reached into me and ripped my heart out of my chest. Like part of me just... shattered. And I told Heavenly Father I'd do anything, endure anything, as long as He saved you. And He did. I... I couldn't imagine my life without you in it anymore, Nuada. You mean too much to me."

Slowly, the Elf prince moved from behind her to stand at her side. He studied her face. Caught the glint of a tear on her cheek before she wiped it away. Without thinking why he shouldn't, why it was foolish, he reached out. He meant to caress her cheek, to comfort her. It had somehow become so easy to do so.

Instead, his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against her mouth. She drew a sharp breath, but didn't pull away from him. Only closed her eyes. Her lashes made midnight crescents against her cheeks. As if mesmerized, the Elf lightly traced that scarred mouth. Noted, as if in a dream, the softness of her lips and the warmth of her misting breath. Even the scars that slashed across those lips did not mar the incredible softness of her mouth.

_This is unwise, _part of him snapped. _Stop._ But he couldn't. He simply could not. Her breath against his skin warmed him despite the sharply cold air. And she held so still. As if she were afraid to move. As if she were giving him permission to touch as long as he wanted. _To touch... her lips are so _soft...

The direction his thoughts had taken suddenly penetrated whatever fog had wrapped around his brain. He jerked his hand back.

Dylan glanced up quickly. Even in the moonlight, she could see that Nuada's eyes were that pale, gold-brushed ivory. She hopped off the swing, stuffing her cold hands into her coat pockets, and wandered over to the merry-go-round.

The Elf behind her muttered something angrily in Old Gaelic.

Dylan turned back to him. "C'mere." At his look, she huffed. "Please, Your Highness?" He came to stand beside her. "Okay. We need to hash some things out real quick."

"Oh?" What he _needed_ was to get control of himself again. How did this keep happening?

"Yeah. First thing is... I know the fae are really touch-oriented." She flinched when he glared at her, but kept going. "I know it doesn't mean anything. I'm not gonna go all stupid on you and get some weird idea that you've suddenly fallen head over heels for me, okay?" Dylan waited until the glare softened and the prince nodded before letting out the breath she'd been holding. "Okay, second thing. You know I think you're handsome, and you can be really charming when you want to be. Sometimes I'm okay with that. It's cute. Other times, it makes me a little nervous. When you look at me and your eyes go that weird gold-kissed ivory color, I get nervous. Don't know why, but I do. Okay?"

The Elf's ego was still reeling from the application of the word "cute." His common sense was ranting about the way he'd touched her. Well, if it meant nothing to her (and why would it?), then of course it meant absolutely nothing to him. But the mortal's description of his eyes left him speechless. _Gold-kissed ivory color._ But that meant... no. No, not right now. Why would his eyes be that color now? Nuada knew better. It simply made no sense for his eyes to be that pale when he was with Dylan, of all people. The dimness of the night was playing tricks on her eyes. But all he said was, "All right. My apologies."

"No, don't apologize! I meant... I just meant, if I suddenly get tense or something, it's not you. It's me. Okay?"

He smiled. "All right. Do you want to head back?"

"You kidding? We just got out here. I haven't even made a snow angel yet."

"A snow angel?"

Her look was one-hundred percent incredulous. "For real? Okay, a snow angel is... well, watch." To his surprise, she moved to a snow drift with a somewhat steep slope and let herself fall back against the icy, white powder. "It's like a picture in the snow. You make the wings," and she swept the top layer of snow aside with her arms. "Then you make the robe-part. And yes, I know I look ridiculous, but I haven't done this in over two years and I like playing in snow like a child, so you'll have to bear with me," she said with a smile. "Okay, now I need you to help me up or I'll ruin it."

When he'd hauled her to her feet, Nuada had to admit that the imprint left behind did look rather like a human child's drawing of an angel.

"Dylan. What do humans do when it snows? Make snow angels and what else?" He surprised himself by asking, but then realized this might give him a glimpse into the less-painful part of her childhood. Help the Elven warrior understand the human woman who continued to surprise him.

"Well, there's ice skating, though I don't do that anymore. It's too hard on my leg. And skating was always hard for me anyway because I had trouble stopping before I hit the snowbanks." She smiled at the memory and brushed back her hair. "Um... making a snowman. Building a fort. Snowball fights, though you have to be careful with those. Pack the snow too hard, it turns to ice, and you can hurt someone. That's how I got this." She pointed to a white mark just under her ear. "John's fault. We were maybe five at the time. Six? He had hysterics because it bled a lot. My response was just, 'Ow.' He still has issues with throwing snowballs at me now."

Her eyes suddenly went wide and she turned to study Nuada thoughtfully. He wanted to take a step back, but refused to allow himself to indulge in such weakness. Still... a look from a female like the one Dylan was giving him just now was a good reason for a man to edge away.

"Wanna have a snowball fight?"

"No," he said shortly.

The human huffed at him. "Why are we even out here? So you can freeze your cute little Elf ears off? _Tar ar! Beo beagán."_

_Come on! Live a little._ An invitation to play. To let go of the burden of responsibility, if only for a little while.

"I will not engage in such childish antics." And his ears were not "cute." Now the haughty prince turned to walk back the way the two of them had first come. "If foolish games are the only reason you wanted to come outside-" A loosely-packed snowball splatting against the back of his head cut him off.

Very slowly, he turned around to see her with her arms folded, shivering a little, watching him warily. He could hear her suddenly pounding heart. _Not so sure of yourself now, are you, mo duinne? _Nuada thought. He took a single step forward. Noticed the way Dylan shifted back a little. The predatory part of him stirred. Stretched lazily. Focused on her.

"Are you angry?" Maybe that hadn't been her best idea, Dylan reflected. His face could've been carved from marble.

Nuada did not answer for a long moment. He had a very important, very hard decision to make. Such insolence could not go unpunished any longer. Briefly, he cast out with all of his senses, searching for anyone who might be nearby. It would not do to have witnesses to this.

"Allow me to put it this way," the prince said too softly. Then he moved with Elven speed, so fast she would never see his strike coming.

Dylan shrieked with laughter when a snowball hit her square in the chest. "Hey!" She scooped up snow and packed it into a ball, but Nuada was a shadowy blur against the whiteness of the snow-blanketed night. There was no way she could get him at that speed. Another snowball hit her in the shoulder. The ribs. Her thigh. The last one got her in the back of the head and she yelped, laughing. "No fair! Hold still so I can hit you! Cheater!"

He came to a stop not even a foot away, smirking. He wasn't even winded. "You should never challenge an Elf, my lady."

Shifting from delight to coy in a single fluid moment, she sidled up to him. Smiled coquettishly. Their eyes locked when she laid her hand against his chest, her fingertips brushing the exposed flesh just below his throat. Did she feel the way his pulse jumped just a little at the unexpected contact? "Perhaps you're right, Your Highness. I was... foolish to think I could ever best you in fair combat. A warrior as swift... and strong... and skilled as you..." Her eyes were almost dreamy. She cocked her head to one side and studied him through the curtain of her hair.

Nuada opened his mouth to say something. He had no idea what.

Moving like a lightning strike, she got the Elf prince right in the face with the snowball she'd been holding before scampering backwards out of his immediate reach, giggling like a child. "Gotcha! Haha! Sucker."

Nuada spat snow and narrowed his eyes at her. _Little imp. _"You'll pay for that."

"Actually, my prince, I don't think I will," Dylan replied, grinning. "You don't know any of my weaknesses. So there."

When he took a single, mock-menacing step toward her, she darted to the side. Well, if she wanted to outrun him, she was out of luck. If she wanted to dodge him, same thing. The amber-eyed Elven warrior caught her around the waist with one arm when Dylan tried to evade him. Trapped her against his chest while she laughed until she was breathless.

"Okay, okay. Just don't tickle me, okay? John used to do that all the time and I'm really ticklish. I yield. I surrender." Then she looked up into his face. "You know, you look different when you smile. You should do it more often."

"I am not smiling," he replied, trying to swallow his laughter. "Your child-like antics do not amuse me." _And now I know one of your weaknesses._

"I'm pretty sure it's called smiling when the corners of your mouth turn up," the aggravating mortal replied primly, touching the very corner of his upturned mouth with cold fingers. "But you can live in denial if it makes you feel better, Your Highness. Oh, watch what I can do." She slipped his grip, climbed onto the merry-go-round, clomped across it, hopped off, then hopped onto the balance beam. Arms held out on either side of her body, she slowly traversed the snow-dusted balance-bar. "Haven't done this in a couple years, but I still got it." Dylan came back along the bar. Once she'd reached the end, she hopped off again. "Ta-da!" Nuada chuckled at her childlike delight. "You do it."

"I don't think so."

"Please?" She took his hand in both of hers. Lightly tugged him toward the balance beam. "Come on. No one's here to see us. You can be silly and nobody will ever know."

_Nuala, _Nuada thought, but didn't say. His sister had no place here, in this diamond-studded crystalline wonderland that Dylan found so much delight in.

_"I_ will know," he replied instead with deliberate patience. Throwing retaliatory snowballs was one thing. This was another.

Dylan scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Well, who cares if _you_ know?" She cocked her head, hitting him with a considering look. "What's the matter - worried you'll fall?" He opened his mouth to protest. She ruthlessly cut him off with a wicked gleam in her eye and a wicked curve to her scarred mouth. "I can go up with you if it'll make you feel better, Your Highness. No need to be scared."

The warrior prince scowled at the mortal who dared to challenge him. "Insolent chit." He stepped up onto the balance-bar, traversed it in a few quick steps, then came back and stepped onto the snow again. "Child's play."

She actually clapped her hands, grinning. "Bravo. You did two childish things, actually had fun, and the universe did _not_ implode. Amazing. My turn again. Backwards this time."

"Why?" He demanded, exasperated. "Why do you act like such a child sometimes?"

"Making up for lost time, for one thing. It also helps me stay young-minded, which helps me at work. It's also a good reminder that the world isn't the dark, horrible place I sometimes think it is, and that there's always something to enjoy. And finally, just for fun," Dylan replied, hopping back up. She turned around and began to walk backwards along the beam. She was a bit more careful this time. "You know what fun is, don't you, Your Highness?"

She grinned. Her grin faltered when she slipped. Nuada caught her around the waist easily. "Whoa." Her arms automatically slipped around his neck as she murmured, "Thank you."

He gently set her on the ground. "You're welcome."

His eyes had been amber, but now they lightened to that beautiful and too-intense ivory again. A shiver traipsed down Dylan's spine as their eyes locked. The Elf prince was very warm, despite the frigid bite to the night air. Her arms tightened fractionally around his neck. His pale gold hair slid over her hands like spidersilk or starlight. Dylan licked suddenly dry lips. Nuada's eyes slid from hers down to her mouth. She saw him swallow hard.

_Oh, my. _She tried to say something. Anything. Couldn't, for some reason. Her knees suddenly felt weak.

"Are... are you hurt?" The feral-eyed warrior asked softly. Her hands were cool against the back of his neck. Moonlight gilded her skin and turned the tangle of dark hair to silk and shadows that smelled of sweet summer flowers. When she murmured "no," her voice was softer than a falling snowflake. "Are you certain?" The arm that he'd caught her with tightened around her waist without conscious thought. Her breath caught and she made a soft, intriguing little sound in her throat. He suddenly remembered how soft her lips had felt beneath his fingertips.

"Yes," Dylan whispered after a moment. "I'm sure." And then she did something she'd never have thought herself reckless enough to try. She took one of the hands clasped behind the Elven warrior's neck and laid it gently against his cheek. The tremor that went through him at her touch was slight... but they both felt it. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. His free hand came up to brush back her hair. The path left by his caressing fingertips tingled. "Nuada... Nuada, I... we should... I..."

_Tell him, _a little voice in her head urged. _Say it out loud. Tell him the truth. Say "I love you." Tell him_.

"Dylan."

Nuada's voice was soft as the wind gently rustling the trees. His gaze flickered between her eyes and her mouth. Was he... would he... was he going to... He leaned in and everything in her went still. The wild scent of the forest, that feral scent that always clung to him, flooded her senses. His grip on her tightened until she was pressed hard against the solid wall of his chest. She felt his heartbeat pounding through her body and oh, he was so very warm. Dylan could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.

_Oh, my gosh. Don't be stupid, don't be stupid._ _This is_ not _what I think it is._ _But... oh... please, please, please..._ She closed her eyes. Tried not to hope. Tried not to imagine where this would, just maybe possibly hopefully, end: with his mouth pressed against hers.

A shrill ringing sound shattered the moment. Nuada blinked as Dylan's eyes snapped open. He stepped back, forcing his arms to his sides. Dylan shoved absently at her hair with one hand while fishing in her pocket for the source of the irritating noise. When she pulled out her cellphone, Nuada scowled. That stupid human contraption. And what had he been doing a moment ago? What had he been thinking? Where did he think such an intimate embrace would lead to?

_Blast_ _it, _he thought viciously as Dylan studied the cell's readout. _Blast_ _it!_ _What, by the Fates, is_ wrong _with me?_ The prince fought the urge to scrub at his mouth, which still tingled faintly from the feel of Dylan's warm breath against his lips. Only a twist of fate had saved him from... from what? He couldn't even think the words.

Dylan clicked TALK and put the phone to her ear. "H-hello? Anya?" Why was Anya calling her? She hadn't talked to the folklorist who was one of her closest "mundane" friends in a couple months. "What's up?"

_"Hey, I need a huge favor. I'm at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and there's been... look, I can't really explain it very well. It's a thing with my job. But there was an accident at work and there's this kid here and we need to get her to talk to us but she's too freaked out and I talked to my boss and asked him if I could call you because you're really good with kids and he said I could so could you-"_

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down," Dylan replied, shifting almost seamlessly into professional mode. That made it a little bit easier to ignore Nuada's unfathomable stare. "Where are you? Have you called the police?"

_"It's... complicated. The authorities are involved but my boss wants you because I talk about you sometimes at work and I asked for you so could you please come, Dylan? This kid's real upset and she won't come out and-"_

"Okay, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm leaving right now. Okay?" As soon as she disconnected from Anya, she turned to the Elf prince who'd been staring at her for the entire phone call with an expression she couldn't read on his face and a strange something behind his feral, golden eyes. "Nuada, I have to go. I'm sorry, but there's a little kid and..." Dylan swallowed hard when his expression didn't flicker. It took all her courage to say, "I need you to stay at the cottage until I get back. Please?"

"Stay here," he said tonelessly. "Wait for you."

The psychiatrist nodded.

The prince inclined his head and replied, "Very well. I shall escort you back to your cottage, at least."

"You don't have to do that."

"My honor does not agree with you," he said coolly, and he turned on his heel and strode back toward the cottage, and away from her, clearly expecting her to follow after him.

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_**Disclaimer:**_ _Anya and Joyce are _not _my creations. They are the intellectual property of OceanFire9, and are used here with her permission._

_**Author's Note:**_ _And crap, Nuada's back on his high-honor-horse. Sigh. Well, when you almost kiss someone you're supposed to hate, you're bound to get a wee bit angsty, I'd imagine. But OMG! FINALLY, they almost kiss. Who was excited? Anyone besides me? I was so excited! Even though I was the one writing the chapter I kept thinking, "Go on! Go on!" Kinda like Sebastian in _the Little Mermaid _during "Kiss the Girl." Love that song. Le sigh. _

_So, Anya and Joyce are going to be showing up a little more in this fic now that a certain literary genius (cough OceanFire9 cough) has given me permission to use them to my heart's content. __**Everyone should go read her fic, "And Twice Beneath a Space," because it is actually canon (fanon?) for this fanfic and has important information in it**_ _**(except chapter 4, which has a very complicated status)**__. And yay, we're on chapter 31! Do you realize this fanfic has more than tripled in size since I re-started working on it in June? We were on chapter 8. Now we're on 31! I'm so proud of you guys for sticking with me._

_And now for our lovely and completely optional (meaning I'd rather you did it but if you don't I'll love you anyway) review prompt. Wootness!_

_1) So, the part where a "warm body" slipped into bed with Nuada and then Dylan wakes up and is like, "Where'd he go?" Who thought Dylan had actually climbed into bed with our prince? Anyone disappointed that she didn't?_

_2) Ugh, Westenra. That douche. Opinions, thoughts, speculations on further moves by His Old Geezery Evilness?_

_3__) And the mouth-touching. What do we think of the mouth-touching? Better than cheek-touching? Equally good but in different ways? I'd love to hear your thoughts._

_4__) And the almost-kiss. I MUST have your thoughts on the almost-kiss. And please don't kill me for interrupting with the phone ringing. It's too soon for them to deal with the results of a actually-happened-kiss. But tell me what you think!_

_5__) Oh, I _must _ask - Nuada is in character? I know he was being all light-hearted and stuff, but I really want him to have a chance to relax before they get chucked back into the meat-grinder, so to speak. So, yeah. In character?_

_Okay, you're all free. Toodle-oo! With love! *sings along to Hilary Duff* Just do it with love, love, love, love!_

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_**Bedtime Snuggles Challenge:**_ _so we have 2 challenges today. They're very simple, none of them have word limits, and the reward system is standard. The first one is, __**what if Dylan actually had been the one to climb into bed with Nuada after a bad dream**__, instead of it being Bat? What if her nightmare was so just gosh-darn awful that having Nuada nearby was too much of a temptation, and she went to him? Would she actually slip into bed with him and snuggle him while he slept? And if she did, would he sleep through it? Or would she wake him up and ask him to come out and sit with her? What do you think? Again, no word limit. I'm looking at specific people for this challenge (cough Nightmare, Captain, and Ocean cough) but anyone else who wants to do it can do it, too. In fact, you're encouraged to do it._

_**Finishing Kissing Challenge:**_ _the second challenge is, __**what if Dylan's phone hadn't gone off? **__What would've happened? And obviously they probably would've kissed (although maybe not, you never know) but don't end it with them kissing. There's emotional fall-out from kissing, especially when it comes to those two. Also keep in mind Dylan is not very experienced, and Nuada... is. So yeah. Just something to think about. Loves to you all!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"One Cold Winter's Night" is actually a line from the song "The Haunting" by Kamelot. "One cold winter's night, I followed her voice to the river." I'm fond of it._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The antics of Bat are inspired by real cats. Specifically, my cats Shadow, Lieutenant Commander Spot, CosmiCreepers, and Jake. They really do stuff like that to people. It's kind of scary, lol.

- Nuada's a man. Of course he snores. Lol.

- "Good morning, starshine" is the first part of "Good morning, starshine. The Earth says, 'Hello.'" I don't know what that's from originally but I first heard it in Tim Burton's _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. Originally Dylan was going to say, "Rise and shine, honey. Breakfast." But that sounded to fifties-housewifey to me and didn't work. But I wanted the phrase "Good morning/rise and shine, (insert endearment here)," so I used that instead.

- About picking strawberries in December's frost. In the poem "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman, which is quoted in various early chapters of this fic, one of the lines is "You may pick strawberries in December's frost." I liked the idea of that, and my affection for that idea was cemented by my affection for the short story "The Months of Manhattan." I don't remember who it's by, but it's in the anthology _A Wolf at the Door._ Cute story. Very instructive about the importance of being polite and looking on the bright side of life.

- Five-point lock-up is a term I read describing how many straps they use to tie you to the gurney with. Seven-point lock-up makes it so you can't even move your head or knees. I believe five-point is wrists, ankles, and waist (but I may be wrong about that).

- Francesca's full name is Francesca Elizabeth Dorothy Myers. Francesca for Frankenstein (her twin's name being Victoria, for Victor); Elizabeth for Frankenstein's fiancee in the novel; and Dorothy for D.G., the MC of SyFy's Tinman (whose initials stand for Dorothy Gale of the Wizard of Oz). Dorothy was picked because, like Francesca, D.G. is a waitress.

- Yvaine's Diner is named after the character Yvaine from Neil Gaiman's _Stardust _(book and film) about an anthropomorphic fallen star.

- Samantha Black Crow is a secondary character from Neil Gaiman's novel _American Gods_. She's a potential love interest for the MC, Shadow, and if I remember right, has a touch of otherworldly Sight (not faerie specifically, but just magical in general).

- Dylan's former employer, Kaye, is the MC from Holly Black's _Tithe _and _Ironside_. Kate is her "little sister" - the human child taken by the faeries when she was a baby and Kaye was left in her place. In _Ironside_, Kaye does say she's going to open up a coffee shop, though she never gives it a name. However, her love interest, Roiben, compares her to Persephone because Kaye plans on spending 6 months in Ironside (mortality) and 6 months in Faerie, just as Persephone stayed 6 months in the Underworld and 6 months on Earth.

- The phone call interrupting the almost-kiss. It was all IK Scott's idea! So blame her! Eat _her_ for interrupting the kiss!


	32. The Hands of the Healer

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_Mythological Creature of the Day  
References in This Chapter_  
_Suggested Reading List_

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_**Important:**_ _to understand the scene with the BPRD in this chapter, you need to read the 3rd chapter of _And Twice Beneath a Space_, the chapter titled "Secrets Between Friends," by OceanFire9. Just an FYI._

_**Also Important:**_ _I've been informed that someone has reported this fanfic because it breaks 2 site rules (I checked and it doesn't). I've sent a message to the admin (more like a shameless plea begging for a fair trial) but apparently the person who reported me has conscripted 10 of their friends and they all plan on spamming the admin's inbox, demanding "Once" be taken down. Some of you, I've talked to about this already. For those of you that I haven't, now you know. Do with this information what you will (do not ask me who reported me, because I won't tell you; I don't want this to turn into something nasty). But all of you need to know this so that if something happens, you know what's going on and you don't think I've abandoned all of you. _

_**IF**_ _this fic gets banned, email me at JaenelleEbony and I will personally __email the chapters to anyone who wants them__, on the same schedule that I've been maintaining. That's a promise. But I'd rather not get banned (if any admin are reading this author's note)._

_**Author's Note:**_ _So, first off, I think I was on drugs when I wrote this chapter. Not illegal narcotic drugs. Allergy meds. They make me crazy drowsy. Like, I take one and sleep for 4-6 hours, even though the recommended dosage is actually two. So I'm not sure how this chapter reads to you guys, if it's disjointed or whatever. So let me know, okay?_

_Second thing - we are past __**200**_ _reviews for this fic! Woot! This is our review bicentenniel! Rock on. __**AND **__did you guys know, that counting "Seven Words" by Captain Zombie (which isn't out yet, but I've worked with her on it) and WhenNightmaresWalked's unposted alternate-ending challenge entry for chapter 22 (which she sent to me), "Once Upon a Time" has __11_ _tribute fanfics to its name? __**ELEVEN.**_ _Holy cow! I am __**SO **__happy about that, and pleased with those of you who've done the amazingly spectacular challenges that I love so much (they're all saved to my computer so I can read them whenever I want, muahahaha!) and I just want you all to know you guys are __**AMAZING**__. *snuggles*_

_And those amazing writers are, in ABC order: Captain Zombie, JasperIsAManlyMan, OceanFire9, WhenNightmaresWalked, and xxyangxx2006. __**HUGGLES TO ALL OF YOU!**_

_Third thing, the slated number of chapters for this month (from October 1st to November 1st) is, like... __**14**__. So please be kind. I'm crazy swamped but I'm very big on keeping to a schedule (plus my hubby would scold me if I didn't keep to a schedule) and I also want to make sure I hand out rewards on time. So yeah, there should be four or five chapters today, I'm hoping. Yay! And eeek. _(O.O)

_Lastly, keep your eyes peeled for clues about what's going on with the BPRD scene. Muahahaha..._

_**Warning:**_ _touches on themes of rape and suicide. Do I _really _need to put warnings whenever that happens? Because, considering Dylan's history and profession, shouldn't it be obvious that heavy stuff like that will pop up? Just wondering._

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**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**The Hands of a Healer**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Test, a Child in the Dark, Silver Eyes Watching, **_**Nain Rouge**_**, and a Message Delivered**

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Unfortunately, Dylan couldn't actually leave right away. First she had to call John for a ride. Emergency or not, the New York Underground was not on her agenda. Never would be again. And it was faster to just wait for a ride. Secondly, she redialed Anya while she and Nuada trudged through the frigid snow back to the cottage. The Elf remained unnervingly silent as the mortal psychiatrist asked for a few basic details on the girl - her age, was she injured, what was she wearing, was she asking for anything, etc. The answers were, "About five; we don't know, that's the problem; a t-shirt with a dark-skinned princess in a sparkling green dress; and for us to go away." Dylan mentally sketched a plan of attack based on that information.

In her cottage, she hastily changed into a hideous pink shirt with Disney princesses on the front and grabbed her cane. The Metropolitan Museum of Art had some very inconvenient stairs and she didn't want to be dragging her leg behind her like a lame dog by the end of the night. Dylan dropped her pepper spray into her purse, packed a miniature flashlight, slipped her cell in its corresponding pocket, then went into her closet and grabbed the cardboard box full of stuffed toys that she kept on the shelf in there for her younger patients. The second-to-last thing she put in her purse was a green stuffed frog. Then she hooked her _kubotan_ keychain to one of the belt loops on her jeans.

"I'll try to be back as soon as possible," she called to Nuada as she rushed into the kitchen and grabbed an apple and a granola bar. Ever since almost fainting from hunger on Sunday, she made sure to grab snack food to take with her, to keep up her blood sugar. Dylan shrugged back into her coat. "Don't wait up for me, okay?"

Nuada didn't reply. Finished with her preparations, Dylan walked back into the living room. The prince sat watching the crackling fireplace. Pale fingers absently scratched under Bat's chin. The kitten purred like a motorboat. Nuada didn't seem to notice.

"Your Highness... are you angry with me? For... for anything?" Dylan asked from the entryway to the kitchen. Feral, firegold eyes sliced to her face. There was no anger, but there was _something _there, all right. Something that made the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. It wasn't dangerous. Dylan knew that much. But it was frightening, though she couldn't have explained why. "Your Highness?" Silence. "Nuada?"

He studied the pale, scarred face with its ravaged mouth and slightly crooked nose, the fey-like blue eyes brushed with moonlit silver. Out in the snow she'd looked like a woman enjoying the sharp cold of a clear winter night. Now she looked more like a frightened child in that too-large leather coat and the black boots, her fingers fidgeting with the straps of her purse. He had to say something or she would leave with that sudden bruised look in her eyes. But - the prince couldn't push this aside - the mortal had ordered him to stay behind again. Like an irritating dog. Nuada didn't grind his teeth, but it was a close thing.

"If I ordered you to stay," the prince said softly, musingly, and noticed the way Dylan stiffened, "would you? Would you obey such an order from the prince you have pledged yourself to?"

_Do with me what you will. _She couldn't have meant those words. Even she could not trust him _that_ much. And yet...

_"Are_ you ordering me?" Dylan asked just as softly. A tiny shiver of dread coiled in her stomach. He wasn't angry with her... exactly. But there was something wrong. He was upset about something. _Because I tried to... to kiss him? How could I have been so stupid?_ _Or is it something else?_ But aloud all she said was, "Is that the act of service you demand of me, Your Highness?"

"If it is?" He asked silkily.

"Then..." The words were like clay in her mouth - thick, cold, bitter. "Then I will obey. I keep my word. Is that what you would have me do?"

_Please, no, _she prayed silently. _Please, Nuada, don't. _Because if he did... something would break in her. Break between them. And once broken, she didn't know if it could ever be repaired. _But Nuada would never do something so dishonorable, _Dylan reminded herself. _I'm overreacting. This is... a test or something. I don't know. Something._

After a long silence, the prince replied, "No. I would not give you such an order." He didn't miss the way the tension drained out of her.

There had been total conviction in her voice, stars curse it. If he asked it, she would call her friend back and tell the woman she couldn't come. Couldn't help the human child. _Because she is loyal to me,_ Nuada thought. _Does my father know how deep that loyalty runs? _If he did, would Balor use that loyalty as the sweetly poisoned bait in the trap he'd laid for his only son?

"John's going to be here in a few minutes," the mortal murmured, shifting her weight. "Did you... do you want to talk about..."

_About what happened outside, _Nuada thought. _What almost happened. _What he'd been trying not to think about since they'd started back for the cottage through the snow and biting cold.

"No," he muttered tersely, and went back to watching the dancing flames. There was silence. A few minutes later, Dylan's phone chimed in her purse. She whispered goodbye. The feral-eyed Elf did not speak. Did not look away from the fire. Only closed his eyes briefly when the front door opened and closed behind the mortal who had managed to throw him off-balance yet again.

_What am I even doing here?_ He wondered, not for the first time. And the stars help him, the only answer he could find in himself was the memory of her arms around his neck and the way that mortal heart had drummed against his own chest, even through her coat, when he'd leaned in to...

Cursing under his breath, Nuada lunged to his feet and strode to the bedroom. _Don't wait up, _she'd said. Well, he would not. Clearly he needed more sleep. It was the only explanation for his bizarre behavior. That was what the prince kept telling himself as he stripped off boots, shirt, and tunic and laid down on Dylan's bed. Nuada hadn't completely thawed out from their time outside, so he actually used the blankets for once.

_This is ridiculous, _he thought as the sudden warmth began lulling him into drowsiness. The faint scent of Dylan's night-blooming jasmine soap and shampoo still clung to the blanket and pillow, a whisper of scent lightly teasing his senses. Surprisingly, it soothed the Elven warrior, which only served to irritate him more. _She is a human, _he reminded himself. _Mortal. Not fae. I should not be tempted to... to..._

What if her aggravating phone had not gone off at that moment? What would have happened? What would he have done? Touched those remarkably soft lips not with his fingers, but with-

_Enough, _Nuada snarled silently. He closed his eyes, seeking escape from questions that had no answers. _It was a moment of insanity, nothing more._

**.**

Talking a five-year-old girl into evacuating her hiding place was easier said than done. Anya was waiting for her at the entrance to the Met. It was the only way Dylan got through the blockade of personel and... well, she _thought_ they were policemen, but she didn't recognize a single one of the uniforms and suits crowding around the art museum.

Anya looked particularly harassed as she swept down the museum steps, grabbed the psychiatrist's arm, and began leading her up the stairs.

"Slow down, please," Dylan pleaded when they'd traversed about twenty steps. The unyielding, ice-slicked concrete was not playing nice with her bad leg. Neither was the heaviness in the air, which promised fresh snow - or, if the temperature rose a bit, sleet - before morning. Dylan's grip on her cane left her knuckles mottled white as she limped up the steps. "Kinda hurts here."

"Why don't you take Vicodin or something for that?" Anya asked, but kindly slowed her pace. "Wouldn't it help?"

"It does - I took two after your call, but it hasn't kicked in yet. Can't risk taking another one; Vicodin's addicting," she added. "Have to watch my dosage. You know I'm leery about that kind of thing after... after what happened back in college."

Anya didn't say anything to that. Just nodded and kept an eye on Dylan to make sure the limping woman didn't slip on the ice.

In the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Celtic Room were three men. One was in his mid-forties, with thinning black hair and a nice suit. Dylan pegged him, and the older, balding gentleman with the cigar, as Feds the minute she saw them. The younger man was still on the beat - she could tell by the self-assured way he carried himself, and the fact that he made sure that no matter where he or anyone else stood, he could draw the gun from the holster at his side without any problems. The older man, who had a bit of a droopy hound-dog face, probably rode a desk. There was another man with shocks of gray, absentminded-professor hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, who was studying a glass case full of odd bits of golden artifacts. When this third man noticed Anya leading Dylan into the room, he smiled warmly.

"I take it this is the inestimable Doctor Myers you've told us about, Anya?"

"Yes, sir, Professor Broom," Anya said, and gestured to the woman at her side. "Everybody, this is Doctor Dylan Myers. Dylan, this is Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, Mr. Clay, and Mr. Manning." Each man reached out and shook the new woman's hand. "Okay, I can't give you too many details - the authorities would get ticked and even I don't know all of what's going on - but someone broke into the museum and stole some stuff. We don't know what yet, or why; that's why _I'm_ here.

"But while our guys and the authorities were scouring the place, we heard crying and found this little kid hiding in one of the ventilation shafts. She's far back enough we can't reach in and get her out without some kind of rescue equipment, and she won't come out on her own. We don't know if she's hurt or what. She won't talk to us except to tell us to leave her alone."

Anya led her friend to the air vent in question. Someone had already pried the vent itself off the shaft. Using her cane and the wall, Dylan carefully levered herself to the floor. The vent was maybe a foot square. A very small child, then. Four or five at the most; Anya had been right. Dylan leaned over until she could peek inside the darkened shaft. Since the room was well-lit, she could just make out the pale face and huddled form that stared back at her from the other end. Caught a glimpse of the _Princess and the Frog_ t-shirt. She gauged the distance. At least seven or eight feet between the room and the kid. No way were they dragging her out without traumatizing her further, maybe even hurting her.

"Why's she on the floor?" Manning whispered to Broom. The professor arched one grizzled eyebrow at the BPRD director. Anya sighed.

"She knows what she's doing," the young researcher replied. "She's really good with kids."

"Hi," Dylan called softly to the huddled figure in the air shaft. The little girl's eyes gleamed in the dimness. "Hi, there. My name's Dylan. What's yours?" Little fists scrubbed at pale cheeks, but the child didn't say anything. Just sniffled. Unperturbed, Dylan added, "Can you tell me what letter your name starts with?" Silence. "Does it start with A? Or maybe B?" Dylan got all the way to T before the little girl sat up a little straighter. Grasping at the first names that came to mind, the psychiatrist asked, "Is your name Taylor? Tabitha? Tiana?"

Ever so slowly, the little girl nodded. Dylan smiled at her and shifted so she could lay on her stomach where it would be easier to see the child. Though it took the strain off her leg, she could already feel the strain in her back. "Tiana. That's a beautiful name. Just like the princess, huh?" Dylan said gently. Tiana nodded. "It's awful dark in there, Tiana. Do you want a flashlight?"

Dylan waited until the girl nodded before pulling the little flashlight out of her purse and sliding it to her. The beam flicked on and Dylan could see the too-pale face, smudged with grime from the ventilation shaft, as well as the golden-brown eyes and flaxen hair that hung past her shoulders in messy pigtails.

For just a moment Dylan's heart siezed in her chest. _She looks like... like... _It hurt too much to finish the thought: that this little girl looked a lot like what Dylan's own daughter might look like... if she ever had a child with Nuada.

_Focus, _the psychiatrist snapped at herself. _She needs my whole attention right now._

Dylan talked to Tiana about inane things, like the princesses on Dylan's Disney shirt and the stories they came from. Tiana didn't talk back, but after an hour of the older woman speaking softly and calmly about mundane things, the little girl began to scootch a bit closer. When she'd halved the distance between herself and the Celtic Room, Dylan said, "Tiana, I have something for you, since you've been brave enough to talk to me. Someone I want you to meet. He's very special. Would you like to meet him?" The little girl nodded and the youth psychiatrist pulled the stuffed frog out of her purse.

"Is... is his name Naveen?" Tiana whispered, and Dylan allowed herself to relax just a little bit. She'd spoken. Finally.

"That's right," Dylan murmured. "Would you like him to stay in there with you for a while?"

"Yes, please." Tiana cuddled the stuffed frog while keeping a strangling grip on the flashlight with her free hand. After a few minutes, she sniffled. "A monster hurt my mommy and daddy. I saw it!"

Dylan sensed more than saw the three other adults in the room stiffen. Ignored them. "What did the monster look like, Tiana?"

"It had pony legs and no skin, and one eye! And its eye was glowing and there were yellow things all over it, and it hurt my mommy and daddy! Then it took the gold thing from the case." Tiana paused, sniffling and scrubbing at her grimy, tearstained face with Naveen's synthetic fuzz. Behind the psychiatrist, Clay and Anya went over to study the shattered glass cases that lined the walls of the Celtic Room. Tiana added, "I know you don't believe me."

"Yes, I do," Dylan said softly. Had it been a faerie? That sounded a lot like a nuckelavee. But why would one of the Kindly Ones steal something from a museum? "I believe you, Tiana." Tiana shook her head until her hair flew around her face.

"No you _don't!_ You're a grownup and grownups never believe in monsters."

"I'm not a grownup," the older woman said, propping her chin on her fists. "I just look like one. And I've seen monsters, too. I know how scary they can be. I've seen lots of monsters. You did a good job hiding in here away from the monsters, Tiana."

"No, I didn't," Tiana whimpered. In the beam of the flashlight, Dylan caught the glitter of fresh tears. "Mommy needed help and I didn't help her. I got scared and ran away! I was bad."

"Tiana, I want you to listen to me, okay?" Dylan waited until the little girl met her eyes. "You know what rules are, right? Like not hitting and not calling names?" The child nodded. "Do you know the rule for monsters? If you see a monster you're supposed to run away. That's the rule. You did exactly right by running like you did. I bet your daddy told you to run, too, didn't he?" She nodded again. Dylan said gently, "You did exactly what you're supposed to. You did a _very _good job by hiding and not coming out until good guys came to help. You weren't bad. Okay?"

"Okay," Tiana mumbled, scrubbing at one eye. "Did you run away from the monsters, too?"

Remembering a pack of wolves in human skin loping through underground tunnels, remembering two boys waiting in the basement, Dylan said softly, "I tried to. I'm not as good of a hider as you are."

Tiana pondered this for a while. "Did they catch you? Is that what happened to your face?"

"Uh-huh."

Weight crushing her against rough, ice-cold cement. Hands covered in coarse fur pinning her while hot breath choked her. Silver pain brightness of a knife blade like claws raking across her unprotected face. Something tearing inside her as she screamed and the wolves howled and her face burned...

Warmth like a strand of sunlight slid through the icy chill burning cold in her stomach, dispelling the fear just beginning to take root there.

"How did you get away?"

Anya's ears pricked at the question. She had the feeling that Dylan was talking about the attack back in December, when she'd gone missing for nearly three months, but talking about it in a way to comfort a little girl who blamed herself for whatever she'd seen of her parents' deaths. And here was something Anya had always wondered - how _had _Dylan gotten away from the men who'd attacked her?

_How did you get away? _Dylan closed her eyes and thought of him. Golden eyes melting to sun-kissed ivory. Moonbeam skin with hints of blue under subway fluorescents. The scent of leather and forests. A rumbling laugh and a seldom-seen smile. Lullabies in the darkness. The reassuring pressure of his arms around her as he leaned in to... "A handsome prince came and saved me."

"Did you get married and live happy ever after?" The little girl scooted a bit closer.

Dylan laughed, and was so glad when Tiana's mouth curved into a wobbly smile. "Well, not quite. We're just good friends." Remembering a conversation over dinner a few days ago, she added, "I don't think he really _wants_ to marry anyone."

Tiana scootched even closer. "Maybe he's shy."

Trying to put her concept of Nuada together with the word _shy _made Dylan's brain hurt. She half-shrugged, which was made awkward by being sprawled out on the cold tile floor. "Maybe."

"I think he's shy," Tiana said with all the confidence of a little girl who knows how happily-ever-after is supposed to work.

Closer.

Fighting her grin at the thought of Nuada being shy, Dylan asked, "Hey, Tiana, are you hungry?" She pulled out the apple and the granola bar. "I bet you're a little hungry. You've been in there for a while. Do you want some?"

"Do I have to come out?"

"Not if you don't want to," Dylan said. "Which do you want - the apple or the granola?" Tiana made her choice, and both she and the older woman set to munching. Dylan knew she had to keep the situation light and easy now that Tiana had decided to start coming close. While they ate and talked about whether or not the handsome prince was shy or just not interested, Manning and Bruttenholm whispered with Anya.

"What is taking so long?" Manning demanded.

"She's trying to get the kid to trust her so that when she finally comes out of there, she doesn't panic when we try to check her out and make sure she's not injured or anything," Anya replied, studying the broken labels in the glass cases. She noticed the word _Crown_ on a fragment of black placard. "Jeez, Manning, don't you have any kids?"

"I don't know how to deal with children. That's why I joined the Bureau."

"That woman," the professor replied in a whisper, using tweezers to pluck a shred of black flesh from the jagged edge of a piece of glass, "has been here for only a couple hours, and that child has responded more openly to her in that time than she has to any of our agents. We now know what attacked this place - sounds like a nuckelavee, one of the Irish fae. Let Doctor Myers do her job. I trust Anya's judgment. You should as well, Special Agent Manning."

"I do," Manning mumbled. "I just want to get out of here before Armageddon, is all. This place doesn't even have any decent coffee."

"Tiana," Dylan was saying as the little girl scootched another couple inches forward. "Why don't you want to come out of there?"

"What if the monster comes back? The big red man said it wouldn't, but-"

"Well if the big red man said it wouldn't, then it won't," Dylan said as an ember of warmth flared to life in her chest. Trying not to question the words coming out of her mouth, she added, "Is the big red man a good guy?"

"I think so."

"Then you should trust him. So will you come out, Tiana?" _Because my back's starting to kinda_ _hurt,_ Dylan wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, she added, "We need to make sure you're not hurt or anything, okay?"

"I... I guess." After several long moments, the little girl crawled out of the ventilation shaft and stood up, eyeing the adults in the room warily. Dylan had to shove herself upright. Her bad leg spasmed viciously in protest but she ignored it. Leaning heavily on her cane, she got to her feet and shifted so that she stood slightly between Tiana and the other adults. Tiana looked up at Dylan. Those tawny brown eyes, framed by golden lashes, made the older woman's heart skip a beat. Then the little girl said, "You're bigger than I thought."

"Really? So are you. You must eat your vegetables."

"Blech! I only like broccoli, and only with cheese."

"Only with cheese, huh? You are very wise in the ways of veggies." Dylan held out her hand, waited until Tiana curled her fingers around it. Tried to ignore the pang that shot through her. She could've just taken the little girl's hand, true, but it wasn't the same. Most people didn't know there were degrees to hand-holding, especially with children. A hand hanging limp meant one level of trust. Fingers curled trustingly around a grownup's hand meant another.

Catching Anya's eye, Dylan gently led the little girl towards the other woman. Every step was agony, but she didn't show it to the child at her side. "Tiana, this is my friend Anya. She's going to take really good care of you, okay? I have to go right now, but I'm going to call Anya so I can talk to you... tomorrow?" She glanced at Anya, who nodded. That would work. "I'll call tomorrow and make sure you're okay. Maybe set it up so we can do something. Hang out, have girl-time. Now, Naveen," Dylan added to the stuffed frog. "Your job is to watch out for Tiana and keep her company, understand? And don't eat any chocolate or you'll turn purple again."

Tiana, who'd been looking more and more like she was seriously thinking about dashing back into the ventilation shaft, suddenly relaxed, giggling. As Anya led her away, Dylan turned to Manning and Broom. Clay was busy studying the broken glass case. Several golden chains, amulets, and other antiques were scattered across the red velvet lining of the case. Dylan's sharp eyes caught the word _Bethmoora_ in neat Copperplate handwriting on one of the labels on the case. Another said _Eirc_, and yet another read _Cíocal_. A nuckelavee, stealing a golden artifact from an exhibit about the three Irish faerie kingdoms?

Ignoring the prickles of unease tingling along her arms, she addressed the professor, trying to keep the pain out of her voice.

"She'll be okay. She's young enough that she doesn't really understand what's happened. She knows her parents are dead, but to her that's the same as them being on a long trip. She might ask you when they're coming back. Since she doesn't know you, don't try to give her the 'dead people don't come back' speech. Just say you don't know. Leave something like that to a grief counselor. And _don't_ tell her monsters aren't real. That's just going to make her more scared because she'll think you won't be there if she needs you. Can you track down her family?"

"That shouldn't be too difficult," Professor Broom replied, intrigued by the way this woman automatically assumed they'd follow her orders. She didn't ask about the "monsters" the little girl claimed to have seen. Didn't even ask about "the big red man," whom Bruttenholm knew to be his son. Hellboy was very good with children, and he'd tried with the child too, before Anya had suggested her friend. Did the woman just assume it was the child's way of coping with whatever had happened at the museum?

He noticed the grip on her cane turned her knuckles white as bones. Anya had told him the doctor had a crippled leg. Clearly she needed to get off her feet. "Thank you for coming, Doctor Myers."

"My pleasure." She had to bite out the words between clenched teeth as her leg threatened to buckle. How was she going to get down those stairs? "Can you tell Anya goodbye for me? I really have to go." There was another round of handshakes and then Dylan limped toward the front doors.

Once back in her brother's Mustang, she slammed her fist against the passenger-side dashboard. John, who'd been asleep, jolted awake. "What? What?"

Dylan clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Squeezed her eyes shut. The coming snowstorm was what was doing it, she knew. Barometric pressure was sending wave upon wave of red-hot pain through her bad leg. And the more-than-a-hundred steps leading up to and inside the Met hadn't helped, either. She punched the dashboard one more time and then tried to relax. If she fought the pain (which her instincts were screaming at her to do) then it would just hurt worse. If she let herself slide into the pain, it wouldn't hurt anywhere near as badly.

But it _still _hurt. Almost as much as the memory of Tiana's tawny eyes and silvery-blond hair, and that little hand clutching hers. _Never have a real family. _No. _No,_ darn it, she wasn't going to cry. Not because of the pain ripping through her knee, or because of that sweet little girl.

"You had physical therapy today, didn't you?" Her twin asked. "With Dr. Vaughn and with Lakshmi over in Little India?"

"Hush up. I just... want... to go home," Dylan mumbled, dropping her forehead to the ice-cold window. She had to clench her fists against the blistering heat burning from mid-calf to hip. "Get in the shower. Take some ibuprofen. Conk out. That would be heaven right now. Please make that happen, John."

"You got it, D."

They had just pulled into traffic and Dylan had just begun to relax when her phone rang. When she saw the readout, she almost shrieked in frustration. Instead she clicked TALK. "What, Victoria?" She demanded waspishly. "I didn't do anything."

_"Francesca's hurt." _A brief pause. The deep breath before the plunge into deadly waters. _"The Blackwoods did it."_

"What?" Pain-spawned irritation melted away, to be replaced by sick fear churning in her stomach. Blackwoods. Patrick and Xander Blackwood. Touching Francesca. Hurting her sister. The way they'd hurt her? No, no, no. "When? How bad?"

_"I just picked her up,"_ Victoria replied. Gone was the usual snarl of annoyance and condescension the older woman employed when talking to her younger, "wayward" sister. Now there was only panic, and a dark fury that seethed deep inside. _"We're on the way back to her place. Those bastards attacked her after she got off-shift. Broke her wrist. She won't go to a hospital and I thought... thought that maybe..."_

_That maybe I could do something, _Dylan realized as another wave of pain left her feeling slightly nauseated. Aloud, she said, "Okay. We'll be right there. I'm with John right now. I just have to stop by the store and pick up a few first-aid things. She's going to have to go to a hospital, though, Tori, if her wrist is broken. I can splint it, but she's going to need a cast. Are you sure it's broken?"

_"Yeah," _Tori replied, and Dylan caught the undercurrent of queasiness in her older sister's voice. Victoria had always been rather squeamish. _"Yeah, I'm sure."_

"Okay," Dylan said. "I'll be there." She hung up and said to her twin, "'Cesca's been hurt. We need to go to..."

**.**

Silver cat eyes watched from a high window as Prince Bres bowed low to the pale, amber-eyed princess in the Royal Gardens and offered her his arm. So, the Fomorian prince had already begun attempting to woo the Tuathan princess. If it worked out the way Bres intended (at least publicly intended), the union produced between Cíocal and Bethmoora would be a strong one. _But somehow I doubt that's actually what he intends._

The Zwezda Elf currently spying on the princess and her would-be suitor brushed back a strand of midnight-black hair and allowed her lips to quirk into a satisfied smile. She knew, of course, about the Fomorian plot to poison the king. Had seen Lady Dierdre with the naga slipping down the palace corridors only last night. If the dark Elf had been the proprietary type, she'd have been miffed at the Fomorians for stealing the beginning threads of one of her master's ideas. But since it didn't actually interfere with her master's plans, the Elf of Zwezda would let the Fomorian plot continue unmolested... for now. After all, _her_ goal was not the king, or even the princess. Her goal was her master's goal: punishment for the crown prince for betraying his people.

For thousands of years the prince had battled for the freedom and livelihoods of the Fair Folk, not just of Bethmoora, but of all the thirteen Elf clans and the countless kingdoms ruled other than by Elf-kind. And now he'd supposedly betrayed all that for a moment's aberrant carnal pleasure. If that were true, did Nuada still mean to raise the Golden Army or no?

_Master's plan originally was to drive the prince back from exile to better turn the king against __him__, _the spy thought, remembering how her male counterpart had, at the behest of their noble master, unleashed a dipsa serpent upon the prince a little more than a year ago. The dipsa were incredibly venomous. One bite could bring a fully grown cave troll to Death's door, though usually not beyond. And those tiny, poisonous fangs had pierced the prince's skin before the Silver Lance had managed to hack off the creature's head. Her master had thought Prince Nuada would be forced to return to Findias to heal from the attack. Once returned to Faerie, the Elf prince would see what the One-Armed King had reduced the Court of Bethmoora to, and take action, thus forcing the king's hand.

Instead, the stubborn fool had weathered the three months of venom-induced illness alone in one of his lairs scattered throughout the mortal realm. Then an even more convenient (and far more infuriating) situation had dropped into her master's lap: the human woman.

_And now my master wants to use his original plan on the mortal instead of the prince - the venom of the dipsa serpent. No human has ever survived its bite. When the prince brings his little toy back to Findias, my master will sic the faerie snake on her. However... _And that was the annoying thing: there was that "however." _If we kill the woman, what if the prince decides to take vengeance on her killers? _

The Elf of Zwezda had mentioned just such a possibility to her master. He had laughed and said, "Vengeance for a human strumpet? It is not as if we slay the prince's _wife, _or even someone he truly cares for. I merely seek to rid him of his distracting little plaything. Once she is dead, he will return to his original path. If he doesn't, we'll know he truly is the traitor the anti-human factions suspect and he will have to be suitably punished for betraying his people yet again. As for this so-called great love of theirs... there is nothing to it. She is nothing but a pleasant distraction. Kill her, and the prince will be himself again. Then we turn the king wholly against him."

She knew her master feared and respected the prince. Anyone with any sense of self-preservation feared making an enemy of Prince Nuada Silverlance, especially if that person was no warrior to begin with (and her master certainly was not a warrior, nor even a common soldier). Yet he still plotted against the king's only son. Was it foolishness... or cunning? Perhaps her master only played the coward and the fool at court to throw others off his scent. She had no notion. It didn't matter anyway. She was loyal without question, and had been since her youth.

_Woo your princess, Bres, _the silver-eyed Elf thought as the Fomorian walked arm-in-arm with Princess Nuala. _Follow your plots and plans if you so wish, but do__n__o__t __harm Nuala and do not __get in my master's way. He'll put an end to you just as surely as he'll put an end to the prince's dalliance__. And if you hurt my princess, I'll kill you myself__._

She reached out behind her and found the head of the magical snake-creature that sat at her feet, coiled and waiting for her orders. She looked down into the reptilian eyes, so like her own slit-silver gaze, and smiled at the scaled faerie. One hand gently stroked those tiny, iridescent scales. _Serpentine death walks Findias on two legs, like an Elf, _she thought as the forked, black tongue flicked out to taste the air. _As soon as the human returns to Bethmoora._

**.**

Becan tried to be quiet as he slipped out of the cottage to speak to the _nain rouge_ on the doorstep. He didn't want to wake the sleeping prince. The city fae waiting outside was diminutive, but was still twice the brownie's height - about the size of a young child. He stamped his black fur boots to keep his feet warm in the deep snow. In his hands he held today's newspaper.

"Found it jus' zis evening," the _nain rouge_ murmured in the mixed French-American accent of his kind. Rotten teeth gleamed blackly between the pale lips. "One of ze aswangs from ze meatpacking district, she was laughing 'bout some dead 'uman youth in ze paper. Said 'e looked _très delicious._ I checks it, and found ze boy's picture in ze obits." Suddenly the blazing, hellish light in the faerie's eyes dimmed. More softly now, he added, "Mademoiselle Dylan, I remember, she was kind to my wife when our child was to be born. She 'elped us. I 'eard she was fond of zis boy. Iz zat true?"

The brownie studied Rafael's picture in the newspaper. Now that she had a picture, Dylan would put the boy in her black book. It would be hard. "Yes. She was."

"Zen, I am sorry for 'er loss." The _nain rouge_ turned to trudge back to the city. Paused. "I 'ave 'eard rumors... of ze Silver Lance paying court to 'er. Iz zat true?"

"I do not discuss my mistress's business with others," Becan replied stiffly, every inch the indignant servant. His lady would not be fodder for common gossip. Not if he had anything to say about it.

The _nain rouge_ laughed and bowed, half-mocking, to the house faerie that barely came up to his waist. Then he walked away, red as a splash of blood against the pure white snow.

Back inside the cottage, Becan had just laid the slightly damp newspaper on the kitchen table, Rafael's obituary face-up, when the only phone in the house rang. Remembering the last time the phone had rung, the brownie shivered. Then the answering machine clicked over, and Dylan's voice came on the line. "Hey, Becan..."

Becan listened to the message his mistress left, trying not to worry. Miss Francesca attacked? Lady Dylan out amongst the dangers of the city, alone, without the prince to protect her? The brownie couldn't shake the strange feeling that something was out there, stalking close and closer, hunting all of them: his mistress, the prince, and Dylan's family. Maybe even more than one something. Becan wasn't sure what could harm them so long as the prince remained in residence at the cottage. Didn't really want to think of what could defeat the mighty Silverlance in battle. But even with the reassurance that His Highness still slept on Lady Dylan's bed, his lance within easy reach, the brownie still couldn't shake the lingering dread.

As far as he knew, none of Dylan's family had any enemies that would resort to the kind of violence his mistress had mentioned in her message. Which meant whoever had hurt his lady's sister was not Francesca's enemy, but Dylan's.

And that name. Blackwood. It sounded familiar, but Becan couldn't place it. Whoever these Blackwoods were, his mistress knew them. Knew them, and feared them. Not that she would _ever _admit to such a thing. But that fear... was that why she had not asked the prince to handle this enemy? Because she feared them so much?

Well, once his mistress took care of Miss Francesca, she would return. As long as she was within the walls of the cottage, he and the prince could take care of her. Everything would be fine once she returned. It would all be fine.

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Walking up to Francesca's fifth-story apartment (in a building with an elevator currently out of service) left Dylan almost in tears by the time she and John made it to their sister's door, despite the necessary third Vicodin she'd taken on the way there. Her arm ached from using it to haul herself up the stairs in an effort to spare her leg. Even John supporting her (he didn't possess the strength to carry her) wasn't a strong enough buffer between her and the pain. Only strength of will, desperation, prescription painkillers, and the gentle warmth of the Holy Ghost kept her from throwing up from the pain. If this were anyone but her sister, she'd have said _screw it_ and gone home to soak in the tub. Instead, she limped inside the minute Tori opened the door and went straight to where 'Cesca hunched on the ratty sofa, her broken wrist cradled to her chest.

"Hey," Dylan murmured, and her injured sister looked up.

Francesca's smile wobbled, but at least it was there. "Hey, D." Slow tears coursed down the cheeks covered in purple and blue bruises.

When Dylan tried to lever herself to the floor, she ended up falling and hit the floor with a _thump_. "Ow. Grace, my name is not. Give me your wrist," she replied, in a voice as gentle as the one she'd used with Tiana. Francesca, usually so foul-mouthed and loud and abrasive, meekly and quietly obeyed. That just made Dylan want to find the Blackwood brothers and run them over with John's car. Twice.

While she set the bones in her older sister's wrist and splinted it, took care of the lacerations on that beautiful face and strapped her sister's cracked ribs, Dylan talked about how she and 'Cesca would file a police report as soon as this was over. If the older woman didn't want to go to the cop shop, then Dylan would call Peabody and the LT would come up to the apartment. When Francesca protested, Dylan said only, "It's against the law not to file a report on a crime."

"What if I don't want to press charges? Ow," 'Cesca added when Dylan touched the multi-colored shiner surrounding her left eye.

"Doesn't matter. Obvious signs of physical violence means you don't have a choice," the psychiatrist replied, and put a butterfly bandage on the gash bisecting her sister's left eyebrow.

_Don't think about who did this, _Dylan ordered herself. _Don't think about them. _Fingers biting, bruising. Impossible strength pinning her hips. Blows against her face because, at age twelve, when someone bit her, she bit back. Hard. _Focus. _"Your two options are to go down to the police station or let me call Peabody (or someone on her squad) and have them come here."

Francesca didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, she said, "I'll talk to Peabody - tomorrow, by myself - on one condition."

Dylan paused in cleaning grit from a scrape on her sister's forearm. "What condition?"

"I want to see a picture of your boyfriend without his shirt on."

Two pairs of nearly-identical blue eyes locked. After a minute, Dylan rolled hers in exasperation. That was the Francesca she knew and loved. Part of Dylan that had been clenched cold and tight gave a lurch and loosened. "I don't _have _a picture of him, much less one of him shirtless." Not that she hadn't _seen _Nuada without a shirt lots of times, but... "And he's not my boyfriend," she added belatedly.

"Riiiiight. He was at your house at two in the morning because you guys were doing calculus homework." At Dylan's look, Francesca added defensively, "Hey, Mom and Dad always bought that excuse when _I _used it. Anyway, you never have guys over. You never have _anyone_ over - ow!" The antibiotic gel Dylan was currently spreading over the scraped arm stung like peroxide. "So obviously this guy's really special. I wanna see his picture. Ouch."

"If I promise to try, will you go down and file a report?"

"Yes. Pinkie swear." She offered the pinkie of her free hand. When her little sister hooked her own finger around the proffered pinkie, Francesca smiled again. It didn't wobble as much. For a minute, they were kids again - six and eight years old. No shadows. "Okay, then." Then the shadows returned. "I gotta tell you something."

"Uh-oh." Dylan went back to putting a bandage on the scrape. _Don't think about them. _Cruel hands wrenching at her hair. Knuckles splitting her lip. The taste of blood was like poison in her mouth. Couldn't breathe around the hand clamped tight over her face. And then the awful, horrible ripping pain when-

_I am _not _going to think about this. I'm not going to remember it. Not right now. _Not ever, if she had anything to say about it. At least, not with Nuada waiting for her at the cottage. She couldn't afford to break down - about this, of all things - with the prince nearby. If he got to her in a moment of weakness, she might ask him the unthinkable - to find the Blackwood brothers and their father and put an end to that nightmare for good. If Nuada did that, the king would find out. If the king found out, Nuada would get hurt. The king might even decide to finish the job begun with the flogging and kill him. She couldn't let that happen.

"The dickheads wanted me to give you a message." Francesca saw her sister's eyes go glassy. Almost didn't go on. But those two had serious connections. If they found out she hadn't told, then... And Dylan needed to know that someone was unhappy with whatever she was doing. "They said, 'Tell your sister to mind her own business.'"

Her hands jerked violently and Dylan fumbled the cap to the bottle of antibiotic gel. She paused. Took a ragged breath. Then she screwed the plastic cap back on the bottle and stowed it in her purse. She turned back to her sister and looked her over with a critical (albeit professional) doctor's eye. The bruises would start to fade in a week or so. Nothing could be done for the ribs at a hospital that she hadn't been able to do herself. The cuts from the blows were mostly too shallow to be a real problem. Those that weren't had been disinfected and covered.

She pulled out a container of over-the-counter painkillers. "Take four of these every six hours with food and keep that splint on your wrist. It'll limit your mobility and keep the swelling down until you can get to a clinic." _Which should be tomorrow at the latest, _she thought, but didn't add. Francesca would do what Francesca wanted to do - always had, always would. Nagging her sister about it now would only upset her further.

Dylan began putting her things back into her purse. Her scissors fell out as she tried to stuff everything into its proper place. She paused with the scissors in her hand. The living room light flashed off the edge, like fluorescents gleaming on the edge of a knife. "Was there anything else?" Dylan asked softly.

"They... they said... they said to tell you, 'Hi.'"

The sharp scissor blade bit deep into her palm. She didn't even feel it through the sudden grasp of icy coldness squeezing the breath from her lungs. Didn't even acknowledge the blood welling up and seeping between her fingers until her phone chimed and vibrated.

Shaking herself, Dylan reached with her mostly-uninjured hand (the cut at the base of her thumb had almost healed) and grabbed the royal blue cell. Checked the readout. A text from Doctor Hollis, who never went home before midnight.

_"Lisa in Iso 4 attacking Westenra. Your psych-eval - Tue 8AM. Westenra conducting. Nothing can do. - Dr. H"_

The cold gripped her tighter. Westenra conducting? Westenra, that sick vicious sadist, conducting her psych-eval? The psych eval where they had to shoot her up full of sodium pentothal and a "mild sedative" (and she hated needles with an unholy passion rivaled only by her hatred for soulless monsters like Eamonn and the Blackwood brothers). Where she would be at the other psychiatrist's mercy. How had that happened? What strings had Westenra pulled to set this up? And what would he do to her once he had her helpless and drugged, unable to control her own tongue without resorting to drawing copious amounts of blood? Would he ask about the Blackwoods? Ask about her "mysterious" attack in December? Worse, bring up Allison and Gunter's deaths?

A brief flash burned the back of her eyelids: thirteen-year-old Gunter, his throat cut with a shattered piece of one of the nurses' coffee mugs. Blood spattering the floor, the walls, the desk. Girls screaming and crying. The blood was on her hands because she tried to stop the bleeding. Tried to give him CPR, she remembered. Tried to help. But he'd already bled out by then. Westenra would remind her of that. Would make her remember that and much, much more...

With her bad leg, Dylan barely made it to the bathroom before she was thoroughly and violently sick.

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_**Disclaimer:**_ _Anya and Joyce are _not _my creations. They are the intellectual property of OceanFire9, and are used here with her permission._

_**Author's Note:**_ _And guess what, everyone? I totally spaced it and didn't realize there was no review prompt or author's note for this chapter. How does that happen to me? Because this isn't the first time. Eh, whatever. I wondered why no one was answer my questions, lol. Oops. My bad. So here it is! Review prompt!_

_1) Oh, boy. Westenra's doing Dylan's psych-eval. Who's worried about that and why? _

_2) This chapter includes the second reference to Dylan's past and drug addiction (the one before this was during the conversation with Petra where Nuada hung up on her). Who's interested in that little story?_

_3) Who thinks Nuada needs a bigger Denial Stamp?_

_4) Who's happy to see Red mentioned (besides you, Serbia, my dear)?_

_5) Favorite things, questions, comments, smart remarks, etc._

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_**Awkward Conversation Challenge-Contest:**_ _so, this is just a little thing. I'm just curious how you guys think it would go. What if Dylan and Nuada actually _had _time to discuss what almost happened in the last chapter (the almost-kiss)? How would that conversation have gone? Just a short little thing, I'm just really curious how you see that conversation happening. No word limit, and this one is more like a contest because, since it's probably gonna be short, the reward isn't guaranteed. However, if I like it (I don't even have to love it, just like it) then you get the reward anyway. So yay! Have at it, everybody._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _this title is from the "prophecy" thing in the Return of the King (the novel) about the King of Gondor, and how the hands of the King are the hands of a healer. Well, you really get to see Dylan in her role of "healer" in this chapter - with Tiana psychologically, a brief glimpse of some past exploits with the nain rouge, and then with Francesca physically. So I thought it fit._

_**Mythological Creature of the Day:**_ _the _nain rouge_, French for "red dwarf" or "red gnome," is a mythical creature that originated in Normandy, France, as a type of lutin (I don't know what that is - bogle?). In the United States, it actually haunts Detroit, Michigan (but I decided to expound on the race a little), and is feared by its residents as "the harbinger of doom." Its appearance is said to presage terrible events for the city. The Nain Rouge appears as a small child-like creature with red or black fur boots. It is also said to have "blazing red eyes and rotten teeth."_

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The dark-skinned princess in the sparkling green dress is Tiana from Disney's the Princess and the Frog. I _**LOVE**_ that movie. It's so good!

- The kubotan (sometimes erroneously spelled as Kubaton or Kobutan) self-defense keychain is a close-quarter self-defense weapon developed by Takayuki Kubota. It is essentially a derivation of the yawara stick, usually 5.5 inches (14 cm) long and 0.56 inch (1.5 cm) in diameter, slightly thicker or the same size as a marker pen. Attached with a keyring for convenience and concealment, the kubotan appears as an innocuous key fob to the untrained eye, although it may be considered an offensive weapon in some jurisdictions.

Aside from its size and shape, much of its usage is quite similar to the yawara stick. As with the yawara stick, the principal areas for attacks in self-defense include bony, fleshy and nerve targets such as knuckles, forearms, bridge of the nose, shins, stomach, solar plexus, spine, temple, ribs, groin, neck, eyes, etc. The kubotan is usually held in either an icepick grip (for hammerfist strikes) or forward grip (for stabbing and pressure point attacks).

Common uses include hardening the fist (fistload) for punching, attacking vulnerable parts of an assailant's body, and gaining leverage on an assailant's wrist, fingers and joints. With keys attached, it can also function as a flailing weapon. As a pressure point and pain compliance weapon it can attack any point a finger can, but with greater penetration because of the smaller surface area at the ends. One typical pain compliance technique is a wrist "gasket" lock in which the attacker's wrist is captured and sealed around with both hands and the body of the kubotan laid across the radial bone. Downward squeezing pressure is then applied to the bone to take down the opponent.

The kubotan's techniques are greatly linked to 'empty handed' martial arts techniques.

- The "kitten purring like a motorboat" is inspired by our cat, Spot. When we let him sleep in the master bedroom, he purrs so loudly you can hear him in the hallway (if the door is open). When he does that, we say, "Awww, Spotses. You're a motorboat."

- In the movie _Blade Trinity_, a little girl (Zoe) hides in a vent. I can't say for 100% sure that I didn't get the idea from that, but I don't think I did. Just in case, though, I'm making sure everyone knows about this.

- Flaxen means pale blond; also see ash blond, bleach blond, platinum blond, and tow-headed. It's actually a fairly common color in children.

- Who remembers the mentioning of the nuckelavee from previous chapters? Is important.

- About the handholding thing - I don't know if you guys have ever noticed, but when a child is angry at you and you say "give me your hand," they kind of thrust it at you and expect you to just grab it and be happy you're even allowed to touch them when you've dared to offend them. When a child gives you their hand willingly because they trust you, usually they don't just hold out their hand, they take yours, and curl their fingers around your hand (or your pinkie - my brother and my dad's hands were too big for me to hold for a long time, so I'd hold their pinkies instead).

- The dipsa serpent is a snake from the medieval bestiary (I assume that means it's not real) that's so small it's really easy to step on, and so poisonous that by the time you've realized it's bitten you, you're a second away from dying anyway. Here, I've altered it a bit so it's a type of faerie. The dipsa had a brief mention in the overhauled chapter 1. The reason behind the dipsa being mentioned is further explained here. While the bite wouldn't kill an Elf (Elves being so amazing), it did have the power to knock Nuada on his butt for three whole months.

Now, why did I go back and change this little detail? Well, OceanFire9 (who is a literary goddess and everyone should go read her stuff, especially "Red Under the Moon" and "Starry Hunters") mentioned to WhenNightmaresWalked that "the only thing that keeps nagging at me through everything is how the mighty Silverlance, who lays waste to all the gun-toting special agents and security details in the movie, and fought in WARS where anything goes, can go down in an 'unfair fight' so easily when clearly he's done plenty of his own dirty work to see another tomorrow again and again..." and I was like, "Holy crow she has a point. How did Nuada get taken down by a bunch of street thugs?"

LA's ingenious answer - he was barely recovered from being sick as a dog. Anyone ever try to go to school or work when you've got the flu (I have)? It's incredibly difficult to even get out of bed and put on clean underpants, much less put on shoes and drive somewhere. Kinda the same principle. So yeah. And obviously the dipsa snake didn't actually _work_, so now they're going after someone who it will work against. To quote James from _Twilight_, "a fragile little human."

- An aswang is a Phillipino mythical creature; a carrion-eating humanoid. Hence why it lives in the meatpacking district of New York City.

- My first-string beta, Lorien13, has a cat named Starbright (we call her Poofy because her hind-end looks like fluffy, furry pantaloons). And Poofy is oddly... not graceful, for a cat. She hits her head on things a lot. And she slips off of things when she tries to jump on them. That sort of thing. And when she does this, someone will always look at her and say, "Poofy. Grace, your name is not." Because she's not graceful. We love her, though.

- Sodium pentothal is truth serum (normally called sodium thiopental). I know you can take it via injection. I'm borrowing a bit of the psych-eval procedure from various cop and spy novels (and some random TV shows and movies), including _Conspiracy in Death_ by JD Robb, _Human Target_ and _Kill Bill Volume 2_. According to prevailing medical thought, information obtained under the influence of intravenously-administered truth serum can be unreliable; subjects may mix fact and fantasy in that context. Skeptics imply that much of the claimed effect of the drug relies on the belief of the subject that he or she cannot tell a lie while under its influence. Some observers also feel that amobarbital does not increase truth-telling, but merely increases talking; hence, both truth and fabrication are more likely to be revealed in that construct. Apparently it's also used in lethal injection? I dunno.

- The flashback of Gunter killing himself was inspired by _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. I was trying to figure out how someone could kill themselves in a psychiatric hospital (where they're supposed to have precautions against stuff like that) and couldn't come up with a way that worked. Then I remembered how Billy (played by Brad Douriff, of Grima Wormtongue in _the Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers_ fame) did it in _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ - he broke something and cut his throat (or his wrists, they didn't actually show you which).

So yeah. Broken stuff to cut open major vein/artery is from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_, starring Jack Nicholson. Very sad movie. I actually don't recommend it because you'll probably want to throw the case at the TV screen when it's over. I did.

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_**Suggested Reading List**_

- _Blade Trinity _(TNT version; is PG13 and _**WAY**_ funnier)  
- Disney's _the Princess and the Frog_  
- "The Princess and Her Future" by Tanith Lee (a short story of "the Frog Prince" set in historical India, in Tanith Lee's anthology _Red as Blood_)  
- Water Song by Suzanne Weyn (one of the Once Upon a Time series, for "the Frog Prince")


	33. The Inconstant Moon

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Mini-Nuada Freak-Out Challenge_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_  
_Chapter Playlist_

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_**Important:**_ _this chapter makes reference to WhenNightmaresWalked's companion ficlet, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams." That fic is part of this story's canon. __**You're probably not going to understand what's going on if you don't go and read that ficlet first.**_ _It actually takes place during chapter 27, but it's important. So scootch along. And you'll enjoy it, I promise. Then come back and enjoy chapter 33. Yay!_

_**Author's Note:**_ _So please, I beg you, no one eat my face off for this chapter. "Wait," you say. "Why would we do that? We like/love this fic." Well, keep reading, all you Dylan/Nuada shippers out there. And remember, in the words of the inestimable WhenNightmaresWalked, that "it's not quite a fairy tale, this story. Real princes and princesses never married for love, and broken girls rarely grow up to have big families and live happy ever after."_

_Also, chapter 34-38 are coming in the next week because I owe lots of people lots of things. Hopefully 34 will be up today, but it should definitely be up tomorrow. And maybe 35 will be up tomorrow, too. Yay! I hope._

_**Dedication:**_ _this chapter is for __**JasperIsAManlyMan,**_ _who wrote the adorable and hilarious __**"Night Hunter"**_ _ficlet for __**the Bat Challenge.**_ _Everyone who enjoyed the image of Bat attacking Nuada's toes in chapter30 should read the situation from a very unique perspective in that fic. It's canon (fanon?) for "Once" as well. Gotta love those._

_**List of Fics That Are Fanon for This Fic-Verse:**_ _1) In the Dark by xxyangxx2006; 2) I Do, I Promise I Do by WhenNightmaresWalked; 3) And Twice Beneath a Space by OceanFire9; 4) Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams by WhenNightmaresWalked; 5) Night Hunter by JasperIsAManlyMan; 6) Caves and Rivers by OceanFire9. These fics actually tie into the plot(s) of "Once" so I suggest you read them if you haven't already. _=D _Cheerio! (and those are their chronological order, too)_

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**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**The Inconstant Moon**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Warnings, Remembrance, the Book of Failures, Solace, and Rejection**

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Nuada did not look around when he felt the sun on his face, or the soft kiss of the wind against his back. He kept his eyes closed. He did not want to see again this place that pulled at his memory and his heart. It was only a dream. A dream, yet still a memory. Not like... not like...

A wisp of memory flickered in the very back of his mind: a low, haunting voice murmuring mortal poetry of hollow men; the gentle pressure of a woman's arms around his shoulders and delicate fingertips tracing light circles over his skin. Only centuries of well-developed self-control kept him from outwardly frowning where his twin would see. The Elven warrior shoved down the puzzlement and frustration that he couldn't grasp more of that piece of memory. It had been a dream, now a memory, but different than this. Different than before. He almost had it, but then his twin shattered the thought with a sharp demand.

"Brother, what are you _thinking?"_ Condemnation. Irritation. Confusion.

The memory slipped away. "Why did you bring me here again, my sister? What do you hope to accomplish?"

Nuala's touch, light as a breath on his shoulder, had him fighting the instinct to flinch away. When had it become Nuala that he shied away from, and Dylan whose comfort he sought? _Since the night I dreamt of blood and butchery. Since the night she did not shrink from me, but instead pushed away my nightmares. _And his twin... when was the last time she had done anything to help soothe the grief in his soul?

"Where are you, my brother? Why do you not return to us? Father is..." _Furious. _The word whispered across the mystical link that bound them. But all his sister said, in a gentle voice, was, "Concerned."

Concerned that perhaps he'd found the final piece of the Golden Crown and would now pull the various strings he had tied into his father's court and find someone to steal the other two pieces? Concerned that, in his fury at the forced courtship, his not-inconsiderable temper had finally snapped and he'd... what? Hurt Dylan? Killed her to rid himself of the human pest? Rage was a black pulse in Nuada's chest. "Do not lie to me, Nuala. Not here."

_You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams._ The words shivered through his mind like gossamer. _As if I am falling..._ He shoved the bit of memory aside. He could not currently identify its source and he couldn't afford to let it distract him now.

"Then tell me where you are-"

"It is _not _your business, Nuala!" He did open his eyes then, and didn't miss the way his sister - his twin, the other half of his soul, who should have _known_ that he would _never_ harm her - flinched away from him. He didn't miss the fear in her eyes. The fear that seemed to always shimmer just below the surface, no matter how gently he went with her. It only fueled the rage burning within him. "Am I a prisoner, to be dragged back to Father's hall when it suits him, to be publicly shamed and humiliated before the entire court? Or am I Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor and heir to the Golden Throne?"

"Brother-"

"I will _not_ be a prisoner, Princess. Not to the humans and not to you. Or to the king." It hurt - like a poisoned knife in the back, it hurt - to put the icy walls of court and rank and title between himself and his father. Between himself and Nuala. Sister, twin, other half of his heart. But it was the most efficacious defense at the moment and the only one he could think of. "You look me in the eye and ask me, 'Where is your honor?' But my lady..." The words seemed to spill from his mouth of their own accord, and he remembered again, _You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams._ "My lady looks into my eyes and she does not need to ask."

"She is young, and foolish," was all Nuala said. Then, the most damning words of all. "She does not know you, Nuada. We do."

The Elf princess felt the pain, then. Her brother's pain. Swift as an arrow. Sharp as the edge of her brother's sword. She didn't _want_ this. Didn't he see that she didn't want it? Didn't want to hurt him this way? But her brother could not hope to find protection in a mortal's naiveté on the subject of the prince and his broken honor. Such a paltry defense would not stand against their father's anger at being so openly disobeyed.

_Prince, warrior, protector, lord and friend. Paragon of honor, courage, and all those other impressive, princely virtues. I know who you are._ Words. Mortal words. Why did Dylan's words always serve to leave him... almost dumbfounded? Every time. For a moment he allowed himself a sliver of anger. It should not be that he was forced to resort to finding solace far from his home and his family, forced to seek it in a mortal woman's lowly cottage at the edge of the woods... in a mortal woman's kind eyes and easy smile. It simply should not _be_.

"I defend you to our father, my brother, but I cannot hold him forever," Nuala murmured when her twin did not speak again. She could feel the anger pulsing between them. Feel the darkness of his constant rage, the fury that always seethed and smoldered deep inside him. That anger frightened her. Did Dylan truly not see it? That was only further proof that the human was blind to Nuada's faults. "You must come back, and soon. It has been almost a week."

"And what waits for me there, my sister?" The anger began to dim a little. He sounded so tired suddenly. Almost defeated. She knew it was cruel to push him yet again this way, but... "There is no welcome for me in Bethmoora."

"It's your home!" Nuala protested, reaching out to him. As a child she would run to him and throw herself into his arms - when she wasn't pummeling him for putting something disgusting (like a frog) in her bed. Those embraces had been so easy. Yet it was so hard to bring herself to touch him now, knowing what she knew of him. Still, she managed it. Managed to just lightly lay her hand on his shoulder. She could feel the winding tension in him through that small contact. Tried to pour comfort and love through their bond.

"No," he said softly, feeling the words echo in his skull. He was saying _no_ to so many things - including, for the first time in his life, his sister's delicate mind-touch. He tried to ignore the relief he felt from her as she pulled away. "No. Bethmoora is not my home." Not now. Perhaps when his mission had been accomplished and his father had been made to see reason regarding the humans. Maybe then Findias would be home again.

"Father loves you, Nuada. You know that." _And _I _love you, my brother, so very much. If only you could see that._

The look he gave her, so carefully blank, was all the more heartbreaking because she felt his grief. Felt it, knowing he strove to suppress it so she would not. How heavy it was. She yearned to smooth away the lines of strain around her brother's eyes. She wanted so badly to hold him to her, to comfort him as when they were children. But she couldn't. She knew she couldn't.

"Please," he said, his voice a mere thread of sound. "Sister. Tell Father... tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him. I mean no disrespect with my actions. But I will not return to Findias without Dylan at my side. My honor and duty to her, and the king's orders, demand this. And she is not ready to return. When duty no longer calls me away, then will I return."

The prince turned away from his twin, and something in the grass caught his eye. A small, pink flower with an ivory center. Petals like silk, none of them bigger than a brownie's eye. Without thinking, Nuada knelt down and plucked the little wildflower. He would never have done so in the waking world. But this was a dream and the flower looked strangely familiar. Where had he...

Dylan. At midsummer, when he had seen her at the medieval faire in Central Park. Nuada recalled the memory easily - Dylan in a long, flowing ivory and primrose-colored gown, the late-setting summer sun burnishing her hair. She'd worn a crown of pink silk flowers. Flowers just like this one. When it had fallen on him, he'd felt her gaze with all the force of a blow. He remembered what he'd seen in those silvery blue eyes like rain-swept autumn lakes: hope. Hope that it truly _was_ him, that he had come back into her life after more than four moons away.

_There is no welcome for me in Bethmoora. _Nuada's own words mingled with Dylan's promise. _You are always welcome here, Nuada. Always. _And her eyes. The welcome had been there for him to see, as visible as a campfire in the dark. He could read her so easily with just one look into silver-washed eyes of impossible blue.

_It is as if I am falling, hard and fast through a hole in the world. And every time I find something to hold on to, you look at me with those blasted eyes, and I am falling again._ Falling, stumbling towards something he did not, could not possibly understand. Something so rich and strange and enticing that he could only find when Dylan looked at him without condemnation, without resignation or dismay or anger. It should not have been possible. He should have been disgusted with himself for letting it affect him so, should have striven with everything in himself to keep from succumbing. But he was slowly losing the will to fight. _And I fear that a time will come when I no longer reach for a handhold, and I will let myself fall._

The feral-eyed warrior suppressed a shudder as another flicker of memory drifted through his mind. He had said those words in a dream. To Dylan? He swallowed down his denial, forcing himself to be brutally honest. To remember. Yes. He had said such a thing to her when he'd walked her dreams but a few days ago. He'd forgotten until now.

"And if this answer does not please your king?" Nuala asked softly, shattering his thought.

Clenching his fists, he replied just as softly, "If Father doesn't like it, he can tell me so himself when I return. Hear me, Nuala. I will not yield." And exerting all the magic he possessed, Nuada forcibly wrenched himself from the dream his sister had woven around him. He snapped awake on Dylan's bed to a soft knock on the bedroom door. One molten bronze eye sliced to the half-open doorway. Becan stood there, visibly distressed.

"What is it?" Nuada sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"My lady... she... I think it would be... that is..." The little brownie took a deep breath. "Sire, I beg you to go to her."

Instantly alert, Nuada cast out with all his senses as he got to his feet. "She's returned?" He heard it now. The soft sounds of muffled mortal weeping, coming from the kitchen. He moved past the wee one. Becan could keep up or not. As he chose. The Elven warrior would find out what was wrong momentarily.

As it happened, Becan chose to stay in the master bedroom with the purring Bat. It was warmer there, for one thing. And that way, the brownie knew he wouldn't be interrupting anything.

Nuada found her at the kitchen table, her face in her hands. The first thing he noticed was that she'd changed out of that disgustingly sparkly pink shirt and jeans and into a much more appropriate skirt in swirling blue and one of the thin, long-sleeved shirts she favored. The second thing he noticed was that though she'd fallen nearly completely silent, her shoulders still hitched as she cried almost soundlessly. Each wrenching sob seemed to rip out of her with breathtaking force.

In front of her was a book - a book to display pictures, it looked like. It was filled with clippings from human newspapers. Each little snippet showed a picture and some short sentences. Some of the pictures were in color, others in black and white. None of the people in the pictures was over twenty, none younger than five years old.

The last one on the page before blank space began was a youth with black hair in a horsetail and a silver hoop in one ear. His smile was tight-lipped and his eyes were hard. As Nuada approached the weeping mortal, he read the words, _"Fifteen-year-old Rafael Gonzales died Saturday night from gang-related violence..."_ He didn't read further. He didn't need to. He only murmured Dylan's name. When she looked up at him, tears streaming down her too-pale face, her eyes shimmered with grief and pain.

"Sorry," she mumbled through her tears. She swiped at them with one hand. Nuada's eyes narrowed. Her right hand, the one that hadn't been injured by broken glass that first night, now sported a bandage across the palm. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying to be quiet, I-"

"Hush," he said, and slid into the chair beside hers. He took her hand and examined it carefully. Bandaged with the left hand, by someone who was right-handed. Probably Dylan had done it herself, then. "What happened?"

"Cut myself on some scissors."

"That is not what I meant," he murmured. The prince knew she would not miss the undercurrent of steel in his voice.

The Elf's presence helped ease some of the choking grief inside her. She'd been just fine when she came in. A little tired, maybe. Still trying to shove aside memories resurrected by the sight of Francesca's battered face and the message of warning, and also in a whole lot of pain from her sliced up hand and her throbbing leg, definitely. But she'd been fine after getting a bit to eat and taking some over-the-counter pain meds. Until she saw Rafael's obituary.

Only fifteen years old. He wasn't even one of hers. Not really. But she'd known him. Liked him. Liked how he'd treated Lisa. His love and respect for her had been obvious. The two teens had had plans for themselves. The fact that they'd even found each other - two kids with the Sight who'd grown up around gangs and managed to turn out decently - was nothing short of a miracle. But now it was over, because a rival gang member had gunned him down in a place that was supposed to be safe.

She'd snapped. Plain and simple. Suddenly there was nothing that could hold back the hot tears she'd been keeping mostly locked away since finding out about the Hispanic boy's death. Trying to shove it down had only made it worse.

"I finally had a picture," Dylan whispered, not looking at Nuada. Her eyes were drawn to the scrapbook in front of her.

She knew cops who did something similar - kept files or scrapbooks on all those cases they'd lost, or never solved. People still missing, criminals still unpunished. The dead, still unavenged. As a psychiatrist, Dylan even knew it was a bad idea. Knew how it could easily warp into obsession. Drag the spirit down into despair.

But she needed to be reminded that she had responsibilities. Reminded that there were people counting on her to help them. Otherwise, she probably would never leave her cottage. Not after escaping the institution, and especially not after her attack in December. Remembering her obligations had helped her during her second breakdown at twenty; remembering she had to take care of John. And that was why, whenever she failed to help someone, she would put their picture in this scrapbook. A reminder that failure was never a viable option. A warning, that failure meant someone had died. That was what she explained now to the prince who sat beside her and did not relinquish his grip on her hand.

"The boy's death was not your fault, Dylan," Nuada murmured. The prince did not care one way or the other about a single human death. They could all blink out of existence for all he cared. But she mourned for the youth. He could see the grief over the boy in her eyes. Feel it through their linked hands. So he would comfort her.

She squeezed her eyes shut as two fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. "I know," she said. "I know it wasn't, but... Nuada, he was just a kid. He was half my age. He was just a boy and he died and... I've lost so many." Dylan rested her fingers against the bottom of the page. It was the twelfth page of the book. Each page had at least five pictures on it. "Made mistakes. Been just a few minutes too late. Misstepped around parents or guardians and been replaced, and then the kid I was working with decided they couldn't stand it anymore. Some people say I'm one of the best, because I can make connections with kids who seemed unreachable, but those are just kids with the Sight. That's all it is - they've found an adult who believes. Everybody else, my success rate is the same as every other psychiatrist in New York. I try," she whispered brokenly. "I try so hard and it's never enough. I can never be enough for anyone."

Dylan remembered Gunter, and the blood. The sound of the girls screaming and crying. One of the orderlies, Ryan, mumbling, "Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man." Over and over while she tried to get her friend to breathe. The nurses shoving her roughly aside to get to the dying boy. She'd had bruises for a week from hitting the wall so hard.

And then there was Allison. Allison, who'd just given up one day and walked in front of one of the screeching subway trains in the New York Underground and...

"I just... I can't..." She covered her face with shaking hands, ashamed to be crying over her own inadequacies. What must the Elf prince be thinking of her? _That I'm a pathetic crybaby,_ Dylan thought. But the words came spilling out regardless. "I'm not enough for my family, I'm not enough for my patients... or for you."

He frowned, stunned. _Mo duinne, how could you think..._

But he didn't speak the words aloud. Couldn't. And then she began to speak again. Told him about the little girl hiding from the monsters at the museum. Orphaned, and so young. Nuada could see the child had hit Dylan hard. Harder, perhaps, than even she knew. She told him about her sister being attacked. He sensed she was keeping something back, but he didn't care enough about her wretched kin to press her. A broken wrist and bruised ribs were little enough to fear. The Elven warrior had suffered such injuries himself and knew that much. Though the thought of a male - any male, human or Elf-kind - abusing any woman, no matter what her breeding, disgusted him.

By the time the words faded away, she was dry-eyed and had her breathing under control. It should have pleased Nuada. Instead it worried him. Always, whenever Dylan shoved her emotions down that way, it worried him. How did her sanity hold under the strain? Yet she showed no signs of breaking. That, too, worried him, though he did not understand why. Whenever he thought about it, he was reminded of stone that seemed whole, but when pressure was applied at just the right place, the stone shattered into a thousand pieces. Such thoughts made him uneasy, though he could not have said why his mind drew such parallels.

When Dylan stopped sniffling, Nuada said gently, "Come with me." He stood, pulling Dylan gently to her feet. The sharp wash of agony that smashed into him through the mental link had him sucking in his breath sharply. "Dylan! What did you-"

"Stairs," she muttered, sagging against him. Needles of black fire were stabbing deep into the aching joint. Only Elven strength kept her on her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead against Nuada's shoulder as the throbbing intensified. "Lots of them. Couldn't take anymore Vicodin; had to settle for standard stuff. Now don't pick me-"

Nuada's small sigh of exasperation as he swung her into his arms cut her off. The prince moved toward the den, where she'd be able to sit on the sofa and maybe stretch out a little.

"Up," Dylan finished dryly. "Seriously, Your Highness. What is your obsession with carrying me everywhere?" Despite the pain, she slid her arms around his neck and batted her eyelashes. In a sugary-sweet voice she asked, "Does it make you feel manly?"

His look was as withering as the desert sun. For the first time since leaving the Met, Dylan smiled. Surprisingly, Nuada grinned back and raised one eyebrow. "Why? Does being carried make _you _feel feminine?"

"No," she replied, folding her arms as they stepped into the den. "Actually, it makes me feel like a wimp."

Dylan wasn't sure if it was in retaliation or not, but she had to laugh when Nuada dropped her unceremoniously on the sofa, even though it hurt her leg a bit. She kept laughing as she leaned back against the arm of the two-seater and stretched out her painfully stiff leg.

She stopped laughing when the amber-eyed faerie seated himself on the floor in front of the sofa and pushed the hem of her skirt up to just above her knee.

"Now, wait a minute-"

"Be still," the prince ordered, and laid his fingertips against her skin where the pain was the worst. She bit back a whimper. Even that small pressure hurt. When Nuada looked up at her, she hastily looked away. First crying, and now this. She hated this. Crying to the Elven warrior when she'd been doing this, living this life, for over five years. She should've been used to this by now. As for her knee, she'd had a year to get used to that, too. So why did-

Bliss. Absolute, indescribable bliss as cold, soothing magic flowed from Nuada's fingertips into her leg. Ever so slowly, inch by slow and torturous inch, the pain was pushed back until finally, she couldn't feel it at all. Nuada's fingers began to press and knead, easing the stiffness. She quit arguing after that. Instead, Dylan leaned back until she was fairly horizontal and covered her eyes with her forearm. _Heaven, _she thought. _I'm in Heaven. I've died. He's killed me and I've gone to Heaven._ "Thank you so much," she whispered.

"Do you feel like a... what was the word you used? 'A wimp.' Do you feel like a 'wimp' now?" He allowed himself a smirk when she shook her head. He knew from several sources (mostly past lovers, though his sister, as well) that the crown prince of Bethmoora was incredibly skilled when it came to massage. Nuada opened his mouth to say something - Dylan was relaxed enough now that he was fairly confident he could make her blush - when she gasped, then sighed dreamily.

"Oh, oh. Right there. Please," she whispered. Nuada obligingly pressed the indicated spot with the ball of his thumb. Dylan made that little humming sound low in her throat and breathed in soft Gaelic, "Níos deacra."

Amber eyes lightened to palest gold-kissed ivory as he obeyed the whispered command and pressed harder. He tried to pretend he didn't notice that odd sensation of falling. _And I fear that a time will come when I no longer reach for a handhold, and I will let myself fall_. Nuada shook off the memory of a confession-soaked dream. Ignored the heat whispering just under his skin as Dylan whispered "Oh, níos deacra" again.

It was a bit easier when his fingertips brushed the underside of Dylan's knee and she actually squeaked and twitched away from him. Her wide-eyed expression told him why: he'd accidentally discovered one of her ticklish spots. The Elven warrior filed that away for later examination and smiled at her, deliberately shading his expression with little-boy mischief. "Was that you who made that sound, or the cat?" He asked with studied innocence.

Her fierce scowl was ruined by the way the corners of her mouth kept twitching into a smile. But she _was_ smiling. When Dylan could not smile, it made him uneasy. He could not have said why.

"You know," Dylan said musingly as she shifted and made room for him on the sofa. He took the open seat and she leaned against him. Casually. Comfortably. As if there was nothing unusual about it. The mortal had held his hand the same way, the morning after Hyakki Yako. Dylan's head on his shoulder was now a familiar weight. Her hair brushed against his bare skin like a kiss of shadows. "You know, you're my favorite."

He turned to study her. "Favorite?"

"Mmmm," she said.

"Favorite what?"

Now Dylan laughed softly. "Gosh, let me try and list them all. Favorite Elf. Favorite faerie of any kind. Favorite prince. Favorite guy with long hair." With a self-deprecating smile, she added, "Favorite blond because I'm just shallow like that. Favorite person parked on my sofa. So many options. They all fit."

Unsure what unholy notion had taken possession of him, Nuada said softly, "You are my favorite human." Her giggles drew his gaze from the fire - which he'd been studying with fierce concentration - back to her. "And why are you laughing?"

"Because that doesn't really mean much," she said between giggles. "I've been your favorite human for months, seeing as how you didn't want to kill me for about that long. How many other humans can say that? Probably none. Now, saying I was your favorite... um... brunette, for example, or your favorite female with blue eyes. That's a little more surprising, since I actually have viable competition. At least, I'm pretty sure you know brunettes or people with blue eyes that you _wouldn't_ rather see get eaten by rabid dingoes. Or if I'm your favorite person who wears silly socks." She wiggled her toes at him. They were currently encased in royal blue wool decorated with pale blue piglets sporting silver wings. "Make sense?"

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Wear those," he said, gesturing to her socks. "They're ridiculous."

Dylan laughed again. "I know. That's why I wear them - they make me smile. When I'm in a good mood, I wear my silly socks. It helps keep me cheerful. When I'm sad, I don't wear any socks. It's so depressing to look down at my feet and see plain black or gray. But if I have to go out or I have to wear socks for whatever reason, then I just put on black or gray ones. My personal philosophy is that socks should reflect a person's mood." Now she looked up at him, curious. "Do you actually wear socks? Because I've seen you barefoot before and if you don't wear socks, I'm wondering why your feet don't stink."

His mouth twitched. Eyes the color of warm honey slid to the ceiling so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "I wear socks, yes."

"What color are they?"

Nuada bit the inside of his cheek. Sometimes, albeit rarely, the mortal could sound so childlike. Right now she reminded him of a kitten who'd been distracted by a piece of brightly colored yarn and refused to pay attention to anything else until she got her claws into it. "Black."

"Just black?" Such good-natured disdain in those two simple words.

"I'm sure," he said carefully, "that I have some gray ones somewhere." The ceiling was _very_ interesting.

"So just gray and black." Dylan propped her chin on his shoulder so she could look up at him. He could feel the weight of her scrutiny. "Do your socks reflect your mood, Your Highness?"

"No," he said.

"Then why don't you wear more colorful ones?"

"Because I am male." And men did not wear... blue footwear covered with flying piglets.

"Boys can wear colors, too, you know," Dylan replied gently. She wiggled her toes again. "And you look nice in blue."

_Boys? _He didn't snarl. If he tried, the prince wasn't sure if it would come out as the appropriate growl, or as helpless laughter at the utter ludicrousness of this conversation. So instead, Nuada said in a somewhat strangled voice, "I _prefer_ black." And he did not appreciate the woman at his side referring to him as a "boy."

Dylan laid her cheek against his shoulder again and said, "Whatever you say, Your Highness. So, what favorite am I, exactly?"

She was still laughing at him, curse her. But they were back on familiar territory now. "Of all the people I know with blue eyes, you are my favorite," the prince muttered, turning back to the fire. Dylan's giggles abruptly ceased.

She hadn't expected that. She'd just been teasing. And Nuada didn't exactly _sound _like she was his favorite anything at the moment. But... he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't meant it. Dylan swallowed hard. _Favorite._ The word sent a frisson down her spine. _Of all the people I know with blue eyes..._ Did that mean he liked her eyes, as well? _Favorite._ Happy warmth mellowed in her blood.

Suddenly, almost surprised at her own daring, she shifted and slid her arm across Nuada's chest to half-hug him. Her hand rested on his bare shoulder. The Elf stiffened. Slowly, slowly relaxed again. Dylan could feel each rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The shoulder she leaned against was warm under her cool cheek. She closed her eyes and tried not to count the seconds ticking by. Tried only to enjoy the wild scent of the forest and the feel of his heartbeat against the underside of her arm. After the night she'd had, this was the most precious gift she could ever receive - just being here with him, without any of the world's evils trying to hurt them. Safety. Peace.

Sanctuary.

Nuada closed his eyes and sighed. _I should not be here. _The words floated through his mind. Weightless. Meaningless. It didn't matter what he _should_ do. In this moment, it only mattered what he wanted to do. And what he wanted, more than almost anything, was to sit here with her and forget the weight of the world.

So he laid his cheek against her soft curls and breathed in the sweet honeysuckle scent left by her shampoo. He kept his hands where they were - one on his knee, the other on the arm of the sofa - because he suddenly wanted to put his arm around those fragile mortal shoulders and pull her more tightly against him. To shield her, shelter her. He never wanted her to feel that sort of pain again. Never wanted to see that shimmer of misery in her eyes again. She had already suffered so much in her short life. But touching Dylan that way would be a gross mistake.

Then Dylan shifted a little and her grip tightened just a fraction. Her fingertips began lightly, seemingly subconsciously tracing one of the ridged scars on his shoulder. Each stroke of that velvet-soft fingertip over the sensitive knife scar lulled him. Somehow soothed him. Made that strange heat bloom in his belly. Eyes still closed, Nuada's senses zeroed in on each oh so soft caress until there was nothing else but the touch, and the scent of her, and the warmth of her skin against his.

_Don't do this, _the Elf prince thought. To her? Or to himself? _This is wrong. She's mortal, I should not... I should not want this._ But it wasn't about _should_ or _shouldn't. _It was about finding just a single moment of solace here with her. He could forget Dylan's humanity and simply be. Just for a little while.

"Nuada," Dylan whispered. Her breath was soft against his neck. The heat in his belly spread to his chest. "Do you... do you want to talk about... about before?"

"No." He couldn't afford to think about before, out there in the snow. The sound of her carefree laughter and the way the tension had drained from his body. Couldn't think about her arms twined trustingly around his neck and her face turned up toward his as if she knew exactly what he wanted to do. Knew exactly what he planned when he leaned in to-

"Do you want me..." Breathing evenly suddenly became very difficult for the Elf prince as Dylan trailed off. But then she whispered, "Do you want me to stop... this?"

A pause. "No, mo duinne. I do not want to stop this. Or," Nuada added, feeling suddenly, strangely, almost insanely reckless, "this." Without letting himself think about what he meant to do, or why he meant to do it, he brought his hand to her face and ran his fingertips over the thick scar that slashed down her cheek. Skimmed his fingers lightly over the delicate line of her jaw, noticing for the first time the change in texture between the various knife scars that ran the length of her jawline. The scars reminded him of silk brocade. The unblemished skin was like softer, smoother silk. Nuada drew his fingers up and down her jaw. Felt her shiver slightly. But she wasn't afraid. Dylan was never afraid of him.

He didn't open his eyes as he let his thumb trace the contours of her soft mouth. Just listened to the way her breathing went shallow, the way her heart began to drum in her chest. Didn't let himself think about what he was doing, or what her reaction meant. Didn't think about the slow, simmering heat that was spreading through him like early morning sunlight across cool water. Only lightly brushed the pad of his thumb back and forth across Dylan's trembling lower lip.

_Stop this. Stop, before you're tempted to... _To what? He knew. Part of him, at least, knew what he wanted in this moment. That was why he kept his eyes closed. If he didn't look at the lips he caressed, there would be no temptation.

The Elf prince refused to even think about why there was temptation in the first place.

_I shouldn't do this, _Dylan told herself. A strand of star-blond hair brushed against the hand she lightly rested on the moon-pale shoulder. His touch against her mouth was hot enough to burn if she let it. And she wanted so badly to let it. _I should stop him. But I don't want to._ _But... the way I feel... it will only get worse if I keep letting him do this to me. But I... I don't want him to stop. I just want to stay like this forever._

Forever. Stay with Nuada forever. No demands on either of them, no fear, no court machinations, no enemies trying to hurt one or both of them. Just stay with him. But she couldn't. Findias was waiting for them to return to its traps of political intrigue. And she couldn't go back. Not to stay, anyway. Not forever. Not even for a night.

And she still had to tell him.

"Nuada," she whispered, and shivered again when his thumb came to rest at the corner of her mouth for a moment before brushing against her cheek and then falling away. Dylan shoved at the curls falling partially into her face. Whispered, "I have to tell you something."

The prince shifted so that he could look down at her. Frowned slightly at the odd dread he saw reflected in her eyes. "What is it?"

The words were like rose thorns in her throat, choking her. She couldn't touch him like this and say what she had to say. It seemed like a lie, somehow. Reluctantly, she pulled away. Folded her hands in her lap the way she had as a child when her parents were scolding her for some new offense. Dylan couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the fireplace. It was suddenly easier than looking at the prince at her side. "You're going to be angry."

Nuada's brows drew together as he studied her. Gone was the warm, contented woman from before. Now she sat, tense and worried - but not quite afraid. So he reached out and gently tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. "Tell me," the prince said gently.

Dylan forced her eyes open. She couldn't hide for this... much as she wanted to. Dread was an icy black poison sliding through her stomach. "When we... when we go back to Findias and talk to your dad," she said softly. "We _do _have to talk to your dad, right? Explain why we left and why we were gone so long?" The amber-eyed Elf nodded and her clasped hands tightened until she knew she'd have bruises later. "After that happens... after we talk to him... I... I can't..." _Say it, _her brain snapped at her. _Just say it. Don't be such a coward. _This time Dylan didn't try to keep her eyes open. "I have to come back here. To the mortal realm. I can't... can't stay in Findias anymore. I can't stay with you."

Silence. Awful, dreadful, horrible silence. Something was pressing on her chest, pressing and pressing. Crushing the breath out of her. Her blood was like ice water in her veins. Her heart slammed hard against her breastbone, leaving cracks. Ten heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty. And still he didn't speak.

Finally she had to look. Even though, like the first time she'd ever seen him, that night in the subway like the white beast out of a faerie tale, her entire being was screaming at her not to open her eyes. Not to look. But Dylan had to look, if only to reassure herself that he was even still there.

Nuada _was_ there. He sat as still as stone on the sofa, as if he'd been carved from marble. Only one of the Kindly Folk could hold so preternaturally still. Not even his chest rose and fell with the force of his breath. But his eyes were alive. Alive and melting slowly from the warm honey color they had been to sanguine-brushed molten bronze. And this time, the fury in his gaze was all for her.

"Nuada-"

A prayer, a plea.

He lunged to his feet and she fell silent. The prince strode quickly to the fireplace. Rested one forearm against the stone mantel and stared hard into the fire. Dylan saw that both fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were the color of old, bleached bones. Fury was acid-etched into every line of his body. Dylan wanted to drop her face into her hands, to hide. But there was no hiding from this. Not from his rage. She wouldn't hide from him.

The silence that she'd tried to break circled around them like a stalking beast. Break the silence, and everything would be lost. She knew that, and didn't try to say anything else. He had to get past his anger. She had to give him time to accept the rage and let it go so they could figure out what they were going to do. As a psychiatrist she knew and understood that. As Dylan, the woman who only wanted to take the words back and promise to do anything he asked if only he would go back to looking at her with that gentle warmth in his eyes... the silence felt like the executioner's axe waiting to fall.

When the axe fell, when Nuada broke the silence, he didn't just break it. He shattered it into a thousand jagged pieces with four simple words.

"You lied to me."

His voice didn't break. Didn't so much as crack. But her heart did, just a little.

"What? No, I-"

"You lied to me." Toneless words. Not a hint of the swiftly darkening fury that Dylan knew swirled just beneath those words. She could see that tenebrous wrath in his eyes when he turned back toward her. "All your professions of loyalty, of fealty, of... they were all lies."

"No!" No, he couldn't think that, he couldn't believe that! Didn't he see, didn't he _know_ by now that she would never, could never lie to him? She never had. "No, that's not true-"

"Be. Silent." The words were carved from razor-edged ice shards. "'I go when you go.' Is that not what you said? And you said that if I went back without you, you would follow after me. That I deserved a defender. That I had you at my side as surely as I had Wink. That you would do whatever I commanded of you. You offered me your fealty and called me your prince. _Is that not what you said?"_

The word was barely audible when she whispered, "Yes."

"Yet you forsake those words when they are still warm in your mouth. How dare you?" Before she could attempt to speak past the lump in her throat, the copper-eyed warrior prince added with barbed scorn, "But of course - you are _human_." The word was the vilest of curses in his mouth. "I should have expected such deceit from one of your kind."

"They're _not _my kind!"

He waved that away with a knife-sharp gesture. "More words. More lies."

Nuada suddenly had to get out of the room. Out of the cottage. Away from her and her thrice-cursed eyes that held a sheen of crocodile tears that still managed to tug at his conscience even though he knew them to be false. Far, far away from the taste of pain in the air. The warrior didn't know how the human had bewitched him into believing any of the emotions he'd often tasted on the air were geniuine. Didn't actually care. Perhaps it _had_ been genuine. Humans were changeable, after all. They could not deign to remember their oaths for more than a few moons, it seemed. He did not care about that, either. Only cared about getting away from her.

Memories - hot chocolate late at night, the sound of her voice as she read to him, the touch of her fingers against his face, the stench of human blood shed in defense of his life - tried to remind him that she'd suffered for him. Lived for him. Nearly died for him. Given him so very much of herself. But it didn't matter. Just when he'd stopped waiting for it, stopped expecting it, the mortal had finally betrayed him.

_I go when you go. _Lies. Ever the blackest of lies. He had disobeyed his father, raged at his twin and hurt her, for a lie.

He had to get out of there. Now.

The enraged Elf prince stalked past Dylan and down the hall to her room. She got up to follow him, but wasn't fast enough to get to the door before he slammed it shut and locked it. One trembling hand touched the polished rowan wood. "Nuada," she whispered. She knew he could hear her. "Nuada, please. You don't understand."

The door didn't open.

"Look, it's not that I don't want to," Dylan said to the door. Her chest felt unbearably tight. "I do. But I have responsibilities. My patients need me. I promised myself to them before I ever pledged to you. I can't sacrifice one for the other. They have to be able to get in contact with me. We'll figure something out, though. You could stay here with me or something. Or I could commute back and forth or... I don't know. We could do the whole court-function thing every so often to please your dad. He won't be angry when we explain, will he?"

The door yanked open and Nuada stepped out, fully dressed in the familiar black and crimson. The satchel Wink had brough him hung over one shoulder. Dylan's blood turned to ice. _No..._

"You're leaving?" Dylan blurted. "Come on! You can't really think that I-"

One hand, coldly impersonal, pushed her to the side. Despite the fury pounding through him in time with his heartbeat, he would not strike her. Would not deliberately hurt her. At least not physically. But the temptation to say something vicious was so strong in him that he had to grind his teeth as he strode past her. _I go when you go._ A mantra repeating in his skull. A mortal's oath. A human's lies.

She finally stopped him at the front door. Narrow as the entryway was, there was no room to shove the infuriating mortal out of the way. When she lifted her chin, defiance written in every line of her body and in her dangerously fey-like eyes, the leash Nuada kept wrapped tightly around his temper began to fray. "Move."

Dylan shook her head. "Just let me explain!"

"Every word that comes out of your mouth is false, human. Why should I believe anything you say?"

"If you would just listen-"

His hand wrapping around her throat silenced her. He didn't squeeze, or exert any pressure. He didn't have to. The point was not his strength, or even the implied threat of where his hand lay. The point was that the last eleven months were suddenly gone. They were back to that first night in Nuada's subterranean sanctuary. The night he'd snapped out of unconsciousness and grabbed her by the throat in a strangling grip.

A tear rolled down her cheek, slid along the line of her jaw, and dropped onto his wrist. She'd expected him to be angry, to be upset. But not like _this._

"Why are you so angry?"

There were so many things the Elf prince wanted to say. _Do you have any idea what I have risked for you? Do you know what my father will do to punish my disobedience? I did this for_ you, _and now you abandon me to my father and to my fate. Without you I am surely condemned._ But he didn't. She was human, and it was his own blasted fault that he had allowed himself to forget that fact, even for a moment.

"Nuada..." She wouldn't cry like some teenage girl because her boyfriend was mad at her. For one thing, Nuada wasn't her boyfriend. For another, she was too old to cry over something that, in the grand scheme of her life, carried little weight. But Dylan couldn't stop herself from whispering, "Tabhair ná téigh."

_Please don't go._

He had to forcibly suppress a shudder at the desperation whispering just beneath the surface of her words. It was a trick. She was human. He would never again forget that she was human, and heartless. Never again let himself believe that the emotions in the depths of those silver-washed blue eyes were genuine.

The Elven warrior forced his face into a cold mask. To move her, he would have to strike right at her heart with implacable purpose and just an edge of cruelty. The words would leave a vile taste in his mouth, but they were the best weapons for his purpose. He would not be held prisoner anywhere; certainly not here, with _her_. "I am Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor... and I will _not_ be forced to stay in the filthy den of a disgusting human whore. _Now get out of my way."_

It was as if he had slapped her. A flood of concern, swiftly shoved aside, tried to take him as her face went ghastly white, her eyes glassy. She fell back against the door. Her mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged. Her hands were shaking as she shoved at the riotous curls tumbling around and in her face. Finally, she bowed her head and stepped aside. She hardly even seemed to breathe.

But when he'd moved past her to stand at the door, she whispered something so softly that for a moment, he was certain he'd been mistaken in the words. He turned on her.

"What did you say?"

"I said," Dylan murmured tonelessly, "'Please be safe, and please take care of yourself.'" Somehow she was still breathing. Still standing. Still managing to form audible words with a tongue that felt thick and numb. But she couldn't look at him. Couldn't look into those bronze eyes full of anger and loathing. So she stared at the door latch instead.

Nuada frowned, studying her. A trick. The words were just another trick... weren't they? And yet... and yet...

In the end, he didn't say anything. Only walked out into the swirling whiteness of the snowstorm that had begun sometime in the night, and disappeared.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Sigh. Boys are stupid. That's really all I can say. Well, not even that boys _are _stupid. More like they _can be. _But still... I kinda wanna slap him right now. Who else wants to slap him right now? Especially since he was making such progress! Ugh! Stupid Elf prince. Sigh. So look for chapter 34 tonight or tomorrow (I hope, I hope, I hope). And keep your fingers crossed about the banning thing because that would so suck. Oh, yes, it would. Sigh._

_And now for our lovely review prompt._

_1) Firstly, was Prince FatHead in character?_

_2) Nuala - did her love for Nuada come across? I was going for a warring of love and duty type thing for her; she has to be harsh with him because her dad is like, "Where the heck _is _he?" But at the same time she loves him. Did that come across?_

_3) Who thinks Nuada's gonna get even more pissed when Dylan tells him (or someone does) that the night Dylan went to the Met, something that sounded like a faerie creature took a golden thing from the Celtic Exhibit from the Bethmoora case and Dylan didn't tell him that night? How do you think that conversation will go?_

_4) Thirteen_ _favorite things, things you hated, things you thought were funny, things you weren't sure about, etc._

_5) The cuddling on the sofa! Who was happy for cuddling on the sofa? What do we think about that? _

_6) And finally (sigh) the fight. What do we think of the fight? I'm specifically looking at my very good literary analysts. *poke poke* But I want other opinions too, of course. What are your thoughts on that fight?_

_I love all of you. Your support, your love, and your critiques make this fic possible. I can guarantee you, it wouldn't have the success it does if it wasn't for you guys. I love each and every one of you (even those who have gone and left me). So huggles for you all!_

_**Mini-Nuada Freak-Out Challenge:**_ _while our obnoxious prince who's a fathead is getting dressed and packing in Dylan's room, __**what is Nuada thinking?**_ _Don't forget Becan and Bat are in there (although Becan's probably hiding in the closet and Bat's under the bed lashing his tail). This probably wouldn't be more than a few paragraphs, something short that could be done in 10 or 20 minutes, although there is still no word limit and it can be as long or as short as you want. I want conflict, torment, anger, doubt, all that good stuff. Standard reward system._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"The inconstant moon" is a phrase from William Shakespeare's _Romeo & Juliet. _It's from the famous balcony scene, where Romeo starts to swear to Juliet that he loves her truly. He starts to swear by the moon, and Juliet says, "Oh, swear not by the moon! The inconstant moon..." Anyway, since Nuada changes his perspective so sharply and so swiftly, and we talk about his "moonbeam skin" and "moon-pale skin" and stuff, I thought it sort of fit with the sentiment of the chapter. So that's where the title comes from._

_**Dedication:**_ _this chapter is also dedicated to Taylor Swift and Avril Lavigne, without whose music I don't know if it would've sounded the same._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The dream Nuada is trying to remember (and eventually does) is the first of 2 dreams from WhenNightmaresWalked's challenge entry, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams," used her with her permission (I love you, Pop-Tart!) because she's just awesome like that.

- The thing about "prince, warrior, protector, lord and friend" that Nuada remembers is from chapter 31.

- The flower-bit and the brief memory of Dylan at the faire is from OceanFire9's brilliant fic, "And Twice Beneath a Space," chapter 2, "Seeing You Again." She started that fic with "My Head Against a Wall" in response to chapter 8's challenge, then one of her reviewers asked her to do a sequel, so she did, and it's cute, and it is also used here with her permission. For the full memory, go read her fic. For Dylan's version of the events, go reread chapter 8. =D

- And the flower is made up. OceanFire said "Dylan had flowers in her curly brunette hair. They were pink, like the dress worn by..." I figured, since they're in her hair, they're small too. And since Dylan wasn't wearing a pink gown, I needed her to have a reason why she'd be wearing pink flowers with a non-pink dress. And it's because there's white in them, too (I've noticed yellow, red, white, and black are the 4 most common middle-of-the-flower colors found in nature), which works because the prettiest dresses I've ever seen for medieval faires are usually ivory or cream (or black, but it's summer time; speaking from personal experience, that is no bueno). So that's where LA got the idea for the made-up wildflower.

- Okay, it might be said that I stole the ticklish-behind-the-knees thing from Scott Pilgrim (best comic book and movie EVER by the way!) but I didn't. All my chick friends, and even my husband, are ticklish there. So I figured it was one of those standard, almost-everyone-has-this kind of things. However, everyone should go watch Scott Pilgrim vs the World. If you don't like it, then I'm sorry, but I loved it. It was soooo funny. And it totally reminded me of my life in high school.

- The phrase "a kiss of shadows" did in fact come from the book by Laurell K. Hamilton with that title. Although those books are basically leprechaun porn, the titles are beautiful (A Kiss of Shadows, Caress of Twilight, Swallowing Darkness). The other ones are okay, but I like those titles the best. And guess what? You cannot copyright a title, did you know that? When it comes to movies/books/music, I mean. I think you can with toylines, though, because there was this whole issue with James Cameron's Avatar and Avatar: the Last Airbender toys a while ago...

- The socks that Dylan's wearing (the ones with the piglets) are almost identical to the socks my beta wears (except my beta's are white). I needed silly socks, no one was giving me ideas *poke* so my beta offered hers. =D

- Dylan's shampoo smells like honeysuckle in this scene because in the language of flowers (the Anglo one, not _hanakotoba_), honeysuckle means "devoted affection" and "the bonds of love." I thought it worked for what was going on _before _the fight.

- Okay, the touching thing. I have to admit, I learned how to write about touching people from _Twilight_. I know, I know, all the Twi-hards, go ahead and squeal. All the Twi-haters, go ahead and hiss. But look, I read _Twilight_ way later than most people (I was about 18/19) and went into it trying to figure out what the big deal was. There, I discovered the concept that a single touch can be the most... for lack of a better word, erotic experience you could read about, even if the touch was totally innocent - if it was done right.

Which also led me to the idea that a person could write about sex without writing about sex (that's _not _what this part is about, though), which is where my _Batman: the Dark Knight_ fanfic, "Five Queens and a Joker," came from.

Anyway, but so since there's a question of personal integrity and intellectual-property ownership, I will admit that I first learned about the concept of the highly-electrified touch, we'll call it, from _Twilight_. However, I figured out how to write about it myself.

- The thing about "Yet you forsake those words when they are still warm in your mouth" is paraphrased from this wonderful concept found in _Golden,_ by Cameron Dokey, where Rapunzel says, "You think I'd turn my back on Melisande and her daughter while the promises I made them both are still warm in my mouth." It was just such a lovely... conceptualization of promises and the longevity of promises. So I borrowed it.

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_**Chapter Playlist**_

- "Asleep" by the Smiths  
- "Don't Walk Away" from _Xanadu_  
- "Haunted" by Taylor Swift  
- "Innocence" by Avril Lavigne  
- "Kissing You" from _Romeo+Juliet_  
- "Last Kiss" by Taylor Swift  
- "Naked" by Avril Lavigne  
- "Nobody's Home (Acoustic Version)" by Avril Lavigne  
- "Slipped Away" by Avril Lavigne  
- "Where Is My Angel?" by the Cruxshadows  
- "Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss


	34. Book 4 Brothers

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So this chapter is because I told you guys I was gonna update on Sept. 21 with 2 chapters and I didn't. So I'm sorry because I totally spaced it. Now I don't have 2 chapters ready for today, so you get one of the Sept. 21 (Mabon, solar holiday) chapters today and another one on the 22nd. So yay! Happy late Mabon! And this is just a sort-of slow, take-a-breather chaps. Oh, but John makes an appearance, yay! Wootness!_

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**Chapter Thirty-Four**

**Brothers**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Escape, Advice, Blueness, Invitations and Accusations, the So-Called Champion, and the Challenge**

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Becan crept from his mistress's bedroom, knowing the infuriated prince had already left the property. The brownie didn't need to search the cottage to find his human mistress. As the house sprite, he knew everything about the cottage. If words were spoken there, he would know and understand them. If someone were trying to hide within the stone walls, he would know and be able to find them. So Becan only walked slowly from the bedroom to the front entryway.

His lady sat with her back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of the door. Though the door was closed, none of the bolts were in place. Lady Dylan _always _locked the front door. Especially at night. Frowning, the brownie came closer.

Her hands were fisted in her lap, clenched so tightly that tiny drops of blood seeped from between her fingers to smear across the bone-white knuckles. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. There was something moving in her eyes, something awful that made him want to retreat back to the safety of the bedroom. Terror, despair. The confusion sometimes seen in the eyes of a wounded animal, as if she didn't understand where the pain was coming from. Underneath it all, the embers of self-loathing because she understood that this was actually her fault and how could he react any other way?

But there were no tears. Not on her cheeks, not in her eyes. And that frightened him.

"My lady-"

"He's gone," Dylan whispered. "He hates me. He would never say that to me if he didn't hate me. He's gone."

She knew it, and wondered what she'd been thinking. What had she been thinking, letting herself fall in love with someone so out of reach? What had she expected him to do? Of course he didn't care about her patients, her job. He was a faerie prince. His father either wanted his head on a spike, or was making a good show of pretending to want it. His sister was just waiting for the perfect moment to drive a knife into his heart. His people were dying out. People were trying to shame him, hurt him. Kill him. Of course he hadn't cared about something so insignificant as her job. He'd trusted her to put him first; to look out for him the way no one else but Wink would, because she'd promised to do so. Of course he hadn't cared.

She should've told him sooner. This was her fault. She'd waited too long, let things progress too far. But she'd let herself forget, just for a while, that anything waited for them beyond the stone walls of the little cottage at the edge of the woods. Let herself just enjoy being with him. She should've known better than to let herself think that way. Should've known he would be furious at such a betrayal because she was human and it was so hard for him to trust. Now that trust was broken. He would never forgive her. Never.

And the wolves... the wolves would come howling after her in the dark and they would chase her down and pin her to the icy, white snow and then... then there would be hot scarlet against the cold white ground. She wasn't safe without him. Would never be safe. Only safe with him. With the beast out of her personal faerie tale. She wasn't safe anymore. Would never be safe again...

"Milady, I can go after him," Becan said quickly. She'd been pale when he arrived, and the color was still draining rapidly from her face. "I can explain to him..."

He trailed off when the mortal shook her head slowly. "It doesn't matter," she said. The words were almost like fists striking her. It hurt Becan to see how she flinched from them. "It doesn't matter," she repeated. "It's... it, uh... it's fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I... I'm going to... to go take a shower. It's late. I need to go to bed. I'm fine."

Watching his human drag herself painfully to her feet had tiny brown hands curling into fists. Becan had to force himself not to go to Dylan, not to use magic to help her walk back down the hallway toward her room. She wouldn't want that. Instead, the brownie waved a trembling hand and slid the seven bolts on the door home. Then he spent the next hour scrubbing the dishes in the sink, sweeping the wooden entryway of the snow that had managed to come in, and putting his lady's photo book away where she wouldn't have to see it. He made dinner, though it was more than an hour past midnight, hoping she would eat when she got out of the shower.

He waited, but she never came out of her bedroom.

Concerned, he finally went into her room. Becan found her curled up on her bed, her face pressed to the pillow, shivering in her slightly-damp black sweater and pajama bottoms. She wore no socks. Her bare feet were nearly white with the cold that seeped into the room.

She seemed to be asleep. With another wave of his hand, the brownie pulled the blankets over Dylan and tucked them round her with magic. Then he went and put the chicken parmesan and penne that he had made for her - Lady Dylan's favorite - in a container and tucked it into the fridge. She could eat it later, perhaps.

**.**

The dreams that night were worse than they'd ever been. Becan had been nodding off over drying a plate when a shrill, bloodcurdling shriek wrenched him back to wakefulness. The plate shattered on the kitchen floor. The brownie scrambled off the counter and raced for his mistress's room, heart pounding, mouth gone suddenly dry. Dylan screamed again.

She was bound by sheet ropes and Morphean shackles, thrashing in sleep. The darkness in the room seemed almost abyssal despite the feebly burning nightlights. The mortal on the bed sobbed and struggled against the binding blankets. Becan knew she fought to push away some imagined attacker. Knew also that he could do nothing about this dream. He could never do anything about his lady's brutal nightmares. Even brownie magic couldn't fix everything. In the five years he'd lived in the little cottage, even before Dylan had discovered his presence, he'd never been able to wake her.

He trudged back to the kitchen, leaving her to her horrors. Magic and nimble fingers picked up the shattered bits of sharp porcelain and dropped them into the trash can. He flinched every time Dylan cried out. Blinked back the sting of tears. Her nightmares had never lasted this long before. By the time the screams began, there were only a few moments left to the torment. Why was she still trapped?

Near dawn, he crept back to the bedroom, and his pillow-bed outside her chamber door. The brownie wrapped himself in the thick woollen baby blanket his mistress had bought for him a few months back. Becan hunkered down to wait for the end of the dreams. When would they end? When would the screaming stop? Her voice had gone hoarse nearly an hour ago.

In the end, the nightmare finished not with a bang, but a whimper. An hour passed after the final tortured cry before Dylan whispered softly, "Nuada... help... I'm sorry... _please_..." Then the quiet sobs subsided, and there was silence. At last Becan drifted off into restless sleep.

**.**

Nuada rested his hands against the marble wall of the shower, letting the steaming water sluice over his body and try to burn away the fatigue. Dawn was moments away. He could feel it. That had been the goal, after all - to push himself until sunrise, so he could find sleep not in the darkness that bred memories and regrets, but in the brightness of the day. Even if he could not feel the sun's warmth on his skin or the sweet crispness of a late autumn breeze. He knew it was there. Just as he knew that somewhere above, in that putrescent city that hung over him like a death sentence, _she_ was there.

Maybe, after some time spent in the shower, he could finally relax. Finally sleep. Finally forget the way Dylan had gone so hideously pale at his vicious words. Shame curdled in his belly, but he shoved it aside. Why should _he_ be ashamed? She had lied to him. Broken her promises. Told him that he would have to face his father's wrath alone. After the conversation he'd had with Nuala, the prospect of answering to the no doubt enraged king filled Nuada with sick dread. It hadn't seemed like such a dismal prospect when he'd thought Dylan would be at his side through it all. Did that make him a coward? To rely so heavily on a woman. On a human. What had he been thinking?

_I was a fool to trust her,_ he snarled at himself. _A fool to have faith in the promises of a human_, any _human. Even one like her._

The Elf ducked back beneath the water and ran his hands through his long, star-blond hair. Let the pounding spray rinse the last vestiges of shampoo from the wet locks. Let it rinse the last bit of soap from his body. If only memories could be washed away so easily.

When he'd come to this lair, one of several he kept in the subway tunnels, Wink had been surprised to see him, but one look at the prince's stormy countenance and molten bronze eyes, and the silver cave troll had kept his questions to himself. Nuada would explain when - and if - he chose. Wink understood that.

_As Dylan understands,_ Nuada thought, then snarled at the pang that lanced him. Understand, the human might. But she had used that understanding to insinuate herself into his life like a poisonous little snake, until she was close enough that she could... could what?

Hurt him.

Stars curse her, she'd hurt him. Somehow the mortal had gotten close enough that her abandonment _hurt. _That was pathetic. He was a proud Elven warrior, the crown prince of an esteemed and noble fayre kingdom. Not some lonely, lovesick little boy. A mortal's change in sentiment should have no effect on him at all. Unless, of course, it was to further prove that humans were disgusting vermin that should be wiped out.

_Disgusting human whore._ Words spoken with cool precision to draw intangible blood. Words that burned like acid in his belly. Tasted like rot on his tongue. A well-aimed verbal knife. And at least he'd had the satisfaction of hurting her in return. That shocked gasp, the draining of color, the way she'd fallen against the door as if he'd struck her - if that was not a true reaction, then she was the best actress he had ever seen.

Whore. _Disgusting human whore._ That's what he'd called her. Turning the words of so many of their enemies back on her. That's what so many had called her - Silverlance's whore. The prince's strumpet, his plaything, his mortal toy. Tart, trollop, slut. She hadn't cared when Eamonn and others had hurled those insults at her. She only cared that _he_ had said such a thing. _Disgusting human whore_. Words meant to hurt, meant to drive deep into the place where her heart should have been. Whore. He'd left her bleeding to death from those words. Retribution. And betrayal. There was no satisfaction to be had in her pain now.

_I shouldn't have_ _said such things to her,_ he surprised himself by thinking. Shame and sorrow as cold as poison coiled in the pit of his stomach. _Should _never _have. Gods, but her eyes... so broken..._ Infuriated by the turn his thoughts had taken, he slammed his fist into the water-slicked wall with a harsh growl that Nuada was certain Wink could hear in the other room. Didn't matter. _By the Fates... __damn_ _her, __damn_ _her, __damn_ _her!_ _Damn__ her to the blackest pit of Annwn! Am I to have no peace?_

Once out of the shower and dressed, he strode back into the lair and dropped himself into a chair. It was late enough (or early enough) that he should have been hungry, but he wasn't. Wink dropped a bottle onto the table where the prince sat. Nuada glanced disinterestedly at the label. Elven wine. Why not? Maybe then his thoughts would be his own again, and no longer in the possession of that blasted mortal.

The bottle was nearly empty - Wink drank far more than any Elf, due to his massive size. Nuada didn't bother to ask why the troll had been imbibing in the first place, or where the alcohol had come from. Merely sipped his wine. Finally the troll said softly, "My prince, what troubles you?"

Nuada toyed idly with his half-empty glass. Found himself wishing for the taste of sparkling grape juice or cider.

"A woman." He frowned. He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to say anything. It was not a woman that troubled him, but an infuriating mortal woman who had lied to him, deceived him. He'd risked nearly _everything_ for her, gods curse it, and she had flung it all back in his face at the first sign of opposition.

_Not the first sign, _part of the Elven prince murmured silently. Memories of Dylan struggling to support him in the subway; of her deft hands cleansing his wounds; the fear and determination on her face when she told the One-Armed King of Elfland that she would take a thousand lashes if only the king would unchain him (not even spare him, but simply _unchain_ him); the mortal, lying so broken and battered on his bed from what Eamonn had done to her when she'd given herself to save the Elven prince - they flitted through his mind like irritating butterflies.

Those things didn't matter. The stakes were higher now. He'd risked just as much for the human - loss of life and limb, his father's fury, his precious sister's anger - as she'd risked for him. More, even.

"A woman? Lady Dylan?" Wink said casually, as if he didn't care about the answer particularly. Nuada's amber eyes flashed bronze.

"That is revolting, my friend. She is a human." A human whose gentle hands had soothed the pain of his wounds. A human with the softest lips he had ever touched... He took another swallow of the sweet sparkling wine, hoping the alcohol would drown his thoughts.

"Then it's another female. Obviously you can't openly pursue her since you are tied to your lady by politics. My suggestion?" Wink quaffed the rest of the alcohol and then brought out another bottle. Not Elven wine this time. Troll beer.

Bronze eyes met Wink's, then the prince shrugged and finished his own glass before raising it for the troll to fill. Troll beer could melt teeth (while burning a hole through your belly), but why not? It was one of Wink's favorites.

After the beer had been set to, the silver troll added, "Find this lady's likeness at a brothel and get it out of your system."

Nuada glared at his oldest friend. Wink shrugged.

"You've done it before, my prince," the troll reminded him, just managing to skirt the line of patronizing. Nuada didn't bristle at the tone. Only sipped the beer that held the faintest aftertaste of sulfur. Centuries in exile had acclimated him to the taste. "With other women. So have other nobles. Even royals do such things."

Nuada winced. He _had_ done such a thing before, with other women. Certain... connections between a prince and particular ladies, be they of noble birth or not, were sometimes ill-advised and such a plan was the only recourse to drive away such distractions.

But that had been when he was young and stupid. Before he'd perfected his self-control. And he would _not_ be driven to a whorehouse over _Dylan,_ a human, of all people. That was ridiculous, not to mention disgusting. So all the prince said was, "There are more important things in life than women, Wink."

"Precious little," the troll said mournfully.

Nuada's lips twitched. Wink was well-known among the fae both as an honorable warrior... and as an accomplished lover. It had always astonished the prince to see the more petite faerie women - dryads, fox maidens, selkie, deer women, even the voracious empusa - practically swooning at the troll's feet. He'd often wondered how Wink had become so renowned.

"What about honor, my friend? Valor. Courage. A warrior's skill. A prince's duty."

"A warrior is not a warrior unless he can seduce a beautiful woman, my prince. I taught you that when you were a youth. And one of the duties of a prince is to be a strong and skillful warrior." Wink finished off the bottle of troll beer. "I have said - and your human lady has said - that you push yourself too hard. A life without pleasures is no life at all. You must find some joys in life, or what is the point?"

Memories came again, against his will: A flurry of snowballs and Dylan's delighted laughter; fey-like blue eyes shining with admiration as he trained with his spear; a low, haunting voice reading tales before the firelight while a ball of black fluff butted the prince's hand with his head, demanding an ear-scratch; talk of easy nothings over dinner and sparkling grape juice. And...

And soft curls against his cheek when he rested it against the top of her head. Soft lips beneath his fingers. Dark lashes curling against scarred cheeks when she closed her eyes, as he leaned in to...

"Perhaps you're right, Wink," Nuada said in a deceptively mild voice, ruthlessly suppressing the twinge of guilt in his belly. Why should he feel guilty? It was as good a remedy as Elven wine. A far better one than troll beer, he thought with an inward grimace at the sulfuric sourness on his tongue and the whiff of brimstone assaulting his nose. Though he would not find his "lady's" likeness. No, he could shove away inconvenient memory and pathetic sentiment with battle-training or some other exhausting tactice. He certainly did not need to find a sporting woman with dark, riotous curls and eyes like the moon over Bethmoora...

Men so often forgot the horrors of battle, the plethora of griefs found in immortality, and the pain of broken hearts when spending a night or even an hour in a bought woman's arms. He could forget something as insignificant as the shocked, hollow hurt in Dylan's eyes.

Maybe.

But he doubted it, so why bother?

**.**

Becan woke sometime in the evening to a vaguely familiar electronic whirring sound. He slid off his pillow-bed in the hall and peeked into his mistress's room. How long had she been awake? Long enough, apparently, to have started something at the sewing machine she rarely pulled from the shelf in her closet.

"Milady?"

"It's almost the second week of November," Dylan mumbled, and the whirring stopped. "I usually get started on these things way before now, but I forgot." She cleared her throat. Sipped from the waterbottle on the floor beside her. "I haven't had time, anyway," the mortal added, her voice clearer now. "But I do now. I just... need something to do. I don't go back to work until Wednesday, so..."

The brownie stepped into the room and approached the pile of scraps on the low coffee table. How had he slept through her dragging in the coffee table and unfolding the card table she used for her sewing machine? The scraps were all cut into patches, each one a foot square, blue or black, and all of different materials. Becan recognized a piece of one of Dylan's old velvet winter cocktail dresses that she often wore to charity functions once it got cold; a piece of blue suede from one of Master John's old jackets; even a sheer blue chiffon hair-scarf that had belonged to Miss Petra's oldest daughter, Ari.

"What are you making, milady?"

"A quilt," she said softly, adjusting the bit currently clamped in place on the sewing machine. "It's the only thing I'm any good at. Everything else, you have to worry about clothing sizes or uneven hemlines or whatever. But simple square-patch quilts are easy and... fun." The word sounded foreign on her tongue. "Just something to do... while I rot here." Her foot pressed the pedal and the whirring began again.

_Rot here, _he thought. Uneasiness churned in his stomach. She didn't sound like herself. Not at all. "Christmas is coming," Becan said helplessly. It seemed of paramount importance that he keep her talking for some reason.

"I know." _Whirrr-click-whirrr, swish. Whirrr-click-whirrr. Swish, whirrr..._

"Will it be a gift for someone, then?"

Dylan had been managing to stay completely focused on her task, ignoring everything: the ache in her lower back and leg from sitting hunched over for who knew how many hours, the passage of time, the cold that had seeped into the room and made her hands achy and stiff. But not anymore. A shard of memory sliced deep into her chest. She remembered a golden quilt on a narrow bed in a magical sanctuary. Outside of time, beyond the edge of the world.

"If I... finish it and... see the prince again," Dylan mumbled, "then maybe I'll give it to him. Or I'll give it to John or... or someone. I don't know."

Uneasy still, he replied, "Perhaps... perhaps instead you might go down the hall and play-"

"No." Sharp, swift negation. End of discussion on _that._

Someone knocked on the front door. A glance in the general direction of the front entryway told Becan who it was. "Master John, milady."

"Let him in, please," she said. The brownie moved to obey.

**.**

It wasn't working.

Nuada strode into the lair he currently kept, irritation smoldering beneath his skin, mingling with a sourness in his stomach that the prince vaguely acknowledged as (misplaced) guilt. Three long nights spent away from the mortal cottage, walking the "streets" of the Troll Market and the alleys of the City overhead and wandering the deepest pathways of the Park, and spending his days burning through hours of combat training - alone and with Wink - and still he struggled to find a moment's peace from nagging thoughts and glimpses of memory. Dylan's words circled through his mind, over and over again, with no respect for what he was doing or where he was.

_I go when you go. You have me, too. Do with me what you will. Someone I love very much... _Lies. Lies, all of it. Why did the words contantly assault him? Why did he continue to see that hurt in her eyes when he'd called her... what he'd called her?

_Nothing in life is simple anymore,_ Nuada thought bitterly as Wink looked up from the stack of papers on the table. "What is that?"

"Your correspondence. I took the liberty of having that little brownie maid - Brighid, I think her name was - fetch them for you from your room in Findias. There are several incredibly dull-sounding invitations to balls, banquets, hunts, and various other things you absolutely loathe."

"I happen to enjoy hunting," the warrior informed the troll. Maybe that would prove distraction enough.

"I doubt you want to go..." Wink lifted one invitation, which had come on citrus-scented paper, and studied it with his good eye. "Fox hunting with Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich and his three lovely - and elligible - daughters." The troll tossed the missive into the fire. "It came with a pressed lime blossom, by the way."

Nuada rolled his eyes. A not-so-subtle invitation for hunting of a different sort, then. An invitation that, as Wink had surmised, the Elven prince was _not _in the mood to accept. Being pawed at by sex-starved faerie women was not his idea of a visit well-spent. Perhaps if he'd been able to take Dylan with him, to ward off the lust-minded harpies-

_Enough of the human!_ He growled at himself. _Enough. She has betrayed me. She cannot be trusted. I must accept it and move on._

"There are, however, several invitations to fetes and a few midwinter masques that are addressed to you _and_ Lady Dylan. Quite a few from Lady Jocasta of Reedus."

Gritting his teeth, Nuada asked in a carefully neutral voice, "The human sympathizer?" Wink nodded. "Splendid." The prince's sarcasm was plain as a splotch of black ink on white paper. "I _always_ enjoy visiting her estate."

The Elf knew he would most likely accept _those_ invitations. His father would insist. And he would bring Dylan along because, blast it, the courtship charade was not over just because he'd discovered her perfidy. And what better place to bring his so-called mortal lady to show her off (as most noblemen _did_ with their women) than to Reedus, the home of a known human sympathizer?

Wink rumbled almost that exact sentiment in the Troll Tongue. Nuada ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He still had not told his friend about Dylan's treachery. Did not wish to admit, even to such a close confidante, how he'd been taken in by her deceit. Somehow a mortal had fooled him at every turn. Even fooled his thought-sensing abilities. Somehow.

_Unless she has not. Unless I have made a mistake..._

If he ground his teeth any harder, he'd crack a molar. Instead, coming to a swift decision, Nuada said, "I must tell you something, my friend." When Wink looked up from the next paper, the prince said, "The human has proven false. I thought her loyal to me - or as loyal as a human can ever be - but I was mistaken."

Saying it aloud seemed to make it more real. There was that swift stab of vicious hurt somewhere behind his breastbone. The tension across his shoulders wound just a bit tighter. An odd hollowness filled his belly. _I was mistaken._ _You_ promised, _Dylan..._

The troll was silent for a long moment. Then, "She has betrayed you in some way."

Nuada jerked a sharp nod.

"I understand, my prince," was all Wink said, and went back to sorting the mail. There seemed nothing more to say after that, so Nuada went to take a bath and wash away the night-sweat that chilled his skin and reminded him of Dylan's tear splashing onto his wrist.

**.**

John Thaddeus Myers stalked through the New York Underground with worry in his heart and bloodshed on his mind. Tomorrow was Tuesday. Dylan had to go in for her Psych-Eval with that psychotic sadist, Doctor Westenra. It would be tough. If she managed to escape Saint Vincent's Hospital without fainting or having hysterics, it would be a bleeding miracle. And just when his twin needed that pasty, pointy-eared douche bag, the Other Kin had gone and ditched her.

He didn't know what the fae had said to the twenty-nine-year-old to make her eyes look the way they had - bruised, with tiny pieces missing from her heart that left her jagged and edgy. One look in her eyes had rocketed him back almost twenty-three years. Back to when his parents had chucked her into that horrible place without a second thought.

She'd been there two weeks before he'd been allowed to see her. The whole time, he'd been restless. Nervous. He'd _known _something was wrong, even though he didn't know what, exactly. His parents, who knew about his connection to his twin, had finally allowed him to visit her.

It was the same look, he thought as he moved deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels. The same look then as now. Haunted, achingly lonely. Broken. As if some integral piece of her were missing. Back then it had been him. They'd never been apart for more than an hour before. As little children, before starting kindergarten, they'd slept in the same room. In the same bed, usually, back when _he_ had been the one plagued by nightmares. When she'd been locked up in that place without him there, that missing piece had been him.

Now? It had to be that corpse-faced ghoul she'd shown up with that first Sunday outside the Hudson Mall. Prince Nuada Silverlance. Her so-called "esteemed lord." It was the only thing John could think of to explain the grief in her eyes. The self-loathing. The despair and fear. And it hadn't gone away. He'd been to see Dylan Saturday and Sunday and today, and though the grief hadn't gotten any worse, it hadn't gone away, either. The fear, however, had gotten worse.

_I'm not going to let him do this to her,_ John vowed as he finally moved into abandoned tunnels. Now that no one was around - no people, anyway - he began calling for Nuada. If he was a prince, one of his people would alert him to this human that dared to try and summon him. _I'm not going to let him hurt her like this. She's been hurt enough. She was finally healing, really healing, and now this. I'm not just gonna sit by. She... she _needs _him, for some reason. Just like she needs me._

When he'd been twelve, a dark chasm had opened up under his feet on the way home from football practice and he'd fallen, fallen, fallen. That chasm had dropped him into the Soul-Sucking Hell Dimension. He hadn't known how long he spent there floating in the darkness before catching a few brief glimpses of his twin. To this day he remembered the sick horror churning in his gut at the sight of two boys - two monsters - pinning her down and raping her while she screamed for help in the dimness. He'd tried to get to her, tried to help her, but the darkness around him had kept him bound. He'd had to watch while his twin's blood stained the concrete stairs and a pair of twisted monsters hurt her over and over again. Those rare times he dreamed of the Hell Dimension, he could still hear her screaming. Still smell the blood. Still taste his own tears.

The second glimpse of her had nearly shattered him. She'd still had all the bruises from the rapes, though they were healing. John could still remember the sight of all that blood pouring down her stomach and arms, soaking her clothes. All of that sick scarlet from where she hacked at her chest with a pencil in a ruthless attempt to end it all. He'd seen the memories of monsters in human skin ripping her apart deep inside. He still remembered his desperate plea for her to stop. He'd _felt_ her life slipping away. If she'd died then... he still didn't like to think about what that would've done to him. Would he have simply faded into the darkness?

After that, John had made a concerted effort to reach out to her. To make contact with her the only way he knew how - through their link. Over what had turned out to be years, though he hadn't known that at the time, he'd succeeded, until finally he'd fallen through another chasm - one filled with blinding light. And he'd dropped right into his parents' front yard as his twin, now eighteen and finally home for good, stepped out the front door.

She'd taken care of him. When his parents had refused to accept he was who he was because he hadn't aged a day past twelve, when his sisters couldn't comfortably afford to take him in, Dylan had taken care of him.

The government had helped, sure. He was their prize golden boy now. He'd gone into an alternate dimension and survived, and he'd only been twelve. Never mind that there hadn't really been anything there to hurt him, and never mind that it had only been three or four hours for him. So they government had helped. But Dylan had had to work two jobs and go to college (luckily on scholarship) in order to keep them both fed and tucked up safe in a tiny studio apartment so small she could sneeze in the shower and he'd feel the breeze while still lying in bed. She'd even made him take the single fold-out closet bed. She'd slept on a dinky little sofa they'd salvaged from the city dump. What money that wasn't being funnelled into rent and utilities and, every so often, her textbooks went into keeping him clothed and fed and making sure they could afford for him to play football. She'd even put money aside to pay for his college tuition. Luckily he, too, had gotten a partial scholarship.

He'd driven her into a nervous breakdown at twenty - him and work and college and her health and her addictions that she'd used to cope with it all - and she'd still done everything in her power to look after him. Even when he'd been living with their Uncle Thaddeus and Aunt Niamh and Renee and Dolph, their cousins, while Dylan stayed at a mental center for addicts for two or three months to get better, she'd still done what she could to take care of him.

Dylan had always taken care of him. She'd always taken care of everyone but herself. Now he would do whatever he could to make sure she was the one being taken care of. Even if that meant a practically suicidal trip into the subway to punch Prince Douche Bag in the face so John could drag his sorry Elven butt back to Dylan's little cottage and make him apologize.

"I know you're here somewhere, Silverlance! Where are you? Come out!"

**.**

Sleep still eluded the Elven prince, though Wink snored on in the bronze chair where he'd fallen asleep. Nuada stared at the high ceiling of the current lair. This place, with its vaulting ceilings and spacious rooms - all three of them - never failed to bring home the difference between the lair and Dylan's bedroom. Her room had lush carpet, a very large bed (what did she need a bed that big for, anyway?) and a low-beamed ceiling that made the room seem cozy instead of cramped. The floor of this place was cold stone, and his bed was narrow. His bed did not smell of jasmine, either. There was no hominess here, nor that sense of quiet calm joy that pervaded Dylan's house.

Nuada was a warrior and a prince. He could be honest with himself, even when it pained him.

He missed her. Missed the closed-in hominess of her cottage, the intimacy of knowing that she was right down the hall if he wished to speak to her, the simplicity of the days he'd spent in her home, the comfort of her presence. He'd thought she wanted nothing from him. Expected nothing from him. There was a freedom in that, that he hadn't realized he craved until it was taken away. The prince was certain he would not find such a thing again.

_I just want..._ He sighed, groping for sleep that remained ever elusive. _I just miss... by the Fates, this is pathetic, but I only want-_

A chittering sound drew his attention from the ceiling - and thoughts of Dylan - to the entryway to his current chambers. Pale brows drew down as a fat little _tanuki_ skittered into the chamber. The raccoon-dog faerie (another creature originally from the eastern fae Kingdom of Onibi that resided in the mortal city) squeaked, "_Denka! Denka!_" The racoon-dog stretched out before the Elven prince in the prostrate bow favored in Dilong and Onibi, his face parallel to the stone floor.

Wink, roused by the shrill sounds, lumbered over to where the _tanuki _bowed and scraped_,_ rolling his good eye and muttering about "irritating pipsqueaks."

_Does no one sleep in these blasted tunnels? _Nuada wondered as he sat up. Aloud he only said, "Yes? What is it?"

"There is a mortal, Sire! In the abandoned tunnels!"

A frisson of awareness sizzled down Nuada's spine. She would not come here... would she? She feared the subway tunnels more than almost anything. And why shouldn't she? Memories of the pack of human wolves would keep any sane creature away from this, their old hunting grounds, even though they were long dead. Unless... unless she was in danger. Mortal dread had driven her back to this place once before. Was Dylan in trouble?

"Male or female?" Nuada demanded, blood humming with sudden adrenaline and unease.

"Male, _Denka_."

The stab of cruel disappointment made him sharp. "Let the creature rot in the dark, then. He will find nothing of any importance here except, perhaps, a bloody death." Wink was not the only troll that dwelt in the subway tunnels. Ravus the Apothecary lived somewhere in the darkness as well. So did others.

"He is calling out for you by name, Sire," the _tanuki_ murmured. It kept its snout pressed to the ground as it shivered in the cold air of the chamber. "He calls you coward and demands you come out to meet him."

Rage, often kept banked, flared to life. A human male came to the tunnels that belonged to the crown prince of Bethmoora and challenged him. Called him coward. Had the gall to attempt to summon him forth. Well, this was nothing new. If the mortal wanted to challenge him, to fight him, then the foolish creature could have what he wanted. He could have a chance to fight the legendary Silverlance. Fight... and die.

Nuada was on his feet before he'd finished the thought. He tugged on a clean shirt and tunic - black on black, to prevent bloodstains. Human blood had ruined several of his garments in the past few centuries. Then the bronze-eyed warrior took up sword and spear and moved toward the tunnels. He didn't need a guide, or directions. If the human was stupid enough to be calling for him, Nuada would find the hollow, soulless cretin easily.

The prince began to jog through the tunnels towards the discordant sound of a human voice.

**.**

John wasn't sure how he knew when the Other Kin was there, but he did. The twenty-one-year-old whirled to the left and his eyes met a gaze of disgruntled molten bronze. Glaring, John shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Every instinct told him that _this_ was Nuada. So that's what the pointy-eared jerk looked like without glamour. Feral. Other. Properly alien. What had ever made him think this guy was one of the good guys? That he would protect Dylan? If anything, he'd hurt her worse than anyone else ever had before.

_It was my fault. _Dylan had said that, whispered it more than once as she worked on whatever she had going at her sewing machine. John had sat on her bed and just let her do whatever. It had been all he _could _do, with that horrible sorrow in her eyes. _I messed up. Again. I made a mistake and it's my fault, just like always. _No tears. Only that quiver to her voice that meant she'd cried herself out long ago and couldn't cry anymore.

"You dick," John said tonelessly. Lack of inflection gave the words a razor's edge. "You gutless, spineless, complete and absolute dick."

_"You,"_ the Elf growled. Her brother. Dylan's brother was here. Curse it, he couldn't kill the foul-mouthed wretch. Who knew what kind of damage it would do to the mortal woman? Not that he cared, precisely. It was just that, traitor or not, he stilled owed her enough that killing her - or driving her mad with the death of her twin - would've been dishonorable. "Firstly, watch your tongue or lose it. Secondly, what are you doing here?"

"What did you do to my sister?" John snarled, fisting his hands in his pockets. He'd come here intending to pound the stuffing out of the guy. Hadn't expected him to be armed. _Moron, _he silently berated himself. He'd been thinking about Nuada the way Dylan had - still did. As an ally. A friend. You could sock a friend in the jaw and still be able to count to ten on all your fingers the next morning. John was fairly certain if he socked the Elven prince, he'd be lucky if he ended up being able to finger-count to five. "What did you _do_ to her?" He demanded instead.

Eyes like shards of copper ice narrowed. "I did nothing to her."

_Disgusting human whore. _Silver-washed blue eyes gone glassy with shock and spearing hurt. A scarred face gone white as death. Betrayal. Treacherous words in retribution of lies from a forked tongue. So much pain in her eyes. Nuada shoved the image away, down and down where he would not have to see it.

"I thought the Kindly Ones couldn't lie outright," the mortal said coldly, dragging the prince's attention back to him. "Looks like that little bit of lore was wrong."

Nuada unsheathed his sword. Let it spin casually in his loose grip as he eyed the human male. The fluorescent beams overhead, flickering and dim with age, glinted off the notched blade. "Clearly you do not share all traits with your sister. At least she possesses some level of intelligence. It's a very foolish thing you do here, human - challenging me. What do you want?"

"I want to know what the hell you did to my sister! When I dropped her off at the cottage Friday, she was tired and in pain but she was okay. I go back to see her Saturday and she looks like someone punched through her ribs and ripped her heart out. I've seen zombies with more life! What did you do?"

The prince frowned. This human didn't fear him. Even with the naked Elven blade in his hand, the mortal did not fear him. Which meant the desperation and fear shivering just beneath his words came from a source other than fear of imminent death. Fear for Dylan?

Unbidden, the memory of Dylan's shocked, glassy eyes returned. Her death-pale face as she stumbled back from the prince she trusted more than any other. The tear that dropped from her chin to splash hotly on Nuada's wrist. He could still feel the burn of it. The Elven prince fought against the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Never take your eyes off the enemy - it had been drilled into his head for centuries. But he couldn't forget the hurt in Dylan's gaze.

Nuada leveled his sword at the mortal man. The blade gleamed like promises of pain. "Be gone from this place. For her wretched sake, I spare you tonight. Do not look for such mercy the next time."

"Do you understand what it means to love someone with your whole heart?" John demanded in a choked voice. "She's my twin sister. The other half of me. When I met you I was pissed about it because I knew you were dangerous, but she trusted you. And I thought, 'At least she's happy.' I knew she was. I could see it. I could _feel_ it. But Saturday night I walked into that place and almost ran back out again because of the look in her eyes. A look that _you_ put there. Now please..." John's voice broke. It took him a moment to regain enough composure to say, "Please, what did you say to her? What happened?"

Unspoken was the demand, _What did she do to deserve being hurt like that?_ Nuada could hear it. Feel the confusion and anger and fear swirling on the air currents in the tunnel. This mortal had a rather strong psychic gift. Perhaps that was why the Elf couldn't shove the image of Dylan's face from his mind - because the human woman was in the forefront of her brother's thoughts.

"Your sister betrayed me," Nuada snapped. _She trusted you... she was happy._ Trusted him. Had she indeed? Well, _he_ had trusted her. He had been... but Dylan had betrayed him. "Whatever consequences there are for such treason, she deserves them. Now be gone."

"One more thing, and then I'll go if you're so bound and determined to do the stupidest thing you've ever done in your life. My sister is the most loyal person I know. If she betrayed you - or you think she did - then she had a good reason, or it was an accident." John yanked his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest. "My sister would rather cut her own throat than betray you.

"I don't know why she's so loyal to you. I don't know what she sees in you. But I know that much, because we're connected - she would never purposely do anything that would hurt you in any way. You're lucky she cares for you as much as she does. Hell, she loves you, you jerk. You're like her best friend or something. So how about you pull your head out of your royal ass and go ask her what's going on yourself? Or are you scared to face one little mortal woman? Coward."

The blade was at John's throat before he could blink. Eyes the color of blood-washed bronze smoldered with a dark and vicious hatred as they bored into John's own. A little pressure and then there was a tiny spill of hot wetness down John's neck. He didn't wince or flinch even though it burned. Just kept his eyes locked with Nuada's.

"I should cut you into little pieces and leave you as a 'gift' on your precious sister's doorstep," Nuada growled, and pressed just a bit harder with the sword. A thicker spill of scarlet rolled down the human neck. Stained the collar of his white shirt. Nuada could smell the burning stink of iron. "Call me 'coward' again, and I will."

After only a few more seconds - where John could see the threat of his imminent death in sanguine eyes of molten copper - the blade was taken away. Wiped clean on black trousers before being sheathed once more. Nuada stepped back a ways from him and glowered.

"Please..." John tried again, tried to suppress the anger and show only the concern, the love for his twin. "Please, my sister doesn't deserve this. Please."

"Be grateful for your life, human," the prince said icily. "Not for your sake do I grant it. I expect you gone from these tunnels before nightfall." Nuada shifted suddenly. John blinked. Then something smashed hard into the side of John's face, right where his jaw met the rest of his skull. The human's eyes rolled up in his head and his legs folded beneath him. He tumbled to the concrete in a boneless heap of unconscious mortal.

The Elven warrior resheathed his spear; he'd used the butt of it to knock out the human. Dylan's brother would wake in a few minutes. That was not enough time for anything residing in the abandoned tunnels to eat him... probably.

Well, maybe a nibble or two.

Turning on his heel, Nuada walked back down the tunnel. Three thoughts whirled through his mind.

_She looks like someone punched through her ribs and ripped her heart out... she would never purposely do anything that would hurt you in any way... she loves you._

Maybe... just maybe... he had made a mistake. Let his temper get the best of him. It had hurt - gods, it had hurt, in a way he had not felt in centuries - when she'd said she couldn't stay with him. And the hurt had shaken and infuriated him because why in the name of all the gods would a human's rejection lance so deep? But it had. He had been relying on her more than he'd realized. Perhaps that hurt and that swift stab of surprise had stoked his not-inconsiderable temper more than he had thought. Maybe he should do what that idiotic human suggested and demand Dylan explain to him. He'd given her precious little chance to explain before. Maybe he would ask her now.

No. Not now. Later. Tomorrow night. Who knew what Dylan was doing now? Or if she was even home? He would see her tomorrow night. He would give her another day to calm down. Give his own temper another day to cool. Then he would be better equipped to handle the hurt that still simmered in his chest. Tomorrow he would demand an explanation of her. If the explanation was satisfactory, then perhaps he would forgive her the betrayal.

_She would never purposely do anything that would hurt you in any way._

Maybe she would not. But then again, she was human, and humans were often false. Their tongues were often forked, and their lips often birthed lies. He would have to see for himself whether she could again be trusted. But somehow, Nuada doubted it. He would never make the mistake of confusing an enemy for a friend again.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So, maybe our prince will someday pull his head out of his butt. Anyway, that's just our little bridge-chapter, we'll call it. Next chapter appears on Tuesday! Look for it. Hopefully there will be 2 (or 3). Anyway, on to our review prompt!_

_1) Our prince - in character?_

_2) Wink the Casanova - what do we think of him?_

_3) Nuada-naked-in-the-shower flavored eye candy - who likes?_

_4) John to the rescue! Who loves John as the "big" brother?_

_5) Who thinks Nuada going to see Dylan is going to yield happy results? Or sad ones? What kind of results will he get, do you think?_

_6) Any favorites, questions, comments, smart remarks?_

_Love you guys! Sorry I'm so in a hurry! Bye-bye!_

_._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Brothers" is the name of this song from the anime _FullMetal Alchemist_. Originally done in Russian (I think), my preferred version is the slow, non-remix by Vic Mignogna. But here the title refers to John and Wink, who are kind of like Dylan and Nuada's brothers. Well, John _is _Dylan's brother, but if we remember, in chapter 7 Nuada said that Wink had been father, brother and friend to him. So yeah._

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- I don't know if brownies can actually sense all that stuff. I'm not sure. But... I would imagine that if a creature of magic (which a brownie is) is tied to a building, especially if the building isn't very big, he'd be able to sense a lot of what's going on in the building.

I found a similar concept (although it was with a ship) in The Mermaid's Madness by Jim C. Hines. In that book, a dryad's tree was cut down and built into an ocean-worthy ship as punishment for something (don't remember what). The Queen of the Faeries thought the dryad would die from all that. Well, she didn't, and became the captain of the ship. Because the ship is made from her tree, she knows everything that goes on inside it or on its decks. And (even cooler) she can jump from any part of the ship and land on deck and it totally doesn't hurt. It looks fairly epic when you read/imagine it.

Places where a faerie or other legendary creature tied to a certain place has weird sensing powers: _the Mermaid's Madness_ by Jim C. Hines; _Mistwood_ (don't remember who it's by, but it's not very good. Not bad, but not good); _A Kiss of Shadows_ by Laurell K. Hamilton (the MC's aunt, the Queen of Air and Darkness, knows or has the ability to discover anything that goes on at night anywhere; it's how she found the MC. Someone mentioned her name after dark); _Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust_ (anime movie; the bad guy, Carmilla, has the whole sensing ability in her castle and it's super freaky, especially since she's dead); Jim Henson's _the Labyrinth_ (remember? Jareth is spying on Sarah the whole time - except when he's actually talking to her - using those crystal balls); _the Discworld Series_ by Terry Pratchet (set foot in Death's castle and he knows you're there. Also same thing with the Tooth Fairy; set foot in her castle and she knows you're there. Go there with intent to harm any of the children of the world or to take the teeth and she'll kill you. Painfully).

- The line "the wolves would come howling after her in the dark" is heavily inspired by/adapted from a lovely line in WhenNightmaresWalked's amazing "Once" accompaniment, "All Good Fairy Tales." The line found in _her _fic is, "He heard the wolves howling after her, and he knew he could not leave that mortal to her fate."

- Chicken parmesan and penne is delicious! Especially from Bertolli's. OMG! Penne is a type of pasta, by the way. The straight, inch-long tubes that kids make necklaces out of.

- I realized I used the phrase "Morphean" a few times and never explained what that means. Morpheus is the Greek god of dreams. So Morphean means "characteristic of dreams." Also, Morpheus is the King of Slumberland in the anime film _Little Nemo: Adventures in Slumberland_ (so cute! You can watch it on Youtube).

- A dryad is a Greek tree nymph (general name; there are specific names for the nymphs of specific types of trees. Meliae, for example, are the nymphs of ash trees).

- A fox maiden is a female kitsune (Japanese fox spirit) that is known for taking a mortal lover/husband. However, sometimes they are benevolent and actually love the mortal, and other times they're evil and plan on doing something bad to him.

- Deer women actually is my plural-species take on the Native American myth of Deer Woman. Deer Woman, sometimes also known as Deer Lady, is a shape-shifting woman in Native American mythology, in and around Oklahoma, the western United States and the Pacific Northwest. She allegedly appears at various times as an old woman, or a young maiden, or a deer. Some descriptions assign her a human female upper body and the lower body of a white-tailed deer.

The Deer Woman is said to sometimes be seen as a beautiful woman just off the trail or behind a bush, calling to men to come over. Deer Woman is often said to have all the features of a normal young woman, except her feet which are shaped like deer hooves and her brown deer's eyes. Men who are lured into her presence often notice too late that she is not a natural woman and are then stomped to death. Other stories and traditions describe the sighting of Deer Woman to be a sign of personal transformation or a warning. Deer Woman is also said to be fond of dancing and will sometimes join a communal dance unnoticed leaving only when the drum beating ceases

- Empusa is actually a person, not a species, but I'll explain why I made it a species in a moment. Empusa is a female demon from Greece that waylays travelers and seduces and kills men. The reason I made Empusa into the empusa is because of the book _Stardust_ by Neil Gaiman. In _Stardust_, the three evil witches are named... actually, I don't remember the name of the third one. I think it's Mormo. But the other two or Empusa and Lamia. Well, a lamia is actually a child-devouring monster/species of monster in Greek mythology. And I was all, "Hmmm. If lamia are a species, empusa could be a species too. Cool!" So yeah. But think about this - other than dryads, the three faerie species mentioned that swoon at Wink's feet are all incredibly dangerous.

- Oh, the skills of a warrior (not a soldier, but a warrior). Besides martial skills (hand-to-hand combat, sword, spear, etc.) there are other skills that they must learn. Seduction is one (in almost every culture). Poetry and singing are two others, especially in Gaelic Ireland (see chapter 17's reference to the Fianna). Another is dancing (to quote Gwenfarr's version of Nuada, "Anyone who can kill with speed and accuracy should be able to dance with grace"). Also riding (horses), hunting, living off the land, basic carpentry and metalworking skills. Diplomacy, deciphering intrigue. And my personal favorite ("Wait," you say! "Dancing isn't your personal favorite?" Nope, haha) - letter writing. For a fantastic example of THAT, go watch _A Knight's Tale_ starring Heath Ledger.

Some of you might be saying, "But LA... not _everyone_ can know how to do _all_ of that." Well the thing is, Nuada's not just a soldier. He's a warrior. There's a difference. In the amazing words of Arianna Lussier, "Soldiers rushed into battle with little thought beyond their targets - warriors were the true predators of a battlefield. Like wolves on dangerous prey, they used the terrain and their enemy's own weaknesses against them. And like a pack of wolves, they had a plan of attack." And, Nuada is also a nobleman, and a prince. Luckily, he's got my bases covered. =D

- The line "eyes like the moon over Bethmoora" is a direct quote from "All Good Fairy Tales" by WhenNightmaresWalked, used her with her permission because she is just an absolute genius and I love her.

- Okay, what's with the sewing machine? Dylan's Mormon. She knows how to sew a bit (as mentioned in earlier chapters where she patched up not only Nuada's ripped shirt, but the slice across the back of one of his boots). She can also use a sewing machine. The LDS church offers seminars to the women (and sometimes even the men) on stuff like that. The basics of a sewing machine are easy - even mentally-deficient me can use one. And square-patch quilts are very easy to make. I learned in like, 8th grade.

All you need to make a basic square-patch quilt is 8 squares of fabric, some batting, and some thread for your needle. Whoopee. No crazy patterns or stitches, no crazy beadwork or hemlines, nothing. You just feed the two squares you want connected into the machine and keep steady pressure on the pedal. Easy as pie. Actually, easier. It's a lot harder to make good pie. And that quilt she's making does pop up later as a bit of a plot point. How's that? Well, you'll just have to keep reading.

- Why is Wink sorting through Nuada's mail? Because he's a prince, he's "returned from exile" (for all intents and purposes), and he's a got responsibilities to go different court functions and events - those put on by the king, and those put on by courtiers. But do you really think princes and princesses sort through their own mail? No. They have secretaries. Nuada's in exile. He's got Wink. Wink is his valet - personal servant. So Wink does a lot of things, including sometimes sorting through Nuada's mail.

- Cromm Crúaich is actually an Irish god of death. Cromm Crúaich or Crom Cruach, also known as Cenn Cruach or Cenncroithi, was a deity in pre-Christian Ireland, reputedly propitiated with human sacrifice, whose worship is said to have been ended by St. Patrick.

According to an Irish dinsenchas ("place-lore") poem in the 12th century Book of Leinster, Crom Cruach's cult image, consisting of a gold figure surrounded by twelve stone figures, stood on Magh Slécht ("the plain of prostration") in County Cavan, and was propitiated with first-born sacrifice in exchange for good yields of milk and grain. Crom is said to have been worshipped since the time of Érimón. An early High King, Tigernmas, along with three quarters of his army, is said to have died while worshipping Crom on Samhain eve, but worship continued until the cult image was destroyed by St. Patrick with a sledgehammer.

Crom Cruach's name takes several forms and can be interpreted in several ways. Crom (or cromm) means "bent, crooked, stooped". Cenn means "head". Cruach can be an adjective ("bloody, gory") or a noun, meaning variously "slaughter," "stack of corn," or "pile, heap, mound." Plausible meanings include "bloody crooked one," "crooked stack of corn," "crooked one of the mound," "bloody head," "head of the stack of corn" or "head of the mound". It has also been interpreted as deriving from Proto-Celtic *Croucacrumbas - "crooked one of the tumulus."

I think, though I might be wrong, that Crom Cruach makes an appearance in Ray Bradbury's children's novel, _The Halloween Tree_, though the scene I'm thinking of (the kids in a wheat field and this giant horrible shadow that's trying to kill them) is not in the Cartoon Network film. Still, fans of Halloween and its myths and lore should read the book, then watch the movie. The character they run into is called Samhain, but I do think he's supposed to be Crom Cruach.

- In the language of flowers, lime blossoms mean "fornication." Sending one to someone is an invitation to have sex. Yeah, I know - ew.

- Lady Jocasta of Reedus is the cameo character for my reviewer, Ja Reedus.

- The Kingdom of Onibi is one of the Elven kingdoms I made up. It covers the island of Japan. That's it. Just Japan. It's also where Yang, the flower seller from chapter 26, is originally from.

- Onibi are Japanese "spook fire" or "ghost fire" - floating balls of blue flame.

- A tanuki is a magical racoon-dog (I'm assuming a racoon-_dog _is a male racoon, in the same way a dog-fox is a male fox, but I might be wrong about that) from Japan (or in this case, Onibi).

- Ravus the Apothecary is the male hero/love interest of Val from Holly Black's _Valiant_. He is also a troll, though not the same kind as Wink (he's also half-human, I believe - I'm pretty sure his father was a human). They don't call him Ravus the Apothecary - just Ravus. But he makes this stuff (called Nevermore by some of the characters) that is supposed to counteract the iron poisoning from living in the city. And he calls them potions. So he's an apothecary. So yeah.

- The line "what did she do to deserve being hurt like that" is in another book - _Heir to the Shadows_ by Anne Bishop. One of the 3 main guys, Lucivar, says it to his brother, Daemon, because he thinks Daemon raped and murdered their 12-year-old Queen. Why does he think that? Because he's currently overly emotional and reeling from the loss of the Queen who was like his little sister (in fact, his dad adopted her). But the situation is quite a bit different in this scene than in that one.


	35. Going Under

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Nuada Misapprehension Challenge_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So, here we are with chapter 35. Yes, this fic is gonna be long. It's gonna span a long time. In two or three parts. So yeah. But here we are! So, I was told last chapter was kind of somber, so I tried to lighten it up a little bit with some of our favorite males (namely Bat and John). Hopefully it worked. Also, just a little fyi - thiopental (aka sodium pentothal, aka truth serum) makes people super-chatty and lowers inhibitions. It actually doesn't make you tell the truth, it just inhibits your higher brain functions a bit, making it more difficult to keep track of lies. Just so you know._

_**Warning:**_ _yeah, I know, I have these in a lot of chapters. However, this chapter and the next deals heavily with some serious flashbacks concerning rape, torture, suicide, and self-harming. More heavily than usual, I mean. So keep that in mind. However, there's some funny stuff in these chapters as well to try and balance the darkness out a bit._

_**Reader Review Response:**_ _firstly, welcome, new reader __**Shibo26!**_ _Yay! I've never heard from you before, so yay! Welcome! And welcome back, __**Lorelei!**_ _Honey, I've been so worried about you! Where've you been? And for all you guys who leave "anonymous" reviews (__**Susan, JACKIE,**_ _and __**Lorelei**__) - why don't you guys have accounts? I could have riveting conversations with you guys via PM like I do with everyone else! And I could respond to your reviews and leave thank-you notes. You make me so sad. _=(

_**Dedication:**_ _to the incredible __**WhenNightmaresWalked**_ _for her __chapter 27 challenge,__**"Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams."**_ _It's __**A-MA-ZING!**_ _So __**AMAZING!**_ _Everyone go read it if you haven't yet. It's SO cool! I loves it so bad! And the reward for chapter 27's challenge was 2 reward chapters so hopefully Nightmare's second chapter will pop up today too. _=D _Also dedicated in part to __**Ja Reedus**__, who reminded me (though not on purpose) that where there is darkness, there is always light, as well. The happy parts of this and the next chapter are thus dedicated to them._

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**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**Going Under**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Fuzz-Balls, Interrogations, Panic, a Connection, and Uncomfortable Truths**

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Dylan blinked and found herself staring into the eyes of a corpse.

Or at least, that's what her reflection looked like to her: pale, sickly looking, bleary-eyed, haggard. Her hair was a great, big riotous tangle that was half tumbling curl and half nappy frizz. Splashing ice-cold water on her face didn't really help with much, either. Still, the water was bracingly cold and helped wake her up a little.

When she'd managed to wake up a bit more, she tried to decide if brushing her teeth was more effort than it was worth. Bat hopped on the counter, glared at her, then whacked the handle of her toothbrush with an irate paw.

_Like that's not crystal clear. What time is it?_ She wondered, still rubbing sluggishly at one eye. A glance out the window showed her it was still pitch black outside. Before seven, then. When was her evaluation? Right, eight in the morning. As if she could forget.

She peered at the clock on the bathroom wall. Blinked to bring it into focus. Not even five yet. Why was she awake?

"Mreow," Bat said imperiously. He peered up at her with brilliant golden eyes. "Mrt."

She gave him a dirty look. "Do you have any idea what time it is? It's too early for ear-scratches."

Bat gave her a supremely offended look and meowed. When she went back to contemplating her toothbrush, the cat gave a yowl and hopped in the sink, splashing water in his human's face. The kitten then promptly screeched and jumped back out of the sink again. Bat glared at the two-legger when she giggled. When he shook out his wet paws, he made sure to splash her again. "Mreow!"

"It's your own fault," Dylan informed her indignant cat. But just to take the sting from her words, she lightly rubbed under his chin. He glared at her, but submitted to being petted and caressed (as was his due). After a few minutes he graced her with a purr. Then the caresses stopped. Bat growled. "I need to brush my teeth."

"Meow," Bat said with obvious disdain for the concept of tooth-brushing. He turned up his nose at the sharp scent of cinnamon.

"Yeah, well, that's why your breath smells like rotting tuna and mine doesn't."

The cat jerked his head back and gave her a wide-eyed stare. His breath most certainly did _not_ smell like rotting tuna! And at least his side of the bed didn't smell like touchy human-shaped-but-not-human male. The scent of the grumpy male two-legger still hadn't faded from his human's bed. If she wanted to talk about smells...

"I can read your mind, you know," Dylan told her cat, who was giving her a narrow-eyed look. "Whatever evil plots you have cooking in your fuzzy little cat head, you can forget them, or no more cream in your cat food." She smiled, her first real smile in a few days, when Bat laid his ears flat to his head and slumped down against the counter. She laughed when he rolled onto his back and offered his tubby little belly for scratching. "That's what I thought. Now stop molesting my toothbrush."

"Mew," he squeaked. She poked him in the stomach with the handle of her toothbrush. He grabbed her hand between his paws and dragged his little raspy tongue over her knuckles. Dylan was pretty sure they could hear Bat purring in the Bronx.

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled tiredly, but her smile was widening. "I love you too."

"Milady?" Becan's gentle inquiry made her jump.

"Hmmm?" She absently rubbed Bat's stomach and fought to wake up completely. "What?" Her voice cracked suddenly. She winced. _More nightmares, _she thought tiredly. Dylan always remembered every moment of her night terrors, but could never be sure if she had actually screamed aloud or not. At least until the last four days, when she'd woken up with a sore throat every morning. It was a miracle her voice wasn't completely shot. Dylan chalked it up to daily doses of hot water, honey, and lemon.

"My lady, forgive me for disturbing you, but... but there is a... a troll here to see you."

Dylan had been attempting to put a strip of cinnamon toothpaste on her toothbrush. Her hand spasmed on the word "troll" and translucent red gel smeared across the countertop. With trembling hands she wiped the toothpaste away with a tissue. "A troll?"

"It is the prince's valet, my lady."

Wink. The silver cave troll with one feral eye, a magical bronze arm, and all the strength of a semi-truck. Wink was here. There were only three reasons that she could think of for Wink to be at her cottage when Nuada was not there. Either Nuada was hurt and needed her (though Dylan had enough sense to know that after what had happened between them, the odds of him calling her to his side were slim to none, and slim was packing a bag to leave town); Wink himself were hurt and couldn't get medical attention for whatever reason; or third (and the worst), Nuada had sent Wink to kill her for her betrayal.

"Ask him... ask him if I might have a few minutes to make myself presentable," she murmured. When the request was given, and granted, the brownie went back out into the front room (presumably to entertain their guest) while Dylan hastily brushed her teeth, attacked her hair with a wet hairbrush, and washed her face one more time. Then, just in case she survived this and managed to get to her psych-eval, she hurried to don black jeans and a black sweater. A black scrunchie pulled her hair back from her face. Dylan rarely let her hair do anything but hang loose, but having it loose during the evaluation meant stray wisps of hair could attack her face and make her panic. Panicking in front of Westenra was on her Big Bad List.

Dylan studied herself in the mirror. She looked more like a corpse than ever. The black only served to emphasize her pallor. Still, the color seemed appropriate - both in case of her death, and because of the hell she was going to have to walk through in case of survival.

Lastly, she popped her morning's dose of Vicodin and grabbed her cane from where it rested against the bathroom door.

"Bat," she heard Becan yelp. "No! Stop that! Bad kitty!"

_Oh, brother,_ Dylan grumbled to herself, and went out into her bedroom to see what her kitten was doing. When she realized what he was up to, she let out a yelp of her own. "No, Bat! Give me that!"

The little furball had somehow pulled one of her bras out of the hamper of dirty clothes and was now dragging it purposefully toward the door to her room. When he caught sight of his human limping purposefully toward him, he arched his back playfully and scampered off down the hall toward the den. The blue lace bra with the pink-polka-dotted straps was still clamped between his sharp little teeth.

"Bat! Get back here!" She set off after him at a painful trot. The cold had seeped into her leg during the night, making it stiff and awkward. If she'd been limber, she could have caught the little fluff-ball easily. Unfortunately the kitten made it into the den ahead of her. Dylan tripped over the threshold and only managed to keep from falling by dropping her cane and grabbing onto the doorframe with both hands. "Bat, you little..." Her voice trailed away as her eyes registered who else was in the room.

Wink was sitting on a wooden bench that normally sat against one wall of the kitchen but had been moved at some point to the den. One of the chairs and sofa were still shoved against the wall, so there was room in the middle of the floor for the sturdy bench. The other den chair was situated so she could sit and talk to Wink. Becan had placed a three-legged kitchen stool midway between and off to one side. The brownie would be translating, since Dylan didn't speak Troll. The silver troll currently held the loudly protesting Bat easily in one hand and in the other held her bra aloft by one satiny, pink-polka-dotted strap.

_Well, not only am I going to die, _Dylan thought with mortification, _but I'm going to die at the hand of someone who's seen my underwear. Great. I'm going to throttle that cat._ Aloud she said, "Becan can take my... um... that." She gestured vaguely to the metal hand that didn't hold her little monster. The brownie quickly took the blue lace garment and scuttled off down the hall with it. _Just breathe,_ Dylan ordered herself. _Just breathe. It's really not that embarrassing._

Was that a twinkle in the troll's good eye? She flushed and ducked her head. When Bat tried to twine around her ankles in apology, she toed him out the door. He hissed at Becan when the brownie scootched into the room. Dylan closed the door in the kitten's face. He promptly stuck his paws under the door and waved them around, yowling as if she'd cut out his heart.

"You honor me with your presence, Mr. Wink," she said softly, and sat down when Wink nodded to her. "What can I do for you?"

The troll rumbled something. Becan, perched on the stool, fidgeted. "Wink wants to know if it's true that you betrayed His Highness."

Dylan closed her eyes. "It is."

"He wishes to know how, and why you have done this."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Why had she chosen to walk out and meet her potential death without kicking up a screaming ruckus first? Because part of her did not, _could not_ believe Nuada wanted her dead. No matter how angry he was, he couldn't want her to die. Because maybe - just maybe - Wink could help Dylan get the prince to see that she hadn't meant to betray him. And because if Nuada really _did_ want her dead, there was nowhere she could go to escape him.

"I realized," Dylan began in a trembling voice, "that my responsibilities as a mind-healer made it impossible for me to stay at Findias all the time and still fulfill those responsibilities. I should have told Nuada sooner, but... but for the first time since I've known him, he finally seemed to relax. I just wanted him to have some peace from all the court intrigue and stuff. Just for a while. I wanted to just enjoy being with him here, away from the world. And I was..."

She didn't want to say this. She didn't really know Wink very well. Had no reason to trust him, much less divulge this secret to him. But, she reminded herself, these were the consequences of screwing up. Sometimes you had to face the music in front of people you didn't know at all, because it had affected them. At least she _knew _the silver cave troll a little bit.

"I was afraid of what he would do," Dylan whispered. "I knew he wouldn't hurt me, but... I was afraid he'd... as pathetic as it sounds, I was afraid he wouldn't like me anymore. Wouldn't tolerate me anymore. He's magic, Wink." Despite the use of his name, she wasn't speaking to the troll now. She'd half-forgotten he was there. "Pure magic. He's the most extraordinary man in the world."

She remembered the song that had played on the radio more than a week ago, the song that had made her wonder if she could reconcile life in mortality with life in Faerie. _I dream of rain. I dream of gardens in the desert sand. I wake in vain..._

"He's like... the single flower blooming in an endless desert. And I hurt him, I think. I didn't even know I could _do_ that. Didn't know my presence mattered enough to him. But yes, I betrayed him. When I told him I couldn't stay with him, after promising him my loyalty, I betrayed him."

Dylan finally opened her eyes. The silver troll was gazing down at her with a curious, almost puzzled expression on his craggy face. He reached out with his hand of flesh. Lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek. When he pulled his hand away, a single tear glittered at the tip of his finger. Wink grumble-rumbled something else.

"Wink says... that you love the prince very much."

She nodded. She couldn't speak around her heart thumping its way into her throat.

"He asks if you know why he has come here."

"To... to kill me, I think," Dylan said softly, looking now at the fire that Becan had stoked to life. Shadows danced across her scarred face. Flickered in her eyes. She felt oddly distant from her body, from the situation. She couldn't seem to force herself to be afraid of the troll in the room with her. "To punish me for my treason. Or just because Nuada would feel better with my head detached from my shoulders."

Wink made a series of wheeze-growling sounds. It took her a moment to realize the silver troll was laughing. He rumbled something that was translated as, "I knew there was a reason I liked you." He clapped his fleshy hand on her shoulder. It was like being hit by an avalanche. "Now listen to me, lassling. I'm not going to kill you. His Highness has precious few true allies in this world; I can't go around lopping their heads off. You made a mistake. Well, you're still young. So is the prince. Older than you, but still young compared to a lot of the Lords and Ladies in the world. Your heart was in the right place."

Dylan shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He hates me now." When Wink started to shake his own head, she insisted, "Yes, he does. You weren't there. He called me... I... he just... he'll never forgive me for this, Wink."

The troll had noticed the brownie glowering at empty air when the mortal said _he called me..._ Wink growsed at the wee fae, "What did he call her?" In sharp, rapid Old Gaelic, making his displeasure evident, Becan told him _exactly_ what Nuada had called the human. Wink frowned. That did not sound like the prince he knew. Maybe when he'd been young and rash (see _stupid_) and prone to giving way to his temper, but not now. There was more here than the troll knew or understood. "What else did he say?" Wink demanded of Becan. "Tell me everything."

Once the brownie had finished his recitation, Wink looked at the mortal who was staring miserably into the crackling fire. He lightly tapped her cheek with a finger until she looked at him. He wasn't surprised to see the sorrow in her eyes. Lady Dylan didn't just love the prince as those who served him did. It was more than the love of a vassal for their liege lord. She was _in love_ with him. _He's magic. He's the most extraordinary man in the world. _Did Nuada know it? No, he couldn't know it. The Elf prince would never have spoken to her the way he had if he'd known that the human woman loved him.

"I'll speak to him, lassling," Wink rumbled at her. He felt an odd sense of... protectiveness towards this slender, scarred woman who had given so much of herself for the prince they both loved. It had shocked and disturbed him when Nuada said she'd betrayed the prince. But this wasn't betrayal. It was only an accident. A simple mistake. "I make no promises, of course, but I will speak to him on your behalf."

She nodded, and Wink could see she was near tears. The human didn't believe anything the troll said would affect Nuada's opinion. Well, they would just see about that. After all, the prince was proud. Proud, and not used to dealing with... well, with humans. Or young females. Not for more than a night's tumble, anyway. This mortal was older in some ways than she looked, but in other ways, she was much younger than she seemed. Almost innocent, though not quite naive. It was most likely one of the things that had drawn Nuada to her in the first place.

Yes, proud the prince was, but Nuada was _not_ a fool. Well... most of the time. He would see sense.

"Mreeeoow!" The screech raised the bristle-spines on the troll's back as he peered around the human to see the little black beast wiggling his way beneath the door. Lady Dylan's mouth actually dropped open.

"Bat! Stop that! You're going to get stuck!" She got to her feet just as the kitten, who had been stuck beneath the rowan-wood door, suddenly popped free like a cork from a wine bottle. Looking inordinately pleased with himself, the little creature shot up a hind leg and began to wash. "You are so _nosy,"_ the human informed her pet with folded arms. "Can't I have a conversation that doesn't involve my cat?"

In answer, the kitten swiped his paw beneath the door. Something shiny, something the color of fresh limes, slid under the door, hooked on the black beast's claws. Two somethings, actually. Two somethings trimmed with pale green lace and covered with honey-colored angelfish.

Dylan dropped her face into her hands and groaned when she recognized _more_ of her underwear. "You... pervert! I'm going to chop you up into dog meat."

Wink only laughed.

After a few more minutes of casual talk (during which Becan took the undergarments and the cat into Dylan's room and left them there), the troll left the little cottage to go back to the safety of the subway tunnels. Nuada would not have returned from wherever he had gone as yet - Wink had heard from Culhwch, one of the prince's piskeys, that the Elf had taken to wandering the Market streets and the City alleys and the subway tunnels, oftentimes for hours, oblivious to everything but his thoughts. That gave the silver troll time to think, and perhaps time to seek out his own diversion - a far more pleasant one, found in the belly of a dragon's cave.

**.**

"You're sure you're gonna be okay?" John demanded as he pulled into the parking lot at Saint Vincent's Hospital near the Psychiatrics Building a few hours later. He'd spent too much of his life waiting outside this place - or worse, inside it in the visitors' lobby. He hated the pristine, white three-story building with the bars on the windows and the carefully trimmed shrubs kept low enough that no one could hide behind them. Why have shrubs anyway, if they weren't allowed to grow more than ten inches high?

"I'll be fine," Dylan mumbled. Her shadowed eyes were fixed on the entrance to Psychiatrics. "Stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking," her twin said, fumbling to pull the key from the ignition with a shaking hand. "I just think this sucks and I wish you'd let me go in with you."

"If I bring you in with me," she reminded him, "it'll be like slapping a giant post-it on my forehead that says, 'I'm vulnerable - kill me.'" Which was also why she didn't have her cane with her. "Not on my agenda where Westenra is concerned, okay? Relax, John-boy," Dylan added as they got out of the car. "We're in a public forum with state-of-the-art security and cameras. What could he possibly do to me that's that bad? I mean, really."

Bold words, spoken by a sister whose job has always been to care for her brother. But they weren't true, and Dylan knew it. John knew she knew it. Loved her for trying to reassure him. That didn't mean his heart didn't beat just a little bit harder when they stepped through the automatic doors. Didn't mean his mouth didn't go dry when he had to stop at the visitors' waiting area while his twin went up to the front desk and got buzzed through the second set of doors.

Just as the door separating the waiting area from the rest of the building swung closed, Dylan turned to look at him. The fear screaming in her eyes had him taking a step toward her before he knew what he was doing. Then the door clicked shut and she was cut off from him.

_It'll be okay, D,_ John thought desperately. She didn't even have her phone. She'd left it with him, he recalled with a fresh stab of panic. _You'll be okay. Please be okay._

On the other side of the door, Dylan took a steadying breath. Shrugged out of her coat. Then she walked down the hall towards the office where Westenra was waiting for her. She didn't fiddle with her purse straps, though her fingers trembled. She didn't glance around. Just kept her eyes straight ahead. When she came to the door, she stopped. Closed her eyes.

_Nuada, I really need you right now, _Dylan thought, then flinched. No, she didn't. No. She. Did. Not. She did not. She could do this. She did _not _need anyone to get through this stupid evaluation. She was okay. She was fine. She was _just_ fine.

She stepped into the room.

Westenra was as cold and emotionless as a snake as he greeted her politely (she gave him a short nod) and gestured her to a reclining chair. His touch didn't linger as he hooked her up to the monitor - not that she'd expected it to. He had never been dangerous to her in _that_ way, and he remembered just how sharp her teeth were. The blood-red scar on his wrist would never let him forget.

"Heart rate, normal. BP, normal. Breathing, normal. All set, Doctor Myers? Feeling all right?" Westenra only smiled blandly when she gave him an equally bland look that spoke volumes.

The older psychiatrist hid his wolfish grin. Now he could pull out the one thing that would really unnerve the little witch.

Westenra withdrew from its case the hypodermic needle filled with diazepam and prepped it. He didn't turn around when he sensed Myers' sudden stillness. Oh, she hated needles. Always had. Poor little baby. And she really hated sedatives, too.

It wasn't easy to find the vein through all that scar tissue. Luckily that gave him an excuse to stab her more than once. Feeling her flinch instinctively from the needle made it difficult to keep his smile on the inside. Finally he managed to depress the plunger on the syringe and shoot the sedative into her bloodstream.

_Don't let go of the fear,_ Dylan ordered herself silently. The steady, triple-toned beep-beep-beep of the monitors gave her something to focus on other than the feel of the needle piercing her skin. _Don't relax. Stay tense. Stay focused._ The burning-white fluorescents glinted off the needle biting deep into her arm. Her breathing hitched. She forced it to resume even though it felt like she was choking on a building scream.

"Nearly done, there's a good girl," Westenra murmured.

Dylan didn't reply. Just flicked him a glance that said succinctly, _Bite me._ Already she could feel the strange displacement that always grabbed her when she had to take an intravenous sedative. Scrabbled to keep hold of the healthy fear of the man who loomed over her. Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cobwebs. The weight of her eyelashes seemed to drag at her eyelids. _Don't give in. Don't relax._

The bite of the second needle made her whimper. Nothing she did could hold back that tiny, petrified sound. Westenra chuckled and gently patted her hand. She wanted to scratch him, slap his hand away... but her arm felt suddenly incredibly heavy.

_I hate this stuff, _she thought groggily, then almost gagged at the sudden rotting-onion taste that flooded the back of her throat. Three milligrams of sodium pentothal. Street name, veritaserum. Truth juice. Dylan hated that stuff too.

Westenra glanced at the little witch's vitals. Blood pressure a little low. Heart rate a bit slow, too. Breathing a bit shallow. Oxygen levels in the blood, still in the safety zone. Good. She didn't do well on diazepam if she became agitated. He'd have to time this very carefully.

"Doctor Myers? Dylan? Can you hear me?"

She felt like she was floating in clammy fog. Her body felt oddly disconnected from her head. The fear that was a constant, gnawing darkness inside her seemed very far away. _Come back,_ she wanted to call, but her tongue was thick and dry in her mouth. She could still taste the vileness of rotting onion. When the gravelly, cultured voice asked again if she could hear him, she mumbled, "Yes. Yes, I can... can..."

_Wake up, _the cognizant part of her screamed silently. _Wake up, wake up! Wake up! Don't fall asleep, don't give into it. It's not safe, wake up!_ But she was suddenly so tired. Even the simple act of breathing seemed so hard all of a sudden.

"Do you remember me, Doctor Myers?"

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"Westenra, Doctor Lucian." Oddly, her mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "Neutered douche cookie. John said..." She giggled when he scowled at her. "That's what he said. Neutered douche cookie. Haha." Then she bit her lip. No laughing. Shouldn't be laughing right now. Dangerous to laugh. Enemies. But his irate expression was just so funny suddenly...

He established her coherency with simple questions - _Name, rank, and serial number, _Dylan thought a bit wildly, and couldn't stop the tired giggle that escaped her quickly-failing control. The giggle died a swift and brutal death when Westenra asked in a carefully neutral voice, "Do you trust me, Doctor Myers?"

"No." Never. Could never trust one of _them_. Not the people at Saint Vincent's. Could never really trust anyone except John and... and...

"Why don't you trust me?"

"You're evil."

Westenra didn't bother hiding the raised eyebrows her reply induced, but he was careful to hide his grin. _Strike one, you little witch._ Aloud, all the good doctor asked of his colleague was, "Have you told other people not to trust me?"

"Yes."

"Who?" _And that is strike two._

"I don't..."

"Tell me who."

She blinked blearily at him and then grinned suddenly. "Your mom." She laughed, a drunken-sounding giggle. The loose-lipped effect of the pentothal was starting to hit her. "That's what the kids say, right? Your mom? I think I'm supposed to say 'in a box' at the end, but I don't remember. Is that how it goes? 'Your mom in a box?'"

"Doctor Myers, answer the question. Now."

Myers' face creased into a frown. Her glassy eyes began to look just a little more focused now. Just for a moment. There. Some small trace of lucidity. She shook her head slowly from side to side. Closed her eyes. Snapped them open again. Dark lashes fluttered as she struggled against the drowsiness lulling her into complacency. But, the older psychiatrist noted, she didn't answer him.

It was the thorazine. There were still traces of thorazine in Myers' system from her years in the institution. Constant, consistent usage of a typical antipsychotic drug with a chlorpromazine base (such as thorazine) built up deposits of the drug in the body, especially if the dosage was high. It gave her, among other things, a bit of a natural resistance to certain barbiturates - such as diazepam and sodium pentothal. Which was why she could resist answering his questions.

He prepped another three milligrams of pentothal. Allowed his mouth to twitch when Dylan whimpered while he depressed the plunger. Technically, the rules for a police-related psychiatric evaluation called for no more than seven milligrams of the truth-inducing drug, and only if there were no sedatives involved. But he _was_ one of the best shrinks at Saint Vin's. If he said the test required a high dose of the drug, no one would question him. Nor would they question why he added another hundred milligrams of diazepam.

Westenra glanced at the monitor. Blood pressure dropping a little. Pulse slowing a bit - about fifty beats per minute. A bit low, but not dangerously so. Not yet. Breathing slow and even through slack lips. Her eyelashes fluttered. She made a small sound. Shivered.

Dylan could feel the needle both times Westenra shoved it into her arm. Could only blink up at him with bleary eyes as she mumbled, "No. Too much." His eyes were so cold. Reptilian. Dragon eyes. Eyes cold as dragon's cold. Monster eyes, just like that day... just like when she tried to tell him, tell _someone_ about that night on the stairs leading to the basement...

"Who have you told not to trust me, Doctor Myers?"

She closed her eyes because the lids were too heavy to hold up anymore. "Everyone."

"Including your patients?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Don't remember. Tired..."

"Did you tell your patients I was evil?"

"No." Didn't have to, though, she realized with the slowness of a thought being pulled from a tar pit. Didn't need to tell everyone she knew that Westenra only cared about money. About his stupid hospital and his place on the administrative board. About keeping his secrets. Everything swimming. Cobwebs wrapped around her brain and strangled her every time she tried to think about anything except the disembodied voice asking her questions. "Didn't tell. Don't have to. They know. Everyone knows about you. Everyone because you're evil and they can see it, they know.

"These are some really primo drugs, by the way," Dylan slurred. "I feel like I'm flying." She peered at Westenra suspiciously. "Are you trying to get me to jump off a roof to see if I can fly? 'Cause it's not gonna work. I learned about gravity ages ago."

"If you're concerned, we could always restrain you."

"Or you could accept my humble invitation to bite me and die. I like that plan way better. Or _you_ could jump off the roof and try to fly." She paused. Frowned. "Have I made a rhyme?"

"You said your patients know I'm evil. _How_ do they know that, Doctor Myers?"

"Your eyes," she mumbled. "Like a lizard's. Cold. And," Dylan added with a weary smirk, "because... you're a monumental... jerk."

"Am I?" Damn her. She'd always been like this, even as a kid. Never giving respect where it was due. Never showing the proper deference for her superiors. She'd called him worse things as a child. She'd had a real mouth on her then. Now her so-called faith kept her tongue bound, but not her disrespect. "A jerk? Anything else?"

Maybe it was the drugs. They lowered inhibitions, after all. But the phrase that came out of her mouth, although she sounded exhausted, was pithy and to the point. Then she added, "You'd make a killing playing one of those dastardly villains in a silent movie. Maybe you should do that. Or you could just do us all a favor and walk in front of a bus. That would be nice. It could be like an early birthday present to me. My birthday's in like, a month and a half, you know. You should definitely go-"

"Did you tell anyone that I have more than a professional connection with Ivan Blackwood?"

A spike in the heart rate. Blood pressure suddenly shooting up. Breathing rapid and shallow but oxygen levels lowering. Myers shook her head and whispered, "No. No, I didn't, I didn't. Didn't tell. No one... no one believed us."

"Did you tell Lisa Ramirez not to talk to me?"

"Why? Is she not talking to you? Poor Doctor Westenra. Your charms don't affect the young and beautiful. Perhaps it is because you're... what's that Ke$ha song? Oh, yeah - a dinosaur. You're what, seventy? How come you're not married and bothering whatever decrepit hag would want to be your wife? Find someone who thinks it's hot that you've got liver spots and you're going bald and hooked up to an oxygen tank. Don't be depressed. That's what happens when you're old-"

"Answer me, Doctor," Westenra growled. "Did you tell Lisa Ramirez not to talk to me?"

Painful seconds as Dylan tried to remember why this was important, why she mustn't tell the truth. Supposed to tell the truth. Always tell the truth. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Thou shalt not. Thou... A familiar voice whispering in her mind. _You lied to me. _Nuada's voice. _You lied to me._ She shook her head and tried to flex her hands. They were numb and cold. _You lied to me._

"No, I... no, I didn't," she whispered to the Elf prince who had walked into her life. Walked in, destroyed it, rebuilt it, and destroyed it again. Faerie tale beast, handsome prince to the rescue. Gone now. Gone. _You lied to me._ Gone. "Didn't."

Westenra frowned. While she could've been lying, even with the drugs in her system, the odds of her actually doing so were slim. Blast. No hope for career-related revenge, then. But he could still make her pay for her interference. Make her suffer for all the trouble she delighted in causing. He glanced at the monitor again. Heart rate still up. Blood pressure still low. "Do you believe in faeries, Doctor Myers?"

Memory coming back now. Electric agony ripping through her when she was so small, too small to fight back. Drugs in her system then, too. Couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything but wait for it to be over. Grande mal seizure. Neurons scrambling from the high-watt voltage. John, memories of John. Not how it happened. Trapped in the dark. Whispering over and over again that she believed, she did. A glimpse of someone from a dream. A good dream. A prince. Golden eyes. Like a fairy tale, or a faerie tale. Draw the dream. Always have it after the pain, after the dark. Dream of the prince. Draw the dream but they take the pictures and the pain doesn't stop it keeps coming back and she does believe in faeries she does she does...

"I do believe in faeries," Dylan mumbled. Her ribcage felt unbelievably tight, like someone had dropped a heavy stone on top of her. She couldn't quite catch her breath. Her heart beat hard against the ice-white scar on her chest. "I do, I do. I do, I promise I do. I do believe in faeries, I-"

"Were you attacked in December of this year?"

"Yes." Wolves, wolves howling in the dark. Wolves howling, loping after her, hunting, slavering, bringing her down and-

"Were you raped?"

"Yes." Crushing weight, crushing on her chest, pinning her, so cold, couldn't fight, can never fight. Help, someone, help, please; her own thoughts circling and circling in her head like the wolves and she could feel the hot blood smearing across her skin. Pain, it never stopped. Choking on a predator's lust and screaming through the blood. Blinding white light burning her eyes. Pain, tearing pain and she can't stop screaming and where is Nuada where is he? _Nuada, help me, please. Please..._

"Who saved you?"

Feral amber gaze and a waterfall of star-blond hair. Twin war axes gleaming silver like pain, wet with mortal blood. Fairy tales before a fire. Brief kiss at her knuckles. Strong arms holding her close. Elven heartbeat under her palm. Hot chocolate late at night. Being pushed gently on a swing. Snowballs. Caress across her mouth like a kiss.

Home. Safety. Safe. Always safe, always. Nuada...

"Who saved you, Doctor Myers?"

"Not s'posed to... tell," she whispered. Cried out when something pricked the bruised vein at the scarred bend of her elbow. Rose thorns coated in sleeping poison. Something icy slid through her veins, under her skin. Burning cold. "No..."

After a moment, Westenra demanded again, "Who saved you? Who brought you to the hospital?"

"Him," she mumbled, thinking of lullabies in the dark and eyes like sun-kissed ivory or glittering topaz or warm, rich amber. Thinking of faerie tales and legends and myths. "Him. The one. Angel. Beast. Him. White lion in my dreams. The Hound of Ulster. My..." And in her mind, beneath the stifling blanket of tranquilizers, she thought, _Other... half of my... heart._

"Give me a name."

"Bite me," she mumbled half-heartedly. "Jerkoff. Go... kiss a pig."

"Give me a name." _Little brat._

"No. Not telling, not telling. Never. Mmm-mmm. I won't. My lips are zipped and locked and you don't have the key because I swallowed it so just go fly a kite, please. Go be a lecherous dinosaur somewhere else, you asylum-bred maniac." The words were spilling out and she couldn't seem to stop them. Didn't really want to. She was more focused on the way the world blurred and turned pretty colors when she tried to move her head. "Hmmm. Rainbows. I like rainbows. Do you like rainbows? Oh, of course not. You're a minion of Satan. What am I thinking?"

A hundred milligrams more of diazepam and another two milligrams of pentothal made her whimper. Her fingers twitched and she slowly shook her head back and forth as the added dosage slipped into her bloodstream. A muscle in her jaw jumped. Her throat worked convulsively, as if she fought not to be sick.

"A name, Doctor."

Now she shook her head frantically. "No." Such exhaustion in that one word. Westenra could see the strain she was under to deny him just that one thing. Well, he'd change tacts, then. See if she could handle the far-past as well as she could handle the near-past.

"Do you remember Gunter Maxwell?"

"Yes." Blood, blood on her hands, blood soaking the knees of her jeans. Blood pumping from his torn throat and blood soaking his shirt. So much blood, a red river of it, and her hands slipped in it, slipped and she couldn't keep one hand over the vicious wound while forcing him to breathe. Couldn't, messed up, too slippery.

"What happened to Gunter?"

"He... died."

"How?"

"Killed himself." Girls screaming, boys crying, broken glass everywhere, everyone screaming and crying...

"What about Allison Ryder?"

"Dead. She died. Bus accident," Dylan mumbled. Cold, emotionless eyes flicked to the monitor. Blood pressure slowly dropping, dropping. Heart rate rising again. Ninety. Ninety-three. Ninety-seven. "No. No, you... you killed her. You killed her, you anaclitic, sadistic, bureaucracy-minded, pencil-pushing pin-di-"

"How did I kill her?" He interrupted. Ninety-nine. One-hundred-two.

"Made us wait too long." Dylan was wheezing now. Her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. Couldn't seem to breathe. Couldn't get quite enough air. Couldn't stop speaking to catch her breath. "Statute of limitations. You're fault, you let them do it. You left us in the dark. You _left_ us. Your fault. You're evil. You killed her. Killed Gunter. You, you did it, your fault." Her eyes flicked open and locked on his face. "He's going to kill you. Someday. Drop you off a building and you'll go splat," she added dreamily. "Just like a pumpkin. Then we can make you into a pie." She paused and thought about that for a moment. "Ew."

"Who will?"

Those bizarre eyes drifted closed again and she smiled. "The beast. The angel."

"Who is the beast?"

Catching her when she slipped. The strength of arms around her waist. Never let her fall. Never. Knuckles skimming her cheek like a caress. Honey-gold eyes and a seldom-seen smile that made her heart flutter. He always made her so fluttery when he smiled at her. "He's hot stuff. Smokin' hot stuff. Warm. I love him. He's just... perfect. He stopped the wolves. He'll stop you. All of you. And the Blackwoods."

"The Blackwoods?"

"Yes. Your little hobgoblins. Remember? Bad hair, breath like dead rats. Cheap suits, tacky neckties." She giggled again. Didn't bother trying to stop the shifting of emotions in her head. Fear was quicksilver swift, slipping away as she heard Westenra grinding his teeth. Dylan laughed. Everything was suddenly hilarious. "Like something out of a bad mobster movie. So lame. Seriously. Stupid hobgoblins. You... don't even have... decent evil minions. Pathetic. And you know it. You're just a sad old man and do you know, I absolutely hate your living guts so can we stop playing Twenty Questions now? 'Cause I kinda wanna go home. Go do your freaky experiments on your hobgoblins, Frankenstein."

"Did Patrick and Xander Blackwood really rape you, Dylan?" He adopted the tone he used with his patients - gentle, patronizing. The tone she hated. Had always hated since she was seven years old and recognized him for what he truly was. "Or did you make it up so you could go home that much sooner?"

Mercurial fear poisoning her now. Threads of memory wrapping around her throat, choking her. "No! No, I... they..." Hand over her mouth. Can't breathe then, can't breathe now. Screaming, screaming, and the laughing, the hissing words in her ear. Xander, Patrick, the wolves, Eamonn. All the same. All the same monster. Monsters, monsters everywhere. Couldn't escape. Couldn't fight them. Too young and too weak and too small and they like it, they like to be fought, like to see the fear and the pain. Like to hear the screams. Screaming for help, someone, anyone, and no one comes. "They left me on the stairs," she whispered. "Couldn't get up. Couldn't call out. They left me in the dark on the stairs, I..."

_Nuada,_ Dylan moaned silently. She could barely force the words through her brain. Didn't know if she were whispering or screaming or just thinking them. _Nuada, help me, please. Please don't leave me here. Please. I'm sorry, please come back, I'm sorry, please, help me..._

Westenra kept one eye on the monitor. Heart rate one-twenty. One-twenty-five. Oxygen levels down to seventy percent. Breathing too shallow. Her seizure threshold was approaching fast. He had to get her to panic before then. The psychiatrist glanced at the woman's too-pale face. Tears were streaming silently from the corners of those tightly-closed eyes. Her chest heaved and hitched with silent sobs. The corner of his mouth curved into a grin.

"Can't rape the willing, Doctor Myers," Westenra said in a friendly voice. Couldn't suppress the elation when she cringed as if he'd hit her. "You invited both boys down those stairs into the basement, didn't you?"

"No, no, I didn't," the laughter, their laughter, they'd laughed at her as she tried to crawl up the stairs, away from the other kids lying hurt and dazed in the basement, they'd laughed and dragged her back down, pain exploding in her ankle as they jerked her down the concrete steps, and her chin had smacked against the cement and she'd bitten her tongue, "they followed me, I didn't invite them," blood in her mouth, rough hands bruising her wrists, holding them high above her head so her shoulders screamed and it was worse, worse than afterwards, would always be worse than any other time because it was the first time and they were too big to fight, too strong and they _laughed_ at her when they... "I just wanted-"

"You wanted someone to make you feel better after your brother's death." Clinical eyes noted the way she was trembling. Heart rate at one-thirty-nine. Blood oozed from her lip where she'd sunk her teeth deep. He kept talking. "That's understandable. You were just teasing. Just playing around. But then it turned into something else, didn't it? Maybe the boys wanted a little more than you were willing to-"

_"No!" _Clawing through the fog, clawing through the exhaustion to try and think, try and remember how to make her body work. Couldn't think about that. Wolves were dead. Eamonn gone. Xander and Patrick were still there. Still hunting. Still growling in the dark. Don't think about it, can't think about it. Forget, forget. Don't remember. Not now, can't do it now. Can't do it ever. No prince to protect her now. No warrior to safeguard her in the dark. Never safe again. Can't think about anything. No...

"Mr. Blackwood found out. Maybe he just wanted to understand what had happened-"

_"NO!"_ Complete and total panic screamed in that single negation. Dylan struggled against the iron bands of drug-induced exhaustion and dizziness, the heaviness of the sedative holding her limbs loose and unresponsive. Shoved at the memories made all the sharper by the pentothal in her system. Couldn't think about it, couldn't, could never think about that! Not here, not under the lights with the monster right there, right there, trying to get her, trying to hurt her, kill her. No, no, no!

But when she tried to sit up, stand up, tried to get away, her legs wouldn't work. _Too much, _she'd said. Too much diazepam, too much pentothal. She hit the floor hard and lay there, stunned and dizzy. Fluorescents burned her eyes. Just like that night, just like the night the wolves came and they ripped her sanity apart again. The wolves, the wolves were coming she had to run had to run get away run but she couldn't get up couldn't move. A horrible numbness deep in her chest choked her, gripped her heart and squeezed until everything blurred and sparkled and began to white out. Underneath the numbness was a terrifyingly dull pain that seemed to come at her from far, far away. _Can't breathe, can't breathe, help me, help, Nuada, John, Nuada please help me please please please help me help help help __**help!**_

When Westenra's hands clamped down over her wrists, she shrieked like the dying and began to struggle. Called for help with a throat raw from nights of screaming. Somewhere far away, a door slammed open. More hands, rough and coarse, held her down against the icy, unforgiving linoleum. She heard the words "panic attack" and fought harder. So weak. So tired. Had to fight. She rocked her head from side to side when fingers tried to pry her mouth open. Clamped her teeth together. No pills, no drugs, no, no, no! Had to get out, had to get away, had to escape, help, help help help!

_John! John! Nuada, please please I'm sorry please just help me I'm sorry I'm sorry help me please..._ But no one was coming. Not her brother. Not the man who'd stolen a piece of her heart. No one. She was alone. She was alone, just like before. Despair and terror were ice in her numb chest. _John, help me. Please, someone, anyone. __Heavenly Father! __Please. Please..._

Sting. Needle stabbing deep into the swell of her hip. Opium whispers shivered through her blood and she screamed, screamed because it was happening _again._ It was happening again and she couldn't stop them, stop, stop, no, no, no, screaming and crying and she couldn't breathe couldn't call out couldn't do anything!

Blackness smashed into her and she hurtled into oblivion.

Westenra slowly got to his feet, massaging his jaw. Even doped up, she'd managed to land a tooth-loosening blow with her elbow. Scratched him, too, the little witch. Reptilian eyes studied the limp form on the floor. Blood leaked from her busted lip, from a split eyebrow. That cut would scar. Well, what was one more scar? She had enough already that one more probably wouldn't matter.

"What happened, Doctor?" One of the orderlies asked, checking Myers' vitals.

"She had a panic attack. Natural side-effect of the diazepam. When she tried to get up, the effects of the sedative caused her to collapse. When I tried to help her to her feet, the panic attack worsened. She'll need to be restrained before she wakes up. Seven-point lockdown. Don't want her to hurt herself."

"Yes, Doctor."

**.**

John hunched in his chair, shaking. Fear, fear like a tidal wave, kept smashing down on him. It felt muted and distance, but it was still strong enough to keep him glued to his seat. No way did he have the strength to get out of this chair. Not with that vicious fear throttling him.

Dylan. Dylan's fear. What were they doing to her? What was happening to her in there? It had been more than two hours.

With shaking hands, he pulled out her cell phone. She'd left it with him because they weren't allowed back there. His hands trembled so hard that he fumbled it the first few times he tried to pull up the right contact listing. Doctor Julian Hollis. Head of Psychiatrics at Saint Vincent's. John slid out the little keyboard attached to his twin sister's phone and began to type. _"Dylan in Eval. Been hours. She done yet? Worried. - John."_

Hollis texted back almost immediately, but his reply made John's heart race. _"Dylan sedated. Panic attack. Wake-up in 5 hours. - Dr. H."_

Oh, no. No, no, no. Sedated? Panic attack? He had to get to her. When she woke up, she'd freak. Panic more. If he wasn't there to calm her down, who knew what the head shrinkers at this place would do to her?

Another slice of terror cut him. He flinched. Wrote back quickly, _"Want to see her. NOW. Get me back there."_ Hollis replied in the affirmative, and John got to his feet. His knees threatened to buckle, but the twenty-one-year-old refused to allow it. His sister needed him.

**.**

Nuada paused in midstrike and frowned, glancing over his shoulder. He half-expected to see something, though he wasn't sure what. Suddenly, though, there was just the slightest shimmer of panic bubbling inside him. Not his own emotions. He knew enough about thought-sensing and mind-touch to know that. And it wasn't projective. Not someone trying to use mind-magic against him in some way. Not someone trying to manipulate him. No, this was another mind drowning in fear. A mind that had somehow reached out and touched him.

"Your Highness?" Wink queried, also frowning. There was a far-away look in the prince's glacial topaz eyes that made the troll uneasy. "What is it?"

"I... am not sure," the Elf replied. "Fear, but... but whose fear?" Not Nuala's. No, the warrior prince would've recognized his sister's mental touch the moment he felt it. If he were suddenly struck blind and deaf and even dumb, he would still know his sister's touch. "The mind-touch feels vaguely familiar, but I do not recognize it."

Then the contact slipped away, and there was only void. Nuada cast out with his senses, to try and regain the contact, but there was nothing. No one. He couldn't shake the unease, though. Couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, someone needed... something.

Wink broke his concentration with a softly spoken, "We must speak, my prince."

The Elf prince cocked his head. His friend seemed... oddly discomfitted. Nuada retracted the shaft of the Silver Lance until it was once again the typical half-spear he always carried. Twirling it idly, the prince took a seat at the table where Wink also sat. "About what, my friend?"

"Lady Dylan."

Razor sharp hurt and fury mingled in Nuada's blood like dipsa venom for a moment before fading, leaving wariness behind. "What about her?"

Wink sighed and scratched absently at his broken tusk. Broaching the subject was easy, but the silver troll knew he would have to tread carefully or risk angering the prince further. If the rage Nuada felt towards the mortal increased much more, reconciliation between the two would probably be nothing but a pipe dream. But Wink could not forget the sight of that single heartbroken tear falling from a mortal's eye. Nor could he forget those softly spoken words of absolute love and adoration: _he's magic, Wink. Pure magic._

"I went to see her this morning, before you had returned from the Troll Market."

Flash of bronze that swiftly faded to glacial amber. "Did you?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Why?" So much bitterness and suspicion in that one word. Wink frowned. What did the prince think, that he'd gone to the little cottage to plot some sort of scheme with the human female?

_Well, actually,_ the troll thought, _that is precisely what I _have _done. But he is not himself when it comes to this human. She brings out odd things in him. Perhaps the love is not completely one-sided._ Not that the cave troll thought the prince capable of falling in love with a human (though he could certainly do worse than the devoted mortal healer). But there _was_ some affection there. Friendship, perhaps? It certainly couldn't hurt the Elf prince to have another friend.

"To kill her," Wink said, and noted with some satisfaction the swift look of shock on the prince's face, quickly smoothed away. "If she had truly betrayed you, my prince, it would have been my responsibility and privilege to ensure she faced justice."

Nuada surged to his feet and walked several paces away. Wink waited in patient silence, observing the Elf. Did the pale shoulders shake a little? Did the normally erect head bow somewhat? Even his voice was soft and almost tentative, when Nuada said, "Kill her. Did you... do it quickly? Did she suffer?"

The troll frowned. Was that a plea shivering beneath the usually strong voice? Surely not. What did it matter to the prince if a human died swiftly or slowly? And yet Wink was sure that if he'd told the Elf that Lady Dylan had died slowly and painfully, it would hurt Nuada in a way Wink wasn't sure he understood. Yet.

"I did not do it, Your Highness."

"What?" Now Nuada turned, frowning at the troll, his confusion obvious. And was that relief on his face? "What do you mean, Wink? You said-"

Interrupting the prince was usually something the silver troll considered anathema, but he did so now. "I said _if_ she had betrayed you, I _would_ have killed her. She knew that, too. I asked her if she knew why I was there, and she said either to kill her as a punishment for her treason, or because you simply wanted her dead. She did not flinch from such a fate. But if anyone has committed a betrayal, Sire," Wink added, and now, though he spoke with the words of a vassal, he used the fatherly tone that, for the most part, had been put aside when the prince came of age, "the human is not the one to have done."

Topaz eyes narrowed in puzzled thought as the Elf returned to the seat so recently vacated. After a long moment, Nuada said, "I think... your meaning is clear, old friend. You think it is not she who has committed the treachery... but myself."

"Forgive me, my prince, but... yes, I do."

"Explain."

"The human explained to me-"

"If," the prince said, every word coated with frost, "you believe the inconstant witness of human words, I fear you have gone senile in your old age, Mr. Wink."

Wink frowned at Nuada. "I heard the story itself from the brownie," the troll said with deliberate blandness in his words. He didn't add the word _idiot,_ but the Elf had known him long enough that he didn't have to. Nuada clenched his jaw, but said nothing more. "The explanation I received from your lady. She did not betray you, my prince. If she were a faerie lady, with ties of loyalty to her estate, would you expect her to abandon her lands and her people so that she could be at your beck and call? Even if the situation was in all other respects the same?"

"Of course not, but-"

"You have told me more than once that I have been father, brother, and friend to you, as well as a trusted servant, Sire. I speak to you now not as my prince, nor even as my friend and brother, but as the father you have often named me. You cannot expect her to abandon her entire life just because you command it of her, Nuada. She is not your servant. She is your lady. She has every right to her life, as you do. She is bound by oaths older than the ones she has made to you. If you had kept your temper leashed and talked with her of this, an arrangement could have been made. You were raised to be a diplomat, my prince. You know that few agreements can be reached without compromise."

"Compromise?" Nuada echoed incredulously. "With a human? I will not."

Wink growled something under his breath. It sounded a lot like "pigheaded jackass," but Nuada couldn't be certain. Then the troll rumbled, "Forget her breeding. Forget the iron in her blood. Forget, for a moment, your pride. I have seen you these last days, Nuada. I know that you miss her company. Yes, a _human's_ company. You could do far worse in your allies and friends, methinks, than that lady who has given her loyalty and love to you."

The Elf prince looked away. Wink saw his fingers curl into a fist that tightened until the already-pale knuckles shone white. "Loyalty? Love? What do humans know of either?" Oh, love. Love, which could be the downfall of the proudest warrior. _I love you._ Dylan's words. _Someone I love very much..._ Even simple professions of Platonic love, it seemed, could turn a man into a fool. Make him place his trust in dreams and something as unreliable and intangible as a mortal's promise. _I go when you go._ He could not afford to believe that anymore.

"Forgive my bluntness, Nuada, but you are being a complete idiot."

The prince gaped at his vassal. "_What?_"

"An idiot," Wink repeated flatly. "A dunce. A moron. A fool. A blockhead and an ass. You are letting your arrogance and pride trick you into making a foolish mistake. If you'd done this when you were a boy, I'd have trounced you. For once in your life, forget your blasted pride. She didn't betray you. Her decision was not about you, or even about the two of you. Go to see her," Wink insisted. "She misses you as you miss her. See for yourself the sorrow your absence has wrought with her."

"It makes no difference, Wink," Nuada said, suddenly too tired to care that his oldest friend had just called him an imbecile in several different ways. Too tired, even, to care that his vassal was taking the part of a mortal woman. "She is a human. I should have known better than to allow myself to..." To what? To hope. To yearn. To believe in a dream and a promise. To attempt to find solace and heart's ease with a human. "It does not matter."

The troll fought against saying something else disparaging. "You owe her an apology, at least," Wink rumbled instead, and fury iced Nuada's topaz gaze.

"I most certainly do _not."_

"Don't you?" Wink said too softly. Now there was a quiet anger underneath the words that matched Nuada's cold fury. "'Disgusting human whore,' you said," the troll added, and did not miss the way that frosted gaze flinched at the words. "The brownie told me as much, when your lady would not. You have knifed her in the back with your words, yet still she tried to shield you. _If_ Lady Dylan betrayed you, it was by accident. _Your_ betrayal, Nuada, was deliberate. You owe her recompense."

"I will see for myself if what you say is true," Nuada said after a long moment. "Even you can be deceived, my friend. If you're right, though... then I will apologize."

But he did not expect Wink to be right.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Yay! Wink has taken Dylan's part! Now she's got an inside man, as it were. And who absolutely adores Bat and his silly antics? Anyway, hopefully by the time this goes up (about 11:30AM my time) I'll also have finished chapter 36 and maybe even 37 (because I also owe OceanFire9 a chapter and owe WhenNightmaresWalked another chapter, eek!) and won't that be fun? So hopefully we'll have at least two chapters to post today._

_Now, our glorious and this-time-not-missing review prompt! I'm not gonna ask if the prince is in character because that's kind of a given (it's a given I want to know, not a given that he actually _is, _necessarily) and because he only pops up in 1 scene._

_1) Bat, our lovely comic relief - who loves him? And who sympathizes (or laughs hysterically, or some other reaction I haven't mentioned) at the horrors he puts his poor human through?_

_2) Wink. Who loves Wink? Who thinks Wink is the nicest troll ever born? Who would marry Wink if they were a troll (or some other faerie maiden)? And who thinks Wink and Dylan are gonna be good friends?_

_3) Who liked Nuada's reaction when Wink was all, "Yeah, I hopped on over to Dylan's house to kill her" ? What did we think of that?_

_4) Favorite things, heartbreaking things, horrifying things, funny things, cute things, etc. As many as you can think of. Also, things you didn't like, any typos, etc._

_**Nuada Misapprehension Challenge:**_ _so you see Nuada's reaction to the whole "I went to kill Dylan" thing from Wink's POV, but not really from Nuada's. I'd like to see how our prince feels and what he's thinking in those brief moments (brief moments that can last an eternity) when he thinks Dylan is dead. No word limit, standard reward system, have fun. _=D

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Going Under" is a song by Evanescence. It was one of the two songs that made them super famous and that went into the _Daredevil _movie. Anyway, originally this chapter was called "Welcome to My Nightmare," which is a song by Alice Cooper (who is a man, for those of you who don't know). But since Nuada isn't actually _in _Dylan's nightmare in this chapter, I thought I'd save that title for the next chapter. And then I thought about the song "Going Under" and was like, "This is perfect. Perfect title."_

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Bat's antics with hopping in the sink and the toothbrush and stuff are inspired by two things. One, my beta/roommate, who reminded me of the second inspiration - our cats, who do stuff like that ALL the time. Sigh. Silly kitties.

- Bat's description of Nuada goes to JasperIsAManlyMan, who wrote the adorable Bat/Nuada/Dylan one-shot, "Night Hunter." Seriously, go read it. So adorable!

- Why does Dylan have cinnamon-flavored toothpaste? Because I personally find "minty fresh breath" to be revolting.

- The song Dylan remembers is "Desert Rose" by Sting.

- The whole "tear on a fingertip of a giant mythical being" might have been inspired by Disney's _Pete's Dragon_, but I'm not sure. I watched it with my roommate on Sunday and it may have had a subconscious influence on that part of the chapter, but I didn't do it on purpose. I'm actually not that fond of the film (SPOILER!SPOILER!SPOILER! The dragon leaves at the end! Lame!) so I hope it didn't have any influence on this fic.

- I first read the term "lassling" in a fanfic for Tim Burton's _Alice in Wonderland_ called "One Promise Kept" by Manniness. It's _**SO**_ good. Anyone who's a fan needs to go look for it. It's _**AMAZING!**_ There are five "books" but they're all in the same actual fic. I've read the first three. They totally rock. She's brilliant at capturing the Hatter as well, in all of his adorable madness. Anyway, but so I found the term "lassling" in that fic and liked it, then found out it's actually a word (the diminutive-cute version of "lass") and was like, "Yes!" So yeah.

- Lords and Ladies is another collective term for the Fae. I mentioned that before, but it's been a while.

- Thiopental, also known as sodium pentothal, is a barbiturate. When mixing sodium pentothal with a sedative (such as diazepam), the recommended dosage is lower than the standard 3-7 mg. As with nearly all anesthetic drugs, thiopental causes cardiovascular and respiratory depression resulting in hypotension (reduced breathing), apnea (basically. interrupted breathing) and airway obstruction. For these reasons, only suitably trained medical personnel should give thiopental in an environment suitably equipped to deal with these effects. Side effects include headache, emergence delirium, prolonged somnolence (sleepiness), and nausea. Intravenous administration of sodium thiopental is followed instantly by an odor and/or taste sensation, sometimes described as being similar to rotting onions, or to garlic. The hangover from the side effects may last up to 36 hours.

- Diazepam is the main component in Valium (among other things). It's a sedative, what's called a benzodiazepine drug. Generally given in pills of 2, 5, or 10 mg., when taken intravenously (through a needle) the general dosage is around that much. Diazepam in doses of 5 mg or more causes significant deterioration in alertness performance combined with increased feelings of sleepiness. A dosage of 500 mg can induce a coma in a fully-grown adult. Paradoxical (meaning less-common and acting against the nature of the drug) side-effects can occur and include nervousness, irritability, excitement, worsening of seizures, insomnia, muscle cramps, changes in libido (increased or decreased libido) and in some cases, rage, and violence. These adverse reactions are more likely to occur in children, the elderly, individuals with a history of drug or alcohol abuse and people with a history of aggression. The side-effects can last up to 100 hours after the drug technically wears off, due to its extended half-life.

- Thorazine is a "typical antipsychotic" (there are two types of antipsychotics - typical and atypical). One of the common side-effects of antipsychotics like thorazine is intense dreams or nightmares. Antipsychotics increase the likelihood of a fatal heart attack, with the risk of death increasing with dose and the length of time on the drug. A potentially serious side effect of many antipsychotics is that they tend to lower an individual's seizure threshold.

I have not found any research stating that long-term use of any antipsychotic will leave build-up in the body, but that's how it works for some other (mostly narcotic) drugs like LSD. I actually didn't know about the nightmare side-effect when I gave Dylan those nightmares, but it seemed like too convenient a thing to not use, so I used it. So combine PTSD nightmares with the (fictional) long-term, potentially life-long side-effects of thorazine, then add to that trauma of the psych-eval and the paranoia induced by the diazepam... our girl's pretty messed up right now.

- Typical heart rate is around 80-100 for a healthy teenager. I assume it's about the same for a grownup.

- "Have I made a rhyme?" is a quote from Tim Burton's _Alice in Wonderland_. The Mad Hatter, Tarrant Hightopp, says it at least once.

- Ke$ha did write a song called "Dinosaur" about this old geezer that tried to hit on her.

- Dylan's flashback about the "I do believe in faeries" thing draws on events in WhenNightmaresWalked's OUaT ficlet, "I Do, I Promise I Do" as well as xxyangxx2006's OUaT ficlet, "In the Dark."

- Love and loyalty are not necessarily the same thing. I learned this from the brilliant WhenNightmaresWalked, to whom this chapter is dedicated.


	36. Nightmares and Dreamscapes

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Remembrance Challenge (Nightmare, this is mostly for you)_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So this chapter is sad. I'm sorry. There's funny and happy stuff, too, though. And sweet stuff. But sad stuff. You have been warned. I hope you actually like it. I think you will. There will be 2 parts in here that you will LOVE, though. Absolutely LOVE. So read on, my doves. Huggles! Chapter 37 should be up in about 4-5 days. Yay!_

_**Dedication:**_ _to the incredible __**WhenNightmaresWalked**_ _for her __chapter 27 challenge,__**"Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams."**_ _And actually, even though the next chapter is for OceanFire9, it will also be for WNW because without her, it would never have been possible. How's that? You'll see when I post chapter 37. Yay!_

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**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**Nightmares and Dreamscapes**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Nausea, a Not-Quite Sinister Deal, Darkly Dreaming, the Child, the Lady of the Glen, and Wounds to the Heart**

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She came awake with an anguished scream and a lunge to try and escape the grasping hands that had tried to pin her down in drug-induced dreams. When she realized that leather straps held her tight to the narrow hospital bed, she screamed again. "John! John, help me! John!"

And miraculously, he was suddenly there, cradling her face and murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay. I'm here, it's okay. Just breathe, D. Breathe. It's okay." Over his shoulder, John called, "Hollis, can we get her out of all this?"

"Let me out," she pleaded, sobbed. The leather straps cut into her wrists. The entire bed rattled when she jerked at the restraints. "Let me out, let me out, let me out, please, please! Don't put me in the dark, please-"

"D, calm down," John said earnestly, stroking her cheeks. She was so cold. Her eyes were wide in terror, the pupils dilated impossibly wide until the yawning black almost swallowed up the moonlit blue. Her stupid job wasn't worth this. "It's okay. Hang on, we're gonna get you out of here. Hang on. It's okay."

She'd fought against the restraints even while unconscious, he thought, studying the vicious, raw-looking bruises on her fragile wrists. There would be more across her chest and her knees, at her ankles despite the socks and tennis shoes she'd worn. The twenty-one-year-old swore silently.

_Hospital procedure, my ass,_ he thought, but didn't say. Only kept murmuring soothingly to his frantic twin.

Hollis undid the straps across her forehead, chest and knees first. Ankles next. Wrists last. Dylan threw herself into John's arms and sobbed into his shirt. "Don't let them put me in the dark, John, please, please, don't let them, don't let them, John! Don't let them, the dark, not the dark, no please not the dark please please!"

"Shhh," John whispered, stroking her hair. "Shhh, it's okay. I won't let them hurt you again. It's okay."

"Don't let them, please don't let them, no, no, pleasepleasepleaseplease_please..."_

It took him nearly two hours to calm her down. He had to explain why they'd restrained her (violent panic attacks and convulsions were a known side-effect of pentothal and diazepam), and why he hadn't stopped them. Even Doctor Hollis, a dark-haired and ridiculously handsome man with piercing blue eyes, reminded Dylan that hospital procedure dictated that if a patient had to be sedated due to violent tendencies (whether naturally-occurring or drug-induced), they had to be restrained.

Dylan trusted Doctor Julian Hollis. Even liked him. But just then, she almost hated him for the clinically detached way he explained why she'd been forced to relive one of her worst nightmares.

"He drugged me," Dylan mumbled once she'd grown somewhat calmer. Her words slurred together. Now that the adrenaline and terror weren't pumping through her so hard, she was starting to feel drowsy again. And nauseous. "Too much diazepam. Tried to make me... panic..."

"We're looking into that," Hollis said non-commitally.

Dylan dropped her head against John's chest and sighed. "He rigged it. Didn't ask the... right questions. He... not fair." Her stomach churned. "Am I still... suspended?"

"You'll probably have to be reevaluated," Hollis replied. John stiffened. Dylan whimpered. "But, this time, I don't care what buttons he pushes or strings he pulls, I'll be the one doing the Eval. Okay?"

For a long, tense moment, she was tempted to say _no._ Tempted, actually, to yell "screw you and the horse you rode in on." Tempted to just give up and quit. The NYPD could take a flying leap off a cliff. But then she thought of Lisa. Tomorrow was Rafael's funeral. Could they even make it?

"Sure," she muttered. "Whatever. Don't care right now." A sudden surge of greasy nausea hit her hard in the stomach. "I'm gonna be sick," she managed to gasp out.

John plunked the small trash can between her knees in time for her to throw up.

**.**

"I wanna die," Dylan groaned as she fell onto her bed an hour later and covered her eyes with one arm. Fragments of her skull were sloshing around in the gelatinous mass that had been her brain before the onset of a migraine-sized headache. "Jeez."

"You need to eat something," John said, sinking down onto the edge of the bed beside his sister. Technically since the people in Psychiatrics had had to sedate her, Dylan had had to actually be discharged from the hospital, but Doctor Hollis had made sure it went smoothly. The trip home had been a bit less smooth. They'd had to stop every ten or so minutes for Dylan to throw up on the side of the road. Even after her stomach was empty, the dry heaves hadn't quit. "And rehydrate yourself. I know you don't feel like it, but you need to."

"Ugh," she mumbled, and pulled the pillow over her face. Inhaled the lingering scent of forests. Felt a bit better - and in all the ways that counted, a lot worse. "No food. Please. I just want to..."

She'd been about to say, "Sleep." Changed her mind. Another side effect of sodium pentothal was very intense nightmares.

_Funnily enough,_ Dylan thought without any humor, _that's one of the long-term side effects of thorazine._ Thorazine, the poison they'd shot into her veins for years when she was a kid trapped in the institution. Prolonged usage - like, say, eleven years - often meant the side-effects would never stop. Sleeping was not on her list tonight. At least, not until the other two drugs wore off completely.

Struggling to her feet, Dylan began to pace. She tripped every few steps. Her feet felt half-numb.

_Diazepam,_ she thought bitterly. _Stupid half-life. Stupid sedatives._ She raked shaking hands through her tangled hair. Kept pacing. There was no way she could sleep tonight. Probably couldn't sleep the next night, either. All three of the drugs swimming in her system - the faint, never-gone traces of thorazine; the nauseating sodium pentothal; and the dangerously soft, sleepy diazepam - would ensure the worst nightmares she'd ever had in her life. Considering how bad her nightmares had always been, she wasn't sure she could take that. Was actually fairly certain she couldn't.

"You need to eat," John repeated. "Drink some water."

"No," she said, shaking her head frantically. "Mmm-mmm. Can't eat or drink." She'd just throw it back up, anyway. Instead she kept pacing. One foot in front of the other. Tiredness pulled at her, wrenched at her. She ignored it. Her hands, clamped tightly around her upper arms, ached from the pressure of her own grip. She knew she'd have bruises later. "Can't sleep, either," Dylan added. "Won't."

"You have to sleep," he reminded her gently. Watched her with worried eyes as she hunched her shoulders and shook her head savagely. "D, the funeral's tomorrow."

"Can't go," Dylan replied. Her tongue was thick in her mouth. Her eyes burned with tiredness. Sleep sounded like heaven. Sleep sounded like hell. "Still on suspension, remember? Can't get Lisa. Can't go." Which meant probably no one was going, darn it. She would've cursed Westenra, but profanity was against her religion. And she couldn't seem to remember any relevant cusswords at the moment, either. She could barely walk straight. It wasn't fair. Rafael deserved someone to be at his funeral.

"D, would you just sit down for a minute?"

"No!" A wealth of hot fury and ice-cold fear in that one word. "No. Won't sit down. No. Can't. Won't." She could feel the drugs skittering like roaches through her bloodstream. Shuddered. She hated the drug-induced nervous tension that sizzled beneath her skin and buzzed inside her skull. Couldn't rest, not even for a second. She was so tired. So very tired. But if she sat down, if she laid down... if she even stopped moving for more than thirty seconds she would fall asleep.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," John mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry-"

"Shut up," his twin snapped, then came to an abrupt halt in front of him. "Don't make me punch you. I'll crack my knuckles and you'll feel obligated to say 'ow' even though you're not the one who's damaged." Suddenly she reached out and poked him in the chest. "I love you, jerkface. Don't sweat it."

Quick as a flash, John reached out and tugged her ponytail. "Love you, too. You sure?"

"Seriously, don't sweat it. You have the most rancid sweat of any guy I've ever met. Seriously. When you go to the gym, you come out as a walking bio-hazard." She was starting to sway on her feet. Her skull was pounding. With a grumbling sigh, the pacing began again. "I remember having to do your laundry when you were in high school. Memories of your gym socks still give me nightmares."

"Hey, I had to wash your bra that one time at the Auto-Mat."

"And now you're scarred for life, I know. Don't worry. I'll pay for your therapy."

"Okay, look," her twin mumbled, blushing hotly. "There are certain things brothers know about their sisters just as a matter of course." At Dylan's raised eyebrow, he flapped a hand. "Reproductive stuff and... and lipstick and thongs and all that stuff. I understand that. But I really, _really_ did not need to know that my sister owned a hot pink, lace bra! Okay?" As embarrassed as the memory still made him, he was glad when Dylan laughed.

"Consider it payback for that time I walked in on you and Bethany Fisher making out on the sofa. You know, the sofa where I _slept."_

"She was _wearing_ her bra," he muttered testily.

"Yes, but I seem to recall finding a lime green silk tho-"

"Okay, okay. Fine. Payback." John held up his hands in surrender. His twin laughed again, and he cracked a smile. It hurt because of the black lump on his jaw, but he didn't care. If Dylan could laugh after what had happened, she was okay. Shaken, but okay.

Dylan stumbled suddenly and fell against the side of the bed. "Crud. Ow, my head hurts." Strength suddenly gone, she slumped onto the bed again. Crawled back to where John sat and dropped to the exquisitely soft blankets. The softness called to her. Encouraged her to close her eyes. Just sleep. She pressed the heels of her palms against her temples and groaned, "I hate this. And my head is killing me."

"You're seriously dehydrated. Drink this." John helped her to half-sit up so he could press a bottle of water to her dry lips. She sipped it gingerly. Made a face. "Drink it, Dylan. Or I'll pour it down your throat."

"Tastes like garlic and rancid onions."

"That's the pentothal," her twin replied, and held the bottle to her lips again. Glaring at him half-heartedly, she took the bottle and drank.

After a few minutes she said, "You never told me where you got that goose-egg."

John instinctively touched the black lump at his jaw. Winced when it twinged at him. Thought about how happy his sister would be (or unhappy, rather) if he told her that he'd gone wandering in the abandoned subway tunnels that she'd always told him to stay away from. Gone wandering, just so he could rage against that pompous little Elf prince she liked so much. She'd probably try to bite him. But he said, "I'll tell you if you eat and drink another bottle of water."

Dylan shook her head. Winced when her skull informed her in no uncertain terms that head-shaking was bad juju. "Ow. No dice. Don't wanna know that bad." She thought for a moment and then grinned wickedly. "Now, if you agreed to, say... letting me give you a full-blown mani and pedi, then maybe I'd agree to eat."

"A full-blown manicure and pedicure?" He stared at his twin in abject horror. "I love you. I love you more than life. You're the other half of my soul and I adore you to distraction, D. You're my favorite sister in the world. But there is no way in Hades that I'm gonna-"

"Yes there is. With sparkly nail polish, too. Royal blue sparkly nail polish."

"No! Heck no. No way."

"Oh. Gee. I guess I'm gonna starve then."

"Why?" He moaned, every inch the disgruntled brother. "Why do you want to do this to me?"

"I need practice. You know I suck at painting my own nails. And the New Year's Eve charity dinner is less than two months away." She yawned, then slapped her cheeks lightly to keep herself conscious. "So I would like some practice with the nail polish because I don't want to go to the salon to get my nails done." In fact, she never, ever wanted to go to a salon ever again. She'd been coming home from the salon that cold, December night when... when the wolves...

_When I met Nuada,_ Dylan thought firmly. _The night I met Nuada._ Which made her feel better, and worse. _Ugh,_ she growled at herself. _Stop acting like a lovesick little girl. Yeah, he's your first real crush but so what? Grow up. He's a guy. An amazing, extraordinary, wonderful guy, but still - he's _just _a guy. There are other guys in the world. He didn't even like me that much._

Oblivious to her thoughts, John sighed. "Eat three packages of crackers and drink _two_ more bottles of water and... I'll let you do the nail polish thing."

That distracted her. Oh, crackers. Keebler club cracker and cheddar sandwiches. Her favorite crackers. And the club crackers would be good for suppressing the hideous urge to toss her cookies all over her nice, comfy bed. She gave her twin a disparaging look.

"You're evil. If the crackers make me nauseous, I'm throwing up on you."

"That's my girl."

He laughed when she grinned, grabbed his hand, and hugged it to her scarred cheek. When all was said and done, it could've been worse. She could've wanted to try out eyeliner and lipstick on him like she had in college. He could handle some sparkly nail polish. He just... needed to make sure there was acetone around when all this went down. That's all.

**.**

John stayed because he knew that night would be bad. Exhausted as Dylan was from lack of real untroubled sleep and the drowsiness-inducing drugs Westenra had pumped into her system, there was no way she could stay awake until the effects wore off. Luckily he'd managed to get the day off. He didn't have to be at work until eight Thursday morning. He could stay with his emotionally fragile twin for a couple days, at least.

He'd gotten a call from Doctor Hollis earlier. Dylan needed to come in for another psych-eval sometime in the next week. Hollis would make sure he was the one to conduct it. Westenra wasn't in trouble for "over-medicating" a patient because, apparently, his professional medical opinion was that a woman of standard weight and height needed four-hundred-fifty milligrams of a sedative that was normally taken in no more than fifty-milligram doses. Five-hundred milligrams of diazepam could induce coma.

But somehow, Westenra wasn't in trouble for that. Or for combining the sedative with more than a double-dosage of truth drug. Nor could they prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the psychotic doctor had deliberately goaded Dylan into a panic attack.

Well, wait till Lt. Charlotte Peabody found out about _that_. She'd throw ten kinds of fits - and probably some furniture. Maybe even Westenra's severed head.

_I hate that guy,_ John grumbled, stroking the hair back from his sister's far-too-pale face. Dylan slept, her entire body curled around one of her pillows. Her face was buried in its softness. Even as he watched, she made a soft sound of distress and clutched the pillow tighter. Mumbled, "Nuada... please... please, don't..."

The twenty-one-year-old government agent bit back a curse. She was dreaming of _him_. The pointy-eared jerk who'd ditched her just when she needed him. Why? Why did she call out for him in her sleep? Why did she dream about this guy? He was clearly a waste of her time. Most of the Fair Folk were, actually. Sure, they enjoyed screwing around with a human every now and then. But after they got tired of their current human toy, the faerie moved on to something newer, more exciting. And the human? They were left broken and desolate by the loss.

"I'm gonna kick that guy's ass if it's the last thing I do," John told his sleeping twin softly. She scrunched in on herself and whimpered. "If he doesn't fix whatever happened between you two, I'm gonna beat him into a grease spot on the floor."

A sudden frisson of fear skittered down his spine and he frowned. Dylan moaned softly in her sleep.

"D?" John touched her shoulder. Yanked his hand back when she jerked and shuddered. Cried out softly. _Shoot, nightmare,_ he thought, and tried in vain to wake her. He called her name. Shook her once, twice. After twenty minutes of hearing her moan and mumble "no, no, stop, please" over and over again while still trapped in sleep, he even slapped her.

His twin didn't wake. Only sank deeper into the dream, and further out of reach.

**.**

The night was far too still.

Nuada didn't know why it seemed that way, but it made him uneasy. Even the honking horns and gutteral cursing from the foul clots of night-time traffic did nothing to disrupt the bizarre stillness of the night. The Elf prince frowned and scanned the marred night. Electric lights still polluted the darkness. Humans still infested the concrete jungle of New York City. Tiny white snowflakes blanketed the city. There was nothing to explain his sudden unease.

Perhaps it was that he was going to see her again. He couldn't imagine how the situation might even begin, much less how it would play out. The leash on his temper was frayed already. If it snapped, he might be tempted to say more things that struck at the very heart of the human he meant to visit this night. More things that not only struck, but ripped the heart from her chest.

If she even had a heart.

The cold winter night breathed around him as he traveled from shadow to shadow. Avoiding the humans that shuffled along the city streets was second-nature to the Elf now. That made it possible for Nuada to think about what he meant to do this night while he made his way toward Central Park.

Wink was so certain Dylan had not betrayed him. Was so certain that he, Nuada, had been the one to commit the treachery. Which was absolutely ridiculous. And besides, even his most trusted friend and brother-in-arms could be deceived. Had not the mortal woman deceived _him_, Prince Nuada Silverlance? Not once, not even twice, but many times? A troll warrior could be fooled just as easily as an Elven prince.

_Unless he hasn't been fooled,_ Nuada thought. _Unless I was mistaken, and Dylan actually..._ He felt the faint stirring of hope in his breast. Ruthlessly, the prince quashed that hope. It would serve no purpose but to distract him. The Silver Lance could afford no distractions tonight. Not if he were to discern the truth of the matter.

But hope is a tricky thing. Always has been, whether the one who possesses it is mortal or Elf-kind. No living thing can survive without a small ember of hope smoldering in its breast. The crown prince of Bethmoora was no different. He did not _want_ to have such faith. Faith that was then shattered always led to disappointment. Surely the son of King Balor had felt enough of that in his forty-plus centuries. Surely he deserved some peace.

Yet at the same time, Nuada could not shove that tiny ember away completely. Memories kept it rooted in his heart - memories of gentle touches, deft hands soothing away his pain, an embrace that gave him that long-desired peace, and delighted laughter in the night. Memories of sanctuary and solace. Which was why the pathway through the woods to Dylan's cottage now knew the tread of Elven boots.

Nuada tasted the pain, the fear and the rage on the air even standing several feet away from Dylan's front door. He immediately cast out with his senses. Felt the odd, muffled sensation that meant she was asleep, and dreaming. He rapped hard on the granite door and waited.

Becan opened the door and stared up in surprise at the prince. "Your Highness! I... we... milady is-"

"You!" At the furious shout, Nuada's eyes raked from the startled brownie to the enraged - and all-too familiar - human that stood in the entryway to the living room. Dylan's brother was white-lipped with fury. His eyes blazed. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

"Master John!" The brownie yelped, horrified. "This is-"

"I know _exactly_ who the douche bag is," John snapped at the brownie. He didn't wrench his eyes away from the icy, bronze gaze of the Elf prince who'd broken his twin sister's heart. Becan cringed when the prince of Bethmoora slowly and deliberately stepped across the cottage threshold and stopped just inside the doorway. John didn't back down. "How dare you come here? Especially now. She doesn't need you here. Get out."

"Where is she?" Nuada demanded, as if the insolent human whelp had not just attempted to eject him. "I would speak with her."

"Well, she's otherwise engaged so get the hell out before I kick you out!"

_"Master John,"_ Becan snapped. The brownie's sharp tone arrested both the mortal and the Elf's attention. "Milady's nightmares are bad enough without your shouting adding to them. Perhaps His Highness can help Lady Dylan." To the prince, the wee faerie added, "We can't awaken her, Sire, and these dreams... they are very bad."

"The worst she's ever had," John muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Nuada watched him with deliberately disinterested eyes as the human male slumped against the wall. The fight seemed to suddenly drain out of him. "They're the worst ever and we can't wake her up because of the damned drugs they gave her. She didn't want to sleep," he added softly. A faint stirring of unease and memory shivered through Nuada. _I do not wish to sleep._ "She was so scared to fall asleep. She knew the dreams would be really bad this time because of the drugs. I can't even reach her through our link. We... we've tried everything."

"Please, Sire," Becan said, gazing up at the Elven warrior. "Can you perhaps reach her? Your mind magic is not as strong as your sister's, but surely you can try to..." The brownie trailed off as the Elf prince strode past him without a word, heading for Dylan's bedroom. John said nothing. Just let him go.

Standing outside Dylan's bedroom door, Nuada hesitated. He could hear the muffled sobs and desperate cries from the other side of the door. Hear that soft, tortured voice crying, "No, no, no." The brownie and the other human were waiting where he'd left them. And she waited just beyond this door. Waited for him to rescue her. But should he? Should he offer succor to one that had betrayed him?

Nuada closed his eyes...

And snapped them open the next moment when a bone-chilling scream of pure anguish ripped through the night. Somewhere in that awful, animal sound, the Elf prince recognized what might have been his own name.

The crown prince of Bethmoora made his decision and opened the bedroom door.

**.**

She lay tangled and trapped on the bed. Her head tossed frantically from side to side. Her hair, nearly black in the dimness, spread around her like a tangled halo. Nuada could hear her heart pounding. Her breathing was too rapid and shallow. The desperate sounds that escaped from between her lips sickened him.

"No," Dylan moaned, thrashing. Sobbed. "No, get off. Stop it, stop it, please. No, no. Nuada, please!"

He went utterly still.

"Nuada, please, help me, help me, please, I'm sorry, please!"

Her entire body tensed, straining. Every muscle taut with desperation and fear. He went to her as she cried out again for him. Sank down beside her on the bed. Studied her in the dim light from the half-open door. There were bruises on her death-white face. Raw, black marks like shackles at her wrists. When he shot a quick look at her bare feet, he saw the same dark bruises on her ankles. Shadow fingerprints on her bare arms. A cut on her scarred bottom lip that had reopened and now trickled blood down her chin. A fresh cut over one eye.

Dylan gasped for breath and convulsed. "No! No, not the dark! Please! Don't put me in the dark! Don't leave me in the dark! The monsters will get me! Mommy! Daddy! Please, please, please!"

"Dylan," Nuada said sharply. No pause, no jerk to wakefulness. Not even a flicker. "Dylan! Mo duinne, wake up now. Wake up." When he touched her, she screamed and cried, "No, please! Please don't, please stop, please don't, please don't!"

_We can't wake her up because of the damned drugs they gave her... She knew the dreams would be really bad this time because of the drugs._

Steeling himself, Nuada grabbed Dylan's hand and laced his fingers with hers. If he could not wake her from reality, he would wake her from inside the dream. He could get his explanation later. She needed him now. He would have to be a monster to leave her in this kind of torment. Betrayer or not, she did not deserve this. So Nuada took a firm grip on that slender, trembling hand and slid swiftly and surely into a mortal mind once again.

**.**

This was more than dark dream. This was memory mixed with nightmare, and because of that, Nuada found himself alone in a long, dimly corridor. The tread of his boots on the cheap tile floor echoed off the walls. Walls once white and pristine, but they were now spattered with blood. The air stank of rust and slaughter. Somewhere far off the Elf prince could hear the muffled sound of weeping.

He didn't have his lance here. Not here, where no battles could be fought fairly. It wasn't the edge of Elven silver that would break this nightmare. It was magic. And only if he could find Dylan before her already-strained sanity fragmented under the onslaught.

Laughter richocheted off the blood-painted walls. Male laughter, low and taunting. Young. Twisted. He heard the words whispered like sweetly-poisoned lies in a twelve-year-old girl's ear. _"No one can hear you down here, little girl. Scream all you want because no one can hear you. Do you like this? Admit it, you like it. Little slut likes it. She _wants _it.__ Be a good girl, now, cupcake.__"_ Heard the words. Tasted rage on his tongue like hot blood. Kept walking down the endless hallway searching for the source of that weeping. He had to find her.

Hours passed, or so it seemed. Those vicious words, and others, snarled through the darkness. When he heard her agonized screams, he ran toward them. Ran and ran and ran. Never reached those screams before they died away into desperate sobs again.

Finally he reached the end of the corridor. It branched off in two directions. One way turned into stairs leading downward into darkness. The other led to a door lit with a single fluorescent beam above the white-painted door. The door was pristine, though the walls around it were splashed with scarlet. Elven eyes noted the smears of crimson on the top two steps of the staircase. A handprint on the landing near the toe of his boot. Nuada went to the stairs. Vaulted over the bloodstained steps and descended into the nearly choking blackness below.

He almost tripped over her. She was curled up into a tight ball on one of the steps, pressed against the wall, crying softly. The voice was years younger, but the recognition still hit him hard in the belly. Nuada knelt, careful not to touch the weeping girl. "Dylan," he whispered so very gently. It was still so easy to speak gently to her. "Mo duinne."

A hitching breath. The sound of shifting and he saw the gleam of her eyes in the dimness. She sniffled. "Nuada?" Disbelief. Hope, but also fear. She was so afraid to hope. "Are you... are you real?" She made a sound then. One he hoped to never hear from her ever again - a sound of bone-deep pain. "You're not real. You're not, you're just a dream. Go away. You're not real. Not real. Go away."

"I _am_ real, Dylan," he said. "I'm here, I'm real."

"No, you can't be, no. You hate me, you can't be here. You said... you said I was... you're not real." Such grief in those words. "I'm dreaming and just when you trick me into thinking you're real you're going to disappear and leave me alone. Please go away."

You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams. Even dreams that weren't your own. What he felt here, now... there _was_ anger. There was that damnable hurt that should not be because she was just a human and he should not have cared so much. But not hatred. Not for her. Impossible as it was, there was no hatred for the human that had pledge him her fealty and broken her word. "I do not hate you."

"Of course not, because you're not really Nuada. I'm dreaming." She drew a ragged breath that shuddered out of her again in a choked sob. "I always dream about you. Always. You come and I think I'm safe and then you leave me and it starts all over again. It won't stop. It never stops. You're never coming back."

"I've come back now," Nuada said firmly. He reached out and gently grasped her wrists. She whimpered. "I _am_ real, mo duinne. Feel me. I'm real." He gently but firmly pulled her hands away from her chest and brought them toward him. "I am here now. I'm here. Touch me and see. I am real."

Trembling fingers touched his face. Nuada fought to keep his breathing even. Dylan's fingers were light as snowflakes on his skin as she traced his features in the dark. She didn't even breathe. Her skin was warm against his face, despite the chill of the frigid air conditioner. Nuada could actually feel the butterfly-hammer of her pulse through those delicately seeking fingertips. Her fingers brushed over his forehead, the whorls at his temples, even his eyelids like soft wind. Tickled against where his golden lashes feathered against his cheeks. Then she touched the royal scar carved deep across his face. Trembling fingertips caressed once. Twice.

"Nuada?" Her indrawn breath was almost a sob. _"Nuada?"_

Then she was in his arms, sobbing, clutching at his shirt and he could feel her pain even though it was only a dream. He smelled the hot iron stench of fresh blood. Her hair was damp and sticky with what he knew to be more blood. He could dimly make out the paleness of her face, and it was smeared in places with a glistening darkness that he knew also to be blood. What had happened here? What memories had played out in this stairwell?

Nuada could not think about that now. Could only think about shattering this dream that held her so tightly, that tormented and terrorized her. But when he pushed at the confines of sleep with his magic and his mind, there was no give. No yielding at all. When he shoved harder, the dream began to slip away from him. Dylan's fragile weight against his chest began to slip away with it. Nuada pulled himself back into the cage of the nightmare and cursed.

"You can't," she mumbled against his chest. Her voice was hoarse and trembling. "The drugs will keep me under for a while. At least a few more hours." She clutched his shirt tighter. Pressed her face harder against the solid wall of his chest. "Are you... are you going to leave me again?" Her shoulders began to shake as her sobs increased. "No, please, please no. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know you hate me and I betrayed you and I'm sorry and I'll never do it again I swear but please, Nuada, please don't leave me in this place. They'll come back," spoken with a soft horrified certainty that chilled him. "They'll come back and... and they'll... they'll hurt me again. It never stopped, they never stopped. I can't, I can't do it, I can't stay here, please, please Nuada don't leave me!"

"Never," Nuada growled, folding his arms around her. So small. So fragile. She wasn't the woman he knew... yet she was. Younger, but she was still Dylan. Only the confines of the dreamscape made her into this fragile maiden again. He could feel the... the youngness in her mind, the innocence that, as an adult, was tarnished in the depths of her psyche. She was so much more vulnerable here, now. And though he was still furious with her, he could not leave her here. "I would never leave you in a place like this. Come with me, mo bheag amháin, my little one." Carefully - he had no idea how badly she might be hurt - he lifted her into his arms and rose slowly to his feet. Began walking up the stairs again.

The darkness was kind. The harsh fluorescent light was not. When it struck the shivering girl in Nuada's arms, the Elf froze in shock. The scars were gone, but what did it matter? The young, delicate features were battered and bruised almost black in places. Her nose was broken, though it had long ago stopped bleeding. Blood smeared across the corpse-white skin. A necklace of violet smudges told him someone had wrapped their hands around that slender throat and tried to choke her. Probably to silence her screams. Her shirt, a plain black t-shirt, was ripped at the neck. One round shoulder, striped with purple bruises, lay exposed. Dylan tugged at the ripped shirt absently, trying to cover the exposed flesh. The black skirt was heavy and wet. When Nuada glanced down, he saw that it dripped blood onto the white floor. Hot blood was soaking into his sleeve.

He must have made some sound, because Dylan reached up and touched his cheek. "It's okay. It was worse before. When it happened. It's not as bad in the dreams."

Worse? How could this have been worse, short of death? Molten bronze eyes scanned her face, her haunted eyes like moonlight behind the maelstrom. In their depths Nuada glimped fragments of memories - proof that indeed it very well had been worse before. _She was only twelve._ Twelve years old. Gods, she had only been twelve. She was barely more than a child in this place, in this dream.

He took her to the room behind the pristine white door. When that door swung open, the Elf prince saw it opened to a little room with a twin bed and a desk and chair, a closet full of plain clothes fit for a young girl, and a narrow door that probably led to a bathroom. There were bars on the window. Moonlight filtered through filmy curtains. There was no lamp to give light. Only shadows.

Nuada kicked the white door closed. Set Dylan gently on the bed. Knelt on the floor beside her and took one ice-cold hand in his. "We have much to talk about," the prince said softly. Her hand was so cold. Like ice. He rubbed it between both of his, trying to bring some warmth back to her. The Elven warrior forced his mind to near-numbness. He could not think about what had been done to this battered woman-child in that darkened stairwell. She didn't need his fury or his hatred now. "Some things must be said, on both sides," he added. "But not now." Shading his voice with apology, he said, "We need to see how badly you're hurt, madoigna. It is only a dream, but I can feel your pain. I can help ease it."

Dylan drew a shuddering, sobbing breath, but nodded. He helped her draw off her shirt. Didn't need to remove the breastband that gave her at least a bit of modesty. He could see the damage easily enough. Gentle fingers and sharp Elven eyes found vicious bruises striping her shoulders and back, even the back of her neck. "From the stairs," she whispered. Dark handprints on her arms where someone had grabbed her. Bracelets of painful shadow where someone had pinned her wrists. Scrapes everywhere, and even a ragged, sluggishly bleeding bite on the side of her neck. Magic soothed the dream aches. But Dylan's breath hissed between her clenched teeth when he touched her knee.

"No!" Their eyes met. Her mouth trembled. She shook her head. "It's fine."

"You are bleeding. I can feel your pain."

"I don't care, I can't... it's just a dream, I don't care. Please. I don't care, it doesn't matter." She was shaking again, hugging herself, gulping air. "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it's fine, I'm fine, I don't care, I'm fine, just don't, please it's fine, I'm fine, it's all fine, I-"

"Mo duinne," Nuada said. Took her face carefully between his hands and forced her to look at him. There was panic in her eyes, an animal fear that stabbed at him. That terror swirled on the air in the room. Made it thick and choking. "A stór, a thaisce." Tears were swimming in those impossibly blue eyes. Hurt and grief and a silent plea because she still thought he meant to leave her in this brutal place. "A stóirín, ainm ceana," he whispered soothingly. Pet names to calm, to soothe, to ease the fear. It had worked before, that night in Findias. It worked now, smoothing away the panic. It left her vulnerable to him, though, in a way he had never noticed before. Or if he had, never understood before. And he remembered again, when the last four words spilled out like a secret, like the blood on the stairwell, that you could not lie to yourself in dreams, and inhibitions were made flimsy beneath poisonous recklessness. "A ghrá mo chroí."

A ghrá mo chroí. _My heart's beloved._ You could not lie to yourself in dreams. Could not fight the instincts and the tangle of churning emotions in his belly enough to fight back the words. _My heart's beloved._ She knew what it meant. He could see that. Could see how she fought to reconcile the words with the fury she sensed in him. Saw the moment she stopped trying and let herself believe in the words, in the gentleness of his hands framing her bruised face. When the tears overflowed, he cradled the back of her head and pressed her to him ever so gently. Let her cry. Whispered, "Forgive me for not coming sooner."

"It's just a dream," she mumbled through her tears. "It's okay, it's just a dream."

_No,_ Nuada thought, throttling back his fury and his lust for vengeance. He refused to let his hand shake when he stroked Dylan's hair. _Not to you. It will always be more than a dream to you._

It _was_ a dream, though. Would he remember this moment? Remember finding her broken and bleeding in the darkness just like he had the first night in the subway? Only then it had been blindingly bright and the blood had been so red against the concrete. Not black and glistening in the dark. Would he remember the truth the dreamscape had forced from him? Would she? He doubted it. But it helped her now. That was what mattered.

"I have an idea," Dylan said after the tears finally stopped. "You can't wake me up but... can you take me somewhere else? You walked my dreams before. Can you get us out of here? Take us somewhere from your memories maybe?"

He studied the hopeful girl in front of him. If he took her somewhere else, would the injuries fade? Would the pain saturating the air disappear? Would the sick rage and the horror in his gut, the grief in his chest, ease up a little?

"I will try."

And he closed his eyes. This time, there was a little give, a little yielding of the confines of the dreamworld that had settled around her. It let him have his way because he wasn't attempting to bring the human out of sleep. He only wanted to alter this place of memories and dreams. The feral-eyed Elf prince pushed with his magic. Pushed with his mind. Refused to relinquish his hold on the human consciousness that was Dylan. When he finally opened his eyes, the little room was gone. The night had faded to a lightening dawn. The air didn't reek of slaughter and atrocity. And, most jarring, the mortal in his arms wasn't twelve anymore.

The scars were back, slashing across the pale skin. She had traded bruises and blood for those scars. Instead of ripped, blood-soaked clothes, she wore pajamas. The same black tanktop and shorts from the night he'd suffered the nightmare. No jacket, though the air was warm enough she didn't need one. No bruises marred her fair skin. Just the scars he remembered. And where had he brought her? Where had his heart taken them?

Breezes shivered across lush grass. Rustled the leaves of the trees that ringed this glen. Set the little, pink wildflowers dancing. The little river babbled and chattered gaily as it flowed across glittering stones. Its banks were made of soft, white sand. Dawn had just barely broken. There were still stars in the lightening sky.

"'To see the world in a grain of sand,'" Dylan whispered, slowly sinking to the soft grass. "'And Heaven in a wildflower.'" Her eyes found his. "Thank you, my prince." More than just gratitude in those words.

"We need to discuss some things," Nuada said.

"All right." Only acceptance. Only obedience. The Elf turned away from the human to watch the river. Easier to concentrate that way.

"I understand... why you don't want to go back to Findias," he said softly, watching the early-morning light spread across the glittering water. "But why did you wait so long to tell me such? It would have been better if you'd said as much that first night."

Better, because he would not have walked through her dreams that first night. Would not have accepted the sweet seduction of her arms around him. Demanding nothing. Offering everything. And the sound of her voice singing a lullaby in his ear as she held him to her; the crackling fire and a velvet-shadow lullaby and her fingertips tracing circles over his arms. _As if I am falling..._

"I had some selfish reasons, but mostly because you were happy," she said softly, shattering his thought. "Because you'd finally smiled - _really_ smiled. You never really smiled before, not the way you did that night on the roof when we watched Hyakki Yakō ride through the East Village. You were happy then. And after. I didn't want to take that from you any sooner than I had to." Now Dylan bowed her head. Gently caressed one of the pink and white wildflowers by her knee. "That was wrong of me, but I didn't mean to deceive you. And I made the promises I made because I meant them. If you'd demanded I go to Findias, I would have gone. I probably would've cried my eyes out like a wimp, but I would've followed you because I will always follow you. You _are_ my prince, Your Highness. And I... I've come to a decision, if it makes any difference."

"What decision?" Had to focus on that. Could not think about the rest of it just yet. Could not think about promises that may or may not have been true, or about loyalty that may or may not have been true, either.

"If you asked it of me... if it's what you want me to do... I'll quit my job and go to Findias with you. I'll stay there if that's what you want me to do. I always keep my promises, Your Highness." Her eyes met his, calm determination clashing with shock. "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, on that living Darkness that lives beneath Faerie, that if you ask me to go to Findias with you to stay, I'll go."

He closed his eyes. Tried to remember how to breathe, but how was he supposed to remember when the words kept replaying in his mind and snatching the breath from him all over again? _I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things... _And other words. Other promises, once thought broken, now reaffirmed. _I go when you go. You are my prince. Do with me what you will. I love you. _In nine simple words she had pledged to him her life and her livelihood. A pledge that could not be broken except through her own death.

And in four more words, just as simple, his anger was eased. Not gone, no, not so easily - but the fraying leash that held his temper in check was mended and the hurt did not sting quite so much. _Because you were happy._

Would he remember this? He prayed he would; prayed, which he had not done in thousands of years.

"I do not know if... if I must ask it of you yet. But I will think on what you have said, and the vows you have given," the crown prince of Bethmoora said. If he deviated from the formal words, Nuada was almost certain his voice would shake. Instead he asked, "Is there anything else you would say to me?"

A tear spilled down Dylan's cheek. Sun-kissed diamond dewdrop against the scars. "No."

"You are lying to me."

"No," she said softly. "There's nothing else I want to say. I..." She closed her eyes and looked toward the river. Nuada could see the same struggle in her that he knew well - the seductive freedom of the unreal. The recklessness of dreams. The whip of suppressed pain driving her towards what she didn't want to deal with. "When you left," Dylan said suddenly. Each word was like a shard of glass that cut her and left her bleeding. "Right before you left. You... you said... you said that I was..." She bit her lip and he knew what she was thinking.

"I should not have said that," Nuada replied, but didn't reach out to the human that was only inches away. His fingers itched to brush against that slashing scar like rigid silk. To lightly trace the soft, scarred mouth. He had tried that trick with other women over the last few days. None of them held so still for him. None of them made that strange heat bloom in the pit of his stomach. None had such soft lips or impossibly silver-blue eyes like the moon over Bethmoora. Only her. Was that why he felt such guilt when he thought of them? But he could not touch Dylan. Would not give in, not even to his own weakness.

Her eyes shimmered with sorrow and hurt when she turned back to him. "'Shouldn't have said that.' But did you mean it? Is that really what you think of me? Do you really think what all those p-people at Findias think about how I'm just your stupid mortal t-toy and the only reason you keep me around is because you just want to-"

Now he reached out to her. Could not stop himself. The anger and the hurt in him were cooled a little by the shame of those vicious words. Cooled a little more by the jagged hurt in her own voice. His hand brushed her bare knee, the only touch he would allow himself. She flinched from him, and he tasted regret like ash.

Nuada shifted a little. Closed the scant inches between them. The wind shifted, too. For a moment he caught the tantalizing perfume of honeysuckle and morning glory. "Do you think I meant it?"

"I... I don't know," she whispered, and that hurt. "A few days ago, I would've said, 'No, never.' Disgusting, maybe. But not... not the rest of it."

"Come here," the prince commanded in a soft voice that nevertheless held a steely undercurrent of authority.

It took a long time. He could see the wariness, and the horror of memory, in her eyes. She moved like a thing of the wild - tentative, afraid, cautious. But when Dylan was finally seated on the grass between his legs, so like the way they'd sat that long night in Findias, he slid his arms around her. Freedom in the unreal. The chains of honor and duty. She wouldn't remember this when she woke. She hadn't remembered the other dream, either - not in waking, at least. But _he_ might remember this one, just as he'd remembered the other. And if he actually did remember? Then what?

"You meant it, didn't you?" Dylan whispered, and he closed his eyes. "All of it." Her voice broke.

"No," he murmured in her ear. Felt her draw a shaking breath. "I did not mean it. I will _never_ say such a thing again, madoigna. Never."

They sat that way for a long time, in wounded but healing silence. After a while she leaned her head back against his shoulder and sighed. "It will never be the same, will it? Between the two of us?"

"Not the same, no."

Silence. Then, "Tá brón orm, Nuada." And in English, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He didn't speak. Could not. The words he needed to say were all crowding into his throat, trying to choke him. He only kept his arms around her slender frame and watched the sunrise with her. After a long while, Dylan added, "It's okay if you never forgive me. It's okay if you hate me. Just... just please don't take yourself away. Not completely. At least let me know you're safe or something. Come see me sometimes. Okay?"

"I... will think about it," the prince murmured. It was not, exactly, an answer. He felt her tense. Knew the instant the tears began falling silently because she also knew it wasn't a real answer. Knew that it really was not a promise of anything and that there was no guarantee he would come back again. But neither the Elven warrior nor the mortal woman said anything else.

As the sun crested the tops of the trees surrounding the glen, Dylan dreamt of falling asleep against Nuada's shoulder... and did.

And he stayed with her, letting her find some small rest at last, until true dawn came. He could feel the sunlight streaming in through the window in Dylan's room even though his mind wandered through her dreamscape. So the Elf laid the mortal woman gently upon the grass. Froze when Dylan whispered sleepily, "I love you, Nuada. I love you."

A ghrá mo chroí. _My heart's beloved._ You could not lie to yourself in dreams. Not even an Elf prince could do that. Did he want to remember this dream? Did he want to remember promises made by a mortal? Promises that could never be broken except in death. Promises that soothed that knife-stab of hurt and filled him with a guilt that threatened to strangle him. If he actually remembered this shared dream, what would happen to him in the real world? What would happen to them?

He had no answers. Did not know where to begin searching for them. Instead Nuada ghosted his fingertips over the scars on Dylan's cheeks. Over her slightly parted, still so soft lips. He wondered if he tasted peace at last, or regret.

Then he pulled himself from Dylan's dream and back to wakefulness.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I know! I know! I'm horrendous and evil because we don't know if they remember anything! Hahahahahaha! Guess why we don't know? Because it's up to WhenNightmaresWalked to figure out the next scene, ahahahahahaha! Unless she refuses, in which case we're all completely screwed. Hopefully we're not screwed. But yay! I got both chapters out today. Woot! Everyone be excited!_

_Review prompt!_

_1) Oh, John. John, John, John. He could be the devil, he could be an angel (to quote Katy Perry). What do we think of our John-Boy?_

_2) Sibling moments - do we love them? Or hate them? Want to poke them with sticks? What is your favorite in the fic so far?_

_3) Just curious - who thinks one of these days, John's just gonna get fed up and try to sock Nuada in the face? Who thinks he's gonna do it with royal blue sparkly nails? And who wants to hazard a guess as to Nuada's reaction to John having royal blue sparkly nails?_

_4) Our prince, he was in character? Keeping in mind that dreams lower/kill inhibitions._

_5) Okay, favorite things, sad things, happy things, cute things, romantic things, blah blah blah. Lots of them. I love knowing what you guys like. Also typos, things you didn't like, etc._

_6) Who went "Oh, COME ON!" at the end of this chapter__ when Nuada pulled out of the dream__? Or had a similar strong reaction? Just wondering._

_**Remembrance Challenge:**_ _so, does Nuada remember the dream? All of the dream? Part of the dream? Does he slowly get the memories (or some of the memories) back while doing some random Elf-prince-chore? What's going on with our prince? Is he conflicted, depressed, confused, angry, destroyed, what? No word limit (though me likey the long stuff when it comes to Elven introspection) and standard reward system. Wootness!_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _originally this chapter was going to be called "Welcome to My Nightmare" because Dylan's nightmare was going to be super-more-in-depth and there was going to be a lot more violence and gore and blood and torment. But then I was like, "Eh. Don't need more than I've got." So I changed it to "Nightmares and Dreamscapes," which is the name of an anthology by Stephen King._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Doctor Hollis is sort of an homage to Artemis Fowl. He looks like an older Artemis, but his name (Julian Hollis) comes from Commander Julius Root and Holly Short. Although apparently he reminds some people of Dr. Gregory House. *puzzled*

- "I love you, jerkface" is from Disney's _Hocus Pocus_. Dani says it to Max, her older brother, when they make up after a fight. And I think she says it at the end of the movie, too.

- Acetone is the chemical in nail polish remover that actually removes the nail polish.

- "You could not lie to yourself in dreams" is from WhenNightmaresWalked's amazing OUaT ficlet, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams." And so is the place Nuada takes Dylan in the dream.

- The poem Dylan quotes is "Auguries of Innocence" by William Blake. It's crazy long. I quote it here because a) it's beautiful, b) there's sand and flowers in the dream-location, and c) Nightmare started it by quoting TS Elliot in "Eyes." So there, lol.

- The dream Nuada remembers in this paragraph ("Better, because he would not have walked through her dreams that first night. Would not have accepted the sweet seduction of her arms around him. Demanding nothing. Offering everything. And the sound of her voice singing a lullaby in his ear as she held him to her; the crackling fire and a velvet-shadow lullaby and her fingertips tracing circles over his arms. _As if I am falling..."_) is from "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams." Again, used with permission. So is the phrase "freedom in the unreal."

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_

- _Artemis Fowl_ by Eoin Colfer  
- "Auguries of Innocence" by William Blake  
- "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams" by WhenNightmaresWalked  
- _Hocus Pocus_ by Disney  
- "The Hollow Men" by TS Elliot  
- _Nightmares and Dreamscapes_ by Stephen King


	37. When You're Gone part 1

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Must Read_  
_Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter  
For Curb (Since I Can't PM You and You Ask Good Questions)_  
_I Thought It Was Clear, But I Guess Not_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Ahhhh! So this chapter was crazy long because I couldn't find a place to break it up! Ack! It was like, 30,000 words (without author's notes). Ahhhhh! So I broke it into thirds. So the dedication applies to... the next like, 3 chapters (37-39), about. Maybe 40. Haven't decided._

_And originally this chapter was called "A Short Tale of Remembrance, the Last Vestiges of Sorrow Suppressed, More Troll Beer, Ice Cream and Hotness, Clover and Daisies, the Threat of Pictures, Troll Sense, Girl Time, Accusations, More Blueness, Arguing with a Brownie, Sanctuary with a Troll, a Difficult Task, Silliness, a Quest, Three Red Stones, and the Identity of the Tokens." Clearly this is way too long for one chapter, so I had to break it up. But that's why this broken up chapter still has some sadness and seriousness in it. That and, as OceanFire9 told me once, "M for 'Mature.' There's no guarantee of happy stuff." Not that I won't have happy stuff but... ah, you guys know what I mean._

_**Important Note About the Title:**_ _Rosemary and rue are two plants. The flowers mean remembrance and regret. So actually, where it says "a Short Tale of Rosemary and Rue," it actually means "A Short Tale of Remembrance and Regret..." Just FYI._

_**Dedication:**_ _to several wonderful people, actually. Firstly, for __**OceanFire9**_ _for her third chapter of "And Twice Beneath a Space." She's amazing and does good things for intertwining this fic-verse with the movie-verse. The section "More Troll Beer" is specifically for you, lovest. Secondly, to __**WhenNightmaresWalked**__, __who wrote the riveting and beautiful first scene in this chapter_ _(everyone compliment her and tell her how she did because _I _love it and you should too). To the "anonymous" __**Curb**_ _and to __**Ja Reedus**__, whose requests for plot development and joy inspired much of the happy bits in this and the next like, 3 chapters. To __**Airplane**_ _for schooling me in electrified touches (even though you didn't know you were doing it, lol, and even though you'll probably never read this fanfic; I don't mind). And finally, to __**Shibo26**__, whose wisdom regarding the masculine persuasion inspired the part of the next chapter(s) referred to by the words "Troll Sense."_

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**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**When You're Gone (pt1)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Rosemary and Rue, the Last Vestiges of Sorrow Suppressed, More Troll Beer, Ice Cream, Hotness and Plans for Tomorrow**

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When Nuada awoke, he was only slightly perturbed at finding himself half-curled against Dylan's warm body, fingers threaded tightly through hers. He could feel her heartbeat, slow and steady through her palm. The perfume of moonflower and honeysuckle clung to her hair and the shoulder where his cheek rested. It should have sickened him, to be so close to his betrayer, but in that moment, he could not find the revulsion that he had clung to like the very last part of himself. Perhaps it was the easy rise and fall of Dylan's chest or the peace that smoothed away the lines of terror from her face that pushed away his disgust.

"Well?" A voice demanded from the doorway. "What happened? Why is she still asleep?"

Nuada glanced at John, who stood with all the wrath of the gods in his eyes and the worry of a brother in his heart. What had happened? Nuada searched for memory and instead found ephemeral snatches of blood and screams, contrasted oddly with pink and white wildflowers, a little river, and the taste of sunrise.

"She will sleep peacefully now," Nuada said brusquely, brushing past his mortal's twin as John rushed to the bed. He had to get out of here, had to be alone. He could not fumble for memories that flickered maddeningly out of reach when he knew she was in there, just a few footsteps away, at last soothed and sleeping and where was the anger that had so furiously clawed at his stomach for the past few days whenever he thought of her?

"Your Highness!" Nuada paused in his steps, his fingers hovering over the doorknob. Becan scrambled before him and bowed low. "Thank you, Your Highness," the brownie mumbled into the floor. "For her sake, and for mine, I thank you, Sire, for your interference."

Nuada held himself rigid and aloof, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to name the aching in his heart. Where had this sudden pain come from?

"For _your_ sake?" he repeated. "Why?"

The brownie raised his head from the floor and looked the prince evenly in the eyes.

"Lady Dylan is my mistress," Becan said without hesitation. "She has been so kind to me, Sire. She has given me refuge and care; she has given me a home here. I love my mistress, Your Highness. She deserves a great many things, I should think, but above all else, she deserves to be at peace in slumber. I thank you, then, Sire, and if I may..." The brownie chose his next words carefully. "Milady has lived her whole life in service to others. No sooner had you revealed my residence here to her than she began to leave me porridge with cream every morning. She would do anything for those she loves. And she has loved every living creature that has ever entered this cottage, Your Highness, but she holds none more beloved than you."

_My heart's beloved._ The shock of the words crashing against that very heart kept him from berating the brownie for his impertinence. A ghrá mo chroí. Sweet words, intended to soothe, flitting across a dream like hope; an impossible truth, but truth nonetheless.

"Highness?" Becan ventured timidly. "Are you well? Forgive me my impudence, Sire, if I have troubled you."

Nuada shook his head and finally met the wee faerie's gaze.

"No, Becan," he murmured. "It is not that which troubles me." He turned back to the door. The air was too close in here; it was saturated with the scent of her. "I must go." And with that, the crown prince of Bethmoora fled a mortal's cottage.

Damn her. It was becoming a recurring thought. Why was it so impossible to be near her, and yet so torturous to be far? His mortal, his betrayer, his... beloved. Damn her. Why did he stay so long? Why did he let himself be so foolish?

_Because you were happy._

He slammed his fist into a nearby tree, splintering the wood in some places. He concentrated on the sparks of pain that traveled up his arm, trying in vain to force the maddening half-thoughts and shades of memory from his mind. Happy. He could not admit it to Nuala in his dreams, and he could not admit it to himself now. What joy could he claim? What would soothe the raw ache of betrayal in his heart?

_Tá brón orm, Nuada. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

Nuada halted in his steps. It was a dream. It had only been a dream. He had walked across the surface of her mind, as he had that first night, and brought her peace. But like the first night, the memories wafted in and out of his reach like smoke, slipping through his fingers when he grasped at them. It had been a dream, though, he could remember that much.

_I'm so sorry_. There were no lies in dreams. Perhaps she was truly sorry, then. All very well and good for her, but what was one truth in the light of so much deceit? Her regret did not mean anything. She was still a human, still a liar, still... _my heart's beloved_. Nuada ground his teeth and resolutely resumed his march back to his lair. Damn her. His thoughts were getting far too repetitive as of late.

Nuada struggled to push the confusion away, forcing it down to a place out of sight. He tried to focus on the crisp winter morning that had dawned bright and beautiful, a rare sight these days. The fallen snow sparkled here, not yet touched by the filth of the city. The sky was big, blue, and cloudless, just like...

Like the vast expanse of sky that stretched above a rolling green field, streaked with rivers that cut across its breadth like scars. The snow crunched beneath his feet as softly as whispered promises and tears.

_Beloved... tá brón orm... I'm sorry... so sorry_. Nuada shook his head, cursing the maddening phantoms of memory. Those words were important, so important, but there were others. Other words that mattered far more than simple apologies and half-remembered oaths. _I swear on the Darkness... I'll stay_. That was important. An oath he could not decide if he would invoke. To have her always by his side, loyal and unyielding as a mountain; it was a comforting thought. And yet... to have her always there and yet so broken. She would not hate him for it, he knew that much, but... she would be so sad. _I probably would've cried my eyes out, but I would have followed you because I will always follow you_. So she would. He knew that. How cruel would he have to be to break her that way?

_Damn her_. Nuala used to be the only one who could make him feel like a monster. He had begun to think that Dylan never would... He'd been a fool. _It is not her fault if you behave so monstrously..._ Nuada flinched away from his own thoughts. _Disgusting human whore_... Gods, gods, why had he said that? Retribution and betrayal oft walked hand in hand.

_I'm getting too old for this_, he thought bitterly to himself, too old to be so bewildered by a human, _too old to care so much_. And care he did, there was no denying that now. Those moments, short as they were, had lasted an eternity. _Kill her. Did you... do it quickly?_ A man would have to be on the edge of death to feel such pain. A mortal man would not survive it. It was one thing to walk away, quite another to have her so irrevocably placed beyond his reach.

_I go when you go_, he had thought. _You_ promised, _Dylan. You were not supposed to go until I did_. She was so small, so weak, all Wink would have had to do was reach out a hand and...

_No_. It didn't happen. She was alive. Nuada drew a shuddering breath and forced the memory away. There were other things that merited far more attention – things said and done in the freedom of dreams that were important.

_I'm sorry... I swear... Because you were happy._

There was something else, he knew. Something he could not remember. A truth he couldn't bear, not yet. A truth that would burn right through him if he looked too long. The same truth that drilled a hole through his world, the hole he now felt himself tumbling down.

_Damn her_, he thought once more, only there was no real bitterness to sustain the sentiment anymore. Nuada sighed and paused at the entrance to the subway. He was suddenly loathe to go back down there, back to darkness and shadow and... his life. Why return to cold, damp concrete when there was warmth, comfort, and hot chocolate in a cottage not so far away? _I am a fool_, he thought. He had so many places hidden beneath the city he could go to, but there was only one true sanctuary he had, and once more he had thrust himself into exile. For a long moment, Nuada found himself drowning in the simple truth that he had nowhere to go.

Well, not nowhere. A ghost of a smile flickered across Nuada's lips as he came to a decision. Shrouding himself in just enough glamour to escape mortal notice, he spun on his heels and marched straight back towards Central Park.

Nuada skirted the edges of the Park, entering far from Dylan's cottage. He would not allow himself near that temptation. Instead, he strode straight on through the trees to a small clearing of crystalline snow, untouched and unmarred save for the derelict playground of faerie metal, and the faint imprint of an angel.

_What is your best memory ever?_ She had asked him. Nuada sighed somewhat wistfully as he traced a line down the snow-dusted surface of the balance beam. He would have to add this memory to that list – when he pushed a pretty girl on a swing and almost... almost...

Kissed her. He forced himself to think the words. Something inside him bristled against his fear to acknowledge the truth. He had been about to kiss her. In that moment, not of weakness, but desire, he had been going to kiss her. Nuada searched himself for some regret, some shame, and when he found it, the regret was not for what he almost did, but for what he did not do.

_My heart's beloved_. The words pounded in his head again and again, demanding he remember what he could not. The nightmare, the dream... _You're not real. I always dream about you. Always_. Nuada squeezed his eyes shut and sat down on the balance beam, dropping his head into his hands. There was so much to remember. Crimson walls and blood-soaked screams, shadows and the sobs of a bruised and broken little girl. Rage and hatred that boiled to the very depths of him... _It was worse before_. How could one so small, so weak, so human endure so much pain? He had lived thousands of years and still could not fathom it. So much suffering should have made her cruel. And yet it had only made her merciful, only made her gentle, only made her kind. Compassionate towards those who did not deserve it, with a love he had never expected to find in a mortal. _Because you were happy. Because you'd finally smiled – really smiled_.

Perhaps that was why his heart had led them to that meadow. It was such a secret place, the world of memory, and he had taken her into one of his most precious. Why? He had been reluctant to share it with even Nuala and she had been there at the memory's birth. So why had he brought Dylan there? Bruises traded for scars, innocence traded for love, and haunting memory traded for peace. Nuala had taken that glen, with its endless sky and ocean of grass ringed by towering trees, and turned it into a prison. A prison of what was lost, and yet in the eyes of a mortal, Nuada saw what yet could be found.

_My heart's beloved_. That memory was precious, and so was she. That was why he had taken her there.

Nuada lifted his eyes to the pale blue sky above and felt like he was falling. He lurched to his feet and stumbled forward, hands stretched out in front of him like a blind man. His fingers met the cold metal of the swing set and he found himself clinging to it like the very last tether to the earth. _Mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí, forgive me_. Would she? Probably. She always did, but things would never be the same between them. _Fool_.

_Beloved, beloved_... You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams and he would not lie to himself now. _My heart's beloved. I am fond of you_. This was the secret truth he had so long feared, the truth of why he could not hate her, the truth of why he would take her into his most sacred memories, the truth that drew his fingertips to her face, and his eyes to her lips. He wondered if this truth would undo him.

Love. He loved the human, the... Dylan. He loved Dylan, his impossible mortal. Simple affection or fondness was no longer sufficient. She had carved a place for herself in his heart – and there she was. In his heart and in his head, with moonlit eyes and a maddening refusal to be what he had always expected.

It was a truth more significant in its implications than in its existence. Nuada took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, as if he could expel the struggle in his heart or the heat that bloomed in his stomach when his thoughts wandered to her. Eyes sparkling with mirth, laughter curling from her lips like the steam of her breath in the chill of a winter night, fun. _You know what fun is, don't you, Your Highness?_ It had been strange, the pang in his heart when he realized he was not quite sure. He had spent so many years in loneliness and exile, there was too much he hadn't done.

_You've never played on a swing before?_ Nuada glanced speculatively at the play structure before him. Then, with a quick look around to ascertain he was alone, the crown prince of Bethmoora took the suspended seat and as he began to slowly swing back and forth, he pondered love.

What did he know of love? He knew of infatuation, of desire and obsession. He knew of lust and desperate need. But none of those things really described the feeling at the very core of him. Instead of the fire of passion or the coolness of friendship, there was a smoldering burn tempered by uncertainty and sustained by comfort, by understanding, by unwavering compassion in eyes the color of stardust. Was that love?

Love was wide green fields, rich brown earth, and a cloudless blue sky. Love was emerald eyes sparkling with his mother's laughter and crimson hair tucked behind moon-pale ears. Love was the feeling of Nuala's fingers threaded through his, the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder, and the unquestioning loyalty of a silver cave troll. Love was not, had never been, soft pink lips, the smell of wildflowers, or scars rippling down a face that never failed to smile. And yet, and yet...

Flickering firelight, apples and cheese, dreams soaked in fairy tales and lullabies, unbreakable oaths, and promises that perhaps everything would be all right. Sentiments he had always longed for. _The one thing I hate more than anything else is seeing you unhappy_. How impossible it was that she managed to be everything his family never was, everything his family refused to be.

Nuada scowled at the snow. Love was disappointing. Heartbreak was love's cruel companion and loneliness was its master. If he dared to love Dylan, and that seemed to be exactly his foolish heart's intent, what new pain might now await him?

Nuada stopped the swing and stood up, gluing his eyes to the sky, away from snow angels and memories of a night that seemed so far away. Love was a distraction, a danger. A betrayal to all he had so long held dear. He had a duty to fulfill. If he dared love her, what would become of him? Mortal, fragile as she was... she would only die and then where would he be?

Nuada turned his back on the playground and started towards the subway tunnels. Love. He scoffed. Love was for the free.

**.**

When Dylan woke an hour after dawn, she blinked and sat up, surprised to see John slumped in the chair by her bed. She vaguely remembered yesterday, and the eval - what a fiasco, she thought - but couldn't recall the details. She remembered a dream, a nightmare. Blood and screams and pain. Then... strong arms. Gentle hands. Soft words in murmuring Gaelic, although she couldn't remember what the words were. A dream of Nuada, and sunrise. The world in a grain of sand and Heaven in a wildflower. Only a dream though, she knew. If it wasn't a dream, then where was he? Why wasn't he at her bedside? Unless...

Dylan got up, careful not to wake her twin, and crept through the other rooms of the cottage. Finally, in the living room, she sank into the armchair Nuada usually used. Pressed her face to the cool, aromatic leather. Thought she caught the faintest whiff of wild forests.

She'd been right. It was only a dream. He hadn't come back.

He never would.

She dropped her face into her hands, but didn't cry. Not this time. Just let Bat, who mewed plaintively, hop into her lap. Little paws gently kneaded her thighs. Dylan looked down into slit-pupiled golden eyes and tried to smile.

When the black kitten rolled onto his back and offered his tubby little belly to his two-legger to scratch, she didn't even have to try that hard. The kitten purred enthusiastically. Somehow, despite the drug-induced tiredness that still held her loosely in its grip and the sorrow at finding Nuada still gone, Dylan actually felt a bit better. As if a thorn had been pulled from the bottom of her foot, or poison drawn from a wound.

She rubbed the proffered cat belly until the kitten's eyes nearly rolled up into his head in pleasure. His hind legs actually kicked like a dog's. She smiled. "You're a good boy, you know that?" Yes, Dylan was definitely starting to feel a bit better.

Bat yawned and nibbled ever so gently on her fingers. Licked her palm before nuzzling her stomach with his fuzzy head.

Make that a lot better.

**.**

Four good things happened in the next two days, and it was about time, John thought. The first was a phone call from Doctor Hollis, which John took because his twin sister, still a bit dopey from the diazepam, was currently snoozing in an armchair in the living room with her attention-hog of a cat.

"Yo, Doctor Myers' phone, this is her brother John speaking," the twenty-one-year-old said.

"John, it's Doctor Hollis. What time is Rafael Gonzales' funeral today? Dylan's email from a few days ago said one in the afternoon, but I wanted to make sure that was still on." When John didn't say anything, Saint Vincent's head psychiatrist added, "Hello? John? Is the funeral still scheduled for one o'clock this afternoon?"

He glanced at his twin. Dylan was floating somewhere between sleeping and waking, held just under the surface of coherency by the half-life of the drug in her system. She was nuzzling her face into the arm of the cushy leather chair, one hand absently stroking Bat's head. Becan had propped her feet up on a footstool at some point earlier this morning. John didn't want to wake her to ask about the funeral. She wasn't going to go anyway, so why torture her?

"It's still at one, Master John," the brownie murmured at his elbow. "At the Chandler Cemetery."

John relayed the information to the psychiatrist on the phone. Hollis said, "Good. We'll meet up with you and Doctor Myers at a quarter till, then?"

"Who's we?"

"I'm bringing Lisa Ramirez. She got out of Iso on good behavior." Hollis's sarcasm was impossible to miss. Clearly he'd gone Westenra's route and pulled some strings. The doctor may have been young, but he had connections. You had to be well-connected in the medical community anyway, but he was also one of the youngest psychiatrists to be so advanced in his field. He didn't have all of Westenra's goons on tap, no. But he had some tricks. "Although," Hollis added, "she's in a bit more of a good mood than usual. Happy pills haven't worn off yet. But she's okay to travel."

John's jaw dropped for a moment when he realized the implications of what the doctor was saying. The one thing his sister had been so incredibly upset about yesterday was no longer a problem. Should he wake Dylan now? Or give her a chance to rest a little more? She will sleep peacefully now. A promise at dawn that had held true (for the most part) for the last few hours.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost ten. She'd need some time to wake up completely and get ready. Maybe eat something.

"Yeah," John replied. "Yeah, we'll be there." The government agent had gotten a call saying he had to be at work early (his call-time _had_ been eight AM), but he didn't have to be in until midnight tonight. Yeah, he needed sleep before then, but... no way was he sending his twin out to a kid's funeral by herself. Not after yesterday.

"Good, see you then." There was the sharp click of disconnect.

The twenty-one-year-old went to his sister and shook her gently. "D. Hey, D. Wake up."

"Mmmm. Tired. Go away."

"Wake up," he insisted.

"I was having such a good dream. I dreamt I was an only child. Go away."

"Hey, you're gonna miss Lisa and Doctor Hollis at Rafael's funeral if you don't get up."

Blue eyes snapped open and she sat up.

**.**

The pale winter sun turned the snow to glittering diamond all around them, even through the thin cloud cover. The sky had been clear and blue that morning, but an incoming cold front had brought in the clouds. Bitter wind knifed through even Dylan's thick leather jacket. White flakes, barely the size of a pinhead, dropped daintily from the wisps of gray cloud overhead. Breath fogged the wintry air as the priest spoke the standard words for a Catholic funeral. His parents had basically disowned him, but Rafael had grown up in Spanish Harlem and the Gonzales' only condition for allowing the psychiatrist to make the arrangements was that a Catholic priest had to conduct their son's funeral.

John had his arm linked with hers. He'd let her borrow his gloves because she didn't have any of her own. They were a little big, but it was better than freezing her fingers off. Lisa stood on her other side in a black dress and tennis shoes held to her feet with rubber bands. They didn't allow shoelaces in psychiatric hospitals. Too easy to make them into weapons. She also wore the red and white windbreaker Rafael had bought for her two years ago.

The fourteen-year-old kept one hand linked with Dylan's. In her other hand were the two thornless roses Dylan had ordered from Cilfa'lir. Doctor Hollis stood on Lisa's other side, somber in a black wool coat over his typical sweater and slacks. Further back, some of the Lobos gathered, decked out in black for mourning and white for their gang colors. Ceśar, the leader of the Lobos, stood with his hands in his jean pockets and his eyes on Lisa and Dylan. The psychiatrist could feel those dark eyes studying her. Lisa didn't seem to notice.

When the service was over and they'd lowered the casket into the ground, Lisa stepped up to the grave marker. Knelt and caressed the words engraved there with trembling fingers.

_Rafael Bernardo Gonzales__  
__The Big Bad Wolf will always wait for his Little Red_

There was a little stone vase beside the flat, concrete gravestone. Lisa gently put the two short-stemmed roses in the vase. One was actually whiter than the less-than-pristine snow all around, its petals faintly tinged with palest green. The other was as red as the blood that had stained Rafael's shirt the night he was shot. Red and white. Rojos and Lobos. Little Red and the Big Bad Wolf. True love and love eternal. Red and white together, for unity. Thornless, for love at first sight. Tied with a black ribbon, for mourning.

She whispered, "Té adoré, Rafael." Closed her eyes, feeling as some of the poisonous hurt in her chest began to ease. Dylan had been right. Funerals weren't for the dead; they were for the living left behind. They helped the living find peace.

Lisa got to her feet and went back to stand next to Dylan. The doctor's arm slid around Lisa's shoulders and squeezed gently. Of course. Doctor Myers knew. Of course Dylan knew. She'd walked this road. She'd lost people she loved before. Patients, mostly. A lot of the fae she'd tried to help over the years. Every so often someone with the Sight would die at the hands of the Shining Ones, too.

And the person she loved that she'd talked about on the rooftop. The one she'd seen murdered in front of her. Faerie glamor or not, that didn't take the pain away. The fourteen-year-old wondered how the older woman could stand it.

The younger girl didn't know, but the only reason Dylan could stand it - could continue to stand it as years passed and the pain of loss didn't appreciably diminish - was that she didn't let herself think about it. Didn't let herself feel it most of the time. The twenty-nine-year-old woman just shoved it down where she wouldn't have to deal with the grief of lost friends, lost patients, or lost loves. Instead she forced herself to focus on what she had now - her friends, her patients, her Sight kids, and John. John, who had always kept her sane. John, her beloved twin, the other half of her soul.

Dylan tightened her grip on her brother's arm. Her twin glanced down at her and offered her a tentative smile. She smiled back and laid her head on his shoulder. If she closed her eyes, Dylan imagined that they could be five again, standing at the edge of the woods behind their house as winter wind shivered through skeletal leaves and the snow crunched under their shoes. Before they were separated by white institution walls and tenebrous, abyssal distance. Back to before, when they were small and things were simple.

The thought of "before" made her smile. Reminded her of the weak winter sun shining on her face, the sharp scent of ice that always crackled on the air during the cold months, and the warmth of her brother's gloves on her hands. All good things. All good.

Eyes like warm honey and a dark-lipped mouth quirking at the corners as she blushed; the creak of faerie-metal chains as an Elf prince gently pushed the swing she sat on; talking of everything and nothing over sparkling cider and warm, gooey four-cheese lasagna. These things were good too. They hurt, but they were still good. She had to remember the goodness, even if she could never forget the hurt.

"What now?" Lisa asked tonelessly, breaking Dylan's thoughts to pieces and scattering them on the wind. "Back to Saint Vincent's?"

Doctor Hollis opened his mouth, but Dylan got there first. "I was thinking Coldstone unless you wanted to go somewhere else instead." The older woman locked eyes with the other shrink. Silver-washed blue clashed with a blue so dark it was nearly black. Dylan arched one eyebrow. Hollis sucked his lips between his teeth. Nodded.

"Coldstone Creamery?" Lisa asked, just in case there was another Coldstone that she didn't know about. "The ice cream parlor?"

"I am a firm believer of ice cream in winter," Dylan replied, glancing down at the younger girl. "I am also a firm believer that brownies, cake, and ice cream with sprinkles are sometimes the best emotional anasthetic after a really, really crappy day. Even if you're a stuffy old man," she added, looking at Hollis. One knife-thin black brow winged upward. Doctor Hollis was younger than Dylan by more than a few years. Dylan just smiled. "So what d'you say? Wanna have one last fling before they send me back to rot at my house and you go back to Saint Vin's?"

"Hey, Doc," a gruff voice called, and Dylan's smile froze on her face. She pulled her arm from Lisa's shoulders and pushed the girl behind her before giving Ceśar Martinez her full attention.

"Good afternoon, Ceśar," she said softly. "Thank you for letting Lisa come today."

Ceśar pinned Lisa, who was peering over Dylan's shoulder at the nineteen-year-old gangster, with his night-dark stare. This big bad wolf studied the younger girl for several long moments before he nodded, as if coming to some kind of decision. Then he turned his attention back to Dylan. Shrugged. "Whatever. I found dis in Rafe's locker yesterday." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim, red-jewel CD case. The pearlescent disk inside looked like the full moon. Scarlet marker spelled out "Red's Remix" in familiar handwriting. "Think it's hers." He gave it to Dylan.

"Thank you, Ceśar," Dylan said again. Pinned him with her eyes so that he had to acknowledge that this meant a lot to her. All of it. That he'd done something kind for her. For Lisa. For Rafael. "Thank you."

Dark eyes, hard eyes, wolf's eyes; they softened a little. "No problem," he said quietly. Shrugged again. "See ya 'round, Doc. And take better care of your face."

"Yeah, yeah," the psychiatrist replied, grinning and waving the teenager off. The cuts on her eyebrow and lip looked worse than they were because of bruising. So did the other bruises on her face. "You _know_ you think I'm beautiful."

Ceśar jestingly wolf-whistled as he walked back to his guys. Hollis looked decidedly uncomfortable, but Dylan just laughed. When she was around the nineteen-year-old, it was easy to forget that he had done a lot of bad things and planned on doing worse ones. He could be kind when he wanted. He also knew how to make her laugh. The psychiatrist knew she was lucky that the leader of the Lobos liked her so much. Knew also that it had only a little to do with her, and a lot to do with his little brother.

_I'm supposed to see Mickey Thanksgiving weekend_, she suddenly remembered. _Good. It'll be nice to see someone who doesn't have to deal with horomones yet_. She always enjoyed sessions with Ceśar's eight-year-old brother Miguel. He was one of her youngest patients, but she enjoyed working with younger children. If he'd made progress on their anger management techniques, they'd go out to McDonald's with his mother. Always a fun thing. Unless he tried to 'board down the slide on one of the brightly-colored plastic food trays. Not quite as much of a fun thing then.

"So," Dylan said once the Lobos had cleared out. "Coldstone Creamery. Heard they got some new flavors. Who's up for all the yummy goodness of cake batter without the threat of salmonella poisoning?"

Lisa smiled tiredly and put her hand in the air. "Me."

**.**

Silver cave trolls were nothing close to inconspicuous, but... this one had someplace he desperately wanted to be. So despite the fact that the city above grumbled with traffic both automotive and pedestrian, Wink knew that he had to go above and walk the streets of New York. Well, one street. Luckily he had glamor, and there was a lot of construction going on in the East Village near where the troll would be coming out of the abandoned subway tunnels.

With his destination in mind, he studied himself in the reflection of a puddle of water. Fingered the broken tusk and fleshy scar where his left eye once was. He flexed the fingers of his metal hand. The Elven bronze had been burnished and oiled less than an hour before. Now it gleamed to perfection. He'd polished his tusks, too.

Wink peered at his reflection again.

"What are you doing?"

The troll jerked and glanced over his shoulder at his prince, who had been training in one of the other chambers. Sweat slicked Nuada's bare chest and dampened his hair. He'd been at it since an hour after dawn, when he'd returned from seeing Dylan. Wink had taken a single look at his prince's thunderous expression and asked if there was aught the troll could do for his liege. Nuada had waved him off and gone into the other room. Moments later had come the sounds of exertion as the Elven warrior began to train with his lance. The prince hadn't come out until now.

Now, golden eyes studied the troll curiously as the Elf prince strolled further into the room. Narrowed when Wink mumbled something inarticulate and innocently scratched at the broken tusk with a shovel-like claw.

"Wink."

One word. A prince's implacable command. Wink grimaced. Why did he have to be so loyal to his prince? Even when Nuada asked uncomfortable questions, as the prince's vassal, he was obligated to answer them.

"I was... going to go above for awhile," the silver troll mumbled. One feathery golden brow arched.

"In the middle of the day?"

Unspoken were all the subtle reminders of why they never went above before dark fell: humans, mostly. They infested the narrow streets, fouled the already disgusting air with their toxic exhalations and their mortal stench, shattered the natural dark beauty of the winter night with their electric lights. But that was nothing to what they did during the day when they were most active. Like roaches. Scuttling to and fro between their pointless "jobs" and their stinking hovels. Filling the air with the pollution of traffic noise, what trash the humans called "music" these days, the concrete jungle of the city ringing with their profanity and their shrill or gutteral voices.

_Not like Dylan's little cottage amidst the green_, Nuada thought. Didn't even bother trying to push the thought away. Her cottage had always been so quiet and peaceful, even when she played music on the little radio she kept in the kitchen. When the Elf prince had been there the mortal woman had tried to make sure the "music" she played was less objectionable than most.

A sudden flash of memory: Dylan singing in the kitchen as she made dinner. It seemed the human could only keep in tune if there was music playing while she sang. And the words... they had struck him, though he couldn't have said why. Though they were mortal words. Perhaps it had been the way Dylan sang them. "I have climbed highest mountains. I have run through the fields, only to be with you. Only to be with you."

_Only to be with you_. Such a seductive little "only." As if it were so simple, so easy. As if it wasn't a betrayal of everything he believed in, everything he stood for. To be with her. To have her at his side. And it was what his father wanted. Such a tempting thing. What if...

It didn't matter. He couldn't afford to think about... about that just yet. Or at all.

_My heart's beloved_. Nuada wouldn't think about that just yet, either. Could not. First he had to make a decision about Dylan's loyalty. About what to do regarding the oaths she had sworn and resworn in vows as indelible as blood. The prince had intended to speak to Wink about the vow - though not about the words that had inadvertently spilled from his own lips, nor the traitorous revelations of his foolish heart - once the Elf had regained a bit more control over himself. Now, though, his intent had been waylaid by Wink's odd behavior.

"Erm," Wink replied. "Yes. In the middle of the day."

Nuada eyed his friend dubiously. "Why? Where could you possibly wish to go?"

Why? Unconsciously, the troll echoed the silent sentiment - if not the exact words - of his prince's human lady upon her first and thus far only meeting with a certain rhinemaiden residing in the East Village of Manhattan. _Eyes as bright as dragon's gold, skin white as purest alabaster, hair dark as obsidian, and lips red as the richest Elven wine, red as fresh-spilled blood_.

Reluctantly, Wink mumbled, "Fafner's Cave." At the prince's incredulous expression, the troll added (a bit defensively, Nuada thought), "To pick up more troll beer. You polished off my last bottle!"

A series of thoughts flashed across Nuada's mind. Then a sudden click of realization. That last bottle of troll beer had been from Fafner's Cave. Troll beer. When had Wink gone to get troll beer from the rhinemaiden's establishment? Sometime during the almost-sennight Nuada had spent in Dylan's cottage. Why didn't Wink buy his beer at the Troll Market? It was easier, safer. Fafner's Cave was on a human streetfront. Open to the public eye. Why go there? Unless...

"You are going to see Lorelei." It wasn't a question.

Embarrassed, Wink scoffed. "My prince, while the rhinemaiden is..." _Breathtaking_. "Comely enough, I would hardly venture above ground in the middle of the day just so that I might..." The troll trailed off when Nuada held up a hand. The amber-eyed prince idly twirled his lance in the other. Almost managed to smile to himself.

"As you say. Have a care above, my friend." The Elf didn't say anything else until the troll was about to cross the lair's threshold into the tunnels. Deliberately shading his voice with innocence (and therefore allowing the tiniest glint of wicked humor to show through to this friend who knew him better than nearly anyone), Nuada added, "And give the lovely Lorelei my regards."

"I will," Wink replied, indulging in a bit of petty revenge. "Give mine to your mortal lady."

The troll warrior left the Elf prince muttering savagely in the lair.

It took only a few short minutes tromping through the abandoned tunnels to reach where he needed to go. Cloaking himself in simple "don't look at me" glamor, the troll took a deep breath before ascending to the city streets above. Luckily, the place he was coming up was situated in a dirty alley beside the decrepit-looking building that was actually Fafner's Cave. There were several little establishments owned by Other Kin along this particular street: Persephone's, Fafner's Cave, the Paper Latern, Ecstasia, Cilfa'lir, the Pandemonium Club.

Wink noticed a very large human vehicle, with the words Squeaky Clean Wast Management Services emblazoned on the side, idling in front of the Pandemonium Club. The troll paused to study the balding human in a badly-fitted gray suit speaking to two teenagers - a girl with a waterfall of fire-red hair flowing down her back, and a boy with a tangled mop of golden curl lounging against the back of the vehicle. Even as Wink watched, the balding human flapped his hands at the youth, clearly ordering him to get off the truck.

The silver cave troll caught a glimpse of black, scrolling marks on the boy's forearms when he pulled his hands from jean pockets and made some retort that set the girl giggling. The girl had the same marks along her arms.

_Ahhh_, he thought as he ducked inside the side-door to the Bavarian tavern that was meant for larger fae and let it swing shut behind him. _Shadow hunters_. Then he put it out of his mind as something that might have passed for music in Hell made the floor, the bronze pieces of his metal fist, his bones, and even his tusks rattle.

He ignored the window-rattling noise that young fae were calling music these days. Most of that music was actually human in origin. For some reason neither Wink nor Nuada could fathom, many of the younger fayre - those less than two millennia old, born long after the wars - enjoyed mingling with mortals and copied their modes of speech, dress, and even dancing.

Instead of pondering the follies of Gentry youth, Wink moved through the crowded main room to the stairs that led downward. Below the packed rave-room was Lorelei's tavern, where older Kindly Ones could put their feet up and enjoy a pint. Maybe even get some decent food. Nuada loved this place. Lorelei was one of the few fae women who had no interest in flirting with or bedding the prince at all, whether for his position or his looks (which, while many court Elves thought marred by the darkness around his eyes and mouth, were still appreciated by common women). Perhaps because the rhinemaiden had known the prince and princess even as a small child.

_Or perhaps because her tastes run a bit more toward the exotic_, Wink thought with a smattering of pique as he took a seat at the bar. The rhinemaiden was currently behind the bar, chatting amiably with a copper-eyed fenris. The flesh-eating wolf shifter sipped from a shot glass full of a dark red liquid. Wink was almost certain it was human blood.

There was also an ekek devouring a plate of raw meat a few seats away. The other fae in the tavern-space - an iron-shod redcap; a few butterfly-winged psychai; a half dozen or so swarthy dwarves; a pig-nosed hobgoblin with a monocle; a young vampire with shaggy dark hair and spectacles; and a green-skinned pixie woman with blond hair and a young human changeling child devouring white lilies at her side - gave the ekek and his hawk-like dun wings a wide berth.

Then golden eyes like freshly-minted coins alighted on the troll and a look of genuine pleasure filled the rhinemaiden's face. She excused herself from the fenris and approached Wink. Directly across from him, she propped her elbows on the bar and leaned in a bit. Wink caught her scent, just the faintest hint of water. The fresh, clean scent that hung over a deep river. Rhinemaiden. Daughter of the River Rhine. A strand of midnight hair escaped the loose ponytale in which Lorelei kept her locks confined, to brush against her wine-red mouth. Wink tried not to let his eyes hungrily follow that delicate lock of gleaming jet. He'd forgotten how the more siren-like fae women could affect a male, even unconsciously. Had somehow forgotten how this faerie maiden affected him.

"What can I get for you, Wink?"

The fenris was glaring at him as a bieresal plunked another shot glass full of that crimson liquid in front of him. _Too bad for you, boyo_, the troll thought, sparing the wolf-shifter a brief and dismissive glance. _No self-respecting female would pair up with a flesh-eater who preys on women, even if you don't __usually __partake of faerie flesh_. Aloud, Wink only said, "A mug of troll beer, lovely Lorelei, and some simple conversation... if it pleases you."

"I'm on shift," the rhinemaiden reminded the troll. Her full lips curved into a smile as she propped her chin in the cup made by her hands. "Hence the uniform and all."

"You own the dragon's cave, do you not?" Wink accepted the mug when a little bieresal filled and floated it to him. Took a sip. Grinned at the delicious taste of sulfur. "Surely if anyone is deserving of a moment's rest, fairest river maiden, it is you. And I have some sights to show you today. Or shall you make another Alberich the Dwarf of me, and cruelly spurn my heartfelt advances?"

Lorelei grinned. Her slightly pointed teeth were very white against the carmine of her full lips. "And break your troll heart? I could never be so wicked. Give me a minute." She moved to get out from behind the bar.

Wink noted the fenris's baleful glare and wondered idly if he was the one to have sent Lorelei the rose the other night. The troll slanted the wolf-shifter a mocking grin and saluted him with the mug of troll beer. _Tough luck, boyo_.

**.**

"So," Lisa demanded around a mouthful of gourmet ice cream, "you called Westenra a neutered douche cookie?" The fourteen-year-old spooned up another bite of cake-batter-flavored-mixed-with-brownie-bites-and-pieces-of-yellow-cake-and-covered-with-sprinkles ice cream. "For real?"

Dylan shrugged and took a bite of her own ice cream. Hollis was still studying the various flavors, trying to pick one. John had settled for apple-pie flavored, which didn't really make sense to his twin - if he wanted apple pie, why didn't he just wait until they got back to the cottage and she could make one? - but it was his choice. "Yeah, I guess. I don't remember a lot of the eval. He doped me up on a lot of diazepam. But that's one of his big complaints about 'my umprofessional behavior during the procedure,' apparently." A self-satisfied smirk curved Dylan's mouth. "Well, ya know what they say - the truth hurts."

"Hollis said Westenra's on suspension," Lisa said, shoveling more of the sweet desert. "For abusing his position or something. Is it because he shot you up with too much crap?"

"I dunno, but he can freaking rot for all I care." Dylan made a moaning sound when she was lucky enough to catch a bite of ice cream with a chunk of maraschino cherry in it. "Oh, my gosh, I love this place. So, the old snake's on suspension? Goody. Cheers to that." She raised her ice cream cup. Lisa raised hers, and tapped it against Dylan's. "Since they're not glass, I'll make the sound effects - _clink_."

"Shouldn't you be all, 'I forgive him' and stuff?" John reminded his sister. Dylan arched an eyebrow. Lisa, floating on a cloud of sugary goodness and the residue of happy pills, rolled her eyes and snickered.

"I _did_ forgive him," Dylan said with a totally straight face. "I'm just a vicious sadist and happen to find unholy glee in his pain. It's not personal."

"Uh-huh." John said nothing else. Just ate more ice cream. Westenra was one of his sister's major weaknesses when it came to applying the forgiveness portion of her faith. Not that John was going to insist she adopt him and turn him into a pet poodle. The guy gave the young federal agent the creeps.

"I miss you," Lisa muttered, propping her chin on her fist. She began to slowly stir her frozen treat into half-melted soup. "I can't wait to get out."

"Peabody's keeping an eye on your court date," Dylan replied. Took a sip of her fruit punch. Didn't taste the same after a big bite of super-sweet frozen goodness, but she couldn't have everything in the world, she supposed. "When she finds out when it is, she'll talk to the PA. If we're lucky, they'll let you off with the severe mental strain excuse and you won't actually have to stand trial for anything."

"After they cut you loose," John slurped around his ice cream, "if you need a place to stay, D says you can camp out at the cottage. We can turn the den into a guest room. Er, that is, if..." The twenty-one-year-old trailed off as he remembered that Prince Douche Bag had been staying in his sister's den.

"If what?" The teenager asked when neither adult spoke. "Do you have to kick out your boyfriend first or something?"

Dylan laughed. "Oh, yes, dear. You know me - I keep my boyfriend chained up in my house so I can demand carnal favors at random intervals." She stuck the spoon in her mouth and nearly choked when she thought about what Francesca would make of that statement in regards to the "boyfriend" Dylan supposedly possessed. "Don't worry about anything like that. If I had a boyfriend, which I don't, he would be the kind of guy who wouldn't mind giving up my sofa for a good cause."

"There's a guy," Lisa stated.

Dylan blinked. "Um... no there's not?" The teenager just looked at her. The psychiatrist sighed. Kids with the Sight were sometimes annoyingly perceptive. Very aware of John scowling into his apple-pie ice cream, Dylan added, "There's a guy. But he's not a boyfriend. He's just a friend. And he's not there right now. He... won't be there for a while."

"You've got the hots for him," the fourteen-year-old said, as if commenting on the weather. John almost choked on his ice cream.

Dylan managed only a stammered, "Um..."

"You wanna kiss him. You wanna date him. You wanna have his babies," Lisa said in a gently taunting sing-song voice. John made a revolted gagging sound. Dylan might have been a bit irritated at Lisa mentioning such a thing in front of her twin brother, but it was the first time she'd heard the younger girl sound like an actual kid that she was just glad her patient felt up to teasing her about this. "Is he hot?" Lisa demanded.

John made a sound like someone electrocuting a cat. His twin grinned and sighed melodramatically. Somehow it was easy to talk to the fourteen-year-old about Nuada, even though thinking about him still made her eyes sting. But she was enjoying the noises her brother was making, so she said, "Oh, yeah."

"I think I'm gonna puke," John muttered. Dylan kicked him under the table. "Ow."

"How hot? Like, hotter-than-spicy-mustard-on-egg-rolls, hot? I-need-to-be-hosed-down-because-I'm-on-fire, hot? Or I've-gotta-rip-this-guy's-clothes-off-before-my-eyeballs-melt-out-of-their-sockets, hot? Oooh, oooh, or I-just-ate-a-spicy-meatball-doused-in-ghost-chili-extract-because-I'm-a-moron-and-now-I'm-gonna-die-but-at-least-I-can-die-happy-because-this-guy-is-just-so-outrageously-smokin'-sexy-that-my-eyeballs-and-my-brain-are-in-heaven hot?"

This time John actually did choke on his ice cream. Dylan pounded him on the back. When the young government agent could breathe again with only a little bit of wheezing, he demanded, "Where do teenagers come up with stuff like that? That's just... ew. The guy's a total dick. And don't you kick me under the table again," he growled at his twin sister, who proceeded to do just that. "Ow. He _is_, Dylan. He's a complete and total jerk and you're lucky he's not some kind of..." John trailed off. Glanced around. Lowering his voice, he added, "You're lucky he's an Elf or whatever and not some kind of flesh-eating reanimated corpse or something. I've seen those faerie guys with the freaky hollow ribcages before, ya know. Why is it the first guy you seriously fall for is a homicidal faerie?"

"Firstly," Dylan hissed under her breath, "he's not homicidal. Secondly, since he's not one of the Boys of Bones Hill-"

"Wait, wait, wait," Lisa interrupted. "This guy's a _faerie?_ Oh, man, Doctor D."

She sighed. "Yes he's a faerie and he is not a... what you said, John. You know I don't like that kind of language."

"Fine." Glaring at nothing, stabbing at the melting ice cream in his cup with a plastic spoon that bent pathetically under the violent abuse, Dylan's twin brother amended his statement with, "He's not a dick, he's a pasty-faced, pointy-eared, piss-eyed sadistic son of a bit-"

"_John!_" The look Dylan gave him made him wonder if a man had ever been beaten to death with a plastic ice cream spoon. He fell silent.

Maybe he shouldn't have been angry - the bronze-eyed Elf _had_ done... whatever he'd done to ensure that Dylan had escaped the brutal nightmare that had held her trapped, and even blessed her with several hours of restful sleep - but that didn't erase what the Other Kin had done to _John_. Knocking him out and leaving him with a vicious headache in the middle of the abandoned subway tunnels was just not cool. Especially since a couple of rats had been nibbling on his fingers when he'd woken up. John had caught his twin eyeing the dark bruise at his jaw speculatively - when she was lucid enough. Eventually he'd have to 'fess up about how he'd gotten it.

And eventually he'd have to 'fess up about the prince coming to Dylan's rescue the way he had. His sister didn't know Nuada had been at her cottage last night. John didn't want to tell her. If he did, it would give her hope. Hope that would only be quashed when the ruthless, heartless Elf broke Dylan's heart again. And John had no doubt whatsoever that the faerie prince would break his sister's heart again. The only question was when.

"Wow." The fourteen-year-old let out a low whistle of equal parts admiration and surprise. "At least someone besides me's got some issues. So, Doctor D... you and this faerie boy. You guys done it yet?"

"Lisa!" John cried. She gave him a wide-eyed look, as if to say, _Hello! Hot faerie boy on the menu. What are you thinking?_

"Not that it's any of either of your guys' business but no," Dylan said into the tense silence where the twenty-one-year-old federal agent futilely attempted to stare down the fourteen-year-old girl. "I don't sleep around with people. I'm not sleeping with anyone I'm not married to. Latter-Day Saint, remember? And John, stop that. She's not gonna apologize." When Lisa smirked, Dylan poked her ankle under the table with a sharply prodding toe. "Not that it's any of your business," the psychiatrist added in very deliberately spaced words. Lisa's smug expression faded. "Now, children - let's try to get along. Hollis finally picked a flavor."

"What flavor did you get, Doctor Hollis?" Lisa asked when the other psychiatrist sat down at their table.

Dishing up a spoonful as if the ice cream before him were the sweetest, divinest ambrosia, Doctor Julian Hollis took his sweet time savoring the bite of frozen desert before answering the young girl's question on what flavor-choice had taken him the last thirty minutes to make.

"Vanilla."

**.**

Dylan called Anya when she got home. Tiana, it turned out, had no family other than her now-deceased parents. For now, she was staying with Anya because the social worker involved in the whole deal thought it best. After all, the little girl trusted the folklorist and had formed a strong bond with her.

"Although," Anya added, "she keeps asking about you."

"That's why I'm calling, actually," the psychiatrist replied. She was studying movie times in the newspaper that Becan had brought her. Bat chewed on the corner of the funnies-section with studious intensity (he was not fond of _Baby Blues_, though his human noticed the kitten left the _Dilbert_ comics alone). Shredded bits of newspaper soaked in cat spit littered the area around him. "There's a movie that just came out... something about a Scottish princess. Disney did it. Anyway, I was wondering if you and Miss Tiana might not want to go see it with me tomorrow? I'm still on suspension at work and I don't have any appointments until late in the afternoon Friday. We could go to the morning-matinée. It's way cheaper than regular times. We'd actually be able to afford candy."

Not that Dylan ever got candy at the movies. Too expensive. Not to mention bad for teeth. Her preferred movie treats were a white cherry/Coke-a-Cola Icee and a black cherry waffle cone. It added about seven dollars to the price of the tickets, but she rarely went to the theatre, so why not?

"Sure," Anya replied. "Sounds like fun, huh, Miss Tiana? Hey, she wants to talk to you."

There was some scrabbling sounds as the phone changed hands, and then a familiar, high little voice said, "Dylan?"

"Hey, Tiana!" Dylan talked with the five-year-old for about twenty minutes; mostly just listening to the little girl talk about all the neat places Anya had taken her to (though when museums had become "neat" to someone that young, the psychiatrist couldn't recall) and the movies she'd gotten to watch. A friendly debate ensued over who was sillier, Bob the Tomato or Larry the Cucumber. Dylan won by reminding the child that Larry was the one who claimed that anything with a tail was a monkey (including cows, which even Tiana had to admit were not monkeys).

There was a moment when Tiana mentioned "the big red man" and how he had a lot of cats. A tiny ember sparked in Dylan's chest. She could hear Anya trying to divert the little girl from talking about her new imaginary friend. Dylan managed to redirect the conversation to the upcoming movie, and the ember cooled. Finally the conversation ended, and Dylan hung up the phone.

She thought about going down the hall, to the room that held her piano. The room that she'd told Nuada not to go into, that first night of his stay in the cottage. But just the thought of letting her fingers touch the ivory and ebony keys of the piano her parents had bought for her years ago, of letting her heart move her fingers to play such a sorrowful melody... she didn't want that. She didn't want to play today. She didn't think she'd ever want to play again. So instead, she started working on the blue quilt again.

_Whirrr-whirrr, click. Whirrr-whirrr, click_. The needle, threaded with metallic gold, flashed silver and gold as it shot up and thrust downward over and over into the deep, glimmering blue of the current square she was working on.

She hadn't meant to use these colors - various shades of blue, a little black, and vibrant gold glinting against the cobalt and sable. It had just been that she happened to have a whole lot of scraps of blue in her scrap bags and not a lot of other colors. Although she had chosen the gold silk thread once she'd realized that the blue and black reminded her of Nuada. Gold for Bethmoora. Gold for the throne to which he was heir. Gold for unfathomable, mercurial eyes that shifted from gold-dusted ivory to molten bronze and all the different shades in between.

If she saw him again after it was finished (if that happened around Christmas time) she would ask him if he wanted it. The answer would probably be no, but maybe not.

It was easier to think about Nuada now. Before she'd woken up this morning, half-convinced he was somewhere in the cottage, just the smallest reminder of him hurt: the feral scent of forest; a flash of gold from the corner of her eye; the shimmer of magic that was actually Becan cleaning up around the cottage, which had made her think that she was catching a glimpse of royal faerie glamor. But now it was almost all right for some reason.

Maybe it was the funeral. Funerals were all about learning to let go, learning to say goodbye. Although the ceremony had been for Lisa and not for her, maybe it had helped Dylan let go of the hurt of Nuada leaving her. Well, some of the hurt. Most of it still seethed, locked up in her chest. But it didn't constantly rake at her now. She was calm enough - strong enough - to deal with the things she needed to do in her life.

After all, the Elf prince wasn't her boyfriend or her husband. He was a friend (or had been) but that was all. Friends came and went. She knew that. So did lovers, family, spouses. Nobody stayed forever. Freaking out about it wasn't going to help anyone. She would be calm. She would be fine. It would all be just fine. She could let go. She _had_ let go. Yes. Yes she had. She could even picture Nuada's face down to the whorls above his temples and the scar carved deep across his cheekbones without more than a stabbing lance of sorrow and a twinge of worry for him. She was fine.

_Maybe it was the ice cream_, Dylan thought as she attached another square - this one of black that glinted with hints of blue shimmer when it shifted under the light attached to the sewing machine. _Anything that tastes like cake batter has the power to change the world_.

She missed him, though. She could be honest with herself and admit that it was hard to lose herself in whatever she was doing, then think about talking to the prince, only to remember that he'd left. Remember that he wasn't coming back. She missed him, and it hurt to miss him. Hurt in a way she didn't quite understand to think that one of the two constants in her life was suddenly gone. As if part of her world was broken now.

_It's okay, though_, Dylan reminded herself again as the needle flashed silver and the thread flashed gold. _I'm okay. It's fine. I don't need anyone to hold my life together but my Heavenly Father. I'm fine. I'm just fine. I'm just really tired_. Maybe she'd take a nap. _Yeah. Nap is good. Sleepy now; bedtime_. After dreaming last night of the prince, somehow she knew that she could enjoy a few hours' sleep without having to worry about the brutal nightmares for once.

Dylan crawled onto her bed and dropped down amongst the pillows. Bat squeaked in abject loneliness and pounced onto the mattress. There he promptly crawled onto his human's butt and began to massage the small of her back with all the feline enthusiasm he could muster, purring like a motorboat that had lost its muffler. The kitten was very careful not to use his claws; he wasn't a barbarian, after all.

Dylan wasn't cold, so she didn't bother with the blankets. Didn't mind the cat, either. Just let him knead her back until he was content with the job and stretched out against his human's ribcage, paws massaging the air. She rubbed his belly and he kicked his hind legs like a dog again. Wriggled like an energetic, fuzzy black caterpillar in the throes of housecat ecstasy. Dylan laughed and buried her face in the pillow that still, somehow, smelled of faerie glens and the rich scent of ancient forests, even though Becan had already stripped the bed. She closed her eyes. In a few minutes, she was asleep.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Finally, I'm done with chapter 37! This one has taken an inordinate amount of time for me, because I didn't want it to be somber but at the same time I knew exactly what was supposed to happen (once I got the first scene from Nightmare, who got it to me yesterday... or the day before. As I'm writing this author's note, I don't know if my husband will be able to post this chapter on Tuesday or Wednesday) so I wasn't sure how to add happiness. Hence why we've got the marvelous and drugged-out Lisa with her "hotness" comments, and plans for joy with Anya and Tiana (I love Disney princesses - for reals) and Dylan's in a bit of a better mood this chapter, though her self-control is still very... tenuous, I think is a good word. And also why we have Bat. Who loves Bar (and his disdain for _Baby Blues? _Yay for all those things!_

_So our marvelous review prompt (wootness!):_

_1) First scene with Nuada. What did we think of that scene? Favorite parts of that scene? Any questions about it? Who thinks Nuada's gonna pull his head out of his butt and be like, "Well, loving for a short time is better than not loving at all! Dylan, I love you" ? Who thinks it's gonna take some time? Who wants to beat some sense into him? And who was like, "Awww, cute!" when he hopped on the swing? I was like, "OMG, squeal! So adorable!" Who said "awww" or some other thing when Nuada woke up all cuddled against Dylan? Everyone should thank Nightmare because LA could NOT figure out how to make THAT happen. And who's happy that he FINALLY ADMITTED TO BEING IN LOVE WITH DYLAN? Even if he's like, "Meh, can't let it affect me," he ADMITTED IT! FINALLY!_

_2) Who loves Becan? Who's like, "Oh, you tell him, little dude!" or something like that? I wanna cuddle him so bad. Who's glad Becan's like, "Dude, she loves you. So there." ?_

_3) Yay, Lisa got to go to Rafe's funeral. Was it too sad? I was worried it was too sad but I couldn't make it too happy because it's a funeral but I didn't want it to be, like, Slit-Your-Wrists Depressing, either. Thoughts?_

_4) Wink. Not Casanova Wink. Not Secretary Wink. Cute, adorable, dressing-for-impressing, I'm-about-to-go-on-a-sort-of-date-with-a-pretty-faerie-girl Wink. What do we think of the adorable, somewhat unsure, has-a-crush-on-Lorelei Wink? I for one think Wink deserves a lady friend (although if I decide to follow the film and kill him off, that'll be depressing... unless I kill her first... hmmm...) but what do you guys think? And I mean a real lady friend, like a girlfriend, not a random floozie who wants to get in his pants. *ponders briefly* Ew._

_5) If you had to choose out of the four different varieties of hot that Lisa lists regarding Nuada (unless you don't think he's hot, in which case you can say so), which would you pick and why?_

_6) Okay, seven favorite things; anything you disliked; anything you had a question about; anything that confused you; any typos or inaccuracies, etc. Loves to you all! And especially Nightmare, who made this chapter possible. _=D

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"When You're Gone" is a wonderful song from Avril Lavigne that goes "When you're gone, the pieces of my heart are missing you. And when you're gone, the face I came to know is missing too." It's just a great song about missing the one you love. And the music vid is fantastic, too._

_**Must Read:**_ _so OceanFire9 sent me this thing about this one-shot for Disney's_ Tangled; _it's called __**"Almost"**_ _by __**Airplane**__. Go read it, it's __**AMAZING**__. I know I say that a lot but for real go read it. We talked about electrified touching in chapter 33 I believe? Well, Airplane is one of my newly-discovered masters of writing electrified touching. So for fans of Eugene and Rapunzel, go read "Almost."_

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Firstly, I have to remind everyone THAT THE FIRST SCENE OF THIS CHAPTER WAS NOT WRITTEN BY ME. THIS SCENE WAS WRITTEN BY WHENNIGHTMARESWALKED AT MY REQUEST BECAUSE SHE IS ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT AND AMAZING. Just saying. So yeah. She's amazingly stellar and everyone should stop what they're doing for just a minute and inform her of how cool she is. End transmission

- As you know, I choose Dylan's floral/fruity perfumes and scents very carefully based on the meanings behind the plants (a subject known as floriography... or maybe it was floriagraphy. Whatever; I specifically asked for these particular scents in this scene). So there's a reason her hair smelled of moonflower (an actual flower, also called princess-of-the-night; a night-blooming cactus blossom) and honeysuckle. It's because the meaning behind moonflower is "dreaming of love" (I think that fits; do you think it fits?) and honeysuckle represents "the bonds of love." So yay for flowers!

- It's a big deal that Dylan gives her brownie porridge with cream. For one thing, most homes with brownies didn't even give porridge on a daily basis; more like a weekly basis. So it's a big deal that she gives him treats every day. Not only that, but it's not just regular porridge - it's got cream in it! So yeah, that's huge.

- "The world in a grain of sand and Heaven in a wildflower" is a line from "Auguries of Innocence" by William Blake. Dylan quoted it in chapter 36.

- The phrase "poison drawn from a wound" did not come from The Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers film. I was actually thinking sort of of this scene in the book Twilight's Dawn by Anne Bishop where one of the characters has to have... basically soul-poison expelled from her (metaphysical) heart and it's really gross, and they don't say "poison drawn from a wound" but the concept was what I was trying to explain, when someone lets go of something hideously painful and hurtful that's festering inside them. Which is not to say Dylan's all hunky-dory. She's just not stewing pathetically in misery anymore.

- They really don't let kids wear shoelaces in psychiatric hospitals (at least in the state that I live in). Probably worried the laces could be used as garrottes (did I spell that right?) or something.

- The two roses that Lisa leaves on Rafael's grave actually do mean those things in the language of flowers.

- "Té adoré, (Insert Name of Boy Here)" is from _West Side Story. West Side Story_ is based on _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare, which should tell you that both the main characters are probably gonna die. When Tony, the Romeo character, dies, the Juliet character, Maria, leans in and kisses him and says, "Té adoré, Anton." Because his real name is Anthony, I think, or something close to it, so she calls him Tony usually but calls him Anton the, like, 3x she says that line.

- Coldstone Creamery is a real ice-cream parlor and they really do have cake-batter flavored ice cream. And yes, it really is amazing. Unfortunately, it's also about $10/half-gallon, which is ridonculous, but what are you gonna do? And the reason Dylan says "I am also a firm believer that brownies, cake, and ice cream with sprinkles are sometimes the best emotional anasthetic" is because at Coldstone they do these things called "Add-Ins," where you can add in toppings and mix-in stuff. And one of the recommended mix-ins for the cake-batter flavor is brownie bits and fudge with chocolate sprinkes (gross) or yellow cake and real frosting with rainbow sprinkles (yum).

- I actually knew a kid who asked his mother if he could basically snowboard down the slide at McDonalds on the plastic tray his food came on. She said no.

- The song Dylan sings in flashback is "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2. Disturbed did a cover of it sometime in the last 2 years or so.

- Persephone's is the coffee shop owned by Kaye, the MC in _Tithe_ and _Ironside_ by Holly Black.

- The Paper Latern is the Chinese restaurant from Disney's _Sky High_. Warren Peace, the firestarter, works there and is possibly related to the owner (never clearly stated why he can speak fluent Chinese with the cook).

- Ecstasia is actually a band in the novel _Ecstasia_ by Francesca Lia Block. Here it's a clothing store (in honor of the clothing store owned by Weetzie Bat in Ms. Block's novel _Necklace of Kisses_).

- The Pandemonium Club is a nightclub from _the Mortal Instruments_ series by Cassandra Clare. In _the Infernal Devices Trilogy_ by the same author, the Pandemonium Club is actually a group, not a place.

- Fenris are the flesh-eating wolf shifters from Jackson Pearce's "Little Red Riding Hood" adaptation, _Sisters Red_. Fenris are humans who are the 7th son (or the 7th son of a 7th son, I forget which) and on a birthday that is an increment of 7 (so the 7th, 14th, 21st, 28th, etc.) if they are bitten by a fenris they become a soulless, shapeshifting, flesh-eating monster that preys on girls. A fenris is responsible for the death of the grandmother and the maiming of Scarlet, one of the two MCs, in this book. Apparently fenris are fanatically attracted to the color red because it's the color of sex.

- Ekeks are flesh-eating, winged humanoids from the Phillipines.

- Psychai are (apparently according to my research) the butterfly-winged daughters of Psyche, the wife of Cupid.

- The hobgoblin with the monocle is Hogsqueal from _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_, lol. I love him. For those who've seen the movie, he spit in Jared's eye to give him the Sight. In the book, he pees on the fire at the goblin camp and it turns green (the fire, not his pee).

- "The green-skinned pixie woman with obviously-dyed blond hair and a young human changeling child" are Kaye and Kate from Ironside by Holly Black.

- "You wanna kiss him. You wanna date him. You wanna have his babies" is similar to the song from the film _Miss Congeniality_ (You think I'm gorgeous; you wanna date me; love me and marry me) but I'm fairly certain I didn't do it on purpose. But just in case, I thought I'd mention it.

- As far as I know, there's no such thing as the Boys of Bones Hill. However, in _City of Ashes_ by Cassandra Clare, the MC sees a faerie boy with a hollowed-out ribcage and ribbons and flowers are woven through his rib bones. Which is just freaky. So I extrapolated on that and made that guy a type of faerie.

- The Disney movie they're going to see is kept deliberately vague because right now as far as I know, Disney doesn't have any princess films in theatres. However, the movie I imagined it be is called... I think it's called _Brave One_ or _Brave_ or something. It's about a Scottish princess, it's their newest film, coming out sometime in the next 2 years.

- Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber are the two hosts (and often MCs) of many _Veggie Tales_ movies. In... I think it's the Marvelous Land of Ha's, Larry and Bob are trying to find an ape during the Silly Song part of the episode and they sing this song where Larry says that if it's got a tail it's a monkey and if it doesn't then it's an ape. They end up finding a cow (why there's a cow in the middle of the jungle, I don't know) and Larry says it's a monkey since it has a tail. The song ends with Bob saying he's pretty sure Larry's mixed up (and the audience finds out Bob, who is a tomato, has a lion tail. Why? I don't know).

_._

_**For Curb (Since I Can't PM You):**_ _so firstly, let me say that I'm glad to hear from you. I love hearing from new people (new meaning I haven't heard from them before). So yay! Welcome to "Once Upon a Time." Technically you've been here for a while but welcome, anyway. Secondly, I am very glad that you like my story. That always make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. For reals._ =D

_Okay, now onto your concerns. Well, as for familial neglect... considering she's a grownup... um... I'm not really getting the neglect comment. Her parents are dead, her twin is a big part of her life and while her relationship with her sisters is strained, I wouldn't call it neglectful. Siblings who are all grown (the youngest is John, at twenty-one) don't really spend as much time together as siblings who all (or even somewhat) live at home. But you see a softer side of Petra in chapters 8 and 27, and Francesca... well... she's never really been that negative (she's just one of those happy potty-mouths who yells the Eff-Word when she breaks a nail or finds a lucky penny). You don't really see much of the others so far. And considering Dylan's "history" (psychological damage, drug abuse, etc.) the sisters are in the mindset where they're like, "We love you, but you're on this destructive path that you won't stray away from no matter what we do and we've tried to get you to stop and you won't, and we're not going to watch you destroy yourself anymore."_

_The thing I've seen in a lot of books about kids/people with the Sight is that they're either drunks (_Faerie Tale _by Raymond E. Feist) or homeless (_Valiant _by Holly Black) or surrounded by people who also have the Sight (_City of Bones _by Cassandra Clare). None of these people have families. And I thought about that, and wondered about it, and realized that people who can See faeries usually have the gift from a very early age. Young children don't have that filter that grownups and teenagers have that keeps them from telling secrets. Very young children don't understand the concept of secrets and don't understand that you can't trust certain things to just anyone, even if the person you want to tell is someone you should be able to trust (like a parent or sibling). And this one thing, this ability to See faeries and not being able to tell someone and be believed... it has consequences._

_Which is a big thing that's in this fic - the nature of action and consequence. When you build a character, and give him/her a history, that history also has consequences in regards to your character. So the nightmares, the phobias, etc. - those are part of the fallout of her childhood (and the attack from chapter 1). But those nighttime attacks are the only outlet she's ever allowed herself. Which (if you ask any psychologist) is because she hasn't really dealt with the attacks and the history and all that, because she can't - who would she tell? Who would she trust enough to let her guard down that much? There is only one person: Nuada. She trusts him even more than John (and she's got that super-protective streak when it comes to her twin, who hasn't really come into his own yet). Now it's not about the fact that she can't, just that she doesn't want to let her guard down. And if she keeps pushing the emotion - any dark emotion - down and not dealing with it, it's going to explode eventually. She's gonna crack._

_As for the abuse/rape/neglect happening in every chapter... I don't really agree (I'm wincing as I say this because I hate disagreeing with people about opinions because opinions are... well, opinions. And who can argue with opinions?) that it's in every chapter. It's definitely in chapter 1 (the attack of the wolves). And it's in chapter 12 (with Eamonn), chapter 16 and 17 (dream sequences), and chapter 25 (with the messages from her sisters). And yes, in chapter 35 (mental duress with the psych-eval). But that's really about it. And the dream-thing's focus in chapters 16/17 was mainly on Dylan's reaction to Nuada's suffering._

_Nuada has to save her? He's only had to save her life twice (chapter 1 and chapter 12). He doesn't have to save her in this latest chapter. She will survive this, just as she's survived the nightmares before this. She even says that the dreams aren't as bad as what happened in real life. It's not about _her. _It's about _him. _It's about the fact that he's so angry and he doesn't feel like he can trust her anymore and he's only there because Wink told him to go... and then he sees her. Sees her in trouble, sees her suffering, and he can't leave her there. Even if she _will _be okay, he can't leave her because he loves her. And no matter how angry and hurt he is, his love will always remind him that this woman is important to him. Same with the dream-comfort scenes in chapters 16 & 17 - it's not about her. It's about him, about the fact that not only is he okay with comforting a human woman, but he _needs _to comfort her._

_It's not about building her character or making her interesting. For the most part, it's about building Nuada's character. Building the connection between them. He's been through a lot, and he needs a woman who understands that and has been through hard things, too. And the fact that Prince I-Hate-Humans-and-Want-Them-All-Dead can see past her humanity, empathize with her, and comfort her... it's about _that. _About him. Not her and her "tragedy."_

_Speaking of "adding to her tragedy" - I also have to disagree with you there, as well. I laid the foundation for the whole Blackwoods-incident in chapter 4. "She had not been a virgin, thanks to the hell her life had been in the institutions" ("Once Upon a Time," chapter 4, "Second Night," paragraph 14). I'm not going to dump Dylan's backstory in one chapter. So boring. Just like I don't dump Nuada's backstory in one chapter (or even two or three). Over time, different things about both of them will be slowly trickled through the text. Most of Nuada's history pops up in the chapters where they're at Findias, normally when they meet new people he knows or see neat magical things (such as finding out Nuada knows the King of Annwn in chapter 22). Since our prince has a bit more backstory than Dylan - as he's a canon character and she's not - I've got less (and in some ways more) to work with in regards to him. Because he's a canon character, as long as he's in character, I have more time to deal with him. With OCs, you've gotta hit hard and fast and keep and make sure certain things aren't forgotten (like how I forgot Dylan was a doctor, and so did some of my readers, because I didn't bring it up between chapter 2 and chapter 19). So, yeah._

_Okay, so I hope that makes sense (to anyone who's reading). And lastly - "you constantly put Dylan in these situations where she is abused, and never explain why, at least not a good explanation." I'm not sure what you mean, which situations you mean. The psych-eval? Again, her job is important to her. Especially regarding the children she works with who have the Sight (like Lisa) because the whole reason she became a psychiatrist is so that she could protect any children with the Sight from dealing with what she dealt with as a kid. She's willing to do anything for the people she loves - her Sight kids, her sisters, her twin, and Nuada. She's willing to do literally _anything _for Nuada, including sacrifice the other people she loves (not including John) and eschewing them from her life. So... yeah. Make sense?_

_._

_**I Thought It Was Clear, But I Guess Not:**_ _so someone brought to my attention that there was some confusion about why Dylan went to the psych-eval and let Westenra sedate her even though she knew he was a bad guy. I thought it was clear, but I'm the writer so stuff that's clear to me may or may not be as clear (or clear at all) to you guys. So I'll say it here and then go back and tweak the chapters later: Dylan _had _to do the psych-eval if she wanted to get back on the job as a psychiatrist on retainer for the police. That's actually standard procedure - if there's a concern about the police officer's state of mind (this applies to anyone attached to the department, whether they wear a shield or not) they have to have a psychiatric evaluation to assess their mental state and to make sure they're not suffering from the psychological strain of the job. _

_The sedation part? I borrowed that (with references) from several cop and spy shows/movies/books that I like, where the psych-evals have to be conducted with truth-inducing drugs (and usually people are sedated before they get shot up with truth serum). _


	38. When You're Gone part 2

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So, I'm trying to post all 4 of the "happy chapters" today but I don't know if I can. I'm trying, though. So this is the second of the more happy chapters. Chapter 39 is... not happy. But at least Dylan doesn't spend a lot of time crying! Although John and Nuada... well. Sigh. Boys. They can be dumb sometimes. Anyway, this is the chapter that was supposed to be 1 of 2 for October 15. Sorry we're... 3 days late. I love you guys._ =D _And it's a sort of take-a-breather, less-depressage, relationship-development chapter. Also with some new stuff leading up to the first and second films. So yay! And this chapter also ends before I wanted it to because without author's notes, it was almost 9,000 words and the scenes following it are hecka-decka long, too, so I figured I'd stop while I was ahead. *shrug*_

_Also, just fyi, I have nothing against the demographic commonly known as "rednecks."_

_**Dedication:**_ _again, to Curb for reminding me that plot development is just as important as relationship development. To WhenNightmaresWalked, for the concept of dream-convos. And to Shibo26, for "Troll Sense." Thanks, guys!_

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**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

**When You're Gone (pt2)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Clover and Daisies, the Persistence of Memory, the Threat of Pictures, Girl Time, Troll Sense, and a Whisper of the Crown **

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Nuada walked familiar halls again, but this time there was no stench of blood, no spattering of crimson against white walls. There were no vicious words. No screams. No weeping. But the Elf prince was following something. The sound of laughter. A young child's innocent laughter. Carefree and easy.

_This is a dream,_ he realized when he found the laughter outside in a small courtyard with spring-green grass and a few stone tables scattered around. White against the green were patches of clover blossoms and even a few daisies. Dandelions glowed golden as tiny suns amidst grassy viridian skies. Overhead the heavens were an impossibly deep blue. Silky-soft pollen floated on the air. It all smelled of spring and new life. Hope.

He didn't remember falling asleep. Did not remember what he had been doing before sliding into this dream of sunshine and laughter that was so at odds with the tangle of emotions coiling and knotting in his belly.

Dylan sat on one of the stone tables, swinging legs too short to reach the ground. Her hair was a wild tangle and her eyes were closed, her face turned up to the gently beaming sun. Dirt and the green juice of the grass stained her bare feet. There were no scars on her face.

She was perhaps seven years old here.

"I haven't had a good dream in a long time that didn't start off bad or go bad in the middle," she said softly. She didn't open her eyes, but somehow the mortal child knew the Elf prince was there. "A very long time. But this is nice." Blue eyes flickered open to glance down disparagingly at her swinging legs. "Except that I'm not sure I like being so young that I can't reach the ground."

He wasn't certain he could speak. He remembered that there was something he was supposed to remember, but he didn't know what it was. This was a dream - he knew that much. Only the real world hovered just out of reach. He knew he was angry with her, still. Knew that the hurt hadn't faded. Otherwise why was there this sting behind his breastbone when he saw the child who had grown up to be the woman he knew? Yet the amber-eyed prince couldn't remember what he was angry about, or what she had done to hurt him. It was as if he could remember nothing before the beginning of this dream except who he was, and who she was.

"Another thing about being seven in my dreams is that sometimes I don't remember being any older," Dylan murmured apologetically. Her lips were twitching as she struggled not to smile. It was odd to see her expression shift without seeing the usual slashing scars shift with it. "So if I suddenly start squealing about ladybugs or tell you a cloud looks like a kitty cat, please have some patience."

"Is this my dream, or yours?" Nuada managed to ask. Those eyes flicked to him. Flicked away to watch a bluejay fluttering above one of the high walls. The little bird carried slender pine needles in its beak; it was building a nest behind one of the floodlights attached to the wall.

"I don't know," she said, and slid off the table, onto the stone seat, and then to the grass. The thin, blue cotton pants she wore had grass stains at the knees. "Is this a good dream?"

He couldn't lie, so he didn't answer. Only watched her pad across the grass toward him. When she stopped about a foot away, he realized she barely came up to his waist. Were all children so small? Dylan held out her hand to him. Waited. Her eyes were the same incredible blue as the early-morning sky overhead. He could see in their depths that she would not be angry if he didn't take her hand. The mortal child wouldn't get angry or think less of him for rejecting the innocent overture.

But she _would_ be hurt by it. Hurt like...

_Disgusting human whore._ The ghastly whiteness of her scarred face as she fell back from him; a scalding hot tear falling from one rainswept blue eye to splash onto his bare wrist like a drop of blood; such shock and betrayal and horror in those eyes. _Disgusting human whore._

Had he not hurt her enough?

Nuada took her impossibly small hand in his. Let her silently tug him toward a flowering patch of clover, green with leaf and white with bloom. A ladybug flapped her lazy way from a blossoming clover onto a blade of grass. Dylan plucked one of the many-petaled flowers and held it up to him.

A flash of memory, startling in its brevity. Her words in his mind: _Maybe it's just me, but it seems like not a lot of people give you stuff just as a simple gift. So I wanted to give you something_. A deeply pink peony. The king of flowers. Honor and bravery. He had that flower in a little wooden box beside his bed. Dylan's first gift to him. _I thought it fit._

And a tulip, red as mortal blood. A blood-red flower tucked into night-dark curls. In Japan, red tulips were for trust. Elsewhere, he remembered suddenly, they were a declaration of love. Had he known, secretly, even then? Had he known in some dark part of himself that his heart had betrayed him?

Peonies. Tulips. White clover for a promise and a vow. _I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, on that living Darkness that lives beneath Faerie, that if you ask me to go to Findias with you to stay, I'll go._ Broken promises mended. Broken vows reaffirmed with those words. Fealty sworn once again. An Elven prince reminded by a small white flower and the affection shining in solemn blue eyes like the morning sky.

Pale fingers closed around the slender stem. Accepted the gift, and all that it meant.

He blinked, and she wasn't seven anymore. Now she was a woman grown, the crown of her head topping off a bit above the curve of his shoulder. Instead of blue surgical scrubs she wore slightly worn white jeans and a blue long-sleeve shirt. Her medallion glinted golden at her throat. She twirled the unwilted crimson tulip between her fingers.

"Chailleann tú mé," Dylan said softly, looking down at the tulip.

_I miss you._ Mortal words, but fae feeling. He could see it glimmering in the depths of her eyes.

Shaken by what he had done - what he had agreed to, even silently, even if it was only in a dream - Nuada didn't speak. Only watched her bring the tulip to her scarred lips and lightly kiss one of its petals. The lightest brush of lips. Somehow the Elf knew this was something she had done even as a little girl - kissing flowers as if they were people. It didn't mean anything that her lips lingered for just a moment against one sweet-scented crimson petal. It didn't matter that this was the tulip that _he_ had given her that night on the roof. Didn't matter that he could almost - not quite, but _almost_ - feel that brief, chaste kiss against his own mouth.

"There's a song I really like," she murmured against the tulip's petals. "From Rogers and Hammerstein's _Cinderella._ I've liked it ever since I was a little kid, the first time I heard it. What's funny is that I don't know what it's called. But one of the lines goes, 'Am I making believe I see in you? Are you the sweet invention of a lover's dream?'" Silver-swept eyes slid to his face. "Are you really here? Or am I just dreaming again? I dream of you so often and it's never really you. Just my imagination. Are you really here?"

The words came out unbidden, though they were tersely uttered. "Tá mé anseo." Reassurance that he was here, that he was with her. Why did he feel this need to soothe and reassure her? She didn't even seem upset, but... but he knew her.

That knowledge - that he knew her - crashed down on him like a brutal wave. _I know you, Nuada._ And he should have remembered, should have realized that he knew her as well. Maybe not entirely. It would take more than eleven months to know her entirely, even after walking through that mortal mind. He'd only been looking for specific things, then, anyway. But he knew her well enough to know that the fact that she'd even mentioned missing him meant that maybe, just maybe, she felt some of what he felt. That she missed him as much as he (loath as he was to admit it) missed her. Missed his safe place, his comfort, his sanctuary. The one place where there was no hate or disdain. The one place where nothing was expected or asked of him.

"I hate dreaming about you," she whispered. The scarlet silk of the tulip petals rustled with her breath. "I hate it. I can't stand it. I've been pretending to everyone and myself all day that everything's fine and I thought I could just take a nap and be okay but here you are again and I just can't stand this."

Hadn't she told him scarcely a week ago that she loved to dream of him? Nuada swallowed down the strange, harsh feeling that was rising from his chest into his throat. The bonds of dreamscape wrung the next words from him. "Gráin agat dom, nach tú?"

_You hate me, don't you?_

Dylan knelt down instead of answering. Hid her expression behind the tangled curtain of her hair. Mortal fingers plucked a white-petaled daisy from amongst the lush grass and she rose to her feet again to exhibit the ivory and amber prize to the golden-eyed Elf prince beside her. Her eyes were like lakes in spring. Gentle as softly-falling rain. Soothing as a lullaby.

"I could never, ever hate you, Nuada. It's just... hard. I've gotten used to having you with me. Gotten used to knowing you were there; used to relying on you. I shouldn't have let myself get that way. It's not your responsibility to look after me. You have your own life. Your own responsibilities. And I'm a grown woman, even though you don't think of me that way. I know I can't expect you to take care of me like some handsome prince rescuing the damsel in distress like in the fairy tales. Not that you're not deliriously handsome," Dylan added, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "Because you've always been able to make my knees weak. But we've talked about that before. You _are_ an Elven warrior."

Her smile was gently self-deprecating. "Still, I know you have more important things in your life than me. A single hollow, heartless, insignificant mortal who betrays the man she... trusts most of all, when her promises are still warm in her mouth."

If she saw him wince, she didn't give any sign. His words had been meant to cut her. Now they sliced him just as sharply. Retribution and betrayal.

"And I respect - will always respect - that you have more pressing concerns, Your Highness. And I understand that you're angry. That you probably never want to see me again. It's just hard, and I miss you." Her laugh was exasperation tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Of _course_ I miss you, O Prince of Elves."

She offered him the daisy. Held his gaze. "Tá tú mo chara daor."

_You are my dearest friend._ Did Dylan know what those words meant to him? How they wounded and healed and wounded again?

And the daisy. Such a simple flower. Love and loyalty. Those two words didn't mean the same things in the faerie courts, but they were the same thing to her. Clover and daisies. A vow and a promise of loyal love. Could he trust such promises? Could he let himself have faith in a mortal's vows? Human lives were like candle flames - brief sparks in the night. Because of their short lives, mortals were so changeable. _She_ was changeable.

But he'd accepted that first small, white flower. Accepted what it meant, what she meant by it. And a prince was bound by his word. Even if a mortal was not bound by her promises (_I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things... I'll stay... I swear... I will always follow you...)_ he was shackled by his.

Indecision made his temples pound. An odd and insidious yearning warred with thousands of years of caution. Take her vow. Accept her promise. Put trust in the words of a mortal. He had already done so in the space of a heartbeat. He couldn't blame the dream for that because there were no lies in this place and so the Elf prince knew that he'd accepted Dylan's oath because he wanted so very much to believe in it.

_You are my dearest friend._ And other words. Stronger. Sweeter. Words that could condemn a man. Make a fool and a traitor of him. _My heart's beloved._ What could he do when his own tongue, his own mind, his own heart betrayed him?

"Is there anything you need, Your Highness?" Dylan asked, breaking his thoughts like glass. "Anything you want that I can give you?"

A thousand errant thoughts flitted through his mind; all of them forbidden. There was nothing she could offer that wasn't forbidden by the iron in her blood. The mortality in her made all those thoughts impossible. Treacherous. Aberrant. And yet... anything? Anything at all?

He was a fool to even entertain a brief glimmer of hope. What could a human possibly have to offer him that he could want? His people free of mortal oppression. His father's love and acceptance and support. His sister... there was so much he craved from his beloved Nuala. Her support, her respect, her affection. So much he wished for in his life, longed for. What could this human woman possibly give him? At least, what could she give him that he was allowed to have?

"Peace." The word was wrenched from him by the compassion in her eyes and the siren call of dreams. Nuada tried to bite back the words but they managed to escape from between his clenched teeth. "Comfort. Solace, for I have none."

When Dylan reached up and laid the softness of her palm against his face, his eyes drifted closed and he drew a ragged breath. He could feel her heartbeat through her palm. It was soft, steady against his skin. He could feel the warmth of her even though only her hand touched him. The air around them was cool with the last traces of winter before spring, but she was so very warm. Her voice was as soft and gentle as he'd ever heard it when she murmured, "Tóg an méid is gá duit."

_Take what you need._ Words of absolute surrender. Words like a sweet, sensuous caress. Another oath, another promise. Take what he needed. What did he need?

"An gá dom..." Nuada rasped, his voice nearly a groan. _I need..._ He remembered other dreams; a crackling fire, an embrace that demanded nothing and offered everything, and a crooning lullaby in his ear. This woman, this mortal, in his arms while the sun slowly crested the tops of the trees and kissed the river with light. "An gá dom... ba mhaith liom..." _I need, I want.__.._

And Dylan whispered it again, so softly in the Old Tongue. _Take what you need._

So he did. With a muttered oath he drew her into his arms. Sanctuary. Solace. He wanted to hate her, for offering it to him. For making him want it. For making him need it. Need _her._ He wanted to curse her for that, for this weakness she'd somehow poisoned him with.

Instead he buried his face in the soft wealth of her dark hair and the gentle warmth of that shadowed hollow where her neck met her shoulder. Breathed in the scent of her. What would happen to him in the real world? Now that his heart had betrayed him, betrayed his people, his king, his cause? Now that his sworn enemy, the sons and daughters of man, had brought him low with this most brutal weapon? What would become of him if he allowed himself to love her, even here? Dylan's arms around him were a golden cage. Dark curls brushed against his skin like the deceptive cords of a silken noose. Her warm breath caressing his ear was sweet poison.

"It's okay," she murmured. Her voice was as delicate as a touch. He felt that touch down to his bones. "It's okay."

No, it wasn't. Never would be again because somehow he had betrayed everything he believed in. _My heart's beloved._ Heart's ease and heartache. Sincere charade. Only a ploy, it was only supposed to be a ploy to trick his father into thinking they'd capitulated so that they could find a way to break from the courtship farce without the king finding out and stopping them. When had it become more? When had he fallen? When had he, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, gone from despising humans to wanting one so fiercely he ached with it?

Comfort. Solace. Peace. He would never have peace from this. Not until she died, or he did. Never have peace from the love smoldering in his chest, poisoning him the way thoughts of her poisoned his mind. Seemingly with a glance, with a touch, with a vow of surrender, a human had turned his heart perfidious.

Dylan whispered his name and he shuddered.

"I cannot," he whispered against her skin. His lips brushed against the silk of her throat like a soft breath as he spoke. "I cannot, I cannot do this, cannot want this..." Her hands at his back burned him through his shirt. He could feel the butterfly-hammer of her pulse against his lips. "This is wrong."

"If you want me to go, I'll go," she said. His grip on her tightened. This was a dream. It was wrong. It was treacherous. It was unnatural and deviant and should have sickened him. But if he could have her nowhere else - and he would not let himself even wish for her anywhere else, much less have her - he could still have her here.

But the dream was already fading. Nuada could feel it. Too much internal struggle, too much rejection had made already-fragile dream bonds snap and break. Had forced his consciousness too close to the waking world. Even as the dream world began to slip away from him like water through his fingers, he heard a soft voice whisper, "I love you."

Love. Dreams. Regrets... and betrayals.

The dream broke into fragments and feral, golden eyes snapped open. This was not the underground lair he shared with Wink. This room was dimly lit with a few white candles, and the eerie light of the Troll Market filtered through the shuttered window. The Market's hustle and bustle were muffled by the wooden shutters.

He'd been dreaming. Of what? He couldn't remember. A woman... Dylan? Words. Promises, though he couldn't remember what she'd promised or why. The scent of clover and daisies, the warmth of early-morning sunshine in spring. But when he tried to grasp at the memory of this newest dream, it flitted away and left him tense and frustrated, grinding his teeth. Why did she have to haunt his dreams this way? Why? Couldn't he be free of her even in sleep?

He had not yet decided what to do with her. Wink's well-meant taunt earlier in the day had only served to prick his not-inconsiderable temper. After that, the Elven warrior hadn't even been able to concentrate on weapons' practice with lance or spear. He'd attempted putting together a new clockwork piece that had struck his fancy a few moons ago. That had not been able to hold his attention, either. Nuada had briefly entertained the notion of following Wink to Fafner's Cave, perhaps sitting down with Lorelei to catch up. Except for that night with Dylan at his side, he hadn't seen the rhinemaiden in over a year. Yet the prince had eventually discarded that option as well.

In the end, he'd settled for going to the Troll Market in search of diversion. He hadn't been able to find it. So he'd simply spent the afternoon wandering the Market, occasionally stopping at one of the many taverns for a drink.

And what had Dylan done with her afternoon? During the days he'd spent at her cottage, she'd used the afternoon hours to study her scriptures, to look over files from her job, to read a book or help Becan clean up some mess or other. With Bat in residence, there was always a mess to be found. Sometimes she would play with the energetic little beastling, as well. Other times she would watch with awe shining in her eyes as Nuada practiced with his sword or his lance. She'd looked at him then with pride in her eyes. And pleasure. As if simply watching him made her so very happy.

_Stop it,_ he snarled at himself when a pang lanced his chest. He'd fallen asleep in this private tavern room, refusing to let himself drown in his cups to speed along the process. He would not allow himself to fall back on using alcohol as a crutch. The idea made him grit his teeth; his father had done so after his mother died. And Dylan would not approve...

_Enough!_ _She is a human. She is mortal, she is a betrayer, she is dangerous, she is..._

_A ghrá mo chroí. My heart's beloved._ No. No, gods curse it, he would not allow this. He would not stand for it. No. _Forget her,_ Nuada ordered as he got to his feet and tossed a few coins onto the table. _Just forget her for one_ _hour._

But forgetting wasn't that easy. He wandered the damp market streets and the ice-slick alleys of the City until well past midnight, and still he could not forget. Not for an hour. Not even for a minute.

**.**

The next day Dylan woke bleary-eyed, with a disgusting taste on the back of her tongue and drool crusted to the side of her face. She splashed water in her fact to take care of two of those problems as soon as she woke up. The cold water helped a lot. Her phone buzzing helped even more. A mad, graceless scramble to get her cell away from Bat (who eyeballed the mysterious, vibrating plastic monstrosity with obvious feline suspicion and tried to smack it to death - or at least whack it under the bed, where it could do no harm to his human and her squeaky, brown mini-two-legger) ensued.

"Hello?" Dylan croaked out when she'd finally saved her cell phone from her cat. Her voice was hoarse and rusted from sleeping too long. Somehow she'd conked out in the middle of the afternoon and not woken up until the next morning. And she had that nasty dried-saliva taste in her mouth. Blech.

Anya's cheerful, though somewhat concerned voice came out of the speaker. "Wow, Dylan, you sound really out of it. Are you sick?"

"Huh?" She swallowed hard to try and get the nasty taste out of her mouth. Didn't work. Ugh, and her teeth were all gross, too. Why had she slept so long? The last lingering effects of the drugs? Or had it been the dream? The dream of... "Sick? No, why?" Blue eyes flicked to the bathroom entryway where her clock was hanging on the wall. The angle was all wrong for her to see it. "What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock," Anya said, as if speaking to an inbred, redneck cousin. "Aren't we going to the movie today? You, me, and Miss Tiana?"

Flash of memory: talking to Tiana on the phone. Talking to Anya. Plans for seeing the new Disney princess movie. Black cherry waffle cone and white cherry/Coke-a-Cola Icee. Morning-matinée, which started at eleven-fifteen.

"Holy crow!" Dylan flailed in an attempt to wiggle out from under her bed, where she'd had to dive to save her phone from unlawful feline imprisonment. She whacked her head on the underside of the box-spring and yelped. "Ow!" Finally she squirmed back out into open air. Using the mattress, she dragged herself to her feet, ignoring the throbbing in her skull and the twinges in her bad leg. "Yeah, yeah. Give me... um... give me thirty minutes. I'll be ready in thirty minutes! Bye!"

Her shower was swift and, at first, positively frigid. Her right knee informed her succinctly that this was highly unacceptable. When the water finally heated up, she sighed gratefully and sank into her shower chair, letting the hot pounding spray loosen up the tension in her bad knee.

Out of the shower, she hopped into black jeans and a white sweater before snagging the beautiful, black leather coat John had bought her. The thing was soft as butter and smooth as velvet. Dylan loved it. She was _not_ going to lose this one. She shrugged it on and slipped her Young Women's medallion around her neck. Brushed her teeth and took her daily dosage of Vicodin. Grabbed her winter boots. Grabbed her brother's gloves, which he'd left on her dresser when he'd left for work the night before. Grabbed the white scarf Joyce had bought her in London back in March. The only hitch in Dylan's step came when she remembered that it was positively frosty outside due to the snow and she couldn't go out without socks.

No silly socks. Not today. She was all right - she was just _fine_, thank-you-very-much - but she didn't want to put on the green socks with the honey-amber angelfish that Francesca had bought to match her favorite set of green underthings; or the purple socks with the pink and silver piglets, or her Snoopy socks, or any of the other footwear that sported adorable and outrageous designs.

But she didn't want to put on her standard somber foot accoutrements - black or gray. The slim black socks and the thick, warm gray ones just didn't... fit. Dylan settled for beige, even though they didn't match anything she was wearing. No one would see them inside her boots, anyway.

John stumbled in the door just as she was adding the faintest sheen of foundation to her pale cheeks. She called him into the back and he clomped over to her bed and dropped himself on it. "Why do I work for the Feds?" Her twin demanded, his words muffled by the nearly impossible softness of a pillow. "My feet are killing me."

"I don't wanna hear it, my leg's been hurting for months," Dylan informed him tartly, but laughed when he tossed the pillow at her and hit her in the butt. She kicked the pillow back. It hit Bat, who'd just made himself comfortable on John's readily available backside. The cat jumped a foot in the air and mewed in protest, slashing his human with a very hurt and indignant look.

"Awww, poor thing," John mumbled, dragging the black kitten against his chest. "Is Mommy being evil to you?"

"'Mommy' hit the 'poor thing' by accident," Dylan reminded her twin, adding a touch of concealer under her eyes. She loathed makeup for informal occassions (what a waste of time, unless you were going to some fancy-schmancy dinner or something) but if she didn't fix her face, Anya would notice her pallor. Not to mention the shadowed hag-bags under her eyes. "Anyway, I'm going to the movies with Anya and that little girl I told you about. The one they found at the Met. Wanna come?"

"To a chick flick? Isn't there some law that says sisters aren't supposed to drag their brothers to girl-time movies?"

"Yeah, but you're not just a brother." She studied her reflection. Good, she didn't look sick anymore. Too much sleep - or too little - always made her look washed-out and half-dead. "You're my twin. And you're so metro. That makes you practically one of the girls."

The look he gave her could've peeled paint. "And my testosterone levels take an immediate and almost-lethal hit."

"I seem to recall you wearing that one lacy pink dress at one point-"

"I was six!" John scowled when she gave him an amused and sarcastically understanding look in the mirror. "And Francesca made me do it. It's not my fault she tried to put lipstick on me." He paused. Gave her a wide-eyed look. "You got rid of those pictures, right?"

Dylan scooped up her purse and breezed toward the bedroom door. "Now why would I do that? I thought you looked gorgeous. So do all my Facebook friends."

His half-horrified, frantic shout followed her all the way to the front entryway. "D! You're just kidding, right? D? Dylan? Dylan! Get back here and answer my question! D!" John was still calling when Dylan opened the door to Anya's knock. Her friend gave her a questioning look but she only shrugged and hustled out the door before her twin decided his feet didn't hurt enough to prevent him from chasing after her to shake the answers out of her.

"Wow, Dylan," Tiana said as she reached up and snagged the older woman's hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You look pretty. I like your scarf."

"Thank you, honey," she said as the three of them carefully manouvered down the ice-slick pathway toward Anya's car. The folklorist knew her friend's reservations about using the New York City subway. "And don't you look fabulous this morning?"

Tiana's wheat-blond hair was loose down her back, and it shimmered in the winter morning sun in just such a way that it reminded Dylan forcibly of Nuada, even though the prince kept his hair long and straight and unbound, and the little girl's hair hung in loose curls. It was the same color. The same beautiful star-blond. Dylan wondered if the little girl had any faerie blood. Even her clothes reminded Dylan of Elves, though of Nuala this time. Under her old-fashioned white cape (a gift from Anya from one of the smaller faires the folklorist frequented, the psychiatrist had little doubt) was a beautiful blue dress that reminded Dylan strongly of the Elf princess's many blue gowns. That dress, based on the olden style, was probably also from a faire.

A small hand squeezed hers and Dylan was graced with a delightful smile missing a couple teeth. Her heart knifed sideways in her chest. She hastily shut down the lancing stab of regret and hurt. Now was not the time or the place. And it was ridiculous to even see Tiana and think about how she looked as if she had Bethmoora blood and wasn't it odd that the child looked like what her own child might have if she'd ever... if she and Nuada had ever...

Dylan smiled down at Tiana and helped her hop over a patch of wide, slick ice. Anya walked beside the two, keeping her eyes surreptitiously on Dylan the entire time.

**.**

Wink finished stacking the invitations into three piles on the table he often used as a desk when acting as the crown prince's secretary. Those three piles were: _Definite Yes, If I Must_, and _I Would Rather Eat Offal-Flavored Dirt_ (Nuada's words when he had been a brash thirteen-hundred years old or so). Based on the current tribulations with the prince's mortal lady, Wink kept the invitations from Lady Jocasta and other human sympathizers out of all three piles and into one of their own. Nuada wouldn't like it, but it was good politics to accept at least some of the invites. Lady Jocasta of Reedus was a very powerful political figure in Bethmoora and had a prominant seat on the Council. Even the king often asked her for advice. Cultivating her as an ally was a wise move on the prince's part.

_Now if only I can convince him to swallow his prejudice and play nice,_ the troll growsed silently. _The mood he is in regarding Lady Dylan, I have no idea how well he's going to take any suggestions regarding anything to do with the humans or their allies._

Just as the troll had placed the last elegantly scripted missive in its place, Nuada strolled into the current haven, considerably rumpled and looking as if he hadn't slept. Fairly certain where he'd been, Wink was fairly certain he hadn't.

"How was your... date?" The Elf prince asked casually. He had explained to Wink a few days ago, after a few shared bottles of Elven wine, what Dylan had told him of "dates" and how they applied to courtship rituals. Told him about the cold night spent with a mortal eating breakfast and watching the Night Parade from Onibi.

"Well enough," Wink rumbled, eyeing his prince. Nuada looked not only as if he hadn't slept the previous night, but as if he hadn't slept in days. Never before had the silver troll seen him look so... tired. And yet he seemed restless. Edgy. But the last time Wink had asked if anything troubled the prince, he'd received a snarled answer for his pains. Vassal he might be, but it was _not_ his job to babysit His Highness when the Elven warrior was in a foul mood over his own missteps with a female. That had been part of his duties over two thousand years ago, when the prince was still a young man. So the troll asked only, "And yours?"

"I did not go to see _her_, if that's what you mean," Nuada replied sourly as he dropped into a chair across from Wink and crossed his legs. He tried to keep his voice rigid and toneless, but it was harder to hide his ire from Wink, who had known him so long and knew him so well. "There's better company to be had in Faerie than that of a mortal woman's."

"It's not working, is it?"

Nuada scowled at his boots. No, curse it, it was _not_ working. And it wasn't as if he sought out women to expunge his lust for an unattainable female. Those thoughts were not (thank all the gods beyond the stars) the ones that plagued him regarding the infuriating human who had somehow entrenched herself in his life and in his heart. He could almost ignore the simmering in his blood and the heat blooming in his belly whenever he thought of Dylan. No, he wandered the streets to try and outrun those infuriating thoughts. Let Wink think what he would of those nocturnal sojourns.

He'd yet to succeed in forgetting her, however. Still Nuada wondered about Dylan. Worried about her. Most irritating of all, he dreamed of her. Not always the vicious, bloody dreams of death and torment. Like the one from the evening prior, which had come back to him throughout the night. That one had been simple and easy until... until the whispered offering that still teased maddenly at his memory. _Take what you need._

But Dylan would never say such a thing; would never offer herself to him so unequivocably. No human would - not even _that_ one. So why did it matter? Why did he continue to torture himself? Why couldn't he simply forget about the mortal?

Betrayer. _Beloved._

Words to condemn a man. Words to hang him. Words to rip out his heart and steal his honor.

"Come," Wink said suddenly, breaking the thoughts slashing at Nuada's mind. "You are getting lazy, my prince, sporting with all the pretty Elven maids." He ignored Nuada's scowl. "Time to see if your skills have not lost their edge."

Bronze eyes cut to Wink's craggy face. The prince frowned. The troll looked entirely too innocent. "Is that a challenge, my friend?"

"It is."

"And the stakes?"

"If you win - as you undoubtedly will, Your Highness, if your skills are still up to par - then you may ask of me whatever you wish. But if _I_ manage to dump your lily-white arse on the ground thrice, then you must do the same for me."

Nuada studied his oldest friend, the sourness of his mood slowly fading. Ask Wink anything? Including details of his visit with a certain rhinemaiden? The offer was a tempting one. The prince would never have asked (unless it became a problem) because he respected his friend's privacy but if Wink was offering, then... well, Nuada could admit to being curious about the possible connection between the massive troll and the elegant Lorelei. And what could Wink possibly ask of him that he would not give his friend, anyway? Besides, since physical exertion of other sorts hadn't helped with his... problem yet, maybe a heavy round of sparring with the massive cave troll would make some dent.

The Elven warrior rose to his feet, bronze eyes melting to amber as he smiled at his vassal. "Very well, my friend, but you're going to lose."

A dry chuckle was his only warning before Wink's bronze fist shot out and nearly walloped him in the belly. Only a swift duck to one side saved him from the blow. With a single thought the halfspear lengthened and the butt hit the troll hard in the side of the knee. Wink dodged to his other foot and lashed out with the bronze fist again.

If anyone but an immortal had been watching the savage dance between Elven prince and troll warrior, simple mortal eyes would not have been able to track the lightning-strike movements. Nuada's acrobatics allowed him to leap and dive at the troll like a striking falcon. Wink's massive bulk and iron-thewed muscle brought his own blows down on the prince with all the unyielding force of a mountain.

Several mutual bruises later, the Elf prince found himself dumped to the floor, courtesy of Wink's metal fist. The air exploded from his lungs as his back smacked against the cold stone.

"That's once," the troll informed his prince matter-of-factly. "While you get your breath back, I have to ask - how went your visit to Lady Dylan's demesne a few nights past?"

With a twisting half-somersault, Nuada was on his feet again. Molten copper eyes bored into Wink's. "I thought we were sparring."

The silver cave troll knew he had to tread carefully here. Nuada needed to be pushed, prodded about this, or he would never see sense. Clearly something had gone amiss when the prince had journeyed to his lady's home two nights past. He had yet to speak of it. Wink had decided the time to wait for the subject to be broached had passed. How could the troll help his prince if he didn't know what was going on?

"We can talk and spar," Wink replied, advancing toward his prince. "I can concentrate on battle and conversation. You used to be able to. Have you gotten rusty?"

Nuada narrowed his already molten eyes. "If you must know," he replied, and lunged for Wink. Elven silver clashed against Elven bronze. The air rang with the sound of metal against metal and metal against bone when Nuada's spear glanced off the troll's unbroken tusk without catching the seamed, leathery face. "She was asleep when I arrived. Though we... talked."

Talked, Wink thought as he parried another blow that left his arm of flesh tingling. What did that mean? If they'd hashed out whatever trouble was between them, surely Nuada's mood should have improved by now. "You said you intended to go and see if my assertion of her innocence was correct," the troll said.

The Elf prince growled under his breath and lunged low to the ground, aiming for heavy troll legs. With both feet and the haft of his lance he knocked Wink off-balance. The troll tottered backward a moment. Nuada launched himself forward. His boots hit Wink in the chest and sent him careening into the wall. The shock of the blow reverberated up Nuada's legs as he stood up and gazed at his friend. "I did," he said. "And that is once for me. How many times must I drop you, my friend, before it counts as a victory for me?"

"Five; you're getting slow," Wink wheezed when he'd gotten his breath back. "But was I correct?"

_Because you were happy._ Was that the truth? Deliberate deception was barred from the dreamworld. It had to have been the truth - as she saw it. But when had he ever been happy in her presence? It defied reason that he should find joy with a human. And yet, he remembered snowballs flying in the park. Showing off like a carefree boy again as Dylan watched him train with avid eyes. Laughter. So easy to laugh with her despite her bloodline. _I didn't want to take that from you any sooner than I had to_.

But so what if he had been happy (which he still doubted)? It had still been a lie, curse it! She had still withheld the truth from him!

_I didn't mean to deceive you._

May the Fates help him, his heart wanted to believe her, wanted to trust...

"Yes," Nuada admitted with obvious reluctance. He brought up the haft of his spear in time to block the punch Wink sent careening toward his face. "You were right."

It was the memory that distracted him - the memory of her sadness, her remorse. The treachery of his own heart. If he hadn't been thinking about the conversation with the silver troll, and the still only half-remembered sojourn through Dylan's dream that night, the cave troll's next attack wouldn't have sent him flying into the wall that still bore cracks in the stone from Wink's own recent flight. The air erupted out of him again as his body made violent contact with the wall. The back of his head struck stone. White light flashed in front of his eyes and he slid to the floor. When he could breathe again, he mumbled, "Ow."

"You owe her an apology, Nuada," the troll informed him. "And," he added without a hint of smugness, "that's twice."

"I owe her nothing," the prince snapped, getting to his feet. What was wrong with him? Usually their sparring matches were draws, or the Elf won (being faster than Wink and possessing much better reflexes). Those rare times when Wink did win, the battle was always a near contest. How had the troll managed to dump him on the ground twice already? Unless his friend was right and he was going soft.

"Oh, no? Need I remind you what you said to her?" Wink launched his bronze fist faster than an eyeblink, smashing it hard into Nuada's chest and sending him right back into the wall again, though he kept his feet this time. "Your words hurt both of you, my prince," the troll added softly. Instead of moving in for another swift attack, he waited while Nuada relearned once more how to breathe. "Do not make me repeat them. What liege lord hurls such insults at his vassals?"

"She is _not_ my vassal! She is nothing but a..." He meant to say "lowly human," but the words stuck in his throat. For an instant he tasted the poisoning bitterness of iron on his tongue as his throat tried to close up against the words.

He knew this reaction - the physical prohibition against lying. As a child it had been a serious problem when he wanted to get out of confessing to some misdeed or other. Now, as a prince come into his power, he could push past the faerie's natural reaction to speaking a falsehood and speak anyway... but he shouldn't have had to. The words should not have been a lie.

_My heart's beloved._ Even the magic of the fae, the magic that sang in Nuada's blood, lent truth to the traitorous sentiment festering within him. And Wink was still watching him with carefully blank eyes.

"She is not your vassal, though she has sworn to follow you always, but she is still bound just as tightly to you, my prince," Wink replied. Waited. Watched the Elf he had seen grow up from a young, emotionally shattered child into a proud and noble warrior prince. "She is your lady and you have wronged her. You owe her an apology."

_I will always follow you. You _are _my prince, Your Highness._

_Beloved, forgive me..._

As a cocksure boy and sometimes as a foolhardy youth, the Elf prince had often attacked in hot anger. Usually he'd found himself flattened into bruises and aches on the floor of the salle or the dust of the practice ring. Such tactics had swiftly been beaten out of him by his opponents.

As a grown man, he had never attacked in fury. He did not do so now. But as he moved to reengage Wink in their sparring, Nuada could feel simmering anger coursing hotly through his blood. Not anger at Wink. They were liege and vassal, son and father, shield-brothers and comrades. No, his anger lashed out at the human woman who had twisted up everything until the Elf prince had no idea what to do with or about her... and it lashed out mostly at himself, for allowing himself to fall into such a position to begin with, and for the indecision that plagued him now.

Attacking in rage had always landed him with a bruised head, belly, or backside on the ground. The anger didn't drive him now, but it distracted him enough that he ended up with all three on the cold stone floor of the lair with an irate cave troll glaring down at him.

"That's thrice," Wink growled. "Where is your head at, my prince? I thought I was fighting the mighty Silverlance, not an undisciplined puppy."

With a sharp twisting of Nuada's legs, he brought Wink crashing to the floor.

"Ow," Wink grumbled.

Then, smiling a little, he glanced at where Nuada still lay on the floor taking internal stock of his aches and pains. A little amber blood trickled from a cut on the prince's forehead and stained the long, blond hair. Recalling the very first time the prince had ever brought the cave troll down in a sparring session (Nuada had been "an undisciplined puppy" of perhaps fourteen-hundred years at the time, and it had been sheer luck that did it), Wink said now what he'd said then.

"Bad puppy."

The prince laughed, even though his bruised ribs protested. "Old wolves challenge young cubs, but never mock them," Nuada said, quoting an okami proverb.

"This old wolf happened to win," Wink replied, climbing to his feet. He thought about offering his prince a hand up, but Nuada was on his feet before the thought had finished forming. "And you deserved censure. Your head was not in the battle, as it should have been." And because the troll was right, the prince merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. "As for my prize..."

"You wish me to apologize to the human." _Mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí, forgive me._ Nuada gritted his teeth. He couldn't afford such weakness. Would not allow himself to feel such treasonous sentiment.

"No," Wink rumbled, startling a look of surprised puzzlement from the Elf. "I want you to go and see her again."

"Wink-"

"I like her," the troll said suddenly, and the protest died on the prince's lips. "I like her very much. If I did not, I would not push this. You are my prince and have my undying loyalty, Nuada... but you are also my son and my brother. Your own father would tell you the same and for once I would agree with him - do not cast aside love freely given out of anger and hurt. She is your friend. Yes," Wink added when Nuada narrowed his eyes. "Your _friend._ You had female friends when you were a boy and even as a youth. Exile does not preclude you from them. Lady Dylan is your friend, and you miss her. I see it. Do not be a fool, Nuada. Go see her again."

He couldn't. Couldn't go back to that humble cottage that carried her scent and the echoes of her laughter. If he went there he might do something foolish. Yell at her again, perhaps. Hurl more vicious words at her. Or drop to his knees like a spineless cur and beg her forgiveness.

But he was a prince, bound by his promises. Wink had won. Nuada had agreed and Wink had won. So the prince only sighed and asked, "Now?"

"I suggest you bathe first," the troll said dryly, noting the sweat and grime streaking pale skin, as well as a few stripes of amber blood nearly brown with grit. "But yes. Now."

"She may not be home."

Nuada almost smiled when Wink gently whapped him across the back of the head with his hand of flesh. "Then wait for her."

**.**

"Did you ever figure out what was taken from the Met?" Dylan asked Anya as they watched Tiana racing about with other children in the Hudson Mall play area outside the theatre. The movie had been cute, light and easy - just what Dylan could've asked for in a film. The love story had been just soft enough to warm the heart without being gag-me-fluffy. And the love interest had been nothing like Nuada, so Dylan hadn't thought about him at all. Well, mostly at all. Partly at all.

Darn it, she'd thought about him the whole time. Especially each time Tiana had tugged on her sleeve to ask her a question, just as Dylan had done as a child to her mother when they'd gone to the movies.

She licked at the top of her black cherry waffle cone and ordered herself to stop being so lovesick and pathetic about the whole thing. Everything was fine. She didn't need Nuada to be happy. She had ice cream. Her second dose in as many days. Ice cream could solve all of her problems. Frustrating faerie men just caused most of those problems.

But she still missed him, darn it. In the depressed kicked-cockerspaniel kind of way, which was just sad. _Get over it,_ she snapped at herself.

The folklorist shrugged and waved when Tiana paused at the top of the neon orange plastic slide and flailed her arms in mimed greeting. "Some kind of... golden bar thing that they found randomly near the banks of the River Boyne. It was on loan from the National Irish Museum or some other big bopper whose name escapes me. Supposedly it's a piece of some crown from some Irish faerie kingdom."

Dylan tensed, but said nothing. Anya noticed, but didn't say anything, either, and her friend didn't notice the noticing.

"Irish fairy kingdom?"

"Faerie," Anya replied with another shrug. She half-rose from the chrome bench she and Dylan sat on to keep an eye on the five-year-old who zipped down the slide, leap-frogged over another child playing dead on the floor, and raced up the steps to prove her bravery by taking the slide again. "You know, like in those myths and legends you like so much. Some place called Bethmoora. I thought Bethmoora was a place HP Lovecraft made up, but-"

"It's another name for the kingdom of the Tuatha dé Danann," Dylan mumbled, trying not to think of the court of Bethmoora and the fae there. The merciless fae that Nuada would have to face when he returned to Findias to face his father's wrath alone. Her heart clenched. Would the king hurt him? "The People of Danu."

"Oh. I knew about the Tuatha dé, but I didn't know about the Bethmoora thing," Anya replied. "Cool. Yeah, apparently it's some random piece of a crown or something. How they knew that when it was just a clinky strip of gold, I have no clue, but whatever. Hey, I think Tiana's done for the day. She looks wiped."

"Has she had a nap today?" Dylan asked, getting to her feet as the little girl trudged over to the two grownups.

"She's five; does she need one?"

"The rule with naps are, if the kid's having trouble getting to sleep at night, you don't need the nap," Dylan replied, finishing off the last bit of her ice cream cone. "If they nod off in the middle of the day on their own, they're still young enough to need one."

"Good to know. Well, you ready to go, Miss Tiana?"

"Can we go to McDonald's?"

Anya's dark eyes locked with Dylan's blue ones. Both women managed to communicate an entire, mysterious grownup conversation without so much as uttering a single syllable or even lifting an eyebrow. The conversation flew right over Tiana's head. Eventually Dylan said, "I know a better place. In-N-Out Burger, they've got great food. How about we go there before you and Anya drop me off, huh?"

"Okay!"

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_**Author's Note:**_ _And we're at the end of the second chapter of the day! Woo-hoo! Who's excited? I am so excited. Sigh, but Nuada's so EMO! Argh. Sorry, I hate it when guys are in love (or girls, actually) and are like, "I can't marry/be with/love her! I'll be a traitor/laughingstock/wimp!" I hate that. Sigh. But! He's going to hopefully pull out of it soon! Cross your fingers, scrunch up your nose, close your eyes and get in Wish Position! *everyone ignores LA* That's okay. I'm ridiculous, I know._ =D

_1) Yay! They share a dream where no one cries! Thank goodness! Who's happy about that? Who's all, "Awww! Little Dylan!" when she's seven? What do we think of the non-bloody, non-teary dream? Yes, it's emotional, but I was going more for Nuada being like, "Meh! Want so bad, can't touch, want, can't touch, want it, no touchie!" rather than "boo-hoo, poor Dylan never catches a break." How'd I do? And who thinks Dylan and Nuada shared that dream? Or was Nuada just dreaming and it wasn't an actual Morphean meeting with his forbidden beloved?_

_2) Bat and his duel with the phone. Actually, Bat in general. Who thought he provided some much needed comic relief, the adorable fuzz-ball? It seems like he started off as this itsy witsy minor character and now he only has to make a brief appearance and I start smiling (mostly because I imagine him prowling the cottage looking for Dylan's undies)._

_3) Sibling moments. Do we have a favorite? Either from this chapter or from the whole fic?_

_4) The sparring session. What do we think of the sparring session? Shibo26_ _said Nuada (and boys in general) need sense beaten into their heads, which inspired that scene. Poor Nuada, so distracted. How do we feel about that little bit of interaction and why?_

_5) Favorite things, least favorite things, questions, comments, smart remarks, funny bits, any sad bits, etc. Ciao!_

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Yes, clover blossoms actually mean "I promise" in the language of flowers. Daisies stand for "loyal love." Which can be the love of a friend, the love of a sweetheart, the love of a vassal for their liege - whichever.

- Nuada's memory-flash, for those who don't remember, of the tulip is from chapter 26.

- The song Dylan is talking about, I don't remember the name of it. But it _**IS**_ in the musical _Cinderella_. The full verse is, "Am I making believe I see in you: a man too perfect to be really true? Do I want you because you're wonderful? Or are you wonderful because I want you? Are you the sweet invention of a lover's dream? Or are you really as wonderful as you seem?"

- The little exchange between John and Dylan about his feet hurting and her leg hurting is inspired by this movie that actually won the Pulitzer, called Angels in America (it's a play and a film). The male MC is talking to this chick angel, who growls, "Now release me, Prophet! I have pulled a muscle in my thigh." And he snaps back, "Ah, I don't wanna hear it, my leg's been hurtin' me for months."

- I made up that "okami proverb." For those who don't remember, okami are the giant faerie wolves from Japanese myth. You see them in _Princess Mononoke_ by Hiyao Miyazaki. Good anime film, one of his best. If you go to Youtube and look up "Savages - Princess Mononoke" you'll find a great vid to the song "Savages" from Disney's _Pocahontas_.

- Bethmoora is actually from HP Lovecraft. I think. It's only briefly mentioned. However, Lovecraft had a huge influence on the _Hellboy_ universe, so that's all good. And also not very surprising.


	39. I Need to Write a Letter

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So I didn't get chapter 40 finished (crap) but I did get the last 3 chapters finished, obviously. Meh, I'm so behind. Anyway, so hope you enjoy this chapter. It's probably going to be another one of those emotional roller coasters. Like I said in the chapter before this one (I think, or the one before that), this one has some fairly dark stuff in it, but it doesn't revolve around Dylan and there's also (as indicated by the secondary chapter title) some better, lighter stuff so yay. Hope you all enjoy! Loves to you all!_

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**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

**I Need to Write a Letter**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Accusations, an Awkward Meeting, Life Moving Onward, the Wildness of Changeling Children, and Putting Pen to Paper**

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John bolted awake when he heard the front door open and close. Groggy, he hauled himself out of the armchair in the living room where he'd fallen asleep and turned toward the front entryway, expecting to see his twin coming through the door. He froze when Becan, looking apologetic, led in the pointy-eared douche bag.

The Elf looked, the twenty-one-year-old decided, as if ripping out Dylan's heart and grinding it under his heel hadn't affected him at all. Every stupid blond hair was in its proper place. Golden eyes melting towards bronze were still sunk in pits of darkness. Nearly black lips pressed together in annoyance the moment the Elf prince realized that John was in the room. Even the black and red silk or whatever was perfectly pressed and neat as a pin. The lance that had left the now-blue-and-green bruise on the federal agent's cheek was strapped to the Elf's back. And he stood at the entrance to the living room looking like he'd rather be anywhere but.

Jerk.

"What the hell, Becan?"

"Master John, His Highness wishes to see Lady Dylan-" The brownie began, but his mistress's twin ruthlessly cut him off.

"She's not here, Your Royal Highness," John snapped. If Dylan came back and found the guy here, what would happen? She'd be so happy to see him. But what was the guy doing here, anyway? No greater fae like this one could be trusted, John knew that. His sister had known that too, once. If she saw Nuada here, she'd throw caution to the wind and just get hurt again, dang it. "So beat it."

"Then I shall wait for her." Every word that dropped from those dark lips simmered with fury. "After the service I rendered your sister, I would expect at least _some_ gratitude from even such a lowly, hollow thing as yourself, human."

"Gratitude?" John scoffed. "I'm supposed to be grateful that you left my sister thinking you hated her? That you left her bleeding to death from whatever you said to her? Yeah, no." He paced to the fireplace. Becan had kept the fire going to keep the room warm against the iciness of the snow outside. "Dylan would've been better off if she'd never met you. You fae... you ruin everything you touch."

Becan eyed both men with increasing trepidation as the prince took a single step into the room. He fairly vibrated with rage. His voice was like black ice - sharp, dark, cold as the grave - when he snarled, "If she'd never met me, your sister would be dead."

Humans. Humans and their destructive hatred, their vicious desire to dominate and destroy, their rage and their hate and their cruelty. The poison of them, infecting everything they touched. Ruining everything they touched. Decimating. Killing. Just as they'd tried to do to her. If she had never met him, if he hadn't been there that night, Dylan would've died. And he never would have known her...

_She_ _is mortal,_ Nuada reminded himself forcibly, never taking his eyes off Dylan's twin. _That's what mortals do. They grow old, wither and die. Sometimes - often - they don't even grow old first. It wouldn't be the first time a woman died at the hands of human butchers._

His mother. Beautiful emerald eyes that turned to hammered silver in the moonlight. A cloak of curling hair like spun garnets. Love and laughter and her face soft with mother love and her arms holding him with the unspoken promise that she would never let go because he was her son.

His mother, dead at the hands of humans. Human males that sought to destroy a woman in the worst way possible.

Just like Dylan.

"Without me, she'd be dead now," Nuada snapped.

"She almost died _because_ of you!"

A matching rage twisted the mortal man's features. But no hatred, Nuada saw with a brief flash of surprise. That surprise just barely splintered the icy crust of fury that had frosted the inside of Nuada's chest. Just anger and worry and dread all tangled together into a black knot that made eyes so oddly familiar burn with fury.

"She told me about... about that guy. Eamonn or whatever. She told me how she went to save you from him and he almost killed her. You think I don't know what he did to her? Maybe _you_ haven't noticed, but she's woken up screaming in the dark from remembering. Screaming for _you,_ and where the hell were you, huh? Nowhere. You just ditched her because for once she didn't put your royal self ahead of her own safety!"

"You know nothing of what you speak," the prince hissed. His hands itched for his lance, for the sword sheathed at his hip. But no. No, if he drew those weapons now, if he drew them _at all_, mortal blood would splash these walls and Dylan would never look at him with any warmth ever again and he shouldn't care about that in the face of this filthy human's disrespect but Nuada knew he did. He could not allow his temper to control him. "You know nothing."

John didn't know what made him say what he said next. Intuition, maybe. An almost preternatural sense of what would strike at that seemingly empty faerie heart the hardest, the sharpest, the swiftest. Or maybe just something dark and coaxing that he sensed suddenly in the room with them. Simple hatred? Something fae? He didn't know, and didn't care.

"Then where were you? Where were you when that Elf guy mind-raped my sister over and over again? Where were you when she was trapped in her own nightmares, screaming for you to save her? Where were you the night those men hunted her down and ripped her apart?" Keeping his voice icy and even, John answered his own questions. "You weren't there. At least not in time. Or if you were, then you just watched them hurt her until it was convenient for you to dirty your hands and finally rescue one little insignificant human. You let it happen. Don't you dare tell me I don't know. You can just go to Hell."

There was an odd, frozen stillness inside Nuada. An emptiness without even a whisper of sound besides the vicious words that spilled from John like blood. Like Dylan's blood on cold concrete, on Elven bedsilks, on a dim staircase. Like his mother's blood soaking into the ground as human monsters ravished and destroyed her. His sister's blood when those same monsters beat her for screaming and weeping during Cethlenn's torture and eventual death.

_You let it happen. Where were you?_ _You just watched them hurt her._ Watched them? Listened to the wolves howling and watched them spill that iron-laced blood to the cold night air? _You just watched. You let it happen._ Let Eamonn break her in a sick, twisted attempt to strike at Nuada's heart. Let the wolves devour her. No. No, never.

But he... in nightmares, he had given into the monstrous dark and hurt her, too. Blood. So much blood. Burning hot and slick and so scarlet; the sickening copper stench of it. Her blood on his hands, wet and red. On the pavement, soaking into his bed, slicking that dark stairwell. The feel of her skin bruising under his hands in dark dreams. And her screams, her pleas, her tears.

_You just watched them hurt her._

If he moved, if he even breathed, Nuada was certain every ounce of self-control would shatter and his sword would be buried in the human's chest before either of them could so much as blink.

"Master John," Becan breathed in horror. "You should not say such things. His Highness-"

"Doesn't give a damn about Dylan," John snapped. "If he did, he wouldn't have done whatever he did to her. Wouldn't have ripped her heart out like he did. Do you get off on that?" The human demanded of the Elf prince. "Making her care about you, using her for whatever sick thrills you fae get from hurting humans, then tossing her aside?"

Nuada's fingers twitched. His sword was heavy against his thigh. He could almost smell the stench of human blood spilled in violence. The memory of her blood? Or a manifestation of his desire for her brother's blood?

There was just the faintest whisper of hatred in John now, fueled by that dark energy throbbing through the room. He remembered his sister at five years old, crying into her pillow because she'd been spanked for doing things she wasn't supposed to in order to help a sick demi-merrow. Dylan at seven, screaming for him as two men in white uniforms dragged her out of the house and into a van. Age ten, home for a visit, coming home with a black eye and broken nose because some neighbor kids found out about "the fairy thing." His sister at twelve, trapped beneath two monsters leaving her battered and bloody and shattered. Still twelve, still battered, now soaked with blood because she couldn't take it anymore and she wanted to die just to escape.

And there was always more. All the different things over the years that had happened to her, to him, to their sisters. All of it because of the Gentry.

"You enjoy it, don't you?" John demanded. "You enjoy twisting her up and breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her. You don't care about her, you just want to see her suffer. That's all the fae want with humans - to see them suffer. Because it's amusing to you. How long does she have to cry over you before you finally stop tormenting her?"

"Shut up, human." Sword at his side, thirsty for iron-laced blood. Spear at his back, hungry to pierce fragile human flesh and find that empty, hollow pit where the human heart should have been. "Shut up."

"You're disgusting. My sister deserves better than some sadistic Elven freak." The hate was choking him now. John struggled to breathe evenly around the lump in his throat and the knot in his stomach. This was wrong, this was _so_ wrong, but he couldn't stop himself. Couldn't bite back the vicious words. All he could think of was his sister. Her grief like a knife. That grief had been easing the longer she spent around the Elf, but now... now it was sharp as a shard of ice and twice as cold. All because of this... this _bastard_. "How do you live with yourself, knowing what you've done to her?"

"Only once more will I say it." Nuada's voice was eerily calm. His heart slammed against his breastbone, threatened to shatter his ribcage. The blood throbbed through his temples. "Shut up."

"Master John," Becan whispered, pleaded. "Please."

"How can you take his side?" John snapped at the brownie. "You saw what he did to her! You saw how she was after he left; you were the first person to see her. You were there that first night! And what happened? She screamed herself hoarse from the nightmares! She was begging him for help and he left her because _he doesn't care!_ She's had to sleep with all the lights on because of the nightmares and they still keep coming because of whatever he did! How can you take his side?"

Nuada's fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. In his mind's eye he saw Dylan, a single tear trickling down her scarred cheek, glittering like a diamond. Would she cry if he parted this human's head from his shoulders? Did he care if she did?

"Because..." The brownie trailed off. Shot a petrified look at the far-too-still prince. "Because he cares for her."

John scoffed. "Sure he does. If Dylan had any sense, she'd ditch him back. She'd hate him for-"

The sword, limned with carnelian light from the fire like blood, was at the human's throat in the next heartbeat. The razor-edge parted the flesh just under the human's Adam's apple, breaking through the healing cut from their last encounter. Blood welled up and flowed.

_More_, Nuada thought with savage hate. He wanted more of that blood. Wanted to cut out this human's lying tongue before cutting his throat so he could speak no more vicious lies. See the mortal blood flow hot and red.

_Blood._ A single thought splintered the icy crust of hatred that made him so cold he burned. _Blood. Human blood. Blood of _her _blood._ If he killed this human, she would not forgive. Would never forgive. Would hate him forever. His sister hated him, deep down where her gentle heart could not really taste the true flavor of such dark emotion. His father... his father hated what Balor _thought_ Nuada was, if not the truth of it. This human whose blood stained his blade dark - he hated Nuada as well, despite everything the Elf prince had done for the woman that John claimed was the other half of his soul. But of course, most mortals had no souls. Most.

But Dylan didn't hate him. _I could never, ever hate you, Nuada._ If he did this... if he made this human male pay for his slander... she would hate him for it. He would never get her back. She would be lost to him, forever out of reach.

_For you, a ghrá_ _- beloved._ The thought struck before he could censor it. A flick of his wrist whipped the blade away from the vulnerable throat with just enough force that it turned what had been an inch-long cut into a shallow, two-and-a-half inch-long slice across the neck. It was no deeper than a particularly bad cat scratch. Blood beaded along the slice before trickling from the wound. Nuada still wanted to see John's blood gush, but he repressed the urge despite the hissing words slithering through his mind.

_Where were you? You let it happen._

"You asked me where I was when she needed me," Nuada said tonelessly. His knuckles were bone-white on the hand that gripped his naked sword. "I ask you this, human - where were _you_?" The Elf prince sheathed his sword, turned on his heel to walk toward the door. He had to leave again. He couldn't stay. Not and continue to listen to this mortal harangue him. Blood would be spilled in a lethal fountain this night if the Elf had to listen to the human spew any more accusations.

"Turn around and I'll tell you."

The words were just odd enough that Nuada did turn... and stumbled back a pace when John's fist slammed into his mouth.

"Master John, _no!"_

Nuada gritted his teeth and glared at the human who now had smears of amber blood on his knuckles from the leaking cut on the Elf prince's mouth. The feral-eyed warrior tasted blood from where he'd cut the inside of his mouth against his teeth. Thought briefly about spitting it out. More work for Becan that way. Nuada swallowed back the fey sweetness of his own blood and studied the human that had dared to hit him. Considered his options through a haze of crimson fury and black hatred.

"I've been wanting to do that for _days_," John growled, then went flying backward when Nuada punched him. He slammed into the wall and slid dazedly to the floor, scarlet dripping from between slack lips. "Uhn..." The mortal groaned when Nuada hauled him to his feet by the front of his shirt with one hand. More scarlet dripped onto the human's shirt from the cuts inside his mouth from Nuada's blow.

No blades. Not here, not now. If he drew his sword again, he'd never sheathe it without the Elven silver tasting dark mortal life's blood. Oh, but he _wanted_ that life's blood. Craved it almost like a drug. Yearned to hear it sing over Elven silver as the human screamed and died.

But he couldn't. He could _not_. So he would resort to a more common form of retribution. To hit the putrid, hollow _thing_ again... or to hit it more than once: that was the question.

"Milady will be very unhappy if you fight him, Sire!"

Dylan would just have to be unhappy.

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She knew there was a problem the moment her hand touched the doorknob. There was no sound to alert her, no smell of danger or sense of cruelty in the air. Not even a cold slither down her spine, a warning from the Spirit. There was nothing. But as Dylan fumbled with her keys and started to unbolt the cottage's front door, she knew there was something wrong inside the cottage.

Becan met her in the entryway. "Milady, you must stop them!"

She didn't even bother asking him who he meant. Just followed the noise of snarled insults and the sound of flesh impacting flesh to the living room. Stopped. Her cane fell from her grasp and thumped to the floor. She gaped at the impossible scene before her.

Her stomach lurched and her heart flipped over when she saw John stuck in an immobilizing joint-lock against the coffee table, which creaked ominously under her brother's weight. His arm was wrenched upward behind his back. The stomach-lurch morphed into a somersault and her heart stopped for a second when Dylan saw that the Elf that held her brother in the painful joint-lock was none other than Prince Nuada Silverlance. Both of them were snarling at each other. Both of them had scraped knuckles. Both of them were bleeding.

For a moment she was so angry she could hardly think, let alone speak. Then the fear and the incredulity and the hope swallowed up most of her anger, leaving her breathless and a bit numb.

"Say that once more and I shall break your arm at the shoulder, human," the Elf growled. "And your elbow, while I'm at it."

John spit a mouthful of blood onto the coffee table. "Fine. My sister hates your guts and-"

"Both of you stop it or I'm gonna be the one breaking arms," Dylan yelled. Two pairs of incredulous eyes sliced to where she stood in horrified disbelief in the doorway. She could read the question in those eyes easily: _when the hell did _you _get here?_ She ignored the look and focused on Nuada. Ignored the weak-kneed relief that spread through her when she saw he wasn't hurt beyond what someone (presumably her brother) had done. Ignored the nerves burbling in her stomach at the mere sight of him in the cottage again. Instead she snapped, "Let my brother go." At his sharp look, she added a little more politely, "Please."

Eyes that were nearly crimson locked with eyes like stardust. Dylan tried to put every ounce of pleading and desperation into her gaze because that was exactly what she was feeling right now - sick and desperate - and because if Nuada decided to break her brother's arm, both she and John were going to be screwed; John because of the arm, and her because what was she supposed to do when the prince she'd sworn herself to attacked her twin and hurt him?

Nuada muttered a vicious Gaelic curse and released John, stepping back quickly so the mortal man couldn't hit him again. _For you, a ghrá,_ he thought again before he could stop himself. Managed not to say it, though, thank the gods. The human male groaned pathetically and slid to the floor, rubbing his abused shoulder.

"Dylan," he croaked when he could speak around the pain in his arm. "This son of a bi-"

"Be quiet, John," she said softly. Her brother's mouth snapped shut. The hurt in his eyes blazed at her, scorched her. She knew she had to walk very carefully here or risk possibly everything. Dylan asked, "Can you get up?" Her brother nodded. "Then I want you to go into my room and wait for me there, understand? And don't get any blood on the carpet or Becan will get sick from the iron."

Her twin looked as if he might argue, but one good look at Dylan's face and he fell silent. John got shakily to his feet and left the room without another word. Nuada opened his mouth, but Dylan raised a regal hand and he fell silent. Starlit blue eyes fell on him with all the force of a blow.

"I understand..." Dylan had to swallow quickly before she could continue on. "I understand that you hate me for what I've done. I understand that. I... accept that. You wouldn't feel the way you do if I didn't deserve it. I'm sorry for everything I've done to hurt you, Nuada. I'm so sorry. But..." A thread of hurt - and more, of blistering anger - under the voice now. "But you can't come here and hurt my brother because of what I did. Begging Your Highness's pardon, but I won't let you."

The Elven warrior briefly entertained the thought of being angry. _I won't let you._ The only thing she had ever clearly stated she forbade him. As if she could truly stop him from hurting the wretched human male if the prince sought to end his pathetic existence. Nuada tossed the idea of anger aside. If Dylan didn't stand between the prince and her twin, would Nuada still feel as he did for her? Even if the puling mortal whelp didn't deserve her protection. Her honor demanded she defend her kin. He could understand that.

"Do you think so little of me, then?" The prince asked in a cool, almost expressionless voice. That little thread of anger and hurt in Dylan's words threatened to strangle him. "That I would punish one for the sins of another?"

Dylan's hair was tied up in a long ponytail. Now she yanked the white velvet scrunchie out of her hair, letting it tumble loose around her shoulders and down her back. A few stray curls hung in her eyes. His fingers itched to smooth those curls back from her face. Instead he tightened his hands into fists at his sides and waited for her answer.

"No, Nuada. I think you're angry with me; rightfully so. I lied to you. I didn't mean to, and I'm sorry, but I did and you have every right to be furious with me. To... to hate me. And people often do things in anger that they wouldn't normally do otherwise."

"You think me lacking control, then?"

"Oh, stop it," she snapped. "You'd try the patience of a saint, I swear. What am I _supposed_ to think? If John did something that serious, wouldn't you have just killed him? I know you hate humans. I was the only one you didn't hate and now there's not even that. So why else would you have hurt him except to punish me?" Not that she didn't deserve his anger, his punishment. She knew that, and she knew that Nuada knew she felt that way. "I'll take whatever consequences you think I deserve because I know the seriousness of breaking an oath to a denizen of Faerie. But I won't let you hurt John because of me. I'll kick your butt into next week if I have to. You don't get to hurt my brother because of something _I_ did."

"It was not because of anything you may or may not have done," the prince said coolly. He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from adding _mo duinne_ at the end of that statement. And there was that phrase again: _I won't let you._ To his shock, Nuada felt his mouth twitch at a sudden surge of amusement. Suddenly the mortal woman reminded him yet again of a kitten with its fur all puffed up and a bottle-brush tail. Forcing the mirth away, the Elf added, "I came here to speak with you. Your idiot of a brother said things that I will not stand for. He had to be... reprimanded."

Dylan shrugged out of her coat and tossed it onto the back of the armchair. Her gloves and scarf followed. "You were about to break his arm in two places. That's a bit more than a reprimand."

"He said things that I will not stand for," Nuada repeated tonelessly.

"What things?" She demanded, searching his face.

He had no idea what she would see there, so he smoothed away any and all emotions, any and all thoughts. But still he could hear her brother's voice hissing like a basilisk in his skull. _You just watched them hurt her. You let it happen. You enjoy breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her._

Why was he here? Why had he come here? To please his oldest friend. To torture himself. To prove to himself that no matter how enticingly she called to him, no matter how sorrowful her eyes were, he would not betray himself and everything he believed in by softening towards her. Now she was studying him with confusion, with hurt and concern in those damnable eyes of hers.

"I will not speak of it." Silently, he added, _I should not have come here. I should _never _have come here._ He turned to leave, to escape, but her hand on his arm, soft as a snowflake, stayed him. Amber eyes landed on her face.

"You're bleeding," Dylan murmured. "The two of you were fighting. How badly did you hurt each other?"

"Your brother has bruised ribs and facial bruises. A few cuts. Scraped knuckles. Nothing more. I was careful not to permanently damage him, since he means so much to you," Nuada added with a trace of bitterness he couldn't suppress. He started to turn away again.

Her palm against his cheek turned his face back to her. He wanted to shove her away, wanted to wrench her hand away from his skin. Instead, he stood there and waited. Stood there and allowed her hand to gently stroke down his cheek, skipping over a bruise. He fought the shudder that tried to pulse through him. Tension strung out between them, tight as a wire and just as sharply cutting. The crisp scent that clung to her teased him - fresh apples and sharp cinnamon, something sweet underneath it all.

As if she couldn't help herself, she gently touched his bottom lip, right where her brother had first hit him. Nuada almost winced at the sting. Her fingertip came away wet with a drop of amber blood.

"And what about you?" Dylan very lightly touched the bruise darkening along his jaw. "H-how are you?"

"Why does it matter to you?" Nuada clenched his teeth. Why had he asked her that? Why couldn't he simply keep his mouth shut?

Her eyes were so very gentle. How could he think when she was looking at him that way? Where had all of her righteous indignation gone? Where was his own anger?

"I must go now."

"No, stay," she pleaded. He didn't move. Couldn't seem to force his legs to work. "Don't go yet, please. Please stay. I'm sorry. Nuada, I'm so sorry, please don't leave."

Danu's mercy, he had to. He couldn't stay here. Couldn't stay here with her eyes so wide and glimmering like starlight, looking at him, pleading with him not to go. Her fingers trembled merely a handspan away from his bloodied mouth. He could easily kiss her fingertips. He had to put some distance between them. Had to say something to make her stop looking at him that way. As if he were the answer to her every prayer. He _had_ to say _something_ to make her stop looking at him that way.

_Disgusting human whore._ No. Shades, no. Not those words. Never again. But there was one other that might do it.

"I have no reason to stay... human."

He saw the change in her immediately and hated himself. She dropped her hand and stepped back from him, letting her eyes drop to the floor. He felt the absence of her nearness like a sharp slap. Dylan took a quick, sharp breath. Dropped an awkward half-curtsy. She still wouldn't look at him. "Forgive me, Your Royal Highness. I meant no offense. Let me get you some ice for that bruise, at least. And you and John should probably have a talk."

"If your brother says one more word to me," Nuada said icily, any ghost of tenderness forgotten, "I will break more than just his arm, human."

Silver-washed blue eyes like stardust finally lifed to his face. Her voice was soft and hesitant when she whispered, "You weren't this... hard with him before. Why are you so angry with him? What did he say to you?"

"Ask your precious brother," the prince snapped. "See if you can actually find a bit of truth in all of his lies." Nuada turned again and strode toward the front door. He would not let Dylan stop him this time. He had to leave. He'd done what Wink asked; he'd come to see Dylan and he'd seen her. They'd talked. His honor allowed him to leave now. Allowed him to escape being so insufferably, torturously close to her.

_I understand that you hate me._ His honor did _not_ allow him to leave while she thought that. Nuada's jaw tensed. At the door, he turned back to her.

"Dylan." Why did she have to look so brittle? He wanted to stay here. Wanted to erase that brittle look in her eyes. _Mo duinne_... Instead he said tonelessly, "I have told you before that I do not hate you. Do not call me a liar again. Now go and see to your brother."

And like a coward, the crown prince of Bethmoora fled once more.

"So he's finally gone, huh?"

Dylan turned to see John standing with a towel-wrapped ice pack pressed to his black-bruised jaw. His eyes were stormy with hurt and pain and anger. And was that worry? She could feel all of that through their bond, which meant it was stronger than almost any emotion she'd picked up from him in months, even years. When he came to stand in front of her, Dylan sighed and dropped her forehead against her brother's chest. "Are you mad at me, too?"

"Kind of," John muttered, adjusting the ice pack. "It kind of hurts when the other half of my heart ditches me for some pointy-eared jerk. I'll get over it, though. And at least you've got kind of a good reason. If you weren't in love with him, though, I'd be furious."

She jerked her head back to stare up at her twin in shock.

"I'm not blind, D. You don't get all morose over just anybody. Jerk's lucky. Lucky someone like you loves him and lucky I didn't break his face."

Dylan thumped him hard in the chest with her forehead. The force of the blow made John cough and wince. His twin's cranium had connected with one of the dark bruises thickening over his torso, courtesy of His Royal Pain-in-the-Assness. John swallowed the complaint that wanted to whine out of his mouth and sighed.

"Okay, sorry. It's just... I think our bond is getting stronger. I think I'm picking up on a lot of what's going on in here," and he tapped her gently on the forehead. "Or maybe what's in here." He poked her in the chest.

She sighed and dropped her face against his chest again. They hadn't had an overlap-problem, as John called it, since he'd hit puberty his first year of high school when his usually-meager psychic ability had gone gonzo for a few months. Once the initial rush of horomones had ended, their link had leveled out again.

"I dunno, Sis. I said some things... I said some things to him I probably shouldn't have and I think it's because I'm feeling what you're feeling and I gotta be honest, it pisses me off and scares me."

Dylan frowned. "Scares you? Why?"

"Because," John said softly, putting an arm around her. "The last time I felt this kind of... of hopelessness from you, you tried to kill yourself." She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a squeeze. "I'm just... I'm really scared you're going to try to leave me again."

"Oh, John. Sweetheart, never. Never." She squeezed him tighter. "It's okay. Don't ever think that. I'm fine. You're my brother, I'd never leave you. I'm fine."

_No,_ her twin thought with a cold, sick feeling in the very pit of his stomach. _No, you're not. You're not fine, D. You're all twisted up and you're pretending so hard that you're not that you don't even see it anymore. You were so fragile to begin with, walking a tight-rope through life. You never let anyone see how hard it was for you and now you're all messed up. He means so much to you and he doesn't deserve you but you need him. And I didn't help things, either. Crap._

Aloud, John added with just the right amount of grumpy-child in his voice, "I suppose I have to go and apologize to him."

His twin gave a short laugh, but didn't say anything for a very long time. Just listened to the sound of her brother's heartbeat under his t-shirt and wished things could be simple again. Easy, like when they were little. Finally Dylan asked, "What did you say to him?"

"You're not gonna like it. In my defense, in retrospect I think an awgwa was screwing with my head. But you're still not gonna like it."

Dylan's exasperated breath momentarily blew a lock of hair out of her face. "I'm already ticked at the both of you, so how bad could it be? C'mon, don't be a wimp."

He was a wimp, but he 'fessed up to it anyway. And it was bad. By the time he finished the recitation of the argument - or as much of the argument as he could remember - Dylan had stripped him of his shirt, checked out his bruised ribs to make sure they weren't broken, put some salve on the lacerations on his face, and had hit him at least twice as many times as Nuada had. His blows had hurt worse, though John didn't make the mistake of telling that to his twin.

"I can't believe you, John," she hissed, and thwacked him on the back a few more times.

"Ow, ow, ow!" He yelped with every strike. "Awgwas made me do it! Awgwas made me do it! Ow!"

Dylan rolled her eyes and gave her brother a good, solid thump on the noggin just for kicks and giggles. "Yeah, blame the evil rock faeries. Suck it up and stop being a baby. You deserve it. And no more ice cream on my tab for you anymore, either." John's look of utter horror almost made her relent. Then she remembered what her brother had told her about his fight with Nuada and just folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Don't look at me like that. No more ice cream for you."

"What about pie?" His sister made the absolute best pie in the world (in his humble opinion) and she couldn't really mean to exile him from both free ice cream _and_ homemade apple pie after he'd already agreed to go and apologize? Did she? "C'mon, D, not the pie, too!"

"After what you said to him? You're lucky I don't rip you into little pieces and sprinkle you on my toast. The only reason I don't is because you'd taste awful." Her eyes were like pools of cobalt ice shrouded in frigid mist when they narrowed at him. John had to fight not to swallow reflexively at the anger in their depths. Yeah, his twin had stopped whacking him with her good hand (the other one still being bandaged from where she'd cut herself with scissors and thus rendered non-viable for punishment), but that didn't mean that everything was all hunky-dory between them.

Would she forgive him? Of course. That didn't mean she wouldn't make him squirm like a worm on a hook first. Unfortunately, she loved the jerk who'd broken her heart. That meant if John wanted his privileges back (and his other half's good humor), he had to make nice with the Elf prince.

_I'd rather get neutered,_ the federal agent thought. Somehow Dylan must have picked up on the sentiment, if not the thought, because she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. _Ow._ But then she bussed a kiss against his temple and he felt a little better. Okay, she wasn't quite _that_ angry. John sighed in relief. It was more like I'm-gonna-rip-your-hair-out-mad than I'm-gonna-make-sure-this-softball-makes-first-contact-with-your-cash-and-prizes-mad. He could handle that.

An irate meow was his only warning before Bat sank his needle-sharp little cat teeth into his foot. John yelped. Dylan just sat back and watched her kitten do his little kitty-cat best to maul her twin.

**.**

Dylan went through the next several days almost, she imagined, the way a normal human being would've gotten through them. Thursday morning she went to physical therapy and had her knee checked out by Dr. Vaughn, who renewed her Vicodin prescription. She saw Lakshmi at the Floating Night Market as well. Talked to her Uncle Thad to give him a life-update. That afternoon she saw two patients and updated their files. When the two teenagers had both gone home, she and Becan actually had a little fun making dinner together. The brownie was a culinary genius, but he couldn't compete with Dylan's apple pie. After dinner the mortal woman continued to work on the blue quilt. Right before bedtime she got a text from Hollis telling her the time and date for her second psychiatric evaluation: Saturday afternoon, two-thirty PM. Hollis would be conducting. She sent him a thank-you text, hung up, said her prayers and read her scriptures, and went to bed.

Friday she was back at the office. Her schedule was full regarding appointments that day. Luckily the chicken parmesan and penne Becan had made the night Nuada left (and just thinking the words brought everything back for a painful stinging moment) was still in the fridge. She ate it cold between appointments (her usual eating arrangement while busy at work). Ariel drove her home. They stopped for frozen yogurt at TCBY on the way (ice cream three days in a row was too much even for Dylan's inner child).

"What's up with you, Boss-Lady?" Her secretary asked as she dished up fat-free frozen strawberry goodness. "You seem depressed."

"Clinically? That's weird, I'm on meds," Dylan said, and Ariel gave her a "ha-ha, very funny" look. The psychiatrist smiled and slurped up a bit of orange creme milkshake. Ariel was the only person besides John who knew Dylan didn't take any of the meds she'd been prescribed except her Vicodin. "Boys," Dylan said after a long silence. "Boy trouble." When her secretary's glass-green eyes went wide, she huffed out a breath. "Yeah, I know - I never mentioned a guy. It's... really complicated. Anyway, it's fine. It's just been distracting me a bit. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"If I wasn't fine," Dylan reminded her friend, secretary, and chauffeur in a wry voice, "I'd have needed balm for my soul and gone for the triple-killer-fudge super-thick chocolate milkshake with chocolate whipcream, chocolate chips, fudge bits, and chocolate sprinkles." She held up her orange creme shake. "I'm fine."

Saturday John drove her to Saint Vincent's again. Hollis was very careful about the drugs this time; only a hundred miligrams of diazepam to keep her "calm" and to ease the possible panic-attack side effect of the sodium pentothal. They only used two miligrams of that. Hollis asked the requisite questions and made copious notes. Nothing out of the ordinary happened this time. When it was over John helped her back to the car and she slept the entire way home. He had to half-carry her to the bedroom so she could conk out.

Sunday was church and that was fun. Surrounded by her kids in Nursery, she could almost forget about Nuada. Forget about Bethmoora, forget about Faerie. And because the kids all had such short little legs (the oldest was only three) Dylan could race around with them in the snow without putting too much strain on her bad leg. The only thing they didn't do was jumping jacks. The bouncing was just a little too much.

"Come on, everybody!" She called to the dozen toddlers hustling to out-do each other. They were laughing and whooping as they hopped around in the frosty white stuff. No one even seemed to notice the cold. "It's a race! C'mon, around the tree! Let's go! Can't catch me!" Of course a mountain of children brought her down like a pack of fluffy-coated, pastel-colored giggling hyenas on a gazelle right after she said that. But at least they would be able to pay attention when she brought them inside for lesson time. And for snack time there were hot cookies and warm apple juice. Couldn't ask for much more than that.

When she worked on the quilt she thought about going down the hall to the little room that held her piano. Always, she decided against it. The only reason she had that piano was for those rare times when she held Family Home Evening on Monday nights with John. Music was a big part of her life and a big part of her faith. But she could hardly play - only one note at a time, and only after weeks of practicing the same song over and over again - so why bother? It didn't take skill or talent to play random keys. It only took an ear that wasn't tone deaf and a love of music. But the only thing she could play right now would be just random pressings of the keys as she let the sounds take her where she didn't want to go.

And every night she dreamed of Nuada. Every night she apologized, told him she was sorry and that she missed him. Every night he folded his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, his hands gently stroking her back as he whispered soft things in Gaelic that made her heart thunder and shivers traipse up and down her spine. And every night she woke up alone, knowing it had only been a dream. She was getting sick of dreams. She was getting sick of sorrow.

She was also getting a little sick of John, whose snores sounded remarkably like a logging truck, even through the closed bedroom door, because he was all scrunched up on the sofa and not breathing right.

Monday was back to the office again, with a full day of appointments. Luckily no one was having a crisis just then and it was all mostly routine. She actually had time to go out and get something for lunch from the Farmer's Market. Though the apples were fresh, she stayed far away from them. Lately apples had begun to stick in her throat whenever she tried to eat them.

Instead she stuck mainly to fresh bread and creamy cheese, sometimes with the boiled eggs that this tiny old Amish woman sold at a quaint little stall at the Market. Grapes were good too, especially the purple ones that were fat and sweet. Adrian King, one of her former Sight kids who'd just survived his seventeeth birthday, grew them in a greenhouse to sell at the Market in winter.

Back at the cottage in the early evening, Kaye brought her little sister over for one of their haphazardly-scheduled "human lessons." As a human changeling, Kate didn't have a lot of experience living in the human world, since she'd been taken to Faerie as a baby and Kaye-the-pixie left in her place. However, the wild child liked Dylan and adored her "big sister," and was slowly learning how to be civilized. They'd made some good progress with her; she was now willing to eat Pop-Tarts and cereal for breakfast instead of honey slathered over flowers, for example. Now Dylan and Kate were working on not biting random strangers for calling her "cute." Kate's philosophy was, "Faeries do it - why can't I?"

But they _were_ making progress. The psychiatrist was pretty sure it was mostly because of Bean, the sidhe changeling boy that was Kate's best friend and one of Dylan's actual neighbors (he and his mother lived in one of the nearby apartment complexes). Bean, as short as Kate despite his unknown age, with untameable tufts of sidhe-scarlet hair and upswept, tilty silver eyes that always made Kate calm down when she was throwing one of her wild tantrums, was very good at playing human because his mother was trying to pass for one.

Kaye had brought Bean and his mother, Peri, on the off-chance Kate decided to act up during the lesson. With Bean seated next to her and doing the practice exercises with her when Dylan asked him to help, though, everything went smoothly. The pixie, the sidhe woman, and the mortal took the two changeling children to the playground of faerie metal even though it was near dusk and let them goof off on the equipment while the sister, mother and friend all talked.

"They're good for each other," Peri said softly as her son pretended to rescue Kate from slipping down the slide into hot lava (and of course her incredibly melodramatic death). "It's good when a fae child and a human child can be friends with one another."

"It's good for the Tylwyth Teg to touch mortal lives with their magic," Dylan replied, tucking her gloved hands into her pockets. Her breath steamed on the air and she tried desperately not to think of the magic that had touched her own life in this place several nights ago. "Those of us who can See, who can understand - at least a little - and appreciate the beauty of what the Fair Folk are need to be reminded that this kind of magic exists, or soon no one will remember it."

Bean and Kate started throwing snowballs at each other. Half the time they nibbled on the snowball first, then threw it. Dylan dubbed Kate the "black team" for her dark hair and Bean the "red team." So far, the Red Team was winning. Kate's aim was terrible. Usually she hit the trees or the ground instead of her silver-eyed target.

_Maybe,_ Dylan thought suddenly, _I can bring Tiana here to play with them sometime._ Since the little girl had been able to see the nuckelavee, she probably had at least a little of the Sight. _Kate could use a girl friend and Tiana could use another child to play with instead of being cooped up with Anya all day or whatever they're doing with her._

"Girlfriend, you okay?" Peri asked Dylan suddenly. "You look totally down."

Dylan noticed Kaye giving her an appraising look before saying, "Oh, crap. I know that face. You're in love. With a faerie. Aren't you?"

"H-how did... how did you..."

"One word: Roiben," Kaye replied dryly. "How do you think I looked after he set me that stupid task thing? 'Find a faerie that can lie.' Jeez. If I'd known you back then, that would've been so helpful. I totally didn't know fae royalty could lie outright. So annoying. So yeah, I know the I-love-a-totally-unavailble-and-out-of-reach-faerie-knight-who's-the-air-I-breathe-and-my-heartbeat-and-the-colors-of-my-world-and-I-love-him-so-much-but-I'm-crap-outta-luck look." At the other two women's raised eyebrows, the pixie added defensively, "Hey, I got that out of one of those trashy romance novels. I didn't make that up."

"Who is it?" Peri asked, then said in a deceptively calm voice that still managed to carry, "Bean, if you eat that beetle I'm going to wash your mouth out with yucca-root soap and I know how much you hate that." Her son hastily put down the offending insect before it could complete its journey to his mouth. "So who's the faerie?"

"Wait," Kaye said suddenly. Because Dylan could see through her glamor, it was a little disconcerting when her pupil-less black eyes zeroed in on the human woman's face. "Wait, wait, wait. Roiben mentioned something about... something about the crown prince of Bethmoora being engaged to a human from New York City and it causing a big uproar because Emperor Huizong and Talathlain were pissed about it for some reason. Tell me that wasn't you."

"Great, everyone in Faerie knows my business." Dylan sighed. "Yes, it's me, but we're not engaged, we're... courting, I guess you'd call it." _If we're even doing that anymore, _she thought but didn't add. "Anyway, I don't really want to talk about it. I'd rather... Kate! We do not eat tree bark!" Distracted by changelings trying to eat things they probably shouldn't, the three women forgot the conversation about faerie knights and princes and focused on keeping bizarre objects out of the children's mouths.

**.**

Nuada stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table in front of him, trying to will elegantly-scripted, eloquent words to appear like dark inky blood on the pristine white page. Amber eyes bored into the blank paper. Pale fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the tabletop. Nothing happened.

It had been five days. Five _days._ Nearly a whole week had passed since last he'd seen Dylan's face or set foot in her cottage. Instead of getting easier, it had only gotten harder. Harder to drive her from his thoughts, harder to keep from worrying about the mortal he'd left alone in that tiny cottage in the woods. _Where were you?_ What if... what if something happened while he was here, in his self-imposed exile from that small sanctuary? Everything in him rebelled at the thought of Dylan being hurt because he hadn't been there to protect her.

So he'd decided. As a prince, he was bound by his oaths and by the commands of his father and king. As a warrior of honor, he was bound to the human woman for good or ill. She had already apologized. She had already wept and begged his forgiveness in the dream they'd shared. He had already given it in another dream, though whether they shared that one or not, Nuada didn't know. It didn't matter; he'd forgiven her. Now it was time for him to ask for her forgiveness.

Shades of Annwn, he missed her. It had always been enough, before - training and planning for a war he knew would one day come, eschewing companionship of any form but visits with his twin and (when the king deigned to receive him) his father, as well as the unshakeable loyalty of Wink. It had always been enough for him through the last nearly two dozen centuries. But not anymore.

The feral-eyed warrior had already figured out exactly what he would do. As a noble, his duty to his lady in this regard was clear: a formal letter of apology and a token of the same sentiment that also served as a reaffirmation of his affection. When he saw her again he would also have to apologize verbally. Well enough. His pride could handle such a thing. Especially after... after...

_Disgusting human whore._

A white-knuckled fist slammed down hard on the table and the bottle of ink clanked from the force. Those words needed to be thoroughly eradicated from the list of his many sins. But this was going to be difficult, this letter. He was going to have to give just enough of the truth to erase the venom and grief thickening between him and the human who'd sworn herself to him... but he had to keep back the most damning truth.

And if he _did_ tell her of it? If he did the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life, what did he expect would happen? He would foolishly throw away his honor and his self-respect for the sake of a human who could never love him in return. Humans could not love that way. Not the way that he loved her.

_Not loved,_ Nuada snarled at himself, _but _could _have loved if I allowed myself such treasonous folly. Which I havenot and never will_. Missing Dylan was one thing. Loving her was another. But he still had to write this blasted letter. And there was only one way to do it.

Swallowing his pride, swallowing nearly all of his reservations, and throwing thousands of years' caution to the wind, he picked up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.

Wink strode into the lair, having just returned from the Troll Market with supplies. The cave troll stopped short when he caught sight of his prince bent over the table, topaz eyes fixed on a sheet of paper as he tapped a pen against his lips. His hair was bound in a long horsetail with a black leather tie to keep it from brushing against the ink on the page. He frowned in concentration. Could Nuada actually be... writing a letter of apology to his mortal lady?

Nuada had returned from that second sojourn to Lady Dylan's cottage five days ago with bleeding knuckles, a dark brown bruise around one eye, and blood leaking from a cut on his lip. Wink had raised an eyebrow and the prince had muttered something about "human males." When pressed, all the Elf would say was that he and Dylan's twin brother had had a disagreement. The troll had reminded his prince that permanently maiming his lady's kin was probably not quite the best way to regain his lady's affections. Nuada had snarled about leaving the wretch intact as a gift for his lady.

Wink had left it alone after that.

Since then, the prince had been even more moody than before. The silver troll had begun to ponder the thought that he would have to go back to the lassling's cottage and tell her that his intervention had been a failure. Apparently not, though. Not if Nuada was finally writing the apology letter.

The pen flicked out and more words were etched onto the paper. Wink knew his prince was taking great care because there were no balled-up failures littering the floor. Remembering the sorry attempts at letter- and poetry-writing perpetrated by a lovestruck princeling millennia ago, the troll smiled.

"How goes it?"

"Slowly," Nuada muttered. He could not keep the terseness from his voice. In order to write this letter, he had to force himself to remember the awful shock in fey-like eyes like rainswept lakes and the tears shimmering there that she refused to let fall. They'd clung to her long lashes like jewels. One had fallen against his skin, so hot with her grief that it had nearly burned him. He fought not to choke on the memory. "But I am nearly finished. After this, we have to go out."

"As you wish, my prince." Wink dropped the large satchel of foodstuffs and other items beside the entryway to their current undergound lair. "Where to?"

"The Troll Market." Amber eyes scanned the page as Nuada penned the last few lines of the letter and signed it. It was a good letter. Sincere. He prayed she would accept it because if she didn't... what would happen to him then? What would happen if the one person who would forgive him nearly anything refused to grant him forgiveness now? He despised the way something cold coiled in his belly at the thought of losing her regard. "I must purchase a few things and..." This part galled. He choked the words out anyway. "I may need your help."

Wink arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Only nodded graciously and went to find something quick to munch on before his prince could drag them back to the faerie market beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

While Nuada waited for the ink to dry completely, he reached across the table to the small brown paper envelope he'd purchased earlier that day. Carefully he picked it up and opened it. Tilting it just so, he slid the fragile contents into the palm of his hand. Sighed.

_I'm a fool to go to such trouble,_ the Elf prince told himself. _To care so much about this._

But when the ink had dried Nuada folded the letter into thirds around the contents of the little brown envelope. Lifting the blue candle that had illuminated his efforts while he worked, he dripped the liquid wax onto the seam, sealing it. Blue for sorrow, for mourning, for regret. Then he carefully pressed his personal signet into the wax, marking it with the seal of the Silver Lance.

"Now, my friend," Nuada said, rising to his feet. "We go to the Troll Market."

_This is going to be quite embarrassing,_ the prince grumbled silently, but went to pick up his sword and spear for the trip.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Omg, FINALLY! He finally decides to actually apologize instead of ignoring her or trying to talk to her or whatever. He's going to man up and just apologize. Finally! Who's excited? Anyone besides me? I'm excited. And I got this finished just in time for it to be posted today, woo-hoo! Yeah! So that's three chapters today. And I hope I get some happy reviews. Maybe, if we're super, super lucky, I'll have chapter 40 out tonight. I hope, I hope, I hope. But I also doubt. A lot. Sigh. Only because my husband's gonna be unhappy about having to go to the library twice tonight. Sigh. But maybe by tomorrow or whenever! Because I still owe you guys 1 more chapter before the 2 that are supposed to go up on the 31st. So wootness! And yay, Dylan has a fun moment with some not-as-dangerous fae. Fans of Holly Black, say, "Hi, Kaye and Kate!" Fans of Francesca Lia Block, say, "Hi, Peri and Bean!" And fans of me, say, "Hi, Dylan!" Lol._

_Quick question: what happened to Gartabro? And Lorelei? And Serbia? And Ecnelis? Strangely Tawny? Cora Coralina? Just wondering. *sorrow*_

_All right, onto our review prompt._

_1) John. Oh. My. Gawsh. John. What a grouch-potato! He's finally snapped. And then, soon as Nuada's gone, he's semi-normal again. What's up with that? It was the awgwas (check references for explanation on that). Okay, but in seriousness... how do we feel about that whole confrontation between John and Nuada? John punched Nuada! Did anyone gasp or be like, "Oh, snaps," when that happened? Seriously, I want thoughts and comments and reactions and such. I'm very curious as to how this argument went over with you guys. Especially Nuada's reactions to what John was saying and John's fear and concern for Dylan and just all of it._

_2) Dylan and Nuada's first meeting after being separated for so long - what are our thoughts on this? Any questions, comments, smart remarks?_

_3) Sibling moment. Rather, Sister-Beating-Snot-Out-of-Stupid-Brother moment. Thoughts?_

_4) The letter. Who's excited about the letter? Who knows what little thingies he put in that letter (the secret contents of that little envelope)? Who wants to hazard a guess? What do we think is gonna happen upon the receipt of this letter? And why would Nuada have to go to the Troll Market (and why would it be embarrassing)? I'd love to hear your guys' theories._

_5) And of course, favorite things (lots and lots, Nightmare *poke*) and least favorite things and sad things and angry things and funny things and questions and comments and smart remarks and bubbles. Wait, bubbles? Meh, bubbles too. I like bubbles. Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles! *grabs at them frantically. Peers around in suspicion* My bubbles._

_Bye everyone! And go watch Disney Pixar's _Finding Nemo _if you didn't understand the deal with the bubbles. Laters!_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _this chapter is named after a scene in _A Knight's Tale_. There's this wonderful scene, I'm almost positive I mentioned it before, where the MC has to write his love interest a letter of apology. And the scene is actually called (one the Scene Selection Menu thing) "I Need to Write a Letter." I thought it fit, so... yeah._

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Wow. I got through more than half this chapter, I think, before I got to a reference. Awgwas. They're the main antagonists in _The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus_ by L. Frank Baum (author of _the Wizard of Oz_ series). In the animated film they look like they're made out of rocks. They can turn invisible and their purpose in life is to make mankind cruel to each other (especially children). They hate laughter, fun, toys, or pretty much any good thing. They hate Nicholas (Santa) because his toys divert human children from being mean to each other.

- TCBY is (or was) a real frozen yogurt place in Montgomery, Alabama (and probably several other places). Unfortunately the one in Montgomery went out of business more than a decade ago. But it's good ice-cream-style yumminess. Do they actually have milkshakes? Not that I recall. Especially not those flavors.

- Adrian King is the name Kyle Kingsbury (I think that's his name) took when he was transformed into a beast in the novel _Beastly_ by Alex Flinn. I think in the film his name was Hunter, though. I think. I've only seen the movie once. Although the film is different than the book, it's still good.

- Bean and his mother, Peri, are from the _Weetzie Bat_ novel, _Necklace of Kisses_ by Francesca Lia Block. They really are a sidhe woman and her changeling child. Bean was supposed to be taken and left in place of a human child but Peri wanted to keep him, so she ran away with him (which she had every right to do; he's her biological child). They meet Weetzie at the Pink Hotel and Peri's family is still trying to capture them at the end of the book when the other sidhe suddenly lose their memory and go home. How long that's gonna last? Well, it happened in 2002 and now it's 2011, so it's probably worn off by now.

- Bean's relationship with Kate is modeled after the relationship between Angel Juan Perez and Witch Baby from the _Weetzie Bat_ novels (specifically _Witch Baby, Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys_, and _Missing Angel Juan_). However, Kate's wildness is (by implication) part of her character. She and Kaye are from Holly Black's _Ironside_ (for those who missed that part).

- Ahhh, Roiben. Roiben is the king of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts in New York. Now, because this is also drawing on other faerie books and movies and such, there are more than just 2 Courts (obviously). And the 13 Elf Kingdoms are specifically ruled by the Elves. The Courts are not, necessarily. Also, Roiben is Kaye's love interest in _Tithe_ and _Ironside_ and is the King of the Unseelie and a help to the MC in _Valiant_.

- For those who don't remember (he was mentioned in chapter 27) Emperor Huizong is the ruler of the Elven kingdom of Dilong.

- Silariel is the (now former) Queen of the Seelie Court from Holly Black's novels. She loses her crown and her power in _Ironside_. Roiben used to be in love with her, but he hates her guts now. She also makes an appearance in at least two of Cassandra Clare's novels: _City of Ashes_ and _City of Glass._


	40. I Know Him So Well

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
__Mythological Being of the Day__  
I Talk So Much, Curb, I'm Sorry _=D  
_Concerning the Chapter Title__  
References Made in This Chapter_

.

_**Author's Note:**_ _So I'll be honest. One, this chapter is kind of short (for me). Two, a big part of the first scene with Nuada is pure fetish for me. I wanted to explore the Troll Market a little. Like, a lot. I wanted to really explore what it would be like to walk through a magical faerie bazaar. So we see flower sellers (hi, Yang), and blacksmiths, street dancers, musicians, clothing stores, food vendors, all that stuff; and we explore the interaction of cultures from the different faerie kingdoms and such, and also explore just what all you might be able to buy at a faerie market (cuz think about the possibilities)._

_So there's this, like, 5000-word scene with Nuada shopping just because I wanted to write about the Troll Market and it's awesomeness. I also want to just show Nuada interacting with faeries from other cultures and members of other Elf kingdoms (like the African kingdom of Nyame and the Viking-esque kingdom of Álfar). Although I'm also trying to build the mystery of what Nuada's actually buying because I keep some of it mysterious and stuff and I think you guys will like what all it is (to be revealed in chapter 41)._

_Also, originally Nuada's letter was supposed to be in this chapter, but the chapter was going to end up being WAY too long, so I broke it off early. So we may or may not get 2 chapters on Halloween because you get 2 chapters today. Well actually, since it's after 6am and I can't write an entire chapter in 3 hours, you get 1 chapter this morning/afternoon and hopefully a 2nd one later tonight, but if not then it will arrive tomorrow because I __**did**_ _promise the letter in this chapter and it's not here._

_**Three Necessary Translation:**_Denka _is (according to Google Translate) the Japanese word for "Your Highness." _Arigato _is Japanese for "thank you."_ Hátign Þína _is Iclandic for "Your Highness" and _Prins _is Iclandic for "Prince." _Wako Mtukufu _is "Your Highness" and _yangu mkuu _is "my prince" in Swahili. Wait, why do we need to know Swahili? Hmmmm..._

.

**Chapter Forty**

**I Know Him So Well**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Baby, the Troll Market (and an Ancient Trap), Days Gone By, Three Rings, an Apology, and a Brief Note**

.

.

Siobhan Dubh clucked soothingly to the wailing infant in her arms, and shot Jenny Hob a worried look. The head housekeeper of the palace of Findias watched the sidhe woman walk back and forth across the nursery with the sobbing bairn.

It had been more than two weeks since the little halfling child had taken so sick. Siobhan's earth magic, a common gift among those sidhe who acted as faerie godparents or nursemaids, had seemed to completely cure the babe after only a few days, but the child had remained fussy and weak. Now the fever had returned. It was much milder than before, but now came with a cough.

Shoving wisps of her dark hair from her sweat-dampened face, the plump faerie woman shushed and crooned to the red-faced baby, who continued to wail pitifully and weakly wave pudgy fists back and forth. Every few minutes the crying would be interrupted by a choked coughing.

"Have you contacted the prince?" Siobhan demanded of the hob woman. "Does he know the halfling babe is ill again?"

"We cannot find him," Jenny replied. "Nor Mr. Wink, either." Jenny pursed her lips as the baby's fat fist smacked Siobhan in the cheek. "Have you any idea what could be causing this?" The sidhe woman shook her head. "What of the other children? Are any of them ill?"

"No, ma'am, but the older ones don't deal much with the babies. We usually have so few of the really little ones that I can handle them on my own."

If the formidable Jenny Hob had been a woman of lesser self-control, she might have uttered a curse just then. Princess Nuala had been appraised of the child's worsened condition, and had promptly sent one of the Elven healers to see to the babe. Of course, once the healer saw the little one was half-human, the Elf had insisted that sometimes halfling children took such illnesses and there was naught to be done about it but wait for it to pass.

Jenny knew such attitudes in the highborn healers. It was true that often the children of a faerie and a mortal were sickly when young - the traces of iron in their half-human blood saw to that. But such childhood illnesses looked nothing like this scorching fever that refused to abate for longer than a day or three at a time. Even Jenny, who was no healer, knew enough about child-rearing to know _that_. But Her Highness was satisfied with the royal healer's diagnosis.

But Jenny wasn't, and Siobhan wasn't. The two fae women had hoped that perhaps this was a passing sickness that would spread among the children like a natural thing. Then, at least, they would know what they were dealing with. But it hadn't. Siobhan had even gone to the herbwoman and midwife in Findias township, and _she_ had no idea what could be the matter with the child either. They'd tried everything the three women could think of, with no noticeable result. The coughing continued, and though this new fever had begun breaking, what progress that _was_ made against it came at a snail's pace.

The prince, however...

All knew Prince Nuada had traveled the world many times over in his exile from Faerie and its courts. Perhaps he had seen something, or knew something that could help the bairn. Because without help, if this didn't stop - or even if it did, and the child took sick _again_ - eventually Siobhan's earth magic would exhaust itself, and there would be nothing standing between the wee one and the sickness that racked its tiny body. And the child was slowly but surely growing weaker.

**.**

"Are you still mad at me?"

Dylan glanced at her brother from where she sat on her bed, noting the way he kept his eyes on the carpet. If he'd been younger (and if she wouldn't have killed him for messing up her rug), John probably would've been scuffing his shoe on the floor like a little boy. She sighed. They hadn't really spoken of what had happened between her brother and the Elf prince several days ago, after the initial patch-up and smack-down. Apparently her twin needed to talk about it now.

"I'm not mad," she said softly. "At least, I don't think I am. I don't... really know what I am right now. How could you say all that to him, John? What got into you?"

"The Devil," her twin muttered, then sighed and raked his hands through his hair. "I don't know, D - I don't know. I'm really sorry." John trudged over and slumped onto the cushy bed before flopping back onto the comforter. "I was just so... just so _angry_. And I'm worried and I'm scared for you and he's got you wrapped around his finger and you don't even see it-"

"Yes, I do," Dylan replied. She marked her place in the Book of Ether with a bookmark and closed her scriptures, setting them on her pillow before turning to her twin. She studied John for a long moment. He looked exhausted. "I know I'm stupid in love with him, John. I know. Don't worry, though. It's not like we're gonna get married and have two-point-five kids and move into a little house with a white picket fence. I know better."

He rolled onto his side to study her face. She hadn't sounded bitter just now. Merely melancholy. So why did the words give him an icy chill down his spine? "Dylan, I want you to be happy. If this guy made you happy I wouldn't care, but he's breaking your heart. I mean... how much can you take? This is the first time you've ever been in love, and the first time always hurts the worst. I don't want you to get hurt."

His twin gave him a look heavy with self-mockery and shrugged. "Too late. But I keep telling you there's nothing to worry about. I'm not going to do anything foolish, I promise. Besides, I have other people to live for besides Nuada - like you and the girls, my patients, the fae. And most importantly, Heavenly Father. I know He'd be pretty annoyed if I decided to call this life quits because I got dumped. I'm fine, John-boy. Really. Or I will be. It's all fine."

John's worried eyes studied her for a long moment; Dylan could tell he didn't believe her. But instead of arguing, he said in a faux-irritated voice, "You know, I had to go to work like this." He held up both hands and she couldn't stop the laugh that huffed out of her. Silvery sparkles against royal blue nail polish glittered at her from her twin brother's fingernails. The torture session had occurred the day before. "Had to wear gloves all shift. A guy on the street called me a fag-hag. I don't even know what that means, but it's probably bad. And this isn't even my color. You could've gone with the lime-green with the gold sparkles, ya know. At least the green would've matched my new shoes."

"Your shoes are black, John," his sister reminded him. "Black goes with everything."

Affecting his snootiest voice, the twenty-one-year-old haughtily informed his twin, "Excuse me, Missy, but my shoes happened to be moon-washed charcoal. They are _not_ black. Of course," he added with a sniff like a _Marie Claire Magazine_ hog, making up random junk as he went in the hopes of making her laugh, "I wouldn't expect a street urchin like yourself to understand the subtle differences in texture and shading that make up the... how dare you laugh at me. I'll have you know this is poetry here. I am a poet of fashion!"

Through her laughter, she managed to gasp out, "You might be a poet but you sound like an idiot."

"Well," he replied in his regular voice, "whatever it takes to make you smile."

"Oh," she grumbled, then threw herself at him and hugged him tightly. "I love you, John-boy. Even if you do sound like an idiot sometimes. You're the best brother and I'm so glad you're my twin. You know that, right?"

John tugged her ponytail sharply enough to make her squeak. She punched him in the chest, colliding with one of his fae-inflicted, slowly-healing bruises. He grunted at the throbbing pain. Wrapped her in his arms until she couldn't escape and used the tip of her ponytail to tickle her face with until she squealed and flailed in an attempt to escape the "torture." John laughed as Dylan pummeled him in retaliation. When the sibling fun had finally subsided, he asked, "So, you're glad I'm your twin brother even when I'm shooting vicious random stuff at your Elven boyfriend? Ow."

He said "ow" because she'd punched him in the chest again.

"He's not my boyfriend. Even if we were together, he still wouldn't be my boyfriend because he's a prince and a faerie. They have this other word for it. Not the point. Yes, I'm glad you're my brother even when you're being a jerk to one of the most important people in my life." She thwacked him again. "You owe the prince an apology, John. I can't believe you said those things to him. Nuada would never just stand by and let someone hurt me. He nearly died protecting me more than once. You seriously owe him."

"I know," her twin replied, and pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pants pocket. He held it out to her. After flicking him a puzzled glance, she took it from him. "If you want to read it, it's not sealed. I did it at work."

Dylan frowned and flipped the envelope open. Pulled out the little piece of paper and scanned the words her twin had written. She knew at a glance that John had used his best handwriting. Usually anything he wrote was hideously illegible. The note was short but sincere. She looked up at John, opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Her twin shrugged.

"You're right. I was way out of line. I'd tell him in person but he'd properly try to break my arm again. Can Becan get that to him?"

"I... I think so. If not, we'll figure something else out." She slipped the paper back into the envelope and folded the flap down again. Her fingers were light when they touched his hand. "Thank you, John. Really; thank you."

He tugged on her ponytail again as he got up from the bed to go park himself on her sofa. "No problem, Sis. As long as I don't have to lick his boots or whatever." Gratified when she laughed softly, John walked out as Becan came in. Dylan pulled the paper out again and scribbled something on the back with one of her scripture pencils. Then Dylan gave Becan the little letter to the prince with instructions to deliver it that night. The brownie bowed to his mistress, wished her a gentle goodnight, shoved the cat into the bedroom, and left to do as she bid. His mistress went back to reading her scriptures.

Several minutes later, Dylan closed the thick, leather-bound tome that was the personalized copy of her scriptures and laid them on her nightstand. Kneeling beside her bed and reverently bowing her head, she closed her eyes. Bat promptly climbed onto her shoulders and stretched out across the back of her neck. Since he wasn't being distracting, his human left him where he was.

"Dear Heavenly Father, I want to thank You for..." Dylan cast her memory back through the day and began to talk to her Heavenly Father about the wonderful things that happened: getting the official phonecall from Peabody saying that the psychiatrist was back on retainer for the police; painting John's nails while he pretended to writhe in agony at the merest touch of the brush; the hilarity of kitty-cat antics; the progress she'd made with Kate and the fun of watching the human changeling with the sidhe changeling boy she loved so much; getting to spend time throughout the week with Lisa, Tiana, Anya, Ariel, John, Kaye and Peri; finally having the time to set up another support-group session with her Sight kids; John being willing to apologize to Nuada (in writing, which meant there would be tangible proof later).

She talked to God about her plans for the next few days (work, mostly, but also spending more time with Kaye, Peri, and the changeling children, because it kept her busy and was one of the rare activities that still had the power to make her smile. Also, working on her lesson for Nursery next week). Asked Him to help her stay on track with everything she was supposed to be doing in her life, be it church or work or personal. She prayed for her Sight kids, for the toddlers in Nursery and their families, for her patients and her own sibling. Finally, she prayed for the one person of her acquaintance who she thought probably needed it the most.

"Please, Heavenly Father, take care of Nuada. He probably won't take care of himself - he can be kind of stubborn about that kind of thing - and I don't want him to get hurt. He's already been hurt so much. Please bless him in whatever things he stands in need of. Protect him. Comfort him. I know he needs comfort, even if he won't admit it to himself. I'm just... I'm really, really worried about him. There are so many people who want to hurt him in some way. Please protect him. Please. And if it be Your will... please bring him back to me safely. If it isn't Your will then please help me reconcile myself to that. But I really, really hope that's not Your plan."

Dylan drew a deep breath, meaning to finish the prayer there, but something stopped her. A warmth and a gentle pressure against her back and sides, as if someone - or Someone - were embracing her. An ember began to smolder in her chest and a sense of comfort, of soft peace and safety, spread through her. So she drew another breath and said what she hadn't really let herself think about for the last week or more.

"We had a fight. Not even a fight, more like... jeez, it feels like he dumped me. I feel really stupid for being so upset because I'm a grown woman and I shouldn't need a guy to make me feel good about myself. But it's not that. It's not that he's mad at me and so I'm depressed 'cause my life is over or whatnot. I'm upset because he's mad at me and I most likely deserve it but at the same time I..."

She gritted her teeth and let her forehead drop to the softness of the comforter on the bed. She hadn't wanted to feel like this; hadn't wanted to admit she could feel like this about someone she loved, but there was no help for it.

"At the same time I just wanna _punch him._ I mean, really punch him, right in the face. Although that would probably hurt since I'm mortal and he's... not. And I'd feel really bad about it later. But I kind of just wanna give him a piece of my mind for yelling at me and being so mean and unfair about all of this. For hurting John, though John probably deserved it. He's just being a complete and total jerk. Okay," she added when a warning twinge of coolness slithered down her spine. "Not a jerk. I just don't think he's being fair. I didn't mean to lie to him. I wasn't thinking - which, I know, I can't afford to not think when it comes to anything, much less the Hidden Folk. But how can he not see that I'd do anything for him? How can he not know how important he is to me? I've told him. Maybe not... not _all_ of it, but still. I _have_ told him. And he won't even talk to me about it. What am I supposed to do?"

She talked about the fistfight between the Elf prince and John, how she'd been doing okay until that moment when she'd seen the fury in Nuada's eyes and the world had suddenly vanished around her, leaving her to plummet into this abyssal space she recognized too well from other dark moments in her life. The panic and the anger and fear and the suddenly brutal exhaustion. "I'm too old for this, Heavenly Father. I'm too old to feel like this over a crush. I'm going to be thirty in a month - I'm not a thirteen-year-old girl. But I feel like I'm breaking apart. What's wrong with me?"

There was, of course, no audible answer. Only the warmth and comfort of the Holy Ghost like an embrace as she closed her prayer and climbed into bed. Bat, who'd been dislodged when Dylan got stiffly to her feet, hopped up on the bed and curled up on a pillow so that he looked like a fuzzy black donut with a furry question-mark sticking out of one side. When his human began rubbing his belly, the kitten purred appreciatively and stretched. But his golden eyes were clearly worried as he stared unblinkingly at his human and licked her wrist with a rasping tongue.

"Don't worry about me," Dylan murmured, laying her cheek against the sleek, black pelt. Bat stroked her cheek with a velvet-soft paw and purred the way adult cats purred to comfort frightened kittens. "Don't worry. We're okay."

But after two hours of nuzzling kitty fur and listening to Bat's purr rumbling from his pudgy body, she still hadn't fallen asleep. A sudden thought made her grab her phone from her nightstand where it sat beside her scriptures. Flipping through her apps, she found her music playlists. Found the one named "Sleepy Time." Putting it on shuffle, Dylan settled back against her pillow again. The cat wriggled into place against her chest. Soft music whispered from the tiny phone speaker. After two or three songs, Dylan began to slowly drift off.

"_Late at night when all the world is sleeping, I stay up and think of you,_" the phone suddenly crooned, and Dylan's eyes snapped open. She knew this song. "Dreaming of You" by Selena. She'd forgotten it was on this playlist. Forgotten. Would never have played this if she'd remembered because...

_"And I wish on a star  
That somewhere you are  
Thinking of me too._

_"'Cause I'm dreamin' of you tonight,  
Till tomorrow, I'll be holding you tight.  
And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be  
Than here in my room  
Dreamin' about you and me."_

Nuada wasn't thinking of her. Or if he was, he was thinking things she didn't want to know. But she wasn't going to think about that. She had more important things to think about than how furious the Elf prince still was at her. Even if he didn't hate her anymore - which Dylan wasn't entirely sure about despite his assurance because he'd sounded so cold then - she didn't want to think about his anger.

In fact, she didn't want to think about _him_ at all. Instead, she changed the song and resolutely closed her eyes. Bat butted his head against her chin. She would sleep now. Sleep, and not think about anything else until it was time to get up in the morning.

Except the fact that her cat's breath smelled like rancid tuna and he was breathing in her face. That she couldn't ignore, so she stuffed him under the blanket, where he promptly curled up against her belly and went to sleep.

**.**

The Troll Market beneath the Brooklyn Bridge held shops and stalls owned by fae from all over the world, not just the kingdom of Bethmoora. A goblin of Annwn hocked stolen and altered human gadgets from a tiny wooden stall near the outskirts of the Market. Tiny hammers clanged from a forge where two handfuls of diminutive Greek dactyls fashioned a myriad of blades from titanium, Elven silver, gleaming goblin bronze, and even dwarven gold. Several clurichauns knocked back mugs of dandelion ale at an outdoor bar. The eerie mixture of rushlight and faerie glow that always illuminated the Troll Market glinted off the jewel-like markings of several scitalis dancers, their breathtaking serpentine markings rippling as the snake-shifters danced on a small wooden stage. The air carried the perfume of women and flowers, the mouthwatering scents of various things roasting or baking, the spice of herbs, and the slightly dank smell of steam and condensation from the pipes all around.

Nuada smiled when Yang caught his eye from the magically warded "street" corner where her natural, glass and crystal flowers were spread out on gold-embroidered white silk for customers to admire. Some of the finely-crafted glass blossoms contained the essence of the elements - water or fire or even lightning. Some glittered with an inner light that betokened some form of inherent magic beneath the surface. Others crooned gentle lullabies or whispered in the quiet way of flowers telling each other the secrets of the wild. And then there were the blooms that Yang cultivated naturally, more beautiful than any that grew in the wilderness.

"Good evening, _Denka_," Yang murmured, placing her palms flat to the ground and bowing low from where she sat. The silk of her kimono rippled with all the colors of the ocean under moonlit darkness. When the shōjō straightened from her bow she smiled at the prince. "May I offer you some tea?"

The Elf prince inclined his head graciously and took the proffered brocade cushion on the plain of white silk across from the Japanese sea sprite. Wink, grumbling about feeling like a bull in a china shop, managed to settle himself at a corner. He held himself very carefully to avoid crushing any of the delicate porcelain, crystal, and glass blooms. Yang glanced to one side and clapped her tomato-red hands together sharply, once.

"Morinji," she said, and a fat racoon-dog faerie waddled over. "Chrysanthemum tea for the prince, please. And for Wink-san?" The shōjō peered at the silver cave troll through the thick curtain of her auburn hair woven with dark jade seaweed. Her smile seemed to invite the troll to share in a joke. "You still enjoy laced _sakurayu_, do you not? With a twist of lemon?"

The cave troll nodded, grinning at the brief flash of distaste on the Elf prince's face. Tea steeped from pickled cherry blossom petals and mixed with rice wine sounded _very_ good just then. And Yang's teas always carried the sharp taste of salty ocean brine and an undercurrent of kelp.

Morinji, Yang's _tanuki_ servant, poured out and handed the cups to his mistress, the prince, and the bodyguard before scuttling back to his resting place near the edge of the ten-by-ten-pace corner the shōjō had secured for herself. Nuada politely sipped the strong, dark tea and wished the fae of Onibi believed in drinking something other than tea or rice wine. He'd have preferred ale or even Elven wine, but graciousness to a host had been drilled into his head since early childhood. He wasn't about to shuck nearly forty centuries of habit just because chrysanthemum tea tasted like far-too-strong rose water.

At least it wasn't _sakurayu_. The smell of sea water reeked from Wink's teacup. Nuada was torn between an inward grimace at the smell, or an outward grin at the incongruous, risible image of the massive cave troll carefully cradling the tiny, primrose-pink porcelain teacup in his meaty hands.

"Now, _Denka_," the shōjō murmured after she'd sipped daintily from her own handle-less porcelain cup. "What may I do for you?"

Nuada slanted a warning glance at Wink. The silver troll hadn't _said_ anything, but the Elf knew his friend. Knew him well enough to know that behind those craggy and carefully blank features, using the tiny pink porcelain cup as a miniscule shield, the troll was fighting a smile because how long had it been since Nuada had bought such things for a lady and how ironic that it was for a human woman? Firegold eyes raked over Wink's face, trying to discern the troll's thoughts. The silver troll carefully avoided catching his prince's eye.

Nuada bit back a sigh and pulled a small sheet of paper from his pocket. He handed it to the shōjō. "Everything on that list, I need."

She studied the list. There were perhaps eleven or twelve items on it. "Natural or synthetic?"

"Synthetic. Preferably of the _rai_ variety if you have such." At Nuada's words, Wink made a choked sound that made the cherry-blossom tea bubble in his cup. The prince shot Wink another look. The troll raised his massive shoulders in an innocent shrug. Well, what did _he_ know about the human that his prince did not, the troll seemed to say? If she wanted magically-contained lightning, who was he to argue? And the troll had picked out the basics on the list to begin with, at the prince's request.

Nuada frowned, guessing his old friend's thoughts, but said nothing. Only remembered Dylan's brother's words: _She's had to sleep with all the lights on because of the nightmares and they still keep coming_... He shook off the fury at the human male that rippled through him and focused on the present moment. _Rai_ was best for what he wanted.

"If I may, Your Highness..." Yang pursed her dark cerise lips as she studied the list. "Most of these would appear to best effect if made of goblin crystal in the _rai_ style. Except these." She indicated a few of the listed items. "Because of the colors. Perhaps you might try the _fūjin_ style for those. The price is the same for wind or lightning, either way. And this one would be best in perhaps diamond, because of the composition. If I might make a few suggestions about sound and color?"

The Elf and the shōjō quietly discussed a few changes to the items on the list as well as a few additions. In the end, the prince was satisfied with the changes and handed over Yang's surprisingly reasonable price in exchange for most of her wares. The _fūjin_ pieces would have to be picked up in the morning. The silk bag that shimmered and shifted like ocean water was just big enough to carry everything.

Wink snickered and made a snide comment in Trollish about Elves and their skills with accessorizing with handbags. Glacial topaz eyes shot the troll a dirty look. Nuada made Wink hold the bag, which left the troll's back-spines drooping. The corners of Yang's eyes crinkled in the typical Onibi "smile" of one who did not wish to be rude by smiling openly.

At least, the prince thought as he got to his feet and bowed to the shōjō, this was not the hard part. Nuada decided he'd do _that_ part last. He knew Wink would find much entertainment then. For now, he had to find someone skilled in leatherworking.

Before the pair moved on, Wink murmured something to the shōjō that made her smile more openly and nod. The troll inclined his head and followed Nuada.

"What was that about?" The prince asked as they wove through the crowd.

His vassal looked almost embarrassed when he shrugged. He scratched absently at the spur of broken tusk. "It is difficult to find a certain item in the city. Yang knows where I can come by it." The silver troll noticed Nuada's inquiring look and sighed. "She has a wide selection of water lilies, if you must know. They are Lorelei's favorite."

One knife-thin golden brow winged upward. "Indeed?"

"Ah, strix on a stick!" Wink grabbed a large drumstick from a vendor selling the fried, bloodsucking faerie bird and tossed a coin to the cave troll tending the food stall. He took a large bite to avoid having to answer anymore questions. Nuada eyed the greasy joint of meat, hoping that Wink would have a care that none of the orange grease would touch the silk bag he carried. Wink noticed his look and merriment twinkled in his one good eye. Time for some payback.

The prince scowled. He had the uncomfortable feeling his vassal was laughing at him. "May I ask what is so amusing?"

"Amusing, my prince?" The troll kept his face carefully straight. "I do not believe I laughed. Nor did I smile." At Nuada's sharp look, Wink allowed his grin to unfurl. "I will be honest, then, Your Highness. Do you know the last time you took such care selecting a gift for anyone?" Wink's grin mellowed to a gentle, almost sad smile as he and Nuada stopped halfway inside an alley. "I have never seen it, but your father used to speak of the care you took in buying or making gifts for your mother. With your sister, you never needed to take care - the two of you are linked. You know what the princess prefers.

"And yet now you have taken great pains to make sure this token for your mortal lady is perfect for her. I do not approve of or understand most of your choices, but you don't need my opinions. Still, I'll offer you this one: if your mother were alive, I believe the word she would use for this is... ah. Admirable. Also adorable."

Nuada's mouth had been slowly curving upward into a smile as he thought of his mother and sister, but now he scowled. _Adorable?_ He was Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, a skilled warrior and a man grown. He was most certainly nothing even close to adorable.

"I am going to pretend," the prince replied through gritted teeth, "that you did not say that, so long as that word does not pass your lips again."

"As you command, Your Highness," Wink said tonelessly, and they moved out of the alley. Wink was careful to walk behind Nuada, on the off chance his lips twitched a little at the prince's indignation.

As Nuada and Wink wove expertly through the crowd, the troll caught sight of a familiar head of sleek, midnight dark hair. He tapped Nuada's shoulder and gestured to a brewery where a slender, golden-eyed figure stood talking with a turbaned, glassy-eyed djinn - drunk or besotted, neither warrior could figure. They went over.

"Lorelei," the Elf prince said, his voice just loud enough to carry over the noise of the Market. The rhinemaiden whirled and her eyes widened in sincere pleasure at the sight of the feral-eyed warrior. Then, when those eyes like antique gold coins slid over Wink like a caress, something flickered in the depths of her gaze - just for an instant. Her gaze, usually hard and cold as dragon's gold, softened and melted as it brushed over the troll's face.

Wink rumbled something almost unintelligible and looked down at the damp ground. Nuada fought not to do a double-take. Was the troll _blushing?_

"Good evening, _Eure Hoheit_," the Germanic water faerie said. More softly, her voice like the night wind singing over water, she added, "Wink."

"My lady," the troll rumbled, bowing his head slightly.

Lorelei's darkly red lips slipped into a smile, revealing slightly pointed, pearl-white teeth so stark against the wine-red. Wink, on impulse, held out one rough hand to the river maiden. Time hung suspended between them, a heartbeat that lasted an eternity as he waited either for rejection at his boldness, or the soft-as-a-snowflake touch of her hand. She reached out. Her fingertips brushed as softly as a goodnight kiss over the rough troll hide. Then Lorelei slipped her pale hand into Wink's and his fingers curled around it like an embrace. His thumb lightly traced a slow half-circle over pale knuckles. The rhinemaiden shivered.

Nuada resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his friend. The troll's one good eye was locked on Lorelei's ivory face, constantly moving over the fine-boned features, as if drinking her in with his gaze. The Elf prince lost the battle and rolled his eyes.

"Wink. Meet me at the cordwainer's in twenty minutes." His vassal would be good for little for the next several minutes if not left alone with the lovely rhinemaiden for a few moments. Nuada could recognize infatuation when he saw it.

The troll made a noise that roughly translated as "hn."

The Elf cocked his head. Were either of them even listening to him? He suppressed a swift surge of irritation and envy. He and Dylan never behaved so... besottedly with each other. Even during those hours that single night at court, he'd been careful to make absolutely certain the crown prince of Bethmoora did _not_ look like an addle-pated mooncalf over a human. Of course, the human woman wasn't one of the seductive faerie women of the River Rhine, either. And why should he be so besotted with a simple mortal? Why should he be so besotted with _anyone?_ The prince knew he lacked the freedom to give into such emotions; his life was not his own. Infatuation - or love - was proscribed by his duty to his people.

_Love was for the free._ He was not free to love anyone as he wished.

Feral eyes blinked and sliced to the oblivious pair. The intent focus in his vassal's single good eye as the troll studied the rhinemaiden's face - now kissed with the faintest amber blush at Wink's scrutiny - nearly threatened to make Nuada ill. It reminded him too much of the way faint color swirled across Dylan's cheeks whenever he spoke of seduction or deliberately tried to be charming. The Elf whapped his oldest friend on the shoulder. "_Wink._"

The troll dropped Lorelei's hand as if he'd been burned. "My prince."

Grasping for patience - or perhaps the self-control not to laugh, as his friend's embarrassment was both obvious and amusing - the Elf prince repeated, "Meet me at the cordwainer's in twenty minutes. You know the one; the leprechaun's establishment." To ensure that the details of his command had penetrated the ridiculous fog of romance surrounding the pair, the prince reiterated, "Twenty minutes. The cordwainer's."

"You do not wish me to accompany you now?"

Knowing he was being a bit cruel - and considering that he loved Wink as a brother, and that Wink had called him... _adorable_... the prince also knew he was entitled to inflict such fraternal torments - Nuada replied in a mock-mournful voice, "No, my friend. I fear you have fallen into an ancient and inescapable trap and now other, far more beguiling things than your sworn duty to your liege lord have ensnared your attention."

Wink scowled at him when Lorelei laughed.

Over his shoulder as he walked away, Nuada added, "Enjoy your lady's charms, my friend."

The troll glowered after his prince and friend, knowing the Elven warrior was teasing him. A gentle hand on the rough hide of his arm brought his attention back to cream-pale skin, eyes like dragon's gold, and lips as red as garnets. One slender obsidian brow winged upward. "Twenty minutes. Think we can manage to have a simple conversation and a drink in that time? Or do you intend to follow after him and break my maiden heart?"

Wink's eye widened as Lorelei, with a single scorching look that turned the troll's blood to molten gold, beckoned him toward a tavern he vaguely recognized as the Black Manticore. The massive troll, one of the greatest warriors in Faerie, followed after the slender rhinemaiden like a lovesick puppy.

**.**

Nuada spoke to a leprechaun in a quaint little shop that for the most part specialized in shoes. However, the cordwainer's wife had a rather deft hand with an embroidery needle and, from what Nuada could see of the samples displayed in the shop windows, did beautiful work with leather crafting. The prince pulled out another little sheet of paper. This one bore a charcoal sketch. The cordwainer's wife accepted the task, the coin, and the sketch and promised to have the work finished by the afternoon after next. Nuada doubled the price he was willing to pay if she could have it finished by tomorrow. She accepted.

He left the little shop and stepped back out into the hustle of the Troll Market at night, where Wink waited for him. The troll looked more than a little out of sorts. There was a faint smudge of wine-red color, stark cerise against the bone-whiteness of his broken tusk. Tensing his jaw and trying to ignore a twinge of embarrassment, Nuada surreptitiously indicated the spot and Wink hastily wiped the cosmetic residue away. When the troll opened his mouth, as if to explain, Nuada held up a staying hand.

"I do _not_ want to know." Forcing the discomfitting image of lush lips brushing against troll tusks from his mind, the prince added, "_Ever_."

Wink mumbled an acknowledgement that this was probably best, and the pair melted into the crowd of the Market.

Somewhere against the backdrop of the sounds of the faerie Market came the resonating melody of a _hardingfele_ and the eerie tune of a _seljefløyte_. As the Elf prince and the troll strolled among the Fair Folk, Nuada caught a glimpse of two moon-pale rusalka maidens who played the haunting music with twelve-stringed fiddle and willow flute. The pair of water nymphs kept their glowing, sea-green eyes on the other Pobel Vean that congregated to their corner to hear the music.

Wink glanced at Nuada and frowned. "My prince? You seem troubled."

The topaz-eyed Elf prince was studying the two rusalki. He ignored the waterfalls of golden hair tinged with the faint green of deep water, ignored the moonbeam skin and pupil-less eyes that glowed with all the ethereal burn of Saint Elmo's fire. Even ignored the shadowed curve of sinuous fae bodies beneath nearly translucent silks the color of thundering waterfall as the faerie maidens swayed to their fey music. All these things were easy to ignore. He'd sported with rusalki ere now. That wasn't what held his attention. It was the music... and the thought it stirred.

Dylan loved music. She sang even though she, as she'd told him once, "couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with the lid nailed down." She sang along to the radio. Hummed under her breath when she cooked, cleaned, worked on whatever odds or ends that needed taking care of. How much would she enjoy hearing the music of the fae, here in the Troll Market? He knew that though Becan sometimes shopped here for her, she rarely if ever came herself. Too dangerous for a lone human amongst so many Gentry of dangerous persuasions. But she would be safe if... if _he_ brought her. If he stayed by her side while they wandered the Troll Market together. Dylan could listen to the high, crystal-clear notes of a willow-carved faerie pipe or the mournful croon of a silver-strung Norwegian fiddle. And Nuada knew she would love it.

"Your Highness?"

With effort, Nuada pulled his thoughts away from immortal melody and mortal joy. He and Wink had places still yet to go, things to do. So he turned to the silver cave troll with carefully blank eyes and a negligent shrug. "It is nothing, my friend," the prince told the troll. "Come."

The Elf and the troll walked into the smithyard of a dökkálfr on the outskirts of the Troll Market. The dust had long-ago been pounded flat by the feet of hundreds of fayre. The air was heavy with the heat of a forge and rang with the bell-like silver tolling of a hammer against an anvil. Nuada didn't bother fighting the grin that stretched across his face. He'd been coming for years to this place to talk to the Elf of Álfar that now sweated over the cherry-red piece of metal on the anvil. He and Erik were not quite friends... but Nuada had been known to knock back a few mugs of ale with the dökkálfr over the centuries, and Erik had been the one to teach him the finer aspects of smithing and even jewelry-making (when Nuada had been of a mind to handmake a gift for his twin).

And it was Erik and Nuada together who had fashioned Wink's hand and arm of Elven bronze centuries ago.

Now the Bethmoora Elf strode across the dust to the pale dökkálfr, who looked up and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. "Hail and well met, _Prins_ Nuada Silverlance." The dökkálfr nodded to the troll at Nuada's side with a sardonic half-smile. "And Wink Ironfist." Wink raised the fist of Elven bronze in a casual salute to the Nordic Elf. "What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?"

"Are you nearly finished with that?" Nuada gestured to the sheet of crimson metal on Erik's anvil. The Elf of Álfar tossed back his mane of black braids and shrugged. Ruby-red eyes glittered in the light of the forge fire.

"Beezle can tend it for me," Erik replied, and one of the yellow-skinned Bethmoora goblin youths the dökkálfr kept as apprentices scuttled forward to take the hammer from his master. "Don't stop pounding. Keep it in time with your heartbeat. I'll be back out in a bit." The apprentice nodded quickly and obeyed. Erik turned to the Elf prince. "I'll take you inside to the shop after I wash up, _Hátign Þína_." At Nuada's raised eyebrow, Erik added ruefully, "I _have_ to wash away the sweat and ash before going inside or my lovely but terrifying wife has threatened to beat me."

Inside, the shop was tended by a ljósálfr that was slim as a sword, with a river of molten gold hair and eyes like red jasper. Brünnhilde, Erik's inestimable Valkyrie of a wife. When Wink caught sight of those glittering garnet eyes, he actually stepped behind Nuada. The Elf prince shot his oldest friend a withering look over one shoulder, but didn't force him out from behind the safety of his prince to deal with the Nordic Elf woman. The prince merely faced Brünnhilde with equanimity.

"I suppose you want something, Silverlance," Brünnhilde said coolly. Nuada wondered if she perfected that disapproving expression by sucking lemons. "What is it?"

In an equally cool voice, Nuada replied, "I need a cairngorm stone, this big." He indicated the proper size. "Three uncut rubies, and half a pound of pure Bethmoora gold." In his mind, the Elf recalled Dylan's words. _My patients need me._ Well and good, but he also needed her. Needed her at his side for... for more reasons than one. What those other reasons were, besides his father's decree, he wouldn't think about now. But this was the only way to make it all work without forcing her to his side, without breaking her so cruelly by making her choose between her loyalties.

And then the prince thought of ice frosting the ground. Thought of snow falling in the dark, and the nights growing longer. Remembered human mortality and the passing of the seasons. A swift plan and an even swifter picture unfurled in his mind. It was... perfectly acceptable to follow such a plan. She _was_ his lady, by his father's command. It would be the expected thing for him to do.

"I also need a pound of Nyame silver, and if you have them, these stones from the kingdom of Iara." He quickly made a short list of the stones from the Elven kingdom on the continent the humans called South America. "These cuts, with a care for the clarity. No inclusions. As perfect as possible. Do you have such things?"

"Of course we do, _Hátign Þína,"_ Brünnhilde said. "For your current leman?" The scorn in her voice was as obvious as a campfire in the dark. The only thing that changed as the door to the shop opened and closed was the Elf woman's eyes - they lit up for a brief moment as Erik came to stand at Nuada's side, and the feral-eyed prince was reminded why the dökkálfr had married the often-shrewish ljósálfr.

"I have no mistress at the moment," the Elf prince replied with cool civility. "Not that it is any concern of _yours_. These things are for my lady."

"It's true, then?" Erik asked, moving behind the shop counter. He went into the back room, but his voice carried through the open doorway. "I've heard rumors, but I didn't believe them. The faerie markets have been abuzz with the gossip - Silverlance courts a human. Is it true?"

Nuada forced the words out. "It is."

Erik came back out with the things Nuada had asked for, including the Iaran stones in a small titanium case lined with black velvet. As Brünnhilde tallied up the cost, the dökkálfr blacksmith folded his arms against the countertop. "Public opinion is pretty torn between whether the people are happy for you, shocked by the choice you've made, or disgusted by the whole idea." Noticing the sudden tightness around Nuada's mouth, the dökkálfr added to distract the prince from his people's potential disgust, "So, what is she like, this human lady that has managed to snare your heart? I thought you despised the Children of Adam."

It had been one of the few things that the Elf prince and the blacksmith had actively disagreed on - Erik was indifferent to humans so long as they left him and his alone. Prince Nuada, of course, wanted them all dead.

"I still do," the prince muttered, and studied the price slip when the ljósálfr woman handed it to him. It was a bit steep, but then, Brünnhilde didn't like him. He'd never been able to figure out why. Had not bothered to ask, either. Why should it matter to him why the common-born ljósálfr disliked him? He sighed and forked over the coin she wanted. Erik frowned at his wife, but said nothing. Knowing the blacksmith still wanted an answer to his question about the prince's lady, Nuada added, "As for my lady, she is... unique."

Erik arched a sooty eyebrow. Wink nudged his prince. Nuada fought not to grit his teeth. A reluctance to speak of the lady he supposedly loved to distraction would cause more gossip than already existed. He cast about for something to say.

"She is a healer of the heart and soul among her people, and a follower of the High King of the World. She can be... difficult to understand. She is kind. I have never found a human _or_ fae so kind. And she is brave, but she can be reckless. Often times infuriating." Dark lips quirked against the Bethmoora Elf's will. "She is... not what I would have chosen for myself if given a choice," and that was true enough. Still, knowing what he knew now, feeling as he did... if she were a denizen of twilight instead of mortal, what a glorious choice she would have been. Yet if she'd been fae instead of human, would she be as she was now? He didn't know.

Yet of all the things he regretted in his life, with Dylan there were only two: the pain he had caused her, and the mortality in her blood. "But I find there is little regret in the choice my heart has made. She would do anything for me, and of course I would do nearly anything for her. And yet she... she manages to drive me mad as if it were the easiest thing in the world for her to do."

"My, my," Erik murmured. He gave his wife a fond look. "Now who does that remind you of?" Brünnhilde smacked him on the shoulder, but she was smiling now. It was an expression few were ever privileged to see. The ljósálfr brought out a bag to hold the things Nuada had purchased. The coldness was gone from her eyes now, too.

Brünnhilde sighed as she packed the leather satchel that held the prince's things. "Men will never understand women, _Hátign Þína_. But we understand all of you." She handed him the bag. "Don't let it trouble you. So long as you love her, she'll always have the power to drive you mad." Was that a glint of sympathy in her garnet eyes? Or a woman's unholy amusement?

He wasn't sure, so all he said was, "Splendid. Just what I wanted to hear."

After leaving Erik's forge, Nuada went to the last place on his mental list: to Aso the Mfumaji - the Weaver.

This was neither a stall nor a shop. Aso's establishment was a plain canvas tent without sign or advertisement. She didn't need it. The Elves of Nyame were among the best seamstresses and weavers in Faerie. Aso Assase Ya was one of the best at her trade in all the faerie markets across America.

As he walked in, Nuada noticed the ebony-skinned Elf plying needle and thread to a dress-form swathed in bronze silk. Dreadlocks tied back with a long scrap of amber fabric hung nearly to her waist. When she straightened, the Elf prince caught the greenish glint of rushlight on an obsidian hourglass pendant around her neck on a golden chain - the pendant that marked this Elf as a former member of Anansi, the royal guard of Nyame.

Nuada had known Aso since the first war with the humans. Before she became a royal guard, back when she was only a seasoned warrior woman. He remembered that she'd been wasted on the battlefield. Bloodshed had been her mission then. She'd been _very_ good at it. It was what had earned her that pendant in the first place. Yet Aso had given it all up to become a weaver and seamstress after the truce was called between the humans and the fae. The loom and the needle were where her talents had always truly lain.

"Hail and well met, _Mkuu_ Nuada." She had a voice like gravel crunching beneath a centaur's hooves. It had sounded that way when she'd been a young soldier of eighteen centuries and it sounded that way now, when she was nearly six thousand years old. The voice of a drill sergeant, Wink had always said.

"Aso," the prince said, nodding in acknowledgment. This was no doubt going to be difficult. She possessed a wicked sense of humor. "I need a favor."

One dark brow arched and she stowed her needle in the sleeve of her white tunic. "A favor, _Wako Mtukufu?_ For who? The green princeling I once knew on a bloody battlefield?" The dark-skinned Elf asked, sliding her hands into the deep pockets of her white leather breeches. Rushlight gleamed like bronze blood off the three strings of copper beads around her neck. The razor-edged beast teeth of kishi faeries that jangled against the beads glinted in the unearthly glow. "Or a favor for the crown prince of Bethmoora?"

"Neither," he replied. "A favor for a friend. I ask only for your silence," he said, trying not to grit his teeth.

_And that you do__n__o__t laugh when I give you this list,_ he wanted to say, but didn't. He wouldn't allow himself the weakness of begging to escape her or anyone else's ridicule. Even though Wink's comment still echoed in his mind. _Adorable._

Dark eyes studied him. White teeth flashed when the Nyame Elf smirked. "I see." She laughed and moved to the counter and the notepad where she recorded commissions. "Let me hazard a guess. The whole world knows you have a new _mpenzi_ - a lover. I take it you're here to buy her a gift." Her smirk widened into a grin when Nuada scowled.

"She is _not_ my lover."

"Your current favorite whore, then?"

The sudden fury in molten bronze eyes startled the weaver. Nuada growled, "_No._"

"Oh?" Aso frowned. Eyes like gleaming jet studied the prince's face for a long moment. Then her brilliant white teeth flashed in a wide smile and she leaned forward on the counter. "I see. Not whore or lover, but _upendo wa kweli_ - truelove. So the rumors are true, then - you court a woman in earnest." She cocked her head. "Are you... content with her? Many fae claim humans give the best sport in the bedroom." She laughed when he gave her a look that, from another man, would have been a pained grimace. "All right, all right, I will be nice. You were always so touchy about your precious privacy when you were younger, _Wako Mtukufu_. All Bethmoora Elves are like that. So... what is it you wish of me?"

Nuada handed his old comrade another slip of paper, another list. Aso's eyebrows slowly inched toward her hairline as jet-black eyes slowly scanned the words printed there. Near the bottom, her mouth dropped open and she made a choked sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp. Nuada growled. This was what he'd been dreading all night.

Aso looked back up at him. "Forgive me, but... penguins, _Wako Mtukufu?"_

Wink choked. Nuada shot him a filthy look, but the silver cave troll was so stunned by Aso's words that he couldn't even pretend to feel chastened. Nuada hadn't allowed him to see any of the lists he'd brought to give to the select merchants of the Troll Market. Now the silver troll mouthed at the prince, _Penguins?_

If the feral-eyed Elf prince scowled or glared any more fiercely, Wink was sure he'd end up scaring any nearby children or Wee Folk who might have the misfortune to draw his gaze.

"Yes," the Elf growled from between clenched teeth. "Penguins." He gestured to the paper Aso held in one hand. "Can you make all of those?"

"Oh, don't be insulting. Of course I can. They should be ready the day after tomorrow." Dark eyes glinted with wicked humor as the Nyame Elf added, "Although I can honestly say I've never heard of a man buying..." She glanced back at the list. "Such _interesting_ apparel for his lady." Nuada rolled his eyes and Aso grinned. "Well, far be it from me to question a prince's command to a lowly weaver. As long as your lady is happy."

Nuada turned to leave when Wink reached past him and plucked the scrap of paper out of the dark-skinned Elf's hand. The troll's single eye roved over the long list. Wink's jaw dropped as he took in the lines the prince had hastily scratched onto the little paper. He hadn't seen _this_ list. Wink locked eyes with the Elf.

"My prince-"

"I do not wish to speak of it," the Elven warrior said sharply. "Or hear anymore about it. Is that understood? And I must ask again, Aso, for your silence."

"By your command, _Wako Mtukufu."_

He'd been right; this was excruciatingly embarrassing. Nuada kept his teeth clenched as he walked out of the weaver's tent. He would send Wink back for the pieces he'd commissioned as they became available. And if Wink said even one more word about penguins, or anything else on that list, there would be bloodshed. Or at least a sound trouncing for his vassal.

**.**

Tuesday night, Dylan watched Bean haul Kate up the slide on the playground, smiling as the sidhe boy cried, "Don't worry, Kate! I'll save you from the quicksand!" The psychiatrist, the pixie, and the little boy's mother grinned as the little boy strained to pull the changeling girl out of "danger." Peri laughed when Kate "accidentally" slipped further down the slide. Bean scrambled to get a better grip on her.

"Bean!" Kate pushed against the slide with her tennis shoes, trying to find purchase. The fear in her voice was fake, even to Dylan's ears. "I'm slipping!"

"They've got such imaginations," Peri murmured from where the three women sat on the balance beam watching the children. "Did you ever pretend you were going to fall to a brutal and agonizing death in quicksand or hot lava when you were a kid?"

"Not that I remember," Kaye replied, grinning when her "little sister" slipped to the aforementioned agonizing death by slow suffocation in pretend quicksand. Kate died with much theatrical groaning and melodrama while Bean bewailed her terrible fate. "What about you, Dylan?"

"Yeah. John used to 'rescue' me all the time." She smiled at the memories of faux-frantic pretend rescue attempts on various playground equipment. The hardest had been when they'd been goofing off on the monkey bars. One time they'd both slipped. She'd fractured her wrist. John had broken his arm. Their parents had been furious and terrified. They'd gotten a spanking each and been grounded for three weeks from going to the playground. They'd been four at the time. "All of us did it. It was one of the rare times when nearly all of us were getting along for extended periods of time all together."

"How are things?" Kaye asked suddenly. "With the Silver Lance?" Dylan glanced away from the pixie and studied the two children giggling together while Kate scrambled across the snow to avoid standing on the "quicksand" long enough to "die." Kaye studied the human woman with solid black eyes that were oddly sympathetic for all their darkness. "It's not going so hot, is it?" She slipped an arm around the mortal's shoulders and squeezed. "Do you want me to... I don't know, have Roiben talk to him?"

"Politically," Peri interrupted the pixie, "that's a bad maneuver, girlfriend. The king of the Unseelie and Seelie Courts of New York and New Jersey paying a call to the Exiled Prince of Bethmoora to tell him to pull his head out of his royal butt and play nice with the human? Not a good idea."

"Well, they're friends, aren't they?" Kaye snapped. "Roiben and Prince Nuada? I mean, they went to war together and all that stuff. And their mothers were friends." Dylan blinked. She hadn't known _that._ But of course not. Why would the Elven prince share something like that with her? The pixie added, "And Roiben talks about Nuada a lot."

"Don't worry about it, Kaye." Dylan propped her elbows on her bent knees and watched Bean position himself behind Kate and slip his arms around her thin waist. Kate covered his hands with hers where they rested against her middle. Even as Dylan watched, the little girl settled herself against the boy who held her. There was such trust in the changeling girl's face. Dylan suddenly wondered, if she and Nuada had been children when they met, if they would've been closer. If she would've let him hold her the way Bean held Kate now. If he would've wanted to. Rainswept blue eyes watched the two children push off together and race down the slide. Kate whooped and Bean laughed.

They were in love, those two. In love the way young children loved each other - innocently, completely, as best friends did, without all the muck of politics and racial history and hormones and all the things that could ruin the bond between them. She wondered how long _that_ would last.

Watching the two of them, Dylan wished for two things.

She wished she'd known Nuada when he was young, before the hate and anger had seeped into him like poison. Wished she'd known the Silver Lance as the boy who'd written a lullaby for his frightened sister; the young man who'd saved Arawn Death-Lord, the king of Anwnn, from a venomous faerie boar armed only with a knife; the young prince that she'd managed to catch a brief glimpse of every so often when the walls came down a little.

And she wished for children like Kate and Bean. Maybe not so wild - changelings were nearly always wild and frenetic; it was in their nature - but children she could be a mother to. Children she could love who were her own. Mothers had so many things she wanted. Laughter in her home. Delight in the simplest things, like how quickly they could race across the snow from the slide to the metal steps leading back to the slide. Trust.

An image came to her mind, the briefest flick of memory: a tulip that had yet to wither, lying on her nightstand. Its petals were bright as blood and soft as silk. In _hanakatoba_, the language of flowers in Japan, red tulips meant trust. Outside of Asia the red tulip was a declaration of love. Trust from him. Love from her. She couldn't bear to throw the tulip away. Instead she waited for the scarlet flower to wilt, to wither and die.

So far it hadn't. Every morning, she touched the silky petals to her lips, as she'd done as a child with any flower she found. Each morning, the petals were just as smooth and unblemished, the scent just as sweet. She wasn't sure if that meant anything, or if she just wanted it to.

From Wednesday to Friday, Dylan went to work as usual. She checked in via phone with Lisa and Tiana on Thursday. Reminded Ceśar Martinez's mother that her younger son, Miguel, had an appointment the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Double-checked with Victoria to make sure Francesca had gone to the hospital to take care of her broken wrist like Dylan told her to (she had). Finished the blue and black quilt. Made a track list for "Red's Remix," the mix-CD Rafael had made for Lisa the Friday before he died, and slipped it inside the red-jewel CD case. Prepared the Nursery lesson for the coming Sunday. Went to physical therapy and her therapy session at LDS Family Services. Tried to ignore the strange, rundown feeling shuddering through her with every passing hour.

Friday, she held the semi-weekly session with her Sight kids that she'd been neglecting for a while in favor of the situation with a certain Elf prince. Everyone showed up and Dylan found out Mallory Grace had not only placed second in a national fencing competition, but was currently taking swordmanship lessons from Ravus the troll and had been selected by Kaye to accompany her to the Midwinter festivities in Faerie as bodyguard to her and Val, Ravus' human lady. Mallory demonstrated some of the moves she'd learned from the subway-dwelling troll to the other children, and the support group for kids with faerie Sight turned into a last-minute lesson in old-style self-defense, courtesy of Val, Mallory, and her Sight-possessing friend, Clary.

Dylan was _not_ looking forward to Saturday; a whole day of absolutely nothing to do but sit around her cottage and rot. Anya had called to ask if she wanted to go to another movie, but she was movied-out. And seeing Tiana again, so soon... she wasn't sure she could handle it. She'd just been so tired the last few days.

Donovan called to invite her to watch the hockey game at TGI Friday's. He'd even promised free beer, which Dylan had laughingly declined. She wasn't much of a hockey fan, anyway. Bunch of guys in wussy armor beating the stuffing out of each other with sticks on an ice rink. Whoopee. And beer... no thanks. Even if she hadn't been LDS, drinking something that was "an acquired taste" (as many of her friends described most types of alcohol) didn't really strike her fancy.

Instead of doing much of anything Saturday, Dylan got out of bed, got in the shower, and as soon as she was out of the shower and dried off, went back to bed, feeling like refried dirt. She fell asleep shivering beneath her blankets despite the warming spells Becan laid on the bedding.

Her cell phone going off woke her several hours later. Tiny darts of red-hot pain gnawed at her temples. Her skull felt far too small to adequately contain all of her brain and the sheen of sweat slicking her skin felt like ice water - the two biggest signs of a fever. Every time she shifted her weight, aches tingled across her body. When she tried to answer her phone, Dylan's voice croaked out in a wave of pain that scorched from the back of her mouth to the bottom of her sternum.

"D?" John's voice came over the line. "You okay?"

"Hn-nnhn," she mumbled, and suddenly got hit with a fit of coughing that threatened to squeeze her lungs (and the top half of her ribcage) into pulp. When it passed, she managed to gasp, "Ow. John..."

"Are you sick?" Her twin demanded.

It hurt just to even mumble, "Mmm-hmm."

"I'll be right there." The phone disconnected, and in another five minutes Dylan had slipped back into the restless half-sleep of the feverishly ill.

**.**

Nuada polished the smallest of the three rubies he'd purchased from Erik and Brünnhilde. He'd asked for uncut stones because the three rings he'd recently finished were all of different sizes. The Elf prince had cut the crimson jewels himself after pouring the molten gold into the molds for the rings. Fire- and candlelight glinted off the brilliant yellow gold of the three rings that sat cooling on a stone shelf. Once cool enough, Nuada could easily set the dark red jewels in the golden bands.

"How goes it?" Wink asked, watching his prince handle the gem-cutting tools with ease. The air in the room swirled with the heat from Nuada's forge and the wet-silk shimmer of magic. Sweat dampened the Elven warrior's undyed linen shirt from the heat that still permeated the workroom.

"Slowly," the prince replied, and took up a diamond-tipped instrument for etching images onto gemstones. Feral amber eyes narrowed in concentration as the Elf began to trace the proper symbol - his personal crest, circled with a spell-knot - on the back of the tiny jewel as red as mortal blood. "But I am making progress."

Progress on the stones, at least. There was one thing, however, that still held him up, though it wasn't related to any gifts. It was related to Dylan's infuriating twin brother. It was related to the missive Becan had brought a handful of days ago from the human male. Nuada didn't know what the letter said. Wasn't sure he wanted to even bother reading it. But the brownie had said that the letter was there "at Master John's request, and milady's." So Dylan wanted Nuada to read it.

_Just because she wants something does not mean I am obligated to give it to her,_ the prince reminded himself. Truthfully, he meant to read the missive - eventually, at any rate. The only reason Nuada had put it off so far was because Becan had said it required no response. That, and because the Elven warrior had been busy these last days with more important things. Still... his curiosity had been pricking him more and more sharply as the days had gone by. Perhaps, once he finished laying the spell within the tiny stone he was currently hunched over, the prince would read the human's letter.

Wink, oblivious to his prince's thoughts, ambled over to where the three golden rings rested on the little stone shelf. Each was a different size and style: a wide-banded man's ring, a slender woman's ring, and a ring so small even a child could not wear it. Perhaps Nuada meant it for one of the Wee Folk. But why? Even the troll warrior didn't know what the third ring was for. None of the rings were intended for the large, blue velvet box on the table in the main chamber; the box that Wink himself would deliver, along with Nuada's letter, to Dylan in a couple days, when Nuada decided everything was ready. What spells was the Elf laying within the refined gold and blood-red gems? All Wink knew was that whatever they were, the magic in them made his back-bristles itch. Elven magic and troll magic tended to clash, especially when forcibly brought into contact with one another.

The silver cave troll glanced at his prince, hard at work, and thought about asking him about the rings. Ask him, also, about the items he'd commissioned from Aso the Weaver. Wink had taken a quick peek at the contents of the linen bag the Elf of Nyame had handed him when the troll had returned for Nuada's many purchases from the Troll Market. Even after viewing the list the prince had given the weaver, the items still puzzled him. Surely Nuada didn't think such a thing was... well... entirely proper for an apology gift?

"I know what you're thinking, old friend," Nuada said in the near-silence. Wink blinked and raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking about my gift for Dylan."

"The, uh... main component of it, yes," the troll replied.

"You don't believe it's appropriate." Not a trace of condemnation or even annoyance in the words. Just the toneless, distracted tone that Nuada always used when focusing intently on some new metalworking project or piece of goblin clockwork. When Wink did not reply, however, Nuada deigned to raise his glance from the miniscule ruby and arch a brow. "Wink?"

"Won't she be offended by such a thing?"

"No," Nuada said nonchalantly, returning to the task at hand. "She won't." Deft hands traced and retraced the symbol slowly emerging from the back of the little ruby, locking the image - and the magic it carried - more firmly in the crimson stone with each stroke. "You were the one who taught me how best to please women, Wink - in and out of the bedroom. I know what I am doing."

"I mean no disrespect, Sire," Nuada's vassal replied with an easy shrug. "And I do not mean to question you. It is only..."

Glacial amber eyes sliced from the sanguine jewel to the troll's face. "You think, now that you know exactly what I intend to gift her with, that I do not put enough effort into this apology. You think perhaps that because Dylan is human, I will not take this task as seriously as I would if she were Elf-kind or some other type of faerie. But I know what pleases her, Wink."

A brief flash of memory like a knife in his chest, of scarred mortal lips curving up at the corners as something he said made her laugh. The Elven warrior quickly shoved the memory aside. He couldn't let such things affect him. Not if he was going to expunge this poison in his heart.

Feigning indifference, Nuada added, "It will suffice."

"She may come to the conclusion that you're trying to buy her off, my prince. To bribe her or buy her affections instead of wooing them from her properly. Women do not like that."

Nuada thought of the things he'd brought back from the Troll Market. Thought of the careful reasoning behind each purchase. _Was_ he trying to erase the sins and trespasses between himself and the mortal woman with gaudy trinkets of little real value? To a human, magical things found in any faerie market had incredible worth, but the things he'd chosen were not truly that expensive. The most valuable thing, monetarily, had been the collection of clothing he'd bought from Aso, and this was only due to the sheer number of items.

Would Dylan equate the gift's value - or lack thereof - with the monetary value of the items and thus find his sincerity lacking? Or would she see beyond the surface to the reasons behind what he'd done?

He forced himself to think back to the night they'd sat on the rooftop in the East Village of Manhattan, watching the Night Parade go by. He remembered the delight in Dylan's fey-like blue eyes as the different magical races passed them. How she'd clasped her hands together and gasped aloud like a delighted young child when the sinuous serpentine Oriental dragons danced by with their jewel colors glittering under the light of the silvery moon. Her head on his shoulder and the warmth of her body pushing back the chill of the autumn night. The utter joy in her eyes turning that impossible blue to soft, sapphire-kissed moonglow when pale fingers tucked a bright red tulip into her hair. And he once again went through the list of things intended for the velvet box in the other room

_To ease her fear of the darkness and to fight back her nightmares, as I should have done these last days. To make her smile. To ease the burden of divided loyalties and to bring her joy. She will see that._

"Such things do not worry me," Nuada replied as he finished the little red stone and set to work on the second, medium-sized one. "But there is one last thing. There is something from my rooms in Findias that I need. I wish to give it to her."

"What is it?" When Nuada told him, Wink nodded. Yes. _That_ was a very good gift indeed. "I will bring it, then. But take a break for a minute."

Nuada looked up, then frowned when his vassal dropped the letter from Dylan's brother on the table in front of him. "Wink-"

"I think you'll be surprised, my prince. I'll return as swiftly as possible." And the troll ambled out of the workroom to retrieve the final piece of his prince's gift for his mortal lady. Nuada went back to the ruby... but the missive kept drawing his eye. Finally, the Elf growled to himself and grabbed the letter.

Feral eyes like molten bronze raked over the paper, racing through the short letter once. Twice. A third time. After the fourth time, the bronze of fury in his eyes began melting to firegold and the corner of Nuada's mouth twitched. Well. Perhaps this human was not as gutless and idiotic as the prince had first thought.

_My sister told me I owed you an apology. After I thought about it, I knew she was right. So I'm apologizing. I accused you of some pretty vile stuff. I may not like you, but Dylan obviously loves and respects you and I (usually) trust her judgment. So I'm sorry for the things that I said. Dylan says she's not sure if you'll accept an apology from a human. If not, at least I tried. But if it means anything, I would really appreciate it if you would be a part of my sister's life again. She misses you, and she's been pretty miserable lately. Just please don't punish her for the things I said and did. - John Myers_

Nuada studied the short letter. Despite the mortal origin and the brevity, the Elf prince knew - though he could not have explained how - that the words were sincere. Did this odd strain of fey-like humanity run in Dylan's family? No, because her sisters did not possess it. And Dylan would _never_ speak to him as her brother had. Would _never_ accuse him of...

Still, Nuada thought when he'd managed to unclench his teeth and relax his fisted hands, the human male wasn't asking for forgiveness. Merely asking that the Elf prince not punish Dylan for her brother's trespasses. As he would not have done so anyway, Nuada saw no harm in acquiescing.

_She's been pretty miserable lately._ The prince's eyes were drawn back to that line and one other. _Dylan obviously loves and respects you._ Love and respect. He dropped the paper on the table and dropped his head into one hand. When had things become so complicated? When had life gotten so... so hectic, to quote his impossible mortal lady? Since the day he'd met her, it seemed. Since the day she had saved his life, and he hers. Ever since then...

Everything was so complicated now. And he was so tired. Except for the night he'd ventured into Dylan's nightmares and taken her into his memories (and then woken with his head on her shoulder and the sweet scent of her all around him, soothing and comforting, and his fingers laced with hers and their clasped hands pressed to her heart), the Elf prince hadn't had a decent night's sleep in more than two weeks. Not since leaving Dylan's cottage that first night after, if her twin could be believed, breaking her heart.

Nuada thought of Wink. If the Elf prince had done to the silver troll what he had done to the human woman - hurled carefully aimed words meant to hurt his perceived enemy and appease his own rage; abandoned one that had sworn themselves to him; betrayed someone who trusted him absolutely - would his brother in all but blood feel the same way? Heartbroken?

The thought sent a lance of shame piercing through the Elf prince and made tension throb against his temples. Wink was right. He needed to take a break. Needed to sleep. Maybe if he managed to sleep, things would be less complicated when he awoke.

Something on the back of the slip of paper caught his eye. The prince flipped the missive over, and a weary smile spread across his face. There, in familiar handwriting, were a few simple lines written in pale blue pencil. Against his will, Nuada felt a soft pang of longing in his chest for the woman who'd written those words.

_Knowing you, you haven't been getting enough rest. By the time you get this, it'll be fairly late.  
Go to bed, Nuada. More than four or five hours, or I'll tell Wink and he'll sit on you.  
Yours always, Dylan_

She knew him so well. How could a mortal know him so well?

_Yours always._ His. Freely offered despite how he'd hurt her. His. If only. But no, it was wrong to make such a wish. Wrong to wish she could be more than just the mortal his father had foisted on him in an attempt to wrest away his court supporters. _Yours always._ She always knew what to say to him. Always knew just what to say.

Eyes the color of melting honey caressed those neatly penned words and Nuada did not even bother trying to suppress the tender thought, _As you wish. Goodnight, a chumann, mo duinne._ He wondered if he would dream of her. For the first time, he prayed that he would. Perhaps the dreams of her were nothing but vain Morphean fantasies fueled by his own weakness. If so, then he was disgustingly pathetic. But perhaps they were more. He'd walked her dreams before. Perhaps he did so now.

Either way, in those dreams, Dylan could actually safely belong to him, if only for a brief moment. _Yours always._

_Please,_ he prayed as he laid down to sleep. _Please give me dreams of her again._ _A good dream this time. Please._

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, I want to know, you guys - what do you think is going in that blue velvet box? I'm trying to build the suspense here, so I want to know what you think Nuada put in that box. Even if it's something random like chewing gum, I want to know. Okay? _

_Is Nuada a little less aggravating in this chapter, Ja Reedus? Yang and Ocean, did you guys like your cameos? Bleedingcrimson, your cameo will arrive sometime (once Midwinter rolls around). Oooh, I've suddenly got a headache. Ouch. _

_1) __Who liked the Troll Market?_

_2) __Who liked seeing/meeting new types of faeries?_

_3) __Who liked Dylan and John's sibling moment?_

_4) __Who loves Bat's tuna breath, lol?_

_5) __And the baby! Poor baby! Are we worried about the baby or do we think LA is gonna pull a _deus ex machina _out of her black silk top hat and save the day using some toothpaste, a paper clip, and hand lotion (just like McGuyver)?_

_6) __And since the three golden rings aren't going in the blue velvet box, what do we think they're for? Who are they for? Etc._

_See ya later tonight (or tomorrow, not sure which). Loves!_

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_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _In Norse mythology, dökkálfar (Old Norse "Dark Elves", singular dökkálfr) and ljósálfar (Old Norse "Light Elves", singular ljósálfr) are two contrasting types of elves; the prior dwell within the earth and are most swarthy, while the latter live in Álfheimr, located in heaven, and are "fairer than the sun to look at." The dökkálfar and the ljósálfar are solely attested in the _Prose Edda_, written in the 13th century by Snorri Sturluson. Scholars have produced theories about the origin and implications of the dualistic concept._

_In the _Prose Edda_, the dökkálfar and the ljósálfar are attested in chapter 18 of the book _Gylfaginning_. In the chapter, it is said that there are many fine places in heaven, including a place called Álfheimr (Old Norse "Elf Home" or "Elf World"). The ljósálfar live in Álfheimr, while the dökkálfar dwell underground and lookand particularly behavequite unlike the Ljósálfar. The ljósálfar are described as "fairer than the sun to look at," while the dökkálfar are "blacker than pitch."_

_Here, regarding the concept of Light and Dark Elves, it merely refers to the distinction between their hair color: blond or black, and the race of Iclandic/Nordic Elves are referred to as the Elves of Álfar (in the same way that Nuada is referred to as an Elf of Bethmoora)._

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_**I Talk So Much, Curb, I'm Sorry:**_ _Curb, I just have one question: Dylan's obviously mentally unstable? Really? I mean, to people who don't get narrative insights into her mind and thought processes? *bangs head on desk* Crap, crap, crap! She's _not _supposed to come off that way. How? How does she come across that way? Eek! *panics*_

_Oh, and I didn't read too much into your comment, lol - I just like to talk. Type? Whatever. _=D _And when I explain things I can get really wordy/rambly. Drives my husband nuts sometimes because I'll take 30 minutes to explain something that I could've explained in maybe 5 because I include all these details and reword my points and stuff and he's just like, "Why?"_

_Oh, I was wrong, I have 2 questions. Now what was my 2nd one? Hmmm... *ponders* Oh. I remember now! So, who's after Dylan specifically in all aspects of her life, other than Westenra? What I mean__ is__, who besides Westenra (and his hobgoblins) are after Dylan for Dylan, and not because she's Nuada's girl?_

_And just FYI, I will _never ever _go... um... in our house, we call it B.S.-loco. So I will __**never**_ _go BS-loco on you for critiquing me (unless you cuss me out, and even then, I won't go nuts, I'll just get sad and possibly cry because cussing depresses me a lot)._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"I Know Him So Well" is a song from a musical (though I can't remember which one) but it fit with how Nuada's so sure that Dylan will like the stuff he's getting her and she knows him so well with the little "go to bed" note. _

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Earth magic is just something I made up. It's literally magic related to the earth in some way. In this instance, it's maternal magic (as typically, motherhood is associated with the element of earth).

- _Marie Claire Magazine_ is a big, big fashion magazine. The editor (or former editor), Nina Garcia, is a judge on the reality television show Project Runway.

- "You might be a poet but you sound like an idiot" is taken from _A Knight's Tale_. One of the best scenes ever is when the MC is talking to his friend Roland, and the MC says, "She makes me feel like a poet." And his best friend says, "You might feel like a poet but you sound like an idiot." Love that part.

- A scripture pencil is a soft-tipped pencil specifically made to highlight/underline stuff in scriptures (the pages of scriptures being so incredibly delicate and thin).

- Bat's lying on Dylan's shoulders during her prayers is something MY cats do to me a lot.

- n Greek mythology, the Dactyls (from Greek ｢άﾈﾑﾒﾉﾍﾇ "fingers") were the archaic mythical race of small phallic male beings associated with the Great Mother, whether as Cybele or Rhea. Their numbers vary, but often they were ten spirit-men. The Dactyls were both ancient smiths and healing magicians. In some myths, they are in Hephaestus' employ (Greek god of smithing and metal-working), and they taught metalworking, mathematics, and the alphabet to humans.

- The clurichaun is an Irish fairy which resembles the leprechaun. Some folklorists describe the clurichaun as a night "form" of the leprechaun, who goes out to drink after finishing his daily chores. Others regard them as regional variations on the same creature. Clurichauns are said to always be drunk. However, unlike their cousins, they are surly. Many fables conclude clurichauns enjoy riding sheep and dogs at night. If you treat them well they will protect your wine cellar, and if mistreated, they will wreak havoc on your home and spoil your wine stock. In some tales, they act as buttery spirits, plaguing drunkards or dishonest servants who steal wine; if the victim attempts to move away from their tormentor, the clurichaun will hop into a cask to accompany them.

- The real scitalis or scytale is a serpent from Medieval bestiaries with such marvelous markings on its back that its appearance would stun the viewer, slowing the person down so that they could be caught. Its bodily heat was so great that it shed its skin even in the winter. In this fic, scitalis are snake-shifters with similar stunning markings (though not quite _that_ stunning). They have a great affection and reverence for dancing, which is inspired by the serpiente shifters in Amelia Atwater-Rhodes' Kiesha'ra quintet.

- Chrysanthemum tea and sakurayu are real types of tea. Yeah, I know - gross.

- "Morinji" is actually short for Morinji-no-kama, another name for Bunbuku Chagama, the _tanuki_ teakettle (a racoon-dog faerie that turned itself into a teapot to help a mortal man in a famous Japanese faerie tale).

- _Rai_ is the Japanese word for "thunder." Those of you who play _Mortal Kombat_ might draw a parallel to the name Raiden, the thunder god in that series.

- _Fūjin_ is the Japanese word for "wind."

- Strix are a type of vampiric demon bird found in Roman mythology. I figured it was something Wink would enjoy eating. He strikes me as very much the carnivore.

- A cordwainer is a shoemaker (cobblers historically being those who _repair_ shoes, not make them).

- Random fact about leprechauns: they're main forte is shoemaking. Yep.

- In Slavic mythology, a rusalka (plural: rusalki or rusalky) was a female ghost, water nymph, succubus or mermaid-like demon that dwelled in a waterway. According to most traditions, the rusalki were fish-women, who lived at the bottom of rivers. In the middle of the night, they would walk out to the bank and dance in meadows. If they saw handsome men, they would fascinate them with songs and dancing, mesmerize them, then lead the man away to the river floor to his death. While her primary dwelling place was the body of water in which she died, the rusalka could come out of the water at night, climb a tree, and sit there singing songs, sit on a dock and comb her hair, or join other rusalki in circle dances in the field.

Though in some versions of the myth, the eyes shine like green fire, others describe them with extremely pale and translucent skin, and no visible pupils. Her hair is sometimes depicted as green or golden, and often perpetually wet. The rusalka could not live long on dry land, but with her comb she was always safe, for it gave her the power to conjure water when she needed it. According to some legends, should the rusalka's hair dry out, she will die. Rusalki like to have men and children join in their games. They can do so by enticing men with their singing and then drowning them, while the children were often lured with baskets of fruit. Men seduced by the rusalka could die in her arms, and in some versions hearing her laugh could also cause death. Alternatively, they would attract men, mainly bachelors, and tickle them to death.

- A _hardingfele_ is a Hardanger fiddle, the traditional stringed instrument used originally to play the music of Norway. In modern designs, the instruments are very similar to the violin, though with eight or nine strings (rather than four as on a standard violin) and thinner wood. Four of the strings are strung and played like a violin, while the rest, aptly named understrings or sympathetic strings, resonate under the influence of the other four, providing a pleasant haunting, echo-like sound. The _hardingfele_ is used mainly in the southwest part of Norway, whereas the ordinary violin is found elsewhere. The _hardingfele_ is used for dancing, accompanied by rhythmic loud foot stomping. It was also traditional for the fiddler to lead the bridal procession to the church (obviously neither of those two things are used here because of the third paragraph below).

The instrument often is highly decorated, with a carved animal (usually a dragon or the Lion of Norway) or a carved woman's head as part of the scroll at the top of the pegbox, extensive mother of pearl inlay on the tailpiece and fingerboard, and black ink decorations called 'rosing' on the body of the instrument. Sometimes pieces of bone are used to decorate the pegs and the edges of the instrument. The earliest known example of the _hardingfele_ is from 1651, made by Ole Jonsen Jaastad in Hardanger, Norway. Originally, the instrument had a rounder, narrower body. Around the year 1850, the modern layout with a body much like the violin became the norm.

For an example of what this instrument sounds like (as imagined for the Troll Market scene) listen to the _hardingfele_ being played in a non-traditional manner in the soundtracks for _the Two Towers_ and the _Return of the King_ during the Rohirric tracks.

- _Seljefløyte_: The willow flute, also known as sallow flute (Norwegian: seljefløyte), is a Scandinavian folk flute, or whistle, consisting of a simple tube with a transverse fipple mouthpiece and no finger holes. The mouthpiece is typically constructed by inserting a grooved plug into one end of the tube, and cutting an edged opening in the tube a short distance away from the plug. The willow flute is a type of overtone flute. It is played by varying the force of the air blown into the mouthpiece, with the end of the tube being covered by the finger or left open. The tones produced are based on the harmonic series (I have no idea what that means, though). Playing the instrument with the end of the tube covered produces one fundamental and its overtones, playing it with the end of the tube left open produces another fundamental and series of overtones. Willow flutes cannot be tuned to an equal tempered scale. Modern willow flutes are typically made of plastic (PVC tubing is often used), but the original willow flutes were made from sections of bark cut from green willow branches. Willow flutes could only be made this way during the spring, and became unplayable when the bark dried out. Of course, since this is Faerie, anything's possible.

- "Can't carry a tune in a bucket with the lid nailed down" is from the show _True Blood_ (Sookie says that to Eric Northman when he asks her if all humans can sing).

- Álfar is one of the 13 Elf Kingdoms invented for this fic (well, I didn't invent Bethmoora, but you know). Álfar is based on Viking culture. Typically, the Elves of Álfar are northmen-pale, with blond or black hair; unusually muscular/stocky for normally slender Elves; they have red eyes. The word "Álfar" is actually the plural form of the Nordic word for "Elf." In the Kingdom itself, the Elves refer to themselves in their native tongue as Álfar (Elves) or Álfr (Elf). The crest of the royal family of Álfar is a silver war-hammer crossed with a golden blacksmith's hammer. Their standard bears this crest against a white field edged in black.

- Nyame is another of the 13 Elf Kingdoms; the one that spans the continent of Africa. The name comes from Nyame, the Sky God in Ashanti mythology (father of Anansi the Spider). The crest of the royal family is a black spider with a white star on its abdomen; their standard bears this crest against a white-blue field edged in ivory. Their royal guard are called the Anansi (the Akan word for "spider").

- Iara is the South American Elven Kingdom. The Elves of Iara have "typical" Hispanic looks - dusky skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Said to be descended from mermaids; extraordinarily gifted with various types of water magic. Their standard bears the crest of a golden mermaid against a sea green field edged in gold. Iara, being in South America, has a lot of precious stones and metals such as gold, emeralds, sapphires, etc.

- The mythical creatures known as iara are Brazillian water sprites (a type of mermaid, I believe).

- Aso is the name of Anansi's wife in many stories (though she is also referred to as Miss Anansi or Mistress Anansi. In Curaçao, Aruba, and Bonaire, Anansi is known as Nanzi, and his wife as Shi Maria). Aso is the Weaver's first name.

- Assase Ya is the name of Anansi's mother and the wife (I believe) of the sky god Nyame. Here, it is merely Aso's surname.

- The pendant Aso is wearing is inspired by the hourglass pendants worn by the witches known as Black Widows in the _Dark Jewels Series_ by Anne Bishop. In the _Dark Jewels Series_, the hourglass pendants have gold dust inside them. An apprentice Black Widow has her gold dust all trapped at the top; a journeymaid's is equally distributed between top and bottom; and a fully-trained Black Widow has all her gold dust at the bottom. The hourglasses that are worn by the Anansi have nothing inside them (unless the wearer is or was a captain); they are merely a stand-alone symbol of being part of the royal guard at one time or another.

- The teeth between the copper beads on Aso's necklace, it's mentioned in-text, belong to kishi. The kishi are a race of hill-dwelling creatures of Angola, and are usually malicious. They have two faces; the face usually shown is quite handsome and is used to seduce its prey. The rear face is usually hidden by long thick hair, and resembles the face of a hyena. It has long sharp teeth and jaws so strong they cannot be pulled off of anything it bites. The kishi seduces women with its handsome face and invites them to its lair for dinner, whereupon it devours its victims.

- Mallory Grace is the sister and oldest of the three Grace children in _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_ by Holly Black.

- Ravus the Troll is the male lead in Holly Black's _Valiant_ (and, along with being an alchemist/apothecary, makes great swords and is an expert swordsman). He is the love interest of Val, the titular character of _Valiant_.

- Clary refers to Clarissa "Clary" Fray, the MC of _the Mortal Instruments_ series by Cassandra Clare.


	41. Silver and Gold

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
References_ _(finally)_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So this chapter is for Nightmare (and because I promised you guys the apology letter in chapter 40 and it wasn't there). I hope you have a better day for reading this, my love. And yay, Nuada's letter AND the presents appear in this chapter! And some dreamy fun time. With puppies. And other things happen. So there's happiness, cuteness, love, joy, and... well, other stuff. Hope you enjoy. Oh, my shoulders are KILLING ME. Ouch._

_Also, go read "The Fire's Fuel" by JasperIsAManlyMan. It is AMAZING. I love it. So yeah._

_**Mythological Being of the Day:**_ _Don't have time for one, ahhhhhh! Running way behind on this chapter!_

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**Chapter Forty-One**

**Silver and Gold**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of the Siren Call of Sleep, a Distant Shore, a Second Letter, the Blue Velvet Box, Waiting, Silver and Gold, and the Winter Dark**

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She woke from a half-sleep of shadows and pins-and-needles pain across her skin to a cool, gentle hand pressing against her forehead. She had to blink a few times before she could make out her brother's worried expression in the dimness of descending evening. "Hey, John." Her voice was a painful croak.

"Jeez, you're burning up, Sis." John brushed back the sweat-stringy hair from his sister's face. "I think you might have the flu."

"Why am I not surprised?" Dylan muttered. Biting back a sigh and trying not to cough, she took stock of her various symptoms. The cobwebby pressure in her skull and the aching chill in her body would have indicated fever even without her twin's layman's diagnosis. Someone had taken a blowtorch to the inside of her throat - or at least that's how it felt to her. Every time she took a breath, it raked at her throat and caught in her chest, trying to make her cough. She knew if she coughed, her world would narrow to a single tiny window of absolute and painful misery. "I hate flu season."

"That's what happens when you don't take care of yourself," John replied with an equal measure of sympathy and exasperation. He poked her in the arm and she made a small "mmm" sound of irritation. "Luckily for you, I come bearing gifts from a magical, far off place of great wonders."

Despite the way the world was spinning in one direction while blurring before her eyes, her mouth curved into a smile. "The Floating Night Market?"

Her twin snorted. "The drugstore."

Sometimes taking medicine wasn't so bad. As a child, she'd actually enjoyed the taste of the grape-flavored syrup her parents had given her to combat coughs and sore throats. Why couldn't grown-up doses of over-the-counter medications retain the yummy taste of child medicines?

The only reason she didn't throw up the dextromethorphan that seared her throat with its acerbic taste was because she clapped a hand over her mouth and John was obliging enough to let her punch him in the shoulder with her other hand. After swallowing several times to make sure the bright orange syrup had coated the inside of her throat, Dylan indulged in a few minutes of muttering that included copious usage of the word "yech." But at least the burning in her throat was almost entirely gone. John also dosed her with three Tylenol for the fever.

"And this," her twin added, "is because you're such a good girl and you did what the nice doctor told you." He handed her a lemon Jolly Rancher. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth before balling up the tiny plastic wrapper and flicking it at him. John poked her in the arm again. "Now, I'm gonna go camp out on the sofa, okay?"

"You don't have to-"

"Becan asked me to," John interrupted. "Though he didn't want me to tell you. I think he's worried that you might collapse or something. He's no tomte - he can't exactly pick you up if you fall down and can't get up again. It's just until your fever breaks, Miss Independent. And I was already off work when I called you, so I'm not losing pay or anything. Relax. Go to sleep. You should be able to get some actual rest now." When she sighed, he added, "Consider it payback for last year when I got in that bike accident and had the concussion and you took care of me for those two days at Christmas."

Dylan smiled and nodded. That was fair. And the dextromenthorphan was making her drowsy. The medicine blanketed the aches of the fever. She blinked, and John wasn't at her bedside anymore. She blinked again, and he wasn't even in the room. Sleep was a siren song. Finally she let her eyes drift closed and gave into its call. Besides, sleeping was the fastest way to get better. Dylan hated being sick.

**.**

The minute he smelled the sea and heard the gulls calling overhead, he knew it was a dream. Feral eyes opened slowly and Nuada studied the pristine shores awash with rolling surf. Sunset painted the sea and sky with strokes of amber, bronze, and rose. Clouds hung like wisps of spun gold across the painted sky.

Despite the long years since last the Elf prince had seen this place, he still recognized it. The Elven warrior glanced to his right. Among the rocks and wilds, the River Boyne flowed into the sea. None of this Irish seascape looked in modern times as it did now in this dream. As it had when he was but a child. Weary melancholy settled over him as he thought once more of treasures and wonders lost to time and men. Nuada had wanted to dream of Dylan. Of comfort and unconditional acceptance. Instead, this reminder of sorrow mocked him. He closed his eyes.

Delighted laughter dragged his attention unwillingly to the pounding surf and ivory sand. Everything in him went still as he saw Dylan, her hair streaming down her back, playing in the water with... was that a _dog?_

At the shoreline, he was finally close enough to study the idyllic scene before him. A pure white Irish wolfhound romped through the water, nearly bouncing with joy as Dylan laughed and splashed the massive beast. Every so often the hound would prance close enough to almost touch her, then leap away again. Its mistress - and she _was_ clearly the hound's mistress - didn't seem to mind that the animal and the surf were soaking her pale blue summer dress to the knees with salty ocean water.

Then she looked toward where Nuada stood on the shore, and her grin melted into a smile as warm as the sun shining down on the beach. She called to the dog in Gaelic, and it obediently trotted out of the water at her side. It not-so-obediently shook the water from its fur as soon as it reached dry sand. Dylan took the soaking with only a laugh. The Elf prince would have scowled at the dog, but couldn't seem to wipe away the smile curving his lips.

"Is this my dream or yours?" Nuada asked when she was in easy earshot.

"I think it's yours," the mortal replied, glancing at the hound. "Because I have no idea what kind of dog that is. I don't think I've ever seen it before." The dog's tail wagged twice. Then the massive beast pressed itself against Dylan's legs, nearly knocking her over. "Although apparently he's seen _me_ before. You're a good boy, aren't you, Cù Chulainn?" She rubbed the dog's ears, and the hound gave a contented sigh. "I've always wanted a dog."

"Yes, well," the prince said, folding his arms and gazing down in consternation at the beast. The hound gave him what, on a face not lacking a muzzle, would have been called a completely unrepetant grin. Its tawny eyes glinted with doggy mischief. "_Someone_ is most assuredly a _very_ bad dog if he finds it acceptable to get water all over his mistress."

"You leave him alone," she said indignantly, shooting the feral-eyed Elf prince a mock-scowl. "He's a very good dog. I like him." Then her expression melted into a happy smile and she held out her hand to Nuada. "If this is really one of us walking through the other's dream... how about we pretend it's not? We can just... do whatever. No worries. Nothing to bother us. We can just... be. For a while."

Nuada found himself taking that proffered hand without thinking. He laced his fingers with hers as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He could feel her pulse through her palm, soft and steady against his skin.

The Elf prince refused to think about what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Whether it had any impact on the real world or if it was only a dream for true. He'd wanted to dream of her, wanted just to see her in this place where the rules did not apply. Someone had given him this moment of peace and he was not going to squander it by doubting or fearing or questioning anything, not even himself.

"Walk with me," Nuada commanded, and she fell into step beside him. The hound trotted alongside her. Every so often it would bound forward and run off a ways down the beach before stopping and turning to see if his human was going to give chase. When she didn't, the dog always came back to walk beside Dylan again.

Wanting a moment without the energetic beast, Nuada scooped up a piece of driftwood and threw it with the sharp command, "_Gabh._" The hound went bounding after the stick, eager to play. The Elf prince had known that and thrown it fairly far. It would take the dog at least five to ten minutes to find the stick and bring it back.

"That was mean," Dylan chided him gently. "Is he even going to be able to find that stick?"

"That was _not_ mean," Nuada replied. "Dogs like to play fetch. And if he's a hound worth his feed, he'll find it. Forget your ferocious beast for a moment. Now is my time with you, my lady."

The scent of the sea was strong where the wind misted off the surging waves. Elven senses could smell the salt and the sand, the sunlight and the surf on Dylan's skin. Her hair, damp with seawater and ocean spray, was longer than he was used to seeing it because of the wet. Drops of water clung to her neck like tiny jewels that glittered in the sun. Breezes ruffled her hair and the skirt of her sky blue dress swirled around her legs on the wind. But her eyes looked tired.

"Are you well?"

She smiled at him, smiled _for_ him, but there was still that haggard tiredness in the depths of her gaze. She shrugged. "I'm okay." Then her smile took on a sharpness, like the dangerously jagged edge of a pearly seashell. "Unlike _some_ people I know. You haven't been sleeping."

"Obviously I must have caught at least some sleep, mo duinne," Nuada replied with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow. Dylan stopped walking. "Otherwise I could not be sharing this dream with you. Ow." He winced when she poked him sharply in the chest, right over the spot where Wink's bronze fist had smashed into him twice during their sparring session a little less than a week ago. "What?"

"Don't just brush me off, Your Highness. If this is a dream, you shouldn't look like you haven't slept in days, and that's exactly what you look like." She turned to face him completely, her eyes dark with worry. "What is it? What's going on with you? New stuff, or just everything that's happened lately?" When he didn't say anything, Dylan's eyes flashed. "Do I have to hunt you down and make you take care of yourself? Because I know where you live. Well..." The mortal trailed off, frowning. "Actually, you could be anywhere. But," she added, triumph in her voice, "I know how to find you."

"Oh?" The slender, golden brow arched higher. His lips twitched. "You do, do you?"

"Yes, I do. And even if I didn't, I could _make_ you tell me where you are."

"I sincerely doubt that," the Elf prince replied, struggling to keep a straight expression pasted on his face. She was trying to look so serious. "You're too gentle a creature to employ torture, my lady. Anything less could force no secrets past my lips."

Dylan cocked her head, the wild tangle of her hair sliding against her face and curling darkly against the paleness of her throat. "Too gentle for torture?" She smiled and laid her hands against his chest. Her touch was so light it almost wasn't there. "What is it with the men in my life underestimating me? John used to say the same thing." Smug mischief glinted in her eyes. "Then he turned fifteen and learned the error of his ways."

_Freedom in the unreal,_ the Elf prince reminded himself. _And even if this _is _real, even if this is no dream, she won't remember it when she awakens. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just enjoy being with her._

"Do your worst, then," Nuada challenged her. Dark lips curved into a smirk. "I am not afraid of you."

Her arms twined around his neck. She stepped close, closer. "That's because you don't know any better."

Nuada inclined his head. "Perhaps it's as you say. Then again," his arms slid around her waist of their own volition as he let himself fully relax into the dream, fully surrender to the pleasure of being with her without the ravenous expectations of the real world. "Perhaps you do not know any better than to provoke an Elven warrior, milady."

He laid his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, breathing in the richness of the sunlight on her skin. The Elf prince could feel her heart pounding against his chest as his grip on her tightened fractionally. He suddenly noticed the odd difference in them, the softness of her body so pliant against the hardness of his.

"I provoke you all the time," Dylan reminded the prince, and he could hear the laughter beneath her words. "I can tell, because sometimes you get this weird look on your face like you're about to choke on your tongue. Like right now." He flashed her a mock-scowl and she grinned. "Oh, stop that." Dylan reached up and lightly touched his mouth with gentle fingers. Her touch was like the kiss of velvet as she traced dark lips. "Smile."

Because he wanted to kiss the tips of her fingers, Nuada forced his face to remain in that fake scowl. "Make me," he challenged, wondering what she would do.

Dylan used the breadth of his shoulders to pull herself up on tiptoe. Nuada went utterly still as his mortal lady leaned in, slowly closing the scant distance between them.

_Dream_, he thought. _Only a dream. It doesn't matter if... if she... it's only a dream_. He could taste the sweetness of her breath against his lips.

The Elf prince closed his eyes because he knew if he didn't his gaze would be fixated on that soft, scarred mouth and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from kissing her. And even though it was only a dream, Nuada knew that if he kissed her here, now, he would have to do it in the waking world too.

But was that such a terrible thing, he wondered suddenly? The question should have shocked him, sickened him. Instead it tantalized him. There were so many reasons - good reasons, dangerous reasons - why he should not allow himself to consider such a thing. He could not afford that kind of distraction. Couldn't afford to love injudiciously (or even, really, to love at all). Especially not a common-born mortal woman who was nothing but a weakness to him. And although kisses didn't mean love, he knew that if he kissed her, the temptation of loving her - that seductive, silk-lined, sweetly baited trap - would be all the harder to resist.

And still, Nuada did not move. Did not even try to stop her from kissing him. He couldn't do it. Could only wait with bated breath and suddenly pounding heart for the sweet caress that would shatter him. He closed his eyes.

At the very last second, just before those soft lips would have brushed against his mouth like fire and silk, she moved aside. Leaned in close enough to whisper in his ear. The soft heat of her breath against his skin sent a tremor through his body. It took Nuada a moment to register what she'd actually said.

"Nuada," she'd whispered. "Stop scowling before your face gets stuck that way."

His eyes flew open as Dylan stepped back just out of reach, grinning. _Why, that little..._ Love? Love was not the problem just now. Kisses were not the problem. The problem was that he was going to strangle her. After he kissed her. No. Forget kissing her. That would be giving in. That would be surrendering to the golden heat simmering in his blood. He was simply going to strangle her. It was his only hope for retaining what little sanity he had left after that little piece of torture. Or was strangling too permanent?

Dylan cocked her head and smiled at him. He narrowed his eyes, his mouth twitching against his will. She knew _exactly_ what she'd been doing. Which surprised him enough to make him question whether he walked in her dreams, or if this was merely an echo of her from his own subconscious. He had never truly known her to be quite so flirtatious.

_Except that night out in the snow,_ he thought, remembering the way her fingertips had lightly stroked against his throat and her eyes had reflected the beautiful wintry starlight. Then he shook the memory away. Still... Nuada couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face as Dylan rocked back on her heels in the soft sand and laughed.

"See? I made you smile," she said. "I could make you tell me where you are, too - if I wanted." Sobering, she reached out and took his hand. "I miss you, Nuada. I... I miss you and I don't know if it's ever going to go away. I don't even know if you're really here or if I'm just dreaming about you because I'm pathetic. You've never been this... laid back in my dreams before. I don't know. All I know is that I'm sick with worrying about you. I'm scared something will happen to you and I won't be there to help or your dad will do something and... and I just miss you."

"I am well, and I will come back soon," Nuada murmured, pulling her back to him. She laid her cheek against his chest. "I promise you, I will come back soon. There are some things that need to be seen to first. That is all."

In a very small voice she asked, "It's not because you're still angry, though, right?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. "You are... my friend. And friends quarrel. They become angry with one another. That is the way of friendship. Sometimes forgiveness can take even the dearest friends a great while. That does not mean..." _That doesn't mean I love you any less._ "That doesn't mean my fondness for you is diminished."

"So," Dylan said, pulling back from him. The starlight of her eyes had dimmed when she looked up at him. "You're still angry. After I apologized a bazillion times and cried my head off and you ditched me for nearly two weeks and almost broke my stupid brother's arm, you're _still_ angry with me."

"I-" Her balled-up fist driving hard into his shoulder cut him off. He blinked at her in astonishment. "Woman, how dare you? You do not strike royalty!"

"I'm not 'striking royalty,'" Dylan informed him sharply. She punched his shoulder again, wincing when her knuckles cracked against the hardness of combat-shaped muscles. "I'm retaliating against your unfairness."

"You know," the prince replied coolly, "that actually hurts." In the same way being swatted with a lady's fan hurt, which was hardly at all, but still.

"I'll kiss it better when I'm done." The side of her fist smacked against his chest this time. "After you beg for mercy."

Astonishingly, Nuada felt a grin spreading across his face. He tried to fight it, but to no avail. He was suddenly reminded of all the times as a boy and as a youth when his sister - or, now that he truly thought of it, the few young court ladies he had counted among his real friends - had pummeled him in retaliation for some trespass or other. The Elf prince merely chuckled now and captured Dylan's hands, holding her immobile. She glared at him.

"I'm not done," she told him. "You didn't beg for mercy."

Acting on a sudden and reckless impulse, Nuada spun her around so that her back collided with his chest and he held her hands trapped against her body. His reward was a breathless squeak. He leaned in until his lips barely brushed her ear. "Mercy, then," the feral-eyed warrior murmured. She shivered.

This was dangerous. He knew that. Knew this was deliberately placing himself in the path of temptation. But he was suddenly drowning in the silken feel of her hair caressing his skin, the scent of her that clung to the slender column of her throat. She was trembling now. Not in fear. If it was fear, sharp Elven senses would have been able to smell it.

Nuada did not let himself think about why else she might be trembling in his arms. Could not think about it. Instead he focused on the way she leaned back against his chest, her eyes drifting closed. Absolute trust. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder and she let out a breath. The setting sun burnished the smooth expanse of her throat. He could feel her pulse beating steadily against the soft skin.

Because he wanted to bend his head to that throat and brush his lips against where her pulse fluttered, wanted to feel her heart pound and hear her breath catch when he did so, Nuada instead let his cheek rest against her temple.

Safer that way. Even safer to let her go, but he didn't want to. Not yet. He would have to let her go when the dream ended, anyway. Why couldn't he have her for a few moments in this place so far away from the rest of the world? Why couldn't he let himself drown in her? Just for a few minutes. Just have peace in her, with her, for a few precious minutes.

"What are you thinking?" Dylan asked. "Tell me what's running through your mind right now."

"How much I..." The fae warrior trailed away. He couldn't say what he truly wanted to say to her. Not even in dreams. The heat of the words scorched his throat, but he couldn't make himself so vulnerable to her again. "I'm thinking about how much I'm enjoying the roar of the ocean; it's been a long time since I've been to these shores. What are you thinking about?"

"The fact that it always sucks when I dream about you because, since it's _my_ dream, I should get to kiss you - or at least dream that _you_ kiss _me_ - but it never happens." Dylan sighed. "Which is so lame, I have to say."

Elation and disappointment crashed together in his chest at the unexpected declaration. Elation because if he wanted an engraved invitation to give in to the yearning, he'd just been given one. Disappointment because now Nuada _knew_ that this was merely a dream, not a mystical connection between his sleeping mind and Dylan's.

And would the longing rise up just as sharply in waking if he kissed this figment of his desperate imagination than if he'd given in and kissed his lady in a shared dream? Or would that yearning be soft and easy, since his lips would not touch the real thing? Did he truly want to risk torturing himself in order to find out?

Before he could choose - before he could reach the insufferable conclusion that he couldn't choose, and yet couldn't _not_ choose, either - she pulled away again, but only just enough to turn and slide her arms around his neck. Her fingers tangled gently in silvery blond tresses. Her eyes were wide and earnest as she looked up at him. Dylan swallowed hard before whispering, "This is just a dream, so... so it's okay to ask. Nuada." Oh, gods, she couldn't. She couldn't ask. If she asked, he would have to give in and then he'd have to hold her against him, have to lean in and capture that perfect mouth with his and taste... "Nuada, please."

"Don't," he said softly, unable to look away, unable to step back. It was only a dream and that made it better and worse and he knew if those words passed her lips, he would be lost forever because he would either kiss her, or forever regret that he hadn't. "Don't ask."

Nuada wanted to push her away. Wanted to crush her against him and never let go. _Human,_ he reminded himself. _Mortal. Innocent. _Too innocent, in all the ways that mattered, for what any kiss in a dream would inevitably lead to. _Wrong. Forbidden._ Gods, she was so soft against him, she would kill him, he knew it."Then I won't," she said. "I'll just tell you. Please, Nuada." Her eyes were so incredibly blue. His heart stuttered as Dylan whispered, "I want you to kiss me."

_No,_ his common sense snarled. _No,_ his self-preservation instincts cried. _No,_ his honor and his duty commanded. _No,_ his heart groaned, knowing he would never be free of her if he did this, never. But as he leaned in, his eyes locked on her mouth, on her face tilted up to him so that those so soft lips were like an offering to him, he could only whisper, "As you wish."

_You didn't beg for mercy,_ she'd said. As the scant distance between his lips and hers began to vanish, Nuada could only plead silently, _Have mercy on me, my lady. Have mercy, my love. Leave me with something._ Because he was almost certain this kiss would leave him with nothing. Nothing but the taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, and a craving for that taste that could never be sated. _Gods, I cannot do this, I can't..._

Mercy comes in many forms. It can come as a king's pardon before the executioner's stroke. It can come as a smile from a stranger when all the world seems to have turned against you; a phone call from a friend when life seems hopeless; the embrace of a lover when all other defenses crumble; or simply a small moment of peace when the heart begins to weaken under the onslaught of the world. But in this instance, mercy (if it could be called mercy, and not cruel fortune) came in the form of a very large, very energetic dog that had finally found the stick.

The wolfhound smashed headlong into the back of Dylan's legs, knocking her completely off balance. Only Nuada's lightning reflexes kept her from crashing hard to the sandy beach. Cù Chulainn bounced up and down beside his mistress and the two-legger that had so kindly thrown the amazing stick that tasted _so_ interesting so very, very far. When feral eyes sliced to the dog, he offered the two-legger male a chance to throw the stick again.

Nuada had to wonder if killing an animal in a dream counted as cruelty, since the beast didn't actually exist. The Elf scowled at the enthusiastic hound. Cù Chulainn didn't seem to notice. He only bounced some more, ran a few paces away, and then ran back to practically hop up on his hind legs and attempt to sloppily lick the prince's face.

Luckily for everyone involved, Nuada dodged and got the beast to stop with a sharply spoken, "_Suigh!_"

The dog sat. Dylan, also now seated on the sand (probably to avoid being knocked over by enthusiastic puppy love), laughed when the hound regarded the Elf prince with sad, honey-colored eyes and wagged its shaggy tail hopefully.

"It is not amusing." But at least now he had control of himself again. At least he wasn't breaking under the enticement of Dylan's embrace, her whispered words, the allure of her. He swallowed hard and fought the urge to drop down onto the sand beside her. No more giving in. Not even in dreams, where inhibitions seemed not to exist at all. Nuada could _not_ allow himself to kiss the mortal woman that had twisted him up and invaded his every waking thought and moment of sleep. He'd be lost if he kissed her.

"Nuada."

The Elf prince frowned as both he and Dylan looked around. Who was calling him? The gruff voice came again, and Nuada felt the dream begin to dissolve under the intrusion. Honey-gold eyes fell on Dylan's melancholy face. Just as wakefulness began to pull him from her, Nuada said, "I'll be back with you soon, mo duinne."

"Nuada, I love..."

And the dream shattered as firegold eyes snapped open in wakefulness and he glared up at Wink. The silver cave troll raised an eyebrow. "Have a good dream?"

"Not that it's any of your business," the prince muttered, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes with the heels of his palms. Wisps of the dream flitted through his mind. He remembered much of it, this time, though. Only the very end was fuzzy. He'd been about to kiss her. About to commit an act that basically amounted to sampling a highly addictive drug that would leave him desperately craving it for the rest of his life. Nuada shook his head to clear away the thought. "Why do you ask, my friend?"

Wink shrugged. "Merely curious, Your Highness. You've been asleep most of the night." The troll tossed something to the prince, who caught it instinctively. "The last piece of the gift, if I'm not mistaken."

A tired smile curved the prince's mouth. "Thank you. And thank you for waking me. I did not mean to sleep so long." _I must have been more tired than I first thought,_ Nuada realized. Getting to his feet, the Elf headed for the workroom. "I'm nearly finished with the rings. But the gift itself, once packed, is ready. Will you take it to her come dawn, my friend?"

The silver cave troll grinned. "Indeed. I very much wish to see her face when she opens it."

So did Nuada, but he was not going to accompany his vassal. For one thing, he had to finish spelling the stones for the three rings. For another... if by some curse or cruel twist of fate Dylan did not accept the gift for whatever reason, if she rejected his letter and his apology... Nuada did not want to be there to see it.

**.**

Dawn saw John's twin sister well enough to sit up at the kitchen table, though she still had a fever and her brother insisted she stay in bed. But Dylan hated eating in bed ("Crumbs get everywhere, and then they poke me in my sleep, it's so irritating,") so she'd trudged into the kitchen and slumped into a chair.

In her place, John would've lounged on his futon in boxers and an undershirt. His sister sat at the table in a pair of cold-weather pajamas - black yoga pants and a thin, blue long-sleeve shirt sprinkled with thin, silver snowflakes.

"Sis, you should really take it easy," John reminded her, handing her a mug of steaming cider. He carefully ladled out some of the chicken noodle soup Becan had made (or at least, John thought the meat in the soup was chicken, but maybe it was something else, considering it came from the Floating Night Market) and set it in front of his twin. "And eat your soup before it gets cold."

"Yes, Mom," Dylan replied, but she was smiling. Her sore throat was gone, thank goodness. Sore throats were the one thing she hated the most because then everything else hurt too - coughing, swallowing, even breathing. She tried a spoonful of the soup. Closed her eyes as the hot, delicious liquid soothed her throat. "Oh, Becan, I adore you."

"My lady," the brownie in question called from the front entryway. "The prince's valet is here!"

Dylan dropped her spoon. John's face pinched for a moment before smoothing out again. His sister felt a rush of gratitude. Thank goodness, he wasn't going to pick a fight with a cave troll. Dylan was pretty sure that, unlike Nuada, Wink wouldn't hesitate to put her twin through a wall if John insulted the prince, even if he _was_ Dylan's brother.

"Let him in," she said.

When Becan scampered into the kitchen, practically bouncing with excitement, Dylan frowned. When the burly troll stepped carefully into the kitchen, Dylan's jaw dropped. John made a noise that sounded an awful lot like either "whoa" or "whaaa?"

Wink bowed to the prince's lady and her kinsman before setting the rather large, blue velvet box on the table. The prince's vassal was very careful to keep his face perfectly blank as Lady Dylan's eyes slowly took in the soft, crushed velvet of the package, as well as the shiny satin ribbon of snowy white that tied it closed. The box was nearly two feet long, a foot wide, and almost ten inches deep.

When her gaze found Wink's face, the troll pulled Nuada's letter from the messenger bag at his side and laid it on top of the box. Wink rumbled something in Troll.

"Mr. Wink says," Becan translated, "that this is a gift from His Highness, for his most esteemed lady, and that the prince wishes for Lady Dylan to read the letter and open the gift in his vassal's presence so that Wink may bear back news of Her Ladyship's reaction. He says also that there is a second gift in the letter itself."

"Um... okay." When John had moved Dylan's soup bowl out of the way, she reached out and gently picked up the letter. Wink noted that her hand trembled when she broke the blue wax seal. Very carefully, she tilted the paper so that three tiny things that looked almost like jewels slid into her palm. The troll's mouth twitched when blue eyes widened and Dylan's mouth dropped open a little once more.

"What are those?" John asked.

"Anàil flowers," Dylan whispered softly. "They never wilt or die. It's a preservation spell, I think. You breathe on them, like this." Very gently, she blew a warm breath on the tiny blossoms in her palm. Even as she watched, they unfolded into full-sized flowers: a single white snowdrop, a pale rue blossom, and a vibrantly yellow rosebud. She knew then what this letter was. _Consolation, regret, and apology._

Her eyes stung, so she blinked hard so she wouldn't embarrass herself. Laying the flowers on the table, still conscious of Wink's eye on her, she unfolded Nuada's letter and began to read.

The troll knew his prince had done well when Dylan's mouth began to tremble and she sniffed once - not the sniff of a woman consumed by sorrow and fighting back painful tears. A little more than halfway through the letter, she pressed a hand to her heart and tears began to roll down her cheeks. At this point her brother proved incapable of taking it anymore.

"What? _What?_ What does it say? Why are you crying?"

"Shut up, I'm not. Shut up," she mumbled weakly as she reached the bottom. Her eyes darted back up to the top and she began to read it again.

"_Mo Duinne, _

_if I may yet presume to call you by such a tender name. You, who perhaps  
know me best of all, must__understand how difficult this letter shall be for  
me to write. Eleven months ago, I would have__considered this to be the very  
height of folly. I do not believe it to be so now. _

_I have been a fool. The days since last I beheld your face have been empty  
of those rare joys I couldtruly call my own. Not only have I imposed a  
pointless exile upon myself from my one true place of__sanctuary, but I have  
grieved one of my dearest and most loyal allies. _

_At first I sought to lay the blame at the feet of a prince's arrogance, but  
perhaps it would be better__placed at the feet of a prince's fear. Yes, my lady,  
I was afraid. Afraid that somehow a mere human__had stolen my honor and  
blinded me to the truth. Afraid that, though I had managed to survive__Eamonn's  
plots against me, I was now to be brought just as low before my father and  
sister because__of your perceived treachery. I had risked much to stand with  
you, yet it seemed that you had cast me__aside without so much as a lingering  
glance when you told me you could not stand at my side._

_Perhaps I am a coward, then. Though it sickens me to admit it, it was fear  
that drove me to turn againstyou. I thought you had somehow stolen my honor,  
and that some trickery had blinded me to your faults__all these months. I __was__  
blind, but it was my own folly that robbed me of my honor, not you. Now I find  
myself in the unprecedented position of having to apologize._

_I regret so many things about that night, mo duinne, but none more so than the  
most wretched insult I__hurled at you in my anger and spite. If you can forgive me  
anything, forgive me that, for it was a vicious__lie from the darkest, most monstrous  
part of me. Allow me now to instead speak truth. You are precious,__Dylan. You are  
kind, gentle, honorable - and yes, sometimes infuriating - and you are precious. Let  
no one,__not even myself, ever allow you to be convinced otherwise._

_My fair and gentle lady, I would lay to rest what quarrel we had. I would return to  
the way things were__before I behaved so rashly. I was unjust in my anger and  
foolish to leave you unprotected and alone. I__betrayed my honor and I betrayed  
you. I ask you now to extend to me the forgiveness and mercy that you__so often  
employ. If I were a bard or poet, perhaps I could pen these words with more grace.  
Perhaps I could__explain more clearly what it means to me that you have given me  
your fealty, your loyalty, and - if I still__may lay claim to it - your friendship._

_As it is, all I can offer you, my lady, is this letter and a token; a token of my  
affection for you, and of my__regret and sorrow over the cruel words I used against  
you. My only hope lies now in the gentleness in your__heart. Until I am once again in  
your presence, I remain_

_Always yours,  
Nuada Silverlance_"

Dylan struggled to keep her breathing even as she finished the letter for the second time. Then, wiping at her eyes, she looked at Wink. "You tell him... you tell him that this is..." She had to clear her throat before she could continue. "I love it. Tell him I love this letter, and that it's the most beautiful thing I've ever read in my life." _Always yours._ If only. If she'd been younger by about ten years - maybe twelve - she'd have probably kissed the letter. Instead she laid it on the table and caressed the elegantly penned words with a fingertip.

"Wink wants to know, milady, if you intend to open the gift."

"Oh!" Startled out of her reverie, Dylan scoffed at herself in exasperation. "Yes. Um. Yes." Still acutely aware of Wink's regard, she tugged at the silk ribbon until the bow came loose and then lifted the lid from the box.

_Looks like we're still on for the courtship charade, then,_ she thought, smiling a little as she lifted out the most elegant belt and knife sheath she'd ever seen, of white leather with the royal crest of Bethmoora embroidered in silver and metallic blue threads. In the sheath was the dirk Nuada had made for her. She knew it to be the same blade because his personal symbol, the Silver Lance, was etched beneath the crossguard.

"Is the belt and knife a faerie thing?" John asked, and Dylan laughed and nodded. "What's under the rest of the wrapping? There's more stuff."

Dylan glanced up at Wink. "There is?" When the troll nodded, she spread aside the pale blue wrapping and gasped. Her mouth curved up into a soft, dreamy smile as she took in the sight of twelve crystal flowers lined up in a row. Tentatively, she caressed the cool petals of a glittering honeysuckle that held in its depths a dancing light. She recognized each of the blossoms but... Then she saw the slip of paper tucked beneath another yellow rose and picked it up. Her eyes went misty as she read Nuada's words.

_To comfort you when dark dreams find you, as I should have done these past nights._

Beneath those words was a list of each flower, and what it meant-

_- an aloe flower of perfectly-cut ruby red glass, for_ _his_ _sorrow_ _and for hers;  
- an eglantine rose of palest pink crystal, to heal a wound of the heart;  
- rue the same gold-dusted ivory as Nuada's eyes sometimes became, for his regret_ _for his transgressions;  
- white poppy, to console her;  
- an apple blossom that actually carried the sweetness of that flower's scent, to remind her that she was his favorite: favorite human, favorite healer, favorite person with blue eyes; she could take her pick;  
- a_ _white daffodil, because she was a lady the prince could respect;  
- white bellflower, because he was thinking of her, always;  
- honeysuckle for bonds of love or affection;  
- a_ _pear blossom to represent their friendship, and how long it would last;  
- jonquil, which Dylan knew meant_ return my affection;_  
- a_ _blue-tinted violet, as a promise that he would never betray her again;_  
_- and finally, a yellow rose that looked more like a jewel than crystal, for apology and friendship, and for a broken heart..._.

When she'd lifted the rose out of the box, the last of the flowers, Wink rumbled something that Becan translated as, "Wink says all the flowers are made of goblin crystal, except the aloe, violet, and the rose. The rose is yellow diamond."

Dylan's eyes went wide. "Say what? Tell me he didn't spend a whole lot of money on this. He did, didn't he? Oh, boy." She looked down at the diamond rose. "Of course he did. Beautiful things are expensive."

Unperturbed, the troll added something. Becan translated with awe in his voice, "He also says that each of those flowers contains... oh, my. A lightning bolt." Dylan's mouth dropped open. "That is why they glow. Except for the violet and the aloe blossom. Those are _fûjin_ - wind flowers. They carry the melodies of the air and the whispers of wild things. Pick one up, my lady, and listen to it, and you will hear something special."

With a quick glance at Wink, Dylan picked up the crimson aloe blossom. At the touch of her fingers along the green stem, the glass hummed softly, like the ringing song of a fingertip stroking a crystal wineglass. She leaned in to listen to the sweet chime. When her breath touched the ruby red blooms, she heard the faintest lullaby whisper. The gentle voice was vaguely familiar but... but she couldn't quite place it. Maybe that was part of the spell laid into the flower.

But the song... the song was like the sweetest soothing bedtime lullaby she'd ever heard. It was still faint, still just a whisper, but her heart turned over at the words in the Old Tongue.

_"Cén fáth a bhfuil tú ag caoin? Cad iad na deora ar d'aghaidh? Go gairid feicfidh tú go léir do eagla beidh pas a fháil amach. Sábháilte i mo lámha, agus tú codlata amháin."_ Knowing she'd probably embarrass herself by crying if she kept listening, Dylan gently laid the flower on the table and sniffed away the happy tears stinging the backs of her eyes. The melody faded away. She looked up at Wink. Knew the silver cave troll knew exactly how the lullaby flower had touched her.

"What did all that mean?" John asked. "What language was that?"

"It's Gaelic. It said, 'Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see all of your fears will pass away. Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping.'" The human's eyes were misty still, and her smile was tremulous. "They're to help me sleep. To keep me from having bad dreams. They're night lights." She looked up at John with incredulous eyes and laughed. "They're magical night lights and two little music boxes. Or music flowers."

Her twin had to (grudgingly) admit that that was pretty cool. "There's more stuff in there," John added as Becan _very_ carefully gathered up the twelve flowers with magic and took them to Lady Dylan's room.

"No, there's not," she replied. "No way." When her brother pulled back another layer of wrapping, he made a confused noise, but Dylan's eyes blew wide and she squealed. Wink blinked in surprise as she reached the part of Nuada's gift the troll hadn't been quite sure about. "Oh. My. _Gawsh!"_

There was another slip of paper with Nuada's handwriting on it. This one said simply, _To make you smile. One for every day that I am gone from you._

"Are those... are those... um..." John trailed off as Dylan lifted out a pair of brand new socks. There were at least twelve pairs in the fancy box, and his twin was gushing over the first one like it was Godiva's chocolate or diamonds or something. Then he got a good look at the socks. "Wait a sec. What does that say?"

The pair she held were pale blue, with a single chubby black penguin on each one. Above the penguin, in snow-frosted black letters, the socks read, _You did __**what?**_ _With __**who?**_ _For __**how many**_ _cookies?_ Dylan started to laugh. Her grin was absolutely delighted. "He must have gotten that from the magnet on the fridge. Nuada..." She could feel tears threatening again and blinked them back. The fact that he'd even noticed the magnet on her fridge with the fat little penguin, noticed it enough to apply it to this, made her heart flip over. Then Dylan went through the other pairs of socks.

There were fifteen, all told.

Some weren't silly - just pretty. Slim black socks of some silky material, that shimmered with gold highlights when the light changed (this pair came with a brief note informing Dylan that here was proof that black socks were just as acceptible as colored ones); sapphire blue that sparkled as if studded with ice-white stars; green that shifted colors like leaves rustling in the breeze underneath summer sunshine; umber with jade green vines that actually sprouted red and white roses when the wearer wasn't looking.

Others were adorable: fat black kittens against white fabric, and the kittens actually moved to chase after little gray mice, but never when the eye was actually _on_ them; rainbow-striped fuzzy toe socks; bright yellow ducks and fluffy white rabbits wearing bows and silly multicolored faces with googly eyes and black sheep; one pair had a blue-eyed brunette demi-fey with silvery blue wings, with the words _I'm not short - I'm fun-sized._

_Oh, gosh,_ she thought, recognizing it from one of her bookmarks. There were all different things. But her absolute, absolute favorite was the penguins. She loved them so much she put them on as soon as she'd gone through the entire collection. The minute Dylan slipped them on her feet, the chill that had been shivering through her from the toes up began to ease.

"I _love_ them," she cried, looking up from her feet to Wink with eyes that practically shone. "Oh, I love them, I _love_ them! You tell him I love them so much! You have to tell him, okay? They're perfect. Oh, my gosh, it's like Christmas came a month early. I love them!"

The troll blinked. Well, then. He honestly had _not_ expected that reaction over socks. A fancy gown or slippers, maybe. Jewelry absolutely. Women loved glitter. But not socks. Apparently, Wink thought, watching the human woman kicking her feet like a delighted child and admiring the penguin socks, the prince knew his lady just as well as he thought he did.

"There is one more thing," Wink added.

"Hang on a sec, I'm being deliriously happy here." She clasped her hands under her chin and gazed lovingly down at her feet. "And you can tell him it was a hundred cookies and if he wants to know what it was and who with, he needs to come over and ask me," she added. "Anyway, there's more? Seriously?"

"One thing more."

When she pulled it from the box, the utter delight faded from her face, to be replaced by a look of soft wonderment. With tender fingers she flipped open the cover of the leather-bound book and read the words neatly written on the flyleaf.

_My mother used to read this book to me when  
I was a child. As you enjoy reading - and I  
enjoy listening to you read - I thought you  
might be persuaded to indulge a prince's  
whim by reading these tales of faerie to me  
when I return to you. Or perhaps, if you  
wish, I might read them to you, instead._

_- Nuada_

Dylan carefully closed the book and pressed it to her chest. She had never, _ever_ expected the crown prince of Bethmoora to do this. To go to so much trouble. If she'd been a suspicious, paranoid kind of woman, she'd have thought he was trying to buy her off. But if that were so, he would've used jewelry or chocolate or something. Not these gifts that spoke straight to her heart.

His gifts would not be a promise of courtship meant to do her honor, a knife forged by his own hand and the belt and sheath to go with it. Not beautifully dancing lights and soft lullabies to fight against the nightmares that constantly hounded her nights. Not this book that must have meant so much to him, this volume of tales that held memories of his beloved mother. And definitely not the socks that would always make her smile, socks he thought were absolutely ridiculous but had bought them for her anyway.

"Wink," she said softly, holding the book to her heart. "Is... is Nuada coming back today?"

The troll said, "He awaits your acceptance of his apology."

Would she be up to having anyone over? Her fever hadn't quite broken yet. She felt like she'd been run over by a bus. After Wink left and she ate a bowl of Becan's soup, Dylan was almost certain she was going back to bed.

But... she wanted to see Nuada. Wanted to have him back with her where she could make sure he was taking care of himself and that if he had anymore nightmares like that vicious one of his mother - and of her - that if he needed Dylan there, she could be there for him. She just wanted to reassure herself that he was okay. And, if she was being honest with herself, having the prince in the cottage made it feel safer, and somehow homier.

With a tender smile, Dylan said, "I absolutely accept, and he is most welcome."

Wink bowed low. He'd expected as much from the human lady that had sworn her loyalty to his prince, and somehow won Nuada's loyalty in return. "Then, my Lady of Central Park, if it pleases you, he will return to you tonight."

**.**

Nuada let his shoulders fall back against the marble wall of the shower chamber as the steaming water pounded down on his body. He was finally finished. The spells were laid, the jewels set, the rings complete. Wink had delivered the box and the letter to Dylan several hours ago. Despite the nervous tension shivering down his spine, Nuada had told his vassal that after delivering the missive and token to the prince's mortal lady, the troll might go to see Lorelei at Fafner's Cave instead of returning directly to their current lair.

Which had been a mistake. He should've ordered Wink to come right back. How else was he supposed to concentrate on anything when his friend hadn't returned yet to appraise him of Dylan's reaction?

The Elven warrior ducked his head beneath the spray and tried to relax. He was Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. He was _not_ a lovesick youth suffering from his first infatuation with a member of the fairer sex. Dylan's reaction was nothing for him to worry about. She would like the gift. No, she would love it. And she would love his letter as well. Nothing to worry about.

How long did it take Wink to play the flirtation game with a rhinemaiden, anyway?

Nuada stepped out from directly beneath the water so he could pour shampoo into his hands. It wasn't, as Wink had insinuated just before leaving, that he felt the need to "dress up" for the mortal woman. But he hadn't seen her in more than two weeks. She had to be reminded that Nuada was a prince, of aristocratic bearing and the noblest bloodlines. Just in case she decided to punch him, as she had in his dream. And oh, that dream... so close, he'd come so very close to losing himself...

The memory of that dream, of the nearness of her, the enticing whisper of _I want you to kiss me,_ and just how close he had come to kissing her yet again had him biting back a groan. He could _not_ go to her thinking of that dream. If he did, there would be no almost when it came to a kiss. He would kiss Dylan, and he would break, and there would be nothing left of him.

To push back the memory, and the ember of lust catching fire in his belly, Nuada made the water cold enough to bite and started washing his hair.

Once out of the shower and dried off, he hastily dressed not in his usual sable and crimson, but in blue silk trousers. His silver shirt and blue tunic were laid out across the table, waiting until his hair was combed and dry before he could don them. The Elf prince was finished with his hair and with dressing when Wink strolled in, whistling a jaunty tune and carrying a bottle of troll beer in one fist.

"What time is it?" Nuada asked in a deceptively mild voice. "Have you any notion?"

Wink shrugged nonchalantly. "Sunset, I believe," the troll replied, as if he didn't particularly care about the answer. Nuada knew then that Wink had made him wait this long for a reason. Most likely to see Nuada squirm. Well, he was not going to give his friend and brother the satisfaction. "Since you normally dislike going above ground during the day anyway, Sire," his vassal added mildly, "I didn't think you'd start for your lady's domicile before dusk. Was I wrong?"

"That is not the point," the Elven warrior replied with forced calm. "The point is, I wanted to know my lady's reaction. _Hours_ ago."

"Oh." Wink shrugged again. "I did not realize."

Nuada waited a beat while the troll put the bottle atop one of the stone shelves lining the walls. Two beats. Then, "Wink."

His oldest friend cast him a carefully blank glance over one shoulder before trudging to his bronze chair and settling into it with a sigh. Nuada noticed that while the troll's tusks were free of lip-color _this_ time, there was a smudge of that same wine-red cosmetic at the troll's shoulder. The prince bit back a growl as disturbing images flickered through his mind and waited for his vassal to say something. Anything.

After a full minute of silence, Nuada growled, "_Wink._"

Wink's eyebrow lifted slowly as he regarded his prince's careful composure. "My prince?"

"_Well?_"

The troll cocked his head. "Well, what?"

Nuada would _not_ slam his fist down on the table over this. Even if Wink was tormenting him on purpose. He was a warrior and a man grown, not a petulant child. He would not throw a tantrum because his vassal was being deliberately obtuse just to vex him. "What," the Elf prince asked with quiet deliberation, "did Dylan say?"

"Which part? Or the whole thing?" Wink tried to keep his face straight as he added, "I'm not sure I can remember all of it. She wept, though."

The Elf prince jerked in shock. "She wept?" He was on his feet in an instant, arms folded tightly across his chest. He had not expected tears. The last thing he wanted was to cause Dylan any more pain. And he'd been so sure she would like his gift. "Why?" Nuada demanded. "Did she say why?"

"No, but I imagine it was because she was happy."

Nuada frowned. "Happy?"

"Mmm," the troll replied, idly studying the shovel-like fingernails of one hand. "She was touched by the anàil flowers. She wept when she read your letter. She smiled when she saw the belt and dirk, and smiled wider when she found the _rai_ and _fûjin_ flowers you bought her. She guessed their purpose immediately. Her eyes got very wide when I told her the rose was made of yellow diamond; your lady is not greedy. She was surprised and touched, I think, that you would go to such trouble. I thought she would weep again when she read your explanation of the flowers, but instead she moved on."

Now Wink allowed himself to grin.

"If she'd been standing instead of sitting when she got to the socks, I believe your lady might have actually jumped up and down in excitement. She squeaked like an overjoyed maiden when she saw them. You were right about the penguins, by the way, Your Highness. I humbly apologize for doubting you. And your lady said to tell you that it was one hundred cookies, but that if you wished to know what with who, you had to go and ask her."

Relaxing now, Nuada sank back into his chair. To be honest, the Elf prince hadn't quite understood what the magnet on Dylan's refridgerator meant, exactly. Only that it was subtly sexual but made innocent enough by the use of cookies and penguins. He was not sure _why,_ but it didn't really matter_._ And he also knew that whenever Dylan's smile seemed to falter and she caught a glimpse of the little cartoon penguin, she would laugh and smile more easily.

"And the book?" The prince asked.

Wink sighed in exasperation. "I was afraid that she would cry again. Luckily, she did not. Female tears make me nervous. She also says, Sire, that she loved the letter you wrote and that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever read in her life. Her exact words."

Nuada's eyes went wide and he tried to ignore the thrill of satisfaction and pleasure those words produced. He'd actually thought the letter a bit lacking, though he had done the best he could. She loved it? _Most beautiful_... There was a curious warmth stirring in his chest somewhere around his heart. He suppressed it, but barely.

Wink continued, "She accepts your apology and wants to see you tonight, if you are willing. Which," the troll added with an edge ot his voice, "I assured the lassling that you were. I believe you'll be staying there for the next few days - or however long until we return to Bethmoora?"

"I will, my friend. With Becan there, we have a chaperone, so I..." Nuada trailed off as something Wink had said penetrated. He cocked an eyebrow. "The lassling?"

"Erm..." The massive troll looked a bit abashed as he glanced down at the floor. "As I told you, my prince, I like her."

Nauda just laughed. Apparently his vassal had taken more than a liking to the human woman. No wonder the troll had so vehemently taken her part in all this. Instead of feeling even the slightest bit betrayed, the prince was surprised to feel relief. Relief, and the faintest glimmer of a hope so forbidden and forlorn Nuada didn't even want to acknowledge its existence. But he had to. Wink liked Dylan. Perhaps... perhaps if Wink liked Dylan, then it was not such a betrayal for Nuada himself to... no. He wouldn't think about that now. Not just yet. For now, things had to be resolved between himself and his lady. He still had to apologize in person.

The Elven warrior rose to his feet and moved to the wooden chest where he kept spare clothes. If he was going to stay at the cottage, he was not going to wait for Wink to bring his clothing like he'd had to before. He would pack his own things and bring them with him back... back to Dylan's idyllic little cottage in the woods. Back to the mortal dwelling that had somehow become Nuada's home.

For the first time in days, Nuada's mouth curved upward into a carefree smile. He was going home.

**.**

After John had come back to the cottage from buying a futon - Dylan was tired of people having to sleep on her dinky sofa - she'd sent her twin back to his apartment. Everything was fine now. She felt much better, thanks to the medicine and a deep, dreamless sleep aided by the gentle lullaby of the _fûjin_ violet of colored glass and the lovely ambiance of the _rai_ flowers Nuada had bought her.

Her fever had broken barely an hour ago. She still felt weak and shaky, but that was okay. Becan could stand by to help if anything happened to her. And it wasn't as if she could call Nuada on her cell and tell him not to come. No, she'd be fine.

Dylan stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if concealer and foundation would help make her look less washed out. Being sick always made her look like a hag. Sighing, she turned to walk out of the bathroom. It wasn't like she was going _out_ anywhere. Makeup was a waste of time unless there were places to go. Nuada didn't care if she wore makeup or not. He didn't look at her that way, so...

_Except that we almost kissed that last night,_ Dylan thought as she stepped back in front of the mirror and grabbed her makeup. _Maybe... maybe he does. No, don't think like that. Don't get your hopes up._ But by the time she walked out of the bathroom, she looked more like her usual, non-sick self, with the added compliment of eyeliner and mascara. To bring a bit of color back to her mouth, she'd cheated - applied lipstick, then wiped it off, leaving her lips a healthier color.

_I feel really stupid right now,_ Dylan added with some exasperation as she smoothed down the skirt of her black dress and studied herself in the mirror again. _I feel like I'm a grown woman playing dress up like a four-year-old. Or like a sixteen-year-old on her way to her first prom._

Why had she tied her hair back with a ribbon instead of just using a scrunchie? Because she liked the way it made a loose sort of ponytail that subtly framed her face with stray curls and hung down her back. Why had she worn the black dress that, when she moved just right, glittered a little under the bathroom lights? The one that was just long enough to be modest, hitting just below her knees? With her new penguin socks, of all things? Why had she dabbed on just a tiny bit of her favorite lily-and-rose perfume?

_Because I'm a complete idiot, that's why. Oh, whatever. At least I look pretty._ Would Nuada think so? _Oh, shut up. Whatever._ She fiddled with the gold medallion around her neck and studied her wide-eyed reflection.

A sharp rap at the door sent her heart pounding. She took a deep breath - this was going to be _so_ awkward - and walked out of her room. Becan was waiting at the front door, the bolts already pulled back. Dylan bit her lip and nodded to her brownie. She'd asked him to go into her room once Nuada arrived. She'd known that she and the prince needed to talk. Alone. But that did not mean she was looking forward to it. Especially if he was still angry with her.

Dizziness tugged at her a little, but it was soft enough she could easily ignore it. Instead, she opened the door and looked up into feral eyes like molten gold. Her heart stuttered to a stop. The breath caught in her throat. Everything went very, very still. Then, before she could stop herself, Dylan threw herself into Nuada's arms and buried her face in his chest. He was here, he was solid and real and safe and he was here with her, he was okay, he was _here_.

"I'm so glad you're okay, I've been really worried and I missed you and I'm so glad you're safe, I'm just so glad you're safe, I missed you so much, I can't believe you're here," she whispered, fisting her hands in his shirt. Slowly, so slowly it felt like an eternity, his arms came up to wrap around her narrow shoulders. "Are you still angry with me?"

"No," he murmured. A flash of relief even as a brief pressure spiked through Dylan's temples and she stepped back. Nuada asked softly, "Are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," she said softly, rubbing her forehead. "Just a little headache." The painful pressure increased slightly before fading again as she glanced at her feet. Dylan shivered in the blast of icy winter wind that came through the door. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't keep you out on the doorstep, I'm sorry. Come in. Please."

"Thank you for the invitation," Nuada said, and something in his voice made her pause even as the mild headache pulsed through her skull again. Were they back to square one, then? Being so formal to each other? He'd said he wasn't mad at her anymore so why would they be? The Elf prince stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him before turning to her. Dylan's heart began to pound as he said softly, "You look... lovely."

She swallowed hard as her insides melted. "Thank you. I thought... I thought, in case we were being formal, that I would..." There was a strange look in his glacial topaz eyes that made her trail away. Along with the pain ever so slowly building at her temples, now her eyes were starting to hurt. She was still cold, too, even with the door closed. "I missed you."

"And I missed you," Nuada murmured, and reached out to her. She came willingly, because she knew he'd be warm and if he held her again she was pretty sure her night would be perfect. The Elf prince framed her face between his hands and said softly, earnestly, "I should not do this... the gods know I should not... but I must."

Dylan frowned. Something about those words sounded so strange, so... unfamiliar. She just couldn't figure out what, exactly. "Do what?"

Then his mouth came down on hers, firm and unyielding, scorching hot. She stiffened in shock, then melted against him. Before she knew it, she was trapped between the solid wall of his chest and the ice cold stone of the front door. His mouth moved over hers hungrily, ravenous as a prowling wolf in the dark. She couldn't breathe. He was stealing her breath. Stealing every thought with the hunger in this kiss that gave nothing but took everything.

Dylan had imagined what it would be like to kiss Nuada, especially after that night at the playground. She hadn't thought it would be like this. Hadn't thought it would leave her feeling hollow and chilled. She loved him. She loved him more than life. So why did this feel so... so wrong?

"Nuada," she murmured against his mouth. "Nuada, wait. Stop. Just hang on a minute." When he didn't, when he acted as if he hadn't even heard her, a sliver of ice pierced her chest. In the back of her skull she heard the howling of wolves like an echo of memory. "Nuada. Nuada, stop. _Stop!_" She pushed her shaking hands between them and shoved at the immovable, implacable wall of his chest. Elven strength pinned her wrists against the door hard enough to send bruising pain rippling up her arms. Sick fear iced her blood. No, he couldn't, wouldn't do this to her. She knew him, he would never take what she wasn't willing to give, never. But now she tasted blood where he'd bitten her lip in his hunger. She felt her skin bruising beneath his hands and the aggressive hardness of his body. This was a bad dream, just a bad dream, he would never hurt her this way! "Nuada, please stop, please... Nuada, _get off me!_"

And she bit down hard on his bottom lip, her heart screaming.

Her eyes widened when he wrenched away to gaze down at her. Dylan's eyes ached and her head was swimming but suddenly she knew why. Partly because she was sick, yes; because the embers of fever were beginning to burn in her again and she couldn't quite catch her breath. But also partly because there was heavy, heavy glamor at work, glamor at a noble or royal level, and the blessing of the fear-darrig was slowly but surely breaking through it. Which explained her pounding headache.

As soon as she realized that, there was a tingling at her throat and the glamor began to dissolve a touch more quickly. Golden eyes shifted to cat-slit silver glittering with hatred and triumph. The star-blond hair darkened to midnight black. The royal scar, which she loved to trace with just the very tips of her fingers, faded away.

Eamonn, smiling despite the blood beading along his bottom lip from Dylan's bite, inclined his head toward her in a mockery of polite greeting.

_No. No, no, no. Oh, Heavenly Father, help me._ But she couldn't say a word as Eamonn's tongue flicked out and licked away the blood on his lip. Could only watch him with wide-eyed terror as he leaned in close enough to kiss her again. His breath was scalding hot against her skin.

"That was not very nice, little whore," the dark Elf growled. "Do you treat the Silver Lance so coldly?"

Her heart slammed against her sternum hard enough to leave cracks. "Get out of my house," she whispered, even though she knew it was too late to rescind the invitation. Only his death would keep him from the cottage now. Dylan swallowed and said in what she prayed was a strong voice, "Get your hands off me. Get out."

She yelped when Eamonn wrenched her forward and then slammed her back against the granite door. Her head cracked against the stone. White light flashed behind her eyes.

"Oathbr-" A savage slap cut off the word and made Dylan bite her tongue hard enough that she tasted fresh copper. Her lip and the inside of her mouth were bleeding now, too.

"Be nice to me, human, or it will take a _very_ long time for you to die." Eamonn didn't bother hiding his grin. He'd known the instant the Silver Lance left the putrid little cottage and his disgusting whore. His spies had seen to that. A little lovers' spat, how sad. But the Elf of Zwezda hadn't attacked then. No, he'd waited, biding his time. Wanting the little slut to be lulled into a sense of complacency before the dark Elf made his move. Because he'd needed her not to be thinking clearly. That was the only way she would issue an invitation to him, and erase the last place of safety from him that she (and the Prince of Bethmoora) possessed. "In fact, if you're very good, I might not kill you at all."

Dylan's face was a throbbing sheet of fire where Eamonn had hit her. There was blood in her mouth. _Nuada's coming,_ she thought suddenly. Hope flared. _He'll come. I just have to hold out until he comes._

Then Eamonn leaned in and whispered a hideous suggestion softly against her ear. She could hear the vicious glee in his voice. A memory - or an echo of a nightmare - slithered down her spine like a venomous snake; a memory of pain and screams and the hot stickiness of blood, and Nuada's eyes dull with his own agony and regret as Eamonn made the prince watch her die.

The fear was a sudden living, breathing thing gnawing at her, but the absolute and utter fury (how dare he hurt Nuada! How dare that vicious monster lay a finger on her prince, cause him one second of grief or pain! She wouldn't let him!) burned through the black choking terror, leaving in its path a grim and icy determination faintly edged with hatred.

When Eamonn pulled back to gauge Dylan's reaction to his words, she spat the mouthful blood in his face. Salt and iron scorched the fae's skin. Not enough to burn, but enough to irritate. With a muttered oath, he hit her across the face again, hard enough to stun her. Snarling, the Elf threw her to the floor. The impact sent bolts of pain shooting up the arm she landed on.

Eamonn flipped her onto her back and pinned her to the floor. His weight was like a mountain crushing her as he leaned in and said softly, "You're mine, sweetness. I'll use you until there's nothing left of your world but pain. Until you beg me to slit your throat. But I will not kill you. Not until he comes and finds you slowly bleeding to death on the floor. Then I shall make him beg for your worthless life before I break his pathetic heart. I'll drown him in your mortal blood."

A glint of silver caught Dylan's eye. She bucked and heaved, trying to get free of the Elf who wrenched her arms over her head so that her shoulders screamed. He shackled her wrists with one hand and reached down to the hem of her dress with the other. She had to think, she had to _think!_ She couldn't wait for Nuada to save her, she had to save herself. But how? _How?_

Had to think. Couldn't panic yet, not yet. Then she caught a clear glimpse of what she'd seen out of the corner of her eye. Becan was struggling to carry a small, silver canister without making a sound and attracting Eamonn's attention. As soon as she saw it, and the brownie, Dylan knew what it was: the defensive spray out of her purse.

_Aerosol, plastic, pepper spray, aluminum, chrome_. Five "mortal" substances often toxic to the fae. The only things worse were iron, salt and lead. And despite the panic clawing at her, strangling her, a swift and insane plan suddenly sprouted in her mind.

Blue eyes locked with eyes like black buttons, and she blinked, hard, to show Becan that she knew exactly what he was trying to do. The wee fae wasn't strong enough to fight Eamonn. None of the knives or anything that the brownie could manipulate with his magic were iron, and so would do very little good against the silver-eyed Elf. But pepper spray would work perfectly. She just needed one wrist free.

Eamonn shoved at her skirt, baring one thigh all the way to the hip. His fingers bit deep into her skin as he began to slide his hand up over her leg. _Not again,_ she thought, struggling against the screaming panic. His fingertips scraped roughly over the spill of sensitive white scar tissue on her inner thigh. _Not again, no, no, no!_

"Wait! Wait, wait. It doesn't-" Dylan nearly choked on the revolting words, but forced them out anyway. "It doesn't have to be this way." The dark Elf paused and looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. "I... I'll do what you want," she whispered. She didn't have to pretend to keep that tremor in her voice. "Just please let my hands down; my shoulders are killing me. Please. I'll do anything you want, please."

Ugh, it sickened her, to have to sound so desperate to him. But she knew this kind of monster. Knew that he would believe this because he was just egotistical enough to believe that she might willingly offer herself to him.

"Think about it," Dylan coaxed tremulously when the Elf frowned down at her. "You want to make Nuada suffer, right? Well, he loves me. Which is disgusting, by the way. Think how much he'd suffer if he found me with you. Enjoying it, I mean." Hating herself, she said softly, "Think about how much it will hurt when he hears me call out for you and not him. Think about how much it will hurt him to see us together, to know that I gave myself to the man who tried to kill him. Gave myself _willingly_. To know that you've taken the most important thing in the world to him and made it irrevocably yours. It would be worse than anything you could do to him by yourself; you know that. The ultimate betrayal."

Silver eyes burned into her face. "You humans. You're all the same: anything to save your own skin." Disgust dripped from every word. "You really don't give a damn about him, do you?" His grip on her wrists loosened a fraction. "I'll admit, as far as rape goes, I usually prefer my women a little more willing and a little less likely to bite. Still, to hurt the traitor, I'd do a lot I wouldn't otherwise." He frowned more fiercely, but his grip loosened even more. "All right, then, sweetness. Prove it to me. Prove what you're willing to do. Be my sweet girl and show me what favors you bestow on the lily-white prince."

Forcing herself to look Eamonn in the eyes, suppressing her shudder of revulsion, she said softly, "Kiss me."

She thought she'd gag the moment his mouth slammed down on hers, teeth biting and tongue threatening to choke her. Not a real kiss. Just another form of rape, full of savagery and blood and pain. Dylan forced herself to hold still and stay as un-tensed as possible. To let the twisted Elf kiss her.

As the seconds ticked by, the dark-haired Elf seemed to lose track of what his hand _should_ have been doing with her wrists while his mouth was occupied. He released her bruised wrists as his hands went to her hips. Pain and a release of brutal tension shimmered through her shoulders as she slowly lowered her arms.

Dylan struggled to breathe under the onslaught of Eamonn's hungry mouth and cruel teeth. Struggled to keep down the panic and revulsion bubbling up in her stomach and trying to choke her as Eamonn's weight pressed down on her like the crushing heaviness of graveyard earth.

_Don't struggle,_ she ordered herself. Pinching fingers bit deep into her skin. Bruises bloomed. Her heartbeat threatened to shatter her ribcage. _Not yet; don't struggle yet._ His teeth found her throat and bit down. Tears pricked her eyes at the sudden throb of pain, at the howling of dark memory. She nearly choked on her revulsion, on the ice-cold terror. _Don't struggle. Don't think about the damage._ Then he was suffocating her again with his mouth.

Something cold and hard touched her fingers. One hand wrapped around the canister of pepper spray. _Now._ Dylan wrenched her mouth away from his.

"Eamonn?" She gasped.

"What?" The Elf snarled, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. "I am a little indisposed. _What?"_

She locked eyes with him, and let him see her absolute fury and loathing. "Get the hell _off_ me." And she sprayed him right in the face. He fell away from her with a howl of agony.

Dylan climbed to her feet, gasping and trying not to throw up as she stumbled away from him. Vicious pressure hammered against her temples. The world was swimming in a fever-induced haze as the fear-darrig's blessing tried to fight the glamor and her body tried to fight the sickness dragging at her. She staggered against the door, her leg threatening to buckle. She locked her knee to keep on her feet. More pain sizzled through her leg but she refused to let it distract her. She shook her head to clear it and nearly sank to the floor as dizziness slammed her.

"Milady!" Becan scrambled to her side. "Milady!"

"I'm okay," she mumbled, pushing her hair out of her face and struggling to breathe through the pressure crushing down on her chest. "I'm all right, Becan. I'm okay." Grasping the pepper spray, she tried to think as Eamonn thrashed and howled on the floor, his hands covering his face. Out, she had to get _out_, had to run. The cottage wasn't safe. She'd invited him in; he could get to her here. She had to get out, out into the woods, had to hide somewhere, had to get someplace safe.

But the snow... Dylan knew she'd be hypothermic within thirty minutes. Forty at the most. And there was still the chance that Eamonn would catch her. He was Elf-kind; she was human. He was swift, strong, and only injured by a quick shot of defensive spray; she was slow, weak (compared to an Elf), and sick with the flu, with reaction-sickness from the glamor, and with the nausea of what she'd just done churning in her stomach. She couldn't even risk getting her shoes from her bedroom. Only her leather jacket, which hung from a hook by the door.

_Better hypothermic and moving towards possible safety than warm and dead,_ she thought, yanking the leather coat off the hook and shrugging into it.

"Run, Becan," she commanded. "Find Nuada."

And she and the brownie both ran outside into the freezing winter night.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Oh, come on, you knew that would be way too easy for them to just kiss and hug and makeup. Hahahaha. I am SO evil, I know. Sorry. Anyways, references will be put in way later (like tomorrow). I'm trying to get this up on the 26th for WhenNightmaresWalked because she is absolute awesome. So yeah. Hope you enjoyed the awesomeness. Love you all!_

_1) Who liked the presents? What was your favorite?_

_2) Nuada - is he not so tortured and adorable and put-upon by certain big-brotherly trolls, lol?_

_3) 10 favorite things!_

_4) So... who saw Eamonn popping up in this chapter? Hehehehehe._ _And who could tell (and when could you tell) that "Nuada" was actually Eamonn?_

_5) And who's excited - Dylan actually saved herself for once? Woot! What do we think about that?_

_6) Who thinks Nuada is going to get ambushed by Eamonn? Who thinks Nuada is going to fight Eamonn to the death? Muahahaha._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Silver and Gold" is actually a Red Riding Hood poem by... I think Ellen Kushner. It's in one of the faerie tale anthologies edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. Here it refers to the fact that Nuada's eyes are gold and Eamonn's are silver._

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- Dextromethorphan is the main cough-suppressing ingredient in Kroger-brand cough syrup. The first time I ever had to take that cough syrup, the _only_ reason I didn't throw it back up was because I punched the kitchen counter. Twice.

- The River Boyne is a river in Ireland that runs to the sea; supposedly it was formed when Boann (the Tuatha de who was said in some myths to be the wife of Nuada) challenged the power of the Well of Wisdom, which then overflowed with magical water. The water chased Boann to the sea, where she drowned, and created the River Boyne, or the Boann River.

- The dog in Dylan's dream is named Cù Chulainn (the Hound of Chulainn, also known as the Hound of Ulster). Cú Chulainn is an Irish mythological hero who appears in the stories of the Ulster Cycle, as well as in Scottish and Manx folklore. The son of the god Lug and Deichtine (sister of Conchobar mac Nessa), he was originally named Sétanta. He gained his better-known name as a child after he killed Chulainn's fierce guard-dog in self-defence, and offered to take its place until a replacement could be reared. At the age of seventeen he defended Ulster single-handedly against the armies of queen Medb of Connacht in the epic Táin Bó Cúailnge ("Cattle Raid of Cooley"). It was prophesied that his great deeds would give him everlasting fame, but that his life would be a short one. This is the reason why he is compared to the Greek hero Achilles. He fights from his chariot, driven by his loyal charioteer Láeg, and drawn by his horses, Liath Macha and Dub Sainglend. The dog is _not_ the mythological hero. He's just a dream-dog (a dog Dylan dreamed about that doesn't exist).

- I didn't get the "as you wish" from _the Princess Bride_, but I thought I'd mention tPB here anyway just in case anyone wondered whether I did.

- I made up the different kinds of flowers. Not the species (like, not rue or rose or snowdrop), but the lightning/wind/breath flowers. I made those up. I invented those. And the rocket boots! I can fly; can _you_ fly? (Disney Pixar quote, lol). Anàil means "breath" in Gaelic.

- The meanings of all the different flowers are actually applicable in real life. =D

- I forgot to mention when I first posted this: the letter is _**only**_ possible through the combined efforts of (mostly) WhenNightmaresWalked, and then a little bit of myself and my beta/roommate. _**But mostly Nightmare**_. I did like, the first and last lines. And maybe one or two in the middle.

- The song played by the aloe blossom is actually "Into the West" by Annie Lennox from the soundtrack for _the Return of the King_, lol.

- The design for the penguin socks (and the _Not short - fun sized_ socks) comes from bumperstickers I saw once on Myspace. =D

- Dylan getting a futon was Ja Reedus's idea, I believe (since Dylan has so many people camping out on her sofa in the den but the sofa's like 'dis big').

- I learned the lipstick-to-make-yourself-look-not-so-pale trick from an episode of Joss Whedon's _Angel._


	42. A Lick of Frost

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So I have to say this first. I talked to a couple experts and found out that for hypothermia, the best way to combat it is to get out of the cold, strip, and climb into a sleeping bag or into bed with someone who's _not _hypothermic and then let their body heat slowly warm you up. Anything else (like getting into the shower or drinking hot coffee or whatever) can and usually will make you go into shock. So... yeah. Thought I'd throw that out there. Just a Red Cross Alert from your local fanfic author._

_Second thing, happy Samhain (pronounced Sow-Wen), aka Halloween, aka Hallow'en, aka All Hallows' Eve. Fans of this holiday, go read _The Halloween Tree _by Ray Bradbury. Like, for real. It's amazing. Anyway, this is your chapter in honor of that holiday (although the chapter takes place in Novemeber and isn't super horrifying, there's still a lot of the scary in it, if I do say so myself). So I hope you enjoy!_

_Third, I know I'm supposed to update on the first of every month, but I'm way behind, so it's probably going to be, like, the 4th and 7th instead of the 1st. I'm sorry. I will seriously try to get those chapters done, though, I promise! I love you all. Thank you so much for your support._

_Oh, and welcome new readers, __**Mrs. Egghead**_ _and __**Lady Guinevre**__! Yay! Love new people. They make me smile. And to answer your question, __**JACKIE**_ _(I think it was you), yes, Hellboy and Abe will make various appearances in this fic. Check chapters 32 and 37 (or maybe 38 - the chapter with Lorelei and Wink at the bar) for current appearances. _=)

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**Chapter Forty-Two**

**A Lick of Frost**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Cold, the Returning Hero, No Air, Black Death, Pleading for Mercy, Stand Off, Agony, Whispers in the Warm Dark, and Heartbreak**

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Cold was a killer.

She knew this in a way a lot of people never comprehended, understood the vicious cold of a deep winter night.

Oh, and it was winter all right, almost ten degrees below freezing now that the sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the weak winter light no longer turned the snow to diamonds. The heavy drifts of shadowed white looked deceptively soft in the deepening dark. Tiny snowflakes like splinters of ice beat against her exposed face. Frost-crusted snowbanks cut at her bare legs. The snow was packed together so that it dragged at her bad leg and sent pain shoving deep into her knee. The cold seeped into the arm she'd landed on when Eamonn had thrown her, so that the dull ache continued to pulse and throb.

But she kept trudging because she knew that eventually Eamonn would be able to work through the pain, get up, and follow her out into the night. That was why she went deeper into the forest instead of toward the city. There was no one in the city who could help her except Nuada, and he was on his way to the cottage. She couldn't risk missing him by going into the city.

Dylan briefly thought of running to the faerie mounds where Roiben ruled, then remembered those were in Jersey. The Shadowhunter Institute was on the complete other side of New York. There was no way she could get through the City fast enough to make it to Jersey. The dark-haired Elf could track her down easily in the concrete jungle. Find her, kill her - as easy as a snap of his fingers because only humans with the Sight could see him and she didn't know anyone nearby with the Sight who wouldn't be hurt by the silver-eyed Elf.

So she ran into the woods, praying and shivering and terrified. When she found a concrete path running through the park, she crunched along the snow-dusted, salted pavement and trembled inside her coat.

Dylan stumbled through the snow, fighting to hunch into her jacket and keep walking as the wind knifed through the leather coat and the thin black dress. Snow melted slowly because of her body warmth and soaked the hem of her dress. Oddly, her socks stayed dry. Stayed warm. Well, warmish. Where the rest of her was already raw and numb with the cold, she could still feel her toes. Chunks of rock salt dug into the bottoms of her feet. They were tingling with the frigid chill but she hadn't lost feeling in the soles quite yet.

But she was a doctor. Four years of medical school and more than five years living in New York City told Dylan that if she didn't find a place to hide out and get warm, she was going to freeze to death. First she would shiver as her extremities went numb. Then the numbness would spread through her and the shivering would get worse. Walking would become extremely difficult. And then the shivering would stop. Once her body was too tired to shiver anymore, she would have at most fifteen minutes before the cold dragged her into deathly sleep and her heart stopped.

And that was if she was dressed okay, which she wasn't. No gloves, no scarf, no shoes. Her dress was one of those thin cocktail numbers that had been bought at a thrift store for an NYPD awards function Peabody had invited her to a year ago and wasn't meant to be worn outdoors without a thick coat, and then only for the few minutes it took to catch a cab or get into the car.

Dylan shoved the thought of why she'd worn the dress out of her head. Shoved away thoughts of being rescued, of dark-shadowed eyes bronze with fiercely protective fury, of the lethal whisper of Elven silver singing through the air. Couldn't rely on rescue right now. Instead she stopped for a minute and tried to push down the dizziness and aching pressure that throbbed through her skull. Steam misted in harshly panting gasps from her mouth.

_Heavenly Father,_ Dylan prayed silently, _I don't think I can do this. I can't breathe. I can't... help me. Please._

Gritting her teeth, trying to ignore the familiar burning beginning in her throat and spreading through her chest, Dylan shoved away from the ice-cold oak tree she'd been leaning against and kept walking. She didn't know where she was going, only that it was far away from the silver-eyed Elf intent on her imminent demise. There were fae in these woods who knew her and liked her. They would help her.

Maybe. If they were nearby. If she could get to them.

**.**

Nuada stopped at the edge of Central Park, sudden unease curling in his belly. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled. There it was: Dylan's cottage. Windows lit with the warmth and glow from within the stone walls. _Home_, his heart whispered, but he tried to ignore it now that he was suddenly confronted by the reality of the place.

The Elven warrior swallowed down the swift surge of trepidation. Wink had said that she wanted him to come back. In the depths of the troll's good eye, Nuada had seen that it wasn't just that Dylan wanted the prince to return - she _needed_ him to. The feral-eyed warrior didn't understand that, but he'd accepted it without even trying to challenge the thought once he'd recognized it for what it was. And Nuada trusted his vassal and friend.

That didn't erase the nerves. He had said vicious things to the human lady that had sworn herself to him. His honor, and the emotions in his chest that he was still trying to ignore, demanded Nuada apologize to her. She'd already accepted the letter. Already accepted the gift. Loved both, Wink had said.

But he'd had _time_, stars curse it. Time to think about each gift, about each word etched into that paper. He would have no time now. These words would have to come swiftly. Would have to be the _right_ words. If they weren't... what other damage might he do?

He'd never been good at apologizing. Even with his sister, the other half of his heart and soul, sincere apologies had been difficult to voice and were rarely completely accepted. He had always fumbled something, some part of it. His father had always been very careful to correct his youthful efforts gently, but that was not an option this time.

Nuada knew he'd misstepped with Dylan often. She always forgave, even if he didn't apologize at all. But he'd knifed her in the heart this time. Would she still forgive?

_Do not be a coward,_ the warrior prince growled at himself when he realized that he was still doubting, still worrying like an inexperienced youth instead of a seasoned warrior. _Take your courage in hand, go to her, and get it done._

Nuada moved toward the cottage. Slowed, frowning, when he found the door ajar. The nerves in his belly now sizzled down his spine. Flickering firelight spilled across the snow from the cracked door, red as mortal blood. A different unease whispered over his skin. Casting out with sharp Elven senses, Nuada lightly pushed open the cottage door.

Feral eyes and Elven mind-magic caught several things at once: the electric tingle of non-lethal pain, the copper stink of human blood, the vicious stench of cruelty and hatred, and... a handful of scattered scarlet drops on the wooden floor.

There was no one in the cottage. No little brownie, no prowling kitten. No mortal lady. Only the psychic impression soaking into the floor, into the walls of the entryway, in the blood on the floor, the urgent screaming _runrunrunrunrun_. Nuada's pack dropped to the floor from nerveless fingers.

Even though he knew there was no one there, the Elven warrior prowled the cottage searching for any indication of what had happened. No sign of forced entry. No blood beyond the entryway. Nothing broken or missing other than Dylan's leather coat.

And Dylan. Dylan was missing.

The world tried to tilt, tried to spin away from him as the prince thought of all the different reasons why his lady could have been missing. All the different things that could have happened to her.

When something icy slid through his belly, Nuada clenched his teeth and shook it off. Not now. He would let the... unease shiver through him like winter wind later. But not now. Not yet.

"Your Highness!"

Feral eyes sliced to the brownie that squeezed through the still partially-open door and scrambled toward him. Becan panted for breath as Nuada strode quickly toward him. "What happened? Where is she?"

"Eamonn, Sire. He came, he got into the cottage, I don't know where he went but-"

Nuada held up a hand for silence and Becan's little mouth snapped shut. The Elf knelt in front of the brownie and held out his hand. "Show me." Black eyes flicked nervously between the prince's implacable, emotionless face and his outstretched palm. The glacial amber eyes were smoldering to crimson-washed bronze. Then the wee fae laid his tiny hand across Nuada's, and showed the prince what he'd seen.

Impressions and images flooded Nuada's mind. Becan hadn't been in the front room when he heard his mistress yell. Dylan crying out his name from the front door – not Eamonn's name, but _Nuada's_. Begging him to stop. Demanding he get off of her. Nuada's belly churned violently when he realized what the dark Elf had done.

Pain saturated Dylan's sharp cry. Becan scrambled to get to his mistress. Found her trapped beneath the silver-eyed Elf, struggling as desperate sounds escaped her mouth. The world swirling by as the brownie raced back to the bedroom, rifled through Dylan's purse, pulled out a silvery canister that burned the little faerie's hands and arms when he hoisted it up. The brownie dragged it back to the entryway.

Nuada paused the memory, frowning.

She wasn't struggling anymore. She was speaking quietly to Eamonn, whose weight between her legs kept her pinned to the floor. Her face was bruised, her lip bleeding. But Eamonn wasn't hammering at her the way Nuada had thought he would (Nuada vaguely registered the shudder of relief that shivered through him). The dark Elf hadn't yet gotten to the point where he could hurt her that way. Something Dylan was saying had given him pause.

The Elven warrior let the rest of the memory play out. Becan moved closer to his too-still mistress. Moved within earshot. Nuada heard what his mortal lady murmured to the twisted Elf who kept her hands ruthlessly pinned above her head.

"You want to make Nuada suffer, right? Well, he loves me. Which is disgusting, by the way."

Nuada winced, even though he knew it was untrue. Even though he knew she did not, would not feel that way. Even if the feral-eyed warrior confessed that smoldering truth, she would never... But Dylan was still talking. Still entrancing Eamonn with her vicious words.

"Think how much he'd suffer if he found me with you. Enjoying it, I mean."

More words. More enticements. The bronze-eyed warrior tried to shove aside the sickness and the sudden, sharp ache in his chest as Dylan continued murmuring those evil tempting things to the dark Elf that kept her pinned beneath him.

Nuada knew what Dylan was doing. He hadn't known she could do that. Hadn't known his lady could be so deceptive. Hadn't thought Eamonn would fall for such an obvious ploy. Didn't the other Elf see the fear and loathing in her eyes? Couldn't he hear the ice frosting her voice? For all his flaws, Eamonn had been a great warrior. How could he fall for such a trick?

But she was a mind-healer. Dylan knew the way the mind, even a twisted mind of a murderous fae, worked. Knew it, and had used it to get what she wanted. Mingling with Nuada's rage, with the dread and fury and hatred, there was chilling approval because he knew that she knew _exactly_ what she was doing.

_That's my girl,_ he thought savagely. _That's my clever girl._

Then snarling rage washed the thought away as the dark Elf kissed her, took possession of her scarred mouth and tried to dominate her. Nuada could see the way she held herself still, waiting, waiting. Not resisting, but not giving Eamonn anything. Could see how Dylan fought against her natural instinct to attack the Elf who held her captive with a warrior's steely, unforgiving strength. Was that a tear streaking from the corner of one blue eye? Black fury smoldered in Nuada's chest. He would kill the silver-eyed Elf of Zwezda for that tear.

Eamonn released Dylan's blue-bruised wrists at her insistence and busied himself with brutal kisses at her bleeding mouth, raw-bruising bites at her vulnerable throat. Shimmering black slid over her legs as Eamonn pushed her skirt out of his way. Feral bronze eyes caught a glimpse of familiar penguin socks. Her toes scrunched rapidly in agitation but in all other ways she held so very still.

Ice coated the prince's heart as he watched, waited. If Eamonn had actually... if that vicious _bastard_ had actually managed to...

Brownie magic floated the silver canister right into Dylan's hand. She wrenched her head back and gasped out the dark Elf's name. He snarled at her. With a glint of hate in those fey-like eyes, Dylan snapped out, "Get the hell _off_ me," and sprayed the contents of the canister right in Eamonn's face.

"Defensive spray," Becan explained softly. "One of humanity's better inventions for a woman in danger."

The Elf bellowed like an enraged bull and fell away from her. Nuada's impossible lady staggered to her feet and then leaned hard against the front door, breathing heavily. An odd glint in her blue eyes and the awkward way she held her arm had sharp concern lancing the prince's chest. The last part of the memory showed Dylan yanking on her leather jacket and escaping at a limping stumble into the winter night.

He wrenched his mind from the memory and fought against the hatred and the rage burning in his blood. The Elven warrior didn't remember drawing his lance. Didn't remember rising to his feet. Only at the door did he stop, because Becan grabbed his pant leg. Shards of topaz ice bit deep into the brownie as Nuada stared down at him.

_"What?"_

"Milady is ill, Sire. Her fever only broke a couple hours ago. She was doing better, which was why she agreed to let you return, but the cold... I'm worried. The chill in the air could kill her just as surely as Eamonn will if he finds her. It's been almost fifteen minutes. You must bring her back. Please."

Dread pierced the icy crust of rage encasing his heart. Ill? Wink hadn't said... It didn't matter. Fifteen minutes in the cold. No shoes, no gloves, only her dress and her jacket. And sick? With a barely gone fever.

"I will find her," the Elven warrior vowed softly. "I promise you that."

_Please,_ he prayed as he stepped out into the dark, though the prince had no idea to whom he offered his prayer. _Please, protect her. Keep her safe until I can find her. Please._

**.**

The seductive whiteness of the world around her called, promising rest. Promising peace. All she wanted was to rest for a minute. Just sit down and not move for a few minutes. But if she stopped, she wouldn't get back up again. Her feet were slogging through the snow of their own volition.

Dylan wasn't even sure where she was going anymore. Wasn't she near the derelict playground of faerie metal? Couldn't remember. Was fairly sure she should have been worried about that, but she wasn't. Too tired to be worried. Too tired to do anything but put one foot in front of the other and pray for safety, fever-blurred eyes sliding over the salt gleaming dully on the lightly frosted pavement at her feet. Her feet were killing her.

"Hello, sweetness."

Dylan's head jerked up and she stumbled back, nearly falling. Only Eamonn's coldly gentle hands on her elbows kept her semi-upright. Silver-washed blue eyes widened as the dark-haired Elf smiled down at her with all the viciousness of a serpent's strike. His moonbeam skin was raw and red around his eyes where she'd gotten him with her defensive spray. "No," she gasped, pushing at him with numb hands. "No!"

"You don't want to say no to me again," Eamonn murmured, tightening his grip until his fingers bit deep into her arms. "And you don't want to use that on me again, either." He carefully extricated the canister of pepper spray from her nerveless fingers. Dropped it into the snow. "I think we need to talk, human."

"Let go of me," Dylan cried, twisting around, struggling to break his impossible grip. "Let go!" Her teeth sank into his wrist and he snarled an obscenity. She yelped when his quick, almost casual blow to her face knocked her sprawling to the biting cold snow. Then he was on her, pinning her to the snow. Tiny shards of ice bit deep into the back of her neck and legs. "Get off!" And in her mind she ordered herself, _Scream! Shout, keep talking! Make noise! Someone will hear me. Someone has to hear me._

Dylan got a good fistful of silky black hair and yanked on it hard. Strands of hair parted company with Eamonn's scalp and he hit her again, opening a cut across her bruised cheek. She spat blood in his face. _I won't let this happen to me again, I won't, never again, never!_ Dylan's fist slammed into Eamonn's throat, sending a shockwave of pain zooming up her already injured arm. She cried out and he gagged and choked.

As the Elf sagged sideways, she scrambled out from beneath him and rolled onto her hands and knees. Scrambled to crawl off the paved path and away into the woods. Eamonn grabbed her by the ankle of her bad leg and yanked. Dylan slammed hard into the ground. The air exploded out of her. Then the Elf tried to make a grab for her hair. Snagged her ribbon and yanked so dark curls tumbled free. Tossed the black silk ribbon aside and wrapped her hair twice around his fists and hauled on it.

She cried out as she landed backwards against the Elven warrior, who let her fall to the ground again. Three sharp blows to her face sent Dylan reeling into outer space. Copper flooded her mouth. She floated on an ocean of dizziness and pain, the gnawing cold now a soft blanket attempting to lull her into killing sleep. Distantly she heard the sound of fabric tearing. Stinging pain raked across her hipbones. She tried to shake off the dazed lethargy that kept her barely conscious. Tried to flail and push him away as hot breath nearly scalded her face.

_No, please, not again, no, no! I won't let this happen, get up, move! Get up! Get up! Get off me!_

Then she heard a screeching yowl and Eamon cried out in pain. Suddenly the crushing weight of him was gone. With a heave, Dylan rolled onto her hands and knees, scraping them on rock salt and half-iced snow, and saw what had distracted the Elf.

He twisted and struggled to dislodge something that clung to his back. Dark stains marred the back of his shirt and glistening blood streaked down his face and smeared his hands. Eamonn snarled and swore as he reached for the black thing clinging to him and clawing him viciously. Then the weak light of the waning moon glinted off eyes like tawny marbles. A terrifying realization penetrated the fog around Dylan. Her eyes went wide.

_Bat! No, Bat, no!_ As Dylan tried and failed to get to her feet, the Elf finally got a grip on the little black kitten, wrenched him from his back, and hurled Bat against an ice-coated tree trunk. The tiny body hit the tree with a sick wet thud and fell to the snow. Bat did not get up. Didn't even move.

"No!" She tried again to get up. Slipped on the salted ice and fell to the snow again. Landed hard on something cold and glittering.

Her pepper spray.

"That's it," Eamonn growled, stalking toward her. Even in the near perfect darkness of the winter night, she could see the promise of vengeance in his face. "I have had _enough_ from you and your little beast and your wretched brownie and your damn prince. You are going to die and you are going to die _tonight."_

Dylan grabbed onto the trunk of a tree, scraping her numb hands on the frosted bark. Smears of blood glistened darkly against the ice. Leaning heavily on the trunk to keep from sliding to the ground again, the burning cold beating mercilessly at her, she somehow managed to climb to her feet. The pepper spray in her hand was hidden by the tree she leaned against. Eamonn stalked closer. Dylan's heart hammered her chest, slowly strangling her. But in the back of her mind she suddenly could have sworn she heard Nuada murmuring, _Hold steady. Wait for him to come within reach. Don't risk yourself. Just wait. Don't be afraid._

She knew it wasn't him - wasn't him glamoured and speaking through the link of their joined hands. He wasn't nearby. Eamonn would have heard him, sensed him. But it made her feel better. Eased some of the shivering terror. The chilled can of defensive spray helped too. So Dylan waited, blue eyes wide as she watched the Elf who wanted her dead come close and closer. When he was barely a foot away, he stopped. "I suppose you want to say some prayers to your god before I kill you."

_And as the Huntsman prepared to cut out the innocent heart of the fair Snow White, she dropped to her knees and cried, "Oh, I must say my prayers before I die so I can go to Heaven."_

The words to the old Grimms' fairy tale suddenly flashed through Dylan's mind. She shook them away and swallowed. She didn't need to pray to prepare for death if Eamonn actually killed her.

Her eyes narrowed. No, she didn't need to say any prayers for that. She just wasn't going to let Eamonn kill her. Not after everything the dark Elf had done - or tried to do - to Nuada. Not after Bat. She glanced briefly at the too-still little body in the snow, so starkly black against the pristine white. Her eyes stung.

Then she focused on Eamonn again as he murmured icily, "Sadly, I am not obliging." His hand shot out and he yanked her away from the tree with a vengeful snarl as she brought up the hand holding the pepper spray and gave him another shot in the eyes.

A wolf's snarl, a monster's slavering roar. He released her and stumbled back. Lunged forward again as she turned to run. Grabbed the wrist that held the defense spray and twisted sharply.

Instinct and the tingling warmth of the Spirit had Dylan sliding into the wrenching twist so that instead of breaking her wrist as he'd intended, hot pain shot up her arm as the fragile bones dislocated with a loud _pop._ Still she screamed, a single cry of of shock and hurt that shattered the night and echoed off the winter-bare trees. She dropped the canister.

And then she was in the snow again, the back of her head cracking the ice on the paved pathway. Eamonn climbed onto her chest, his brutal weight slowly driving the breath from her body, as his hands wrapped around her slender throat and began to squeeze.

"_Soith_ beag," Eamonn snarled in her face as she fought for air, fought against the near-breaking weight of him, the impossible strength of him. "Tá tú marbh. Lig dó teacht ar do corp sa sneachta."

She smacked against him with feebly striking hands. Thrashed her head from side to side, trying to loosen his choking grip on her throat. Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, no, no...

"An bhfuil tú ag dulgo caoin? Ceadaigh dom an fheiceáil do deora."

He didn't try to crush her throat this time. He wanted her to feel this, feel the life fading from her body. Feel her heart racing, only to slow to stillness in her chest. Eamonn wanted it to last. And just in case the Silver Lance was running to save his precious mortal lady, Eamonn threw the image of the human gasping for air as far around as he could, knowing that if the prince was nearby, he would see the dark Elf choking the life from his little whore.

"Stad ag streachailt. Tá mé ag dulchun tú a mharú, gnómilis. Níl aon duine ag dul a shábháil tú. Tá tú marbh."

No air, couldn't breathe, no, no. Chest burning, heart slamming hard, Dylan gasped but no icy air reached her desperate lungs, no relief, not a single breath of cold winter air and his grip was tightening, tightening. She dug her nails into his arms. Drew hot blood. Still he didn't let go, just kept squeezing.

_Nuada,_ she thought, called, pleaded. Her mouth worked soundlessly as she struggled to take a breath. Everything was darkness and airless shimmer. _Nuada, help..._

**.**

That single scream saturated with pain ripped into the Elven warrior as he raced through the woods, following nearly invisible imprints on the snow from Eamonn's boots. Nuada stopped for only an instant at the sound, frozen. His blood turned to ice. Dread coiled and knotted sickeningly in the pit of his stomach. He knew that scream.

_Dylan. Mo duinne, hold on._

The Elven prince ran faster.

Frigid air burned in his lungs. Fear was a poison in his veins. It had been a long time - centuries - since he'd had to race somewhere, knowing that if he didn't make it, knowing that if he was just a second too slow, someone he loved would suffer. Gods, what would Eamonn do to her if he didn't get there in time? The same thing that had almost happened on the floor of the cottage; the same thing he'd seen nearly happen in Becan's memory. Rage mingled with the dark poison already in his blood.

A psychic image slammed into Nuada so hard he staggered and fell to his knees. His skull felt like it was splintering under the onslaught. Dragging a deep breath in through his nose and out between his tightly clenched teeth, the Elven prince slowly eased back from the image enough that he could actually see it. When he did, sick horror drove an icy knife into his gut and the breath exploded from his lungs.

Eamonn's hands, white as moonlight on killingly cold snow, wrapped around Dylan's throat, squeezing. Squeezing. Tears glimmered in those wide impossibly blue eyes as she pushed at the dark Elf. Struggled to suck in a breath beyond the choking hands. The fey light was already fading slowly from her eyes. Her scarred lips were turning blue. Those lips framed the word _please_ over and over again. Begging. Begging Eamonn. Those merciless hands merely tightened further. His fingers bit deep into her throat, throttling, bruising.

And in vicious Gaelic, Eamonn snarled, "Little _bitch_. You're dead. Let him find your corpse in the snow. Are you going to cry? Let me see your tears." A soft choked whimper escaped from the vulnerable throat caught between those throttling hands. She shoved at him. Flailed at him with weak and bloodied fists. "Stop struggling. I'm going to kill you, sweetness. No one is going to save you. You're dead."

_Danu's mercy,_ _Eamonn, stop, I beg you!_ The desperate, pleading cry escaped the Elven prince before he could prevent it. Those hands loosened briefly around Dylan's throat and she managed to suck in a ragged breath. Nuada felt the brief flicker of surprise and irritation from Eamonn's mind. Even as terror shuddered through him, the feral-eyed prince cried, _Stop! Spare her, please. Please!_

_Beg me_ _some more, Silverlance,_ the Elf ordered softly, silkily. Those hands loosened a little more. The light began to return to those moonlit blue eyes. _Beg me for her pathetic life. Beg me. I want to hear you beg. _When there was only silence, Eamonn tightened his grip and Dylan choked. _Beg me or I'll strangle your whore_ _in front of your very eyes. You won't find me before I'm finished with her._

Nuada lunged to his feet, his knuckles white as bones as he gripped his lance. Even as he followed the link between his mind and Eamonn's, the prince kept his voice desperate, kept the mental words in keeping with the pitiful image the Elf of Zwezda had of him.

_Gods, I beg you, Eamonn. Have mercy. Don't take her from me, please._

Black boots practically flew across white snow as Nuada hunted down the soon-to-be dead man who dared to lay hands on the Silver Lance's lady.

_What does she mean to you?_ Eamonn demanded, loosening his grip again. Dylan sucked air and struggled to roll away from the Elf crouched on her chest. Eamonn yanked on her hair and she cried out in pain. _What does the little trollop_ _mean to you, Nuada?_

Since Eamonn already knew (though he didn't know that what he knew was a secret), and since the dark-haired Elf was going to die this night, Nuada didn't bother to lie. As long as he kept up the pathetic stream of lovesick professions, there was time to get to her.

Gods, please let there be time.

_She is my heart. I love her. Please, I love her..._

_You're pathetic, Silverlance. She's a human. How can any self-respecting fae warrior take a human as his mistress, much less fall in love with her? You're disgusting._

Seconds away now. Only seconds. Nuada darted between the trees just as the image of Dylan vanished from his mind and the link between his mind and Eamonn's snapped. The fae prince halted at the spot where Eamonn had been in that image. No one. Nothing. Only thin, dark spatters that gleamed in the weak light of the moon - blood.

No, Nuada realized, taking a step forward, careful not to disturb the mussed snow and the bloodstains. No, there was something else. He knelt and picked up something jet black in the silvery moonlight. A silk ribbon. On impulse he brought it to his nose. The perfume of spring lilies and roses washed over him, mingling with the now-familiar natural fragrance of Dylan's hair. The unsuccessfully-ignored ache in his chest sharpened at that sweet scent.

_Please let her still be alive._ This was his fault. He should never have left her. _Please let her still be alive_.

Molten copper eyes landed on a ragged scrap of cloth near the trees, black as the satin hair ribbon and black as the blood under the moonlight. When he realized what it was, fury and fear nearly strangled him.

_Please let her be all right_.

"Ag lorg seo?" A familiar and hated voice. Nuada's head jerked up at the question _looking for this?_ Sanguine-washed bronze eyes zeroed in on Eamonn, who leaned against a far tree trunk. He held up one hand almost lazily and weak moonlight glinted golden off of a thin chain. Dylan's medallion. Eamonn tossed the golden necklace at Nuada's feet. The prince picked it up without ever taking his eyes from his enemy. He slipped the necklace into his belt pouch and straightened.

"Or," the Elf added with a sardonic quirk of his lips, "would you be looking for _this?"_ He reached down behind the tree, wrenched up a slender but limp body, and threw Dylan down at the dark Elf's feet. She landed on her back with a breathless cry. Eamonn's naked sword lightly touched where Nuada knew the silver scar of the fear-darrig's blessing lay at her throat. "Thought you'd try to track me through the link. Clever of you. But not clever enough. And oh, dear. Looks like the poor thing's struggling to stay conscious. She's been out in the cold a very long time. How long do you think she has before she freezes to death?"

Golden eyes locked with eyes of glassy blue and Dylan blinked sleepily at him. Her chest barely rose and fell with her breathing. Minute tremors shook her slender form. But she said softly, "I'm okay."

Eamonn kicked her savagely in the side and she cried out, hunched in on herself. Nuada took a step forward, lance upraised, but Eamonn snapped, "Be still! Or I'll slit her throat. She's caused me a lot of problems tonight."

Feral eyes took in the raw, blistered flesh of the dark Elf's face. The bleeding scratches and claw marks dark against the white skin. A dark bruise marred the pale expanse of Eamonn's throat. She'd hurt him. _That's my girl._

"Now tell her what you told me, Silverlance. Tell her what lies in your heart. Let her hear the sweet words before I kill her right before your eyes. Maybe I will take pity on you and spare her, if they move me enough."

Tell the truth. Tell the truth and play along with Eamonn's twisted game to buy a little more time. Nuada studied Dylan's face: the fresh bruises, the cut on her cheek, the bloodlessness to her skin, the glazed look in her eyes. Too long in the cold. And sick, Becan had said. Her fever barely broken. She didn't have long before she succumbed and fell asleep. Once asleep she had maybe five or ten minutes to get warm again.

The Elven prince knew what Eamonn wanted from him. Knew it was all just a sick game to draw out the suffering. He had to play along for now. Until he could think of a plan that didn't involve that sword blade drawing across that vulnerable throat and spilling her life's blood onto the snow. So his eyes, still edged with bronze fury and hate, melted to warm honey near the centers as he looked into Dylan's eyes and said softly, "I love you."

Truth. Lie. Both and neither. Confession to help save her life, a confession of truth that was a lie because it couldn't be the truth. And yet it was, but she could never know that truth. Could never know and would never believe if she ever did find out.

So he murmured the burning secret that smoldered in his chest and painted it in the falseness of charade. Saw the disgust on Eamonn's face. Saw the flicker of sorrow in Dylan's glazed, oh so beautiful eyes. She bought the sweetly poisoned lie that it wasn't true. She thought he was playing along with the courtship charade, with Eamonn's perception of them. It hurt her because she knew - or thought she knew - that the very idea of being in love with her sickened him, hurt him, and she would do anything to keep him from feeling that way if it was in her power.

He'd said it once. The words had been like cold iron on his tongue, heavy and bruising. Now they simmered in his mouth, scorching as a promise, and he found that he had to say them again. If she died tonight, or if he did... he could not die, could not lose her to death, without saying those words at least one more time. Gaelic turned the confession into a vow shimmering with Irish mists and the magic of the Old World. "Mo duinne, tá grá agam duit."

Something flickered behind her eyes and she whispered, "I love you, too." Nuada barely managed to suppress his shudder at the sweet, venomous lie. She would never know how those words cut him. Raked at him like taloned hands. But he just kept his eyes locked on hers. Her lips quirked a little at the corners. A hint of steel slipped into her eyes before they slid closed. Her fingers twitched at her side and she winced, but pressed her hand against the snow. "I'll be okay, Nuada. Don't worry about me."

"Mo duinne-"

Eamonn's snort of disgust sent rage spiraling through the Elven prince. "Well, the both of you are absolutely revolting. That's so sweet I'm getting cavities. Anymore and I'm afraid I might be ill."

"Hey," Dylan mumbled through teeth that chattered with the cold shivering through her. Her raw, bleeding fingers dug into the powdery white as she forced her eyes open and blinked up at the dark Elf. "Hey, traitor. Come down here. I got something to tell you. It's important." When silver eyes glared down at her from within raw red flesh, she added, "Wow. Coward. Too scared of a little human woman to come down. Once bitten, twice shy, is that it? Coward."

Pain throbbed hotly through her dislocated wrist as she packed the snow into a loose ball in her hand. Eamonn hadn't even noticed. The salt from the pavement burned in the scrapes on her palms. Her entire body, lying on the frosted cement, was a mass of aches. The world refused to focus properly.

"Come here. You already took my pepper spray; don't be a coward. Maybe I'll tell you a secret."

Everything in Nuada went still as stark hatred flashed across the other Elf's features. Then Eamonn knelt and stared down at her. The sword was still too close to her throat for the Elven prince to risk making a move. "All right," Eamonn snapped. "What?"

She smashed the loosely packed snow she'd been scooping up right in Eamonn's face. Into the glaring silver eyes and the raw flesh around them. To Nuada's surprise, the treasonous fae screamed and threw himself backwards, away from Dylan. She rolled over, tried to stand. Slipped on the snow-dusted concrete.

The next moment, Nuada's arms were around her, pulling her to her feet, hauling her away from where Eamonn thrashed and screamed. About twenty feet away the Elven prince gripped her by the shoulders and studied the mortal that had somehow managed to distract the other Elf long enough for Nuada to get her away.

"What did you do?"

He wanted to crush her against his chest and never let her go. Never. He wanted to feel her heartbeat pounding in her breast, feel that proof that she was alive. Wanted to brush his lips over the bruises darkening her face and throat to ease the pain there. Stroke her cheek and soothe the burn of the cut, maybe brush back those tangled curls from her face. He ached to bend his head to that scarred mouth and prove to her that the words Eamonn had forced out of him weren't lies. Just hold her, gods, he just wanted to hold her for a minute and reassure himself she was at least mostly all right.

Instead Nuada satisfied himself with practically devouring Dylan with his eyes, checking surreptitiously for injury beyond the bruises and the cut on her cheekbone. She shivered violently and her lips were tinged blue with the cold under the swelling and the bruise. Sickness-induced aches, pain, and hypothermia-induced exhaustion made her eyes glassy.

"Rock salt," she mumbled, sagging against him. If he hadn't caught her, she would've fallen. Nuada's heartbeat hammered hard under her ear. Worry? A lust for revenge against the other Elf? Or anger that she'd gotten into trouble once again? He was so warm. So very warm. Almost hot under her hands and cheek. She wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes wearily.

"We're near the playgrounds. They salt the sidewalks and paved pathways to keep the concrete from icing over." There was a razor edge of satisfaction beneath her slurring voice and stammering words. "I've always known that the only thing worse than iron to the fae is salt, especially when the salt gets in the blood. And his face was already wrecked because of me getting him with my pepper spray and because of... oh, no. Bat."

Dylan tried to push back from Nuada, tried to move around him to go towards the trees.

"Bat!"

Bronze eyes flicked to the edge of the concrete pathway even as he pulled her back to him. He was not letting her go except to finish off Eamonn. Since the dark Elf was yet writhing and screaming, Nuada had a moment. "What is it?" Then his eyes saw what she'd already known was there: a small, limp body covered in sleek black fur, so dark and so very still against the snow. With a terrified cry, Dylan broke away from him and stumbled toward the fallen kitten to scoop him up, hugging him to her chest.

"Bat," she whispered, voice trembling. "Bat." Numb, trembling fingers brushed gently against the kitten's head, but his eyes didn't open. Dylan shivered and hugged the little creature a bit tighter. "Oh, Bat. Wake up, honey." Frightened eyes turned to the Elven prince. "Eamonn threw him. He attacked Eamonn and that monster threw him into a tree. He's breathing but... but I can't wake him up. Bat," she said. "Bat, sweetie."

Nuada swallowed once, hard, before flicking his molten eyes to Eamonn, who still moaned on the snow. Tiny wisps of smoke seeped between his fingers. Salt. Salt could unmake a fae, could melt their bones and sear their veins until there was nothing left but a burnt-out husk if it got into the blood. Especially if it mingled with other poisons, like aerosol or plastic. The Elf of Zwezda was probably going to die from such a thing. Still... Nuada was taking no chances. Not again.

He approached the whimpering dark Elf and, without a word, drove his lance into the writhing traitor's belly. A choked cry gurgled in Eamonn's throat as the Elven silver ripped into the faery warrior's gut. Nuada slowly, slowly began to lean hard on the haft of the spear, shoving the blade deeper. Surprisingly, the dark Elf began to laugh. It was weak and choked by the silver blood bubbling now between his lips, but it was still recognizeably a laugh.

"Are you going to kill me, Silverlance?" Eamonn demanded in the Old Tongue. "Kill a fae for a human?"

Nuada jerked the spear so that the blood-smeared blade sliced into Eamonn's belly again, spilling caustic acid. The other Elf choked on a scream of pain. When his mewling subsided, the prince said coldly, "To protect my lady from an Elf without honor, an Elf who should have been born a filthy human."

"Your lady. Pah. Your filthy whore, you mean. Well, then," the Elf of Zwezda mumbled around dark-stained lips, "I curse you, Silverlance. If I die this night, my curse will strike at your very heart. You speak of honor. You speak of your precious lady. I will steal both from you as you have stolen my life from me."

Eamonn spat a mouthful of blood onto the snow and fixed his cat-slit eyes on Nuada. Something burning cold lanced through the prince's chest. Pressure began to throb at his temples. He shook his head once, trying to clear it. Eamonn's voice echoed inside his skull as the dark Elf hissed, "I was never the one to fear, Prince Nuada. Your enemies are numerous but they are no real danger to her. The danger is _you_.

"I curse you now to lose everything you hold dear. Your father, your sister, that troll you call your vassal. Your friends and allies. And your precious mortal toy.

"You will lose them all by your own hand. Your father will fall at your sword. Fall despising the son who shames him. As his blood stains your blade, he will look in your eyes and call you monster, and you will know it for the truth.

"Your vassal will fall in your service, betrayed by the prince to whom he'd sworn loyalty.

"Your precious sister will die because you are blinded by duty and your so-easily-compromised loyalty. And just before the two of you take your final breaths, as she fades from your mind, you will know how much she loathes the monster you have become."

"Silence," Nuada whispered as the throbbing pressure built and built inside his skull. Images flickered behind his eyes, almost too fast to see. Nuala with a twin-dagger buried in her chest. His father with Nuada's own notched sword thrust deep in his heart. Wink a corpse in the dust, Lorelei weeping into the massive chest that no longer rose and fell with the troll's breath. "Enough."

"Not yet," Eamonn gasped, struggling around the agony burning in his gut and spreading like liquid fire through his body. "Not enough yet. Because the worst will be the filthy human you hold in your heart. I curse you, Silverlance, with love and with lust. I curse you to want her so desperately you cannot stand it."

Power, Elven magic fueled by the pain and mystic energy of dying, shivered over Nuada as the prince shook and thought, _No, no, I will not, you have no power over the Silver Lance, no, I'll leave her before anything could happen to her._ Slivers of ice and tendrils of power pulled at him, wrenched at him until the world was spinning fast and hard around him.

And the dark Elf hissed, "You might run from her in a vain attempt to save her but you will always go back to her. And in the end, the need will drive you mad and you will take her. Take her, and use her and use her until there is nothing else but your need and her pain. She will weep and beg you to stop. Beg you as she begged me. But you won't stop until her cries are silenced and her heart is still. She'll die, Silverlance, trapped beneath you, cursing your name, betrayed and broken, and her blood will forever stain your han-"

"_Enough!"_ Shoving through the choking power tightening around him like razor-edged iron wires, Nuada wrenched the Elven lance upward and then plunged it back into the traitor's belly. With a jerk of Nuada's wrist, the spear sliced swiftly downward, spilling the foulness of the intestines into the wound.

On a battlefield, anyone with such a wound was quickly given a mercy stroke across the throat to end their suffering and give them a quick, clean death. Eamonn would die as well, but slowly and surely in the night. Painfully. In absolute and feverish agony as the wound festered. And once he was dead - or even before, if he grew weak enough - the carrion-eating fae of the Park would be on him like crows feasting on a gibbet.

The prince drew in a ragged breath as Eamonn's foul words faded and all the dark Elf could do was lie there in his own agony. Never. He would never hurt Dylan like that, curse or no, _never_. He knew that. More importantly, _she_ knew it. Royal magic was enough to fight such a paltry death curse, anyway. With a muttered oath, the Elf started to turn away from the soon-to-be carrion on the ground.

A plaintive meow snagged his attention. Nuada froze when he saw Dylan curled up on the snow. A dark shivering shape he knew to be Bat was struggling to nudge her face with his small head, mewing. Dylan's skin was death-white and frost coated her dark lashes. The snow in her hair didn't melt. Bat licked her lashes and tried to melt the ice sealing her eyes closed. The mortal didn't react to the rasp of his tongue.

_No._ _Oh, no._ Nuada sprinted to her side, the lance automatically shortening to a half-spear. He sheathed it across his back and dropped to his knees, scooping Dylan into his arms. She was breathing, but barely.

She wasn't shivering.

Bat let out a trembling meow and climbed laboriously on top of his two-legger's cold form, kneading her chest with tiny paws and leaning in to keep licking at the ice on her lashes. The kitten's back and one side was scraped, the fur glistening with blood. He didn't seem to notice. Seemed only to care about his human. He purred loudly and nipped her chin with sharp white teeth. Dylan didn't react. Bat yowled and bit her hard enough to draw a few tiny drops of steaming blood. Not even a flicker. Nuada's heart stuttered.

"Dylan," the Elven prince snapped, giving her a little shake. Bat licked furiously at her eyelashes. "Dylan, wake up!" A flicker of frosted lashes. A furrowing of her brows. She made a small sound. "Dylan, mo duinne, wake up. Open your eyes. _Please_, my love," he added with an edge of desperation to his words. "Open your eyes." Another flicker of eyelashes. Nuada pushed Bat out of the way and breathed on the last bits of ice holding her eyes closed. The frost melted under the heat of his breath. "Beloved, I beg you, come back to me."

Blue eyes, dark in the dim light of the waning moon, fluttered open. Blinked blearily up at him. "Nuada?" She blinked again to bring him into focus. "Are you... are you real?"

"I'm real, Dylan."

Her hand trembled with the effort it took to reach up and touch his face with icy fingertips. "It's you. You came back." Her lips quirked into a wan half-smile. "You came back." She drew a shuddering breath. "I'm so tired." Her hand fell and she closed her eyes again.

"No, sweetheart," the Elven prince said, climbing to his feet. "Keep your eyes open." She gazed up at him beseechingly, but he shook his head as he started to make for the cottage. "Not yet. I know you're tired. I know. Stay awake."

"Don't wanna..." She turned her face against his chest and closed her eyes again. Nuada swore viciously under his breath and ran faster. Bat, clinging to his human with his claws, hissed at Dylan and scratched her on the chest, where the sensitive spill of white scar tissue over her heart was hidden by her thin dress. Her eyes flew open. "Ow!"

The cottage was a beacon of warmth and amber light amidst the dark winter night. Nuada had never been so glad to see a human dwelling in his life. Becan must have been watching for them because as the prince slowed, the door swung open. The Elven warrior blinked once, his only sign of surprise at seeing the female brownie known as Brighid standing at Becan's side.

Becan used his magic to lift the shivering kitten off Dylan's chest as Brighid raced ahead to Dylan's bedroom. Nuada strode after her, knowing what needed to be done. Simply warming Dylan wouldn't work, or he would have done so with a little magic on the way out of the woods. It had to be done gradually or she would go into shock. Sick as the brownie had said she was, the shock could kill her just as effectively as that lethal cold.

The fae warrior recalled what he'd learned during his time as a common soldier in his father's army as a young man. To fight killing cold, body heat was best. He remembered what his captain had ordered for him once when he'd fallen through the ice into a mountain river - get to a warm tent, strip, and let one of the army followers keep him warm. It was the safest way to fight hypothermia, but Dylan was _not_ going to be happy about that.

_I don't care,_ Nuada thought as he went into Dylan's bedroom. Ten glowing, flickering blossoms of goblin crystal and one of diamond were arrayed on a shelf on the wall, casting soft comforting light. Two others, the _fûjin_ flowers, were on the nightstand beside her bed. _As long as she survives._ Despite the heat of the cottage - which wasn't very high, but was still warmer than the icy night outside - Dylan still hadn't stirred from the cradle of his arms.

"Lay her on the bed, Your Highness," Brighid said softly, and Nuada obeyed. He slipped off Dylan's leather coat, careful of the arm she still held at an awkward angle to her body. The wrist on that arm was swollen and blue with bruising.

_Dislocated_, the prince thought, and wished he'd had the leisure to kill Eamonn slowly. Maybe over the course of five or six days. With sound-proof walls, salted acid and red-hot iron.

Shaking away his fantasies, Nuada focused on his lady, who was still barely conscious. When his hands went to the zipper at the back of her damp dress, though, she pushed his hands away with a sharp sound.

"I can do it," Dylan mumbled, pushing at her hair. Was that a thread of panic in her tired voice? She gestured vaguely. "Go stand over there. Don't look."

"You cannot even stand on your own two feet just now, much less get undressed," Nuada snapped, and unzipped the snow-dampened dress. She pushed his hands away again and shot a pleading if exhausted look at Brighid. Feral eyes glared at the brownie. Brighid went pale. The prince growled, "Help her." Then he lunged to his feet and strode to the shelf that showcased the crystal and diamond flowers, keeping his back to the two women.

Brighid had planned on coming to the human's cottage to see Becan tonight. When she'd arrived, the other brownie had quickly laid out everything that had happened and asked for her help in caring for his mistress. Of course she'd agreed. Now she helped Lady Dylan strip to the skin and slip on fresh underthings. Becan had looked up what to do for when his lady arrived from one of her medical books and Brighid followed the instructions now. Dry clothes, but nothing more than undergarments because someone would have to climb into bed with Her Ladyship to warm her and for that bare skin was best. The brownie maid tossed the wet clothes into the hamper with house-sprite magic and helped the mortal slip under the thick blankets on her bed. Lastly, she cast a _very_ slow-acting warming spell on the blankets.

"Your Highness," the brownie murmured, catching the prince's attention. "If there's nothing else?"

Nuada dismissed Brighid to go back out into the front room with Becan and the cat. As the brownie pulled the bedroom door closed, Nuada blew out a breath, drew off his tunic and shirt, swiftly discarded his boots, and climbed into bed with Dylan. He fitted himself around her, letting his bare chest press against her back. At the touch of her skin he sucked in a breath through swiftly clenched teeth. She was so _cold_.

He wrapped an arm around her and laid his chin on one icy shoulder, careful of the black strap so dark against her death white skin. Then the Elven prince tried to decide if breathing was elective. He didn't dare breathe, not with the perfume of lilies and roses mingling with the faintest copper tang of mortal blood. One of those scents sent a surge of irritatingly soft warmth through his chest; the other infuriated him.

"Cold," Dylan mumbled. She scrunched back against his warmth. Nuada's chest was almost blisteringly hot. His arm across hers and his hand lightly cradling one wrist were almost hot enough to burn. It was so nice to feel that blessed _heat_ after all the cold. But the warmth only penetrated a little ways through the ice in her body. She knew she should've been shivering. Knew the fact that she wasn't was really bad. Dylan just couldn't remember why. She was having a hard time really thinking about anything, actually. "Really cold. Tired."

"Don't sleep," Nuada said tonelessly. He had to stay here with her until her core temperature went back to normal. _That_, he thought with a dark edge of what in a lesser man might have been called panic, _could take hours_. Hours of Dylan cuddled against him beneath the blanket. No. He wouldn't think about that. And he wouldn't think about the fear that still sizzled beneath his skin, either, the fear because he'd nearly lost her tonight. Aloud, the feral-eyed prince merely added, "It's not safe for you to sleep yet."

"Tired," she slurred.

His arm across her body tightened. He'd nearly lost her. His own foolishness had prompted him to leave her unguarded and he had nearly lost her. Been forced to watch Eamonn's hands tightening around her vulnerable throat. Watch her struggle for each breath until there was no breath to be had.

Nuada squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the fact that the dark Elf was dying - if he wasn't dead already. Tried to focus on the cold, smooth flesh pressed against his. Dark, soft hair under his cheek and caressing the side of his neck. The rise and fall of Dylan's chest as she breathed. Just let himself hold her to him under the sincere pretense of warming her. He hadn't lost her. She was here with him now. She was all right - or would be. They were both all right.

Images flickered behind his eyes, images that drove the breath from him. Those hands around Dylan's throat. Eamonn pinning her to the floor of the cottage, his mouth working at her throat like a hungry wolf's jaws. That single tear trickling from the corner of her eye. Just the sight of her, curled up and too still in the snow.

_By the stars, beloved._ Only centuries of iron self-control kept him from shaking.

"Tired," Dylan mumbled.

"I know," Nuada said in a suddenly soft voice. His breath was like steam against her shoulder. Dylan could distantly feel his fingers stroking along her arm, bringing the chilled blood closer to the surface. "I know you are. But you must stay awake." With a bit of sarcastic admiration, the prince added, "I'm honestly surprised you're even lucid at this point."

Dylan snorted. "Barely lucid." Oh, boy, he was _so_ warm. If she could've plastered her entire body to him, she would have, but moving was too much effort just then.

"Lucid enough to listen to something important?"

"Sure." She tried to shrug. The scorching heat of his arm slid over her skin with the movement. "I'm lucid. Sure."

"I have two things to say to you," the prince said softly. He felt her tense. Oh, yes, Dylan was lucid right enough. And was the ice in her blood thawing just a little? Nuada couldn't tell if her skin was warming up or if it was just his own wishful thinking. So he just said, "Firstly... have I ever told you how very clever you are? Or how brave?"

Dylan blinked sleepily and tried to scootch further against all that lovely delicious heat. Anything, so long as she wasn't so icy cold anymore. Why did Nuada sound almost like he was smiling? "Don't think so."

"Then I will say it now." He tilted his head so that he could murmur in her ear, "You are _very_ clever. Becan showed me through his memories how you got away from Eamonn."

He felt Dylan stiffen further. Tasted a brief psychic wash of shame from her. Nuada frowned. Did she think he was angry about the way she'd tricked the Elf of Zwezda? There had been... a little hurt. Stupid. Foolish needle-prick of jealousy and hate because his enemy had forced those enticements from her lips. But it was mostly rage and hatred at Eamonn, not for her. Did Dylan truly think so little of him?

_Disgusting human whore._ Fates curse it, of course she did. Why shouldn't she? So he only continued to lightly stroke her arm while he murmured, "That was brave of you, Dylan. I know Eamonn frightens you. It must have been difficult for you, but it was very brave."

Nuada paused then while the mortal relaxed against him again. Marshalled his thoughts. Was it cheating to give this apology when she was barely clinging to consciousness? Possibly. Still, if she didn't remember it when she woke, then he would simply give it again.

"The second thing is... Dylan. I'm sorry. For abandoning you. For leaving you unprotected. For hurting you as I did. For saying the things I said. They were untrue and I behaved cruelly and churlishly. Forgive me my trespasses against you, my lady. Forgive me my betrayal."

Then Dylan shifted in his arms, turning over to face him. Her eyes were still glazed and sleepy, her smile tired, but she touched cold fingertips to his cheek and sighed. He felt that touch all the way to his marrow. Despite the chill in her fingertips, a wisp of gentle warmth curled around his heart.

"You're always forgiven, Nuada." Dark lashes drifted downward and a shaft of alarm shot through him. She couldn't sleep yet. He opened his mouth to call her name. Those incredible eyes flicked open again. "Do you forgive me? Are you still angry?"

How could he be? How could he be angry when the consequences of that anger were so obvious in the bruises on her face, the cut on her cheek? Nuada knew that once she was warm enough not to need him right beside her, he would probably have to see to her injuries. And he knew there were more. Dislocated wrist, possibly a strained shoulder. Eamonn had also thrown her to the floor, and to the iced pavement. It was a miracle she didn't have a concussion. She'd scraped her hands and arms on the sharp ice. Knees, too. And the dark smudges at her throat shamed him, even though he hadn't been the one to put them there.

So Nuada lightly touched her cool, uncut cheek and said softly, "No. I'm not angry. I forgive you, mo duinne."

Dylan's smile widened briefly before she rolled over and cuddled back against his chest once more. Her skin was still like ice, but tiny tremors were beginning to shiver through her body. Then she said suddenly, "My wrist hurts." She huffed out an irritated breath. "Shoot. It's dislocated. That's going to really hurt when I get all the feeling back in my extremities."

Nuada took the wrist in question and studied it for a moment. The cold had mostly kept the swelling down, but it was still bruised, still tender. If they didn't put it back into place soon, it would be that much harder once the warmth came back to her body and her wrist really started to swell. But it would hurt no matter when he relocated it. Shifting a little so he could use both hands, the amber-eyed prince asked, "Would you like me to tell you a story?"

"I... guess so. Sure."

Keeping his voice butter-smooth and gentle, the Elven prince murmured, "Nuair a bhí..." _Once there was..._ And he wove together the story of Sétanta, the boy who would one day become the warrior known as Cù Chulainn, the Hound of Ulster.

It had been a favorite of his as a child before he'd learned the truth of humans, of their hungering ways and their unstoppable greed. He'd loved that story because Cù Chulainn had been very close to his age - only nine or ten years old at the beginning of the tale, the mortal equivalent to Nuada's barely ten centuries. And he'd loved it because of the warrior woman, Scathach, who reminded him even now of his mother.

"An buachaill a bhí anois ina fhear, agus ghaiscíoch. Mar sin, thairg dó Scathach an rogha a claimhte. Thairg an cairdeas a pluide, ionas go mbeidh-"

"Wait a second," Dylan mumbled, turning to peer into Nuada's face. "The what? 'The friendship of her thighs?' What the heck does that even- _gah!"_

With a sharp jerk and a wet popping sound, Nuada yanked the hinge joint back into place, wincing at the shocked cry of pain from between Dylan's clenched teeth. Dylan let out a shuddering breath and scrunched against the Elven prince, her face pressed against his shoulder as she struggled to stay above the hideous waves of pain surging through her arm.

"Oh, that hurt," she whispered. "That hurt a lot."

"Forgive me," Nuada murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair. She was shivering hard now. Good. Her temperature was slowly but surely rising back to where it needed to be. Her skin was no longer so cold it burned. "It had to be done."

"I know," she said. "I'm fine. It's fine." Dylan flexed her fingers until the movement no longer sent stabs of pain through her wrist. Paused. The longer she spent underneath these blankets the more lucid and aware of her surroundings she became. Now she realized she was pressed against Nuada's scorching heat (and didn't that feel absolutely wonderful after being so freaking cold?) but she also noticed that he wasn't wearing a shirt and she wasn't wearing... pretty much anything. Except a bra and panties.

_Oh, my gosh. Oh, my._ Of course Dylan had known this intellectually for the last however many minutes, but there was a difference between knowing and _knowing._

"Um... I'm gonna roll over now." Which she proceeded to do. Since shudders of cold still racked her body, she gritted her teeth and let Nuada fit himself against her back. Allowed him to put one blazingly hot arm around her. He gently cradled her recently-relocated wrist.

_Oh, my,_ Dylan thought again, trying to keep from thinking about anything except how warm he was. He was so warm and Dylan could feel his steady heartbeat against her back like a drum. Then she remembered, "Hey, wait, you distracted me. What does that mean? _An cairdeas a pluide?_ The friendship of her thighs?"

Nuada closed his eyes. Couldn't she simply accept the story and enjoy it? Why did she have to ask him inconvenient questions? "It means," he said in a deliberately bland voice, "that Scathach allowed Cù Chulainn to be her lover."

"Like, her sweetheart? Or just her... bedroom companion?"

Talking about sex around Nuada made her uncomfortable on a good day. Talking about sex after they'd had a huge fight and he'd only recently come back to her made her both uncomfortable and fluttery. But talking about sex and lovers while lying trapped in bed with the most handsome Elven prince she'd ever met while wearing almost nothing was nothing short of hideous torture of the most embarrassing sort that would've made her flush if she hadn't been freezing practically to death and how did she keep ending up in these uncomfortable situations with Nuada, anyway?

Nuada's reply was muffled against her hair. "Bedroom companion."

"That's disgusting," Dylan replied flatly, distracted from her own plight. "He's like, what - fifteen? And she's what, forty? That is so gross. She's a freaking cougar."

The prince huffed a laugh. "A what?"

"A cougar; an older woman who looks to younger men for sexual partners." Nervous, the babbling started. "If you're a guy who preys on younger men, you're a chickenhawk. If you're a girl who preys on older men, that's sometimes referred to as a lolita. Although 'lolita' can also be a preference for young men or women in general, too. And if you're a guy who looks to younger women, then you're a cradle-robbing creep."

"I learn so many strange things about humans from you," Nuada said.

Dylan's laugh was soft as a whisper. Some of the ice cold dread that had been swirling in the pit of Nuada's stomach began to thaw. She could laugh. She could smile and she could laugh, which meant she was all right. If Eamonn had... if the Elf with cat-slit eyes had hurt her the way he wanted, there was no way Dylan would have been able to do those things. No way she could bear Nuada's touch. So the feral-eyed warrior breathed a silent prayer of gratitude and relief.

"Hey, that reminds me," Dylan said softly, rubbing at one tired eye with a loose fist. Tingling pain was beginning to hiss across her scraped palms and forearms, across her scraped knees. "Speaking of cradle-robbing creeps and stuff. How old are you?"

Nuada blinked at the sudden unexpected turn in the conversation. Thought for a moment. "Four-thousand-ninety-"

"No, no, I mean if you were human. Don't growl at me," she added tiredly when she caught the sound of the Elf grinding his teeth. "What's the human equivalent to your age?"

"Forty," he replied sourly. "A century for an Elf is as a year for a human. I would be nearly forty-one."

Wide-eyed, she turned to look at him. Dylan felt ridiculous, but in her surprise she blurted out, "You're more than a decade older than me!" It was one thing to know Nuada was a few millennia old. She knew people who'd been around during the time of the dinosaurs (albeit not very many). But for some reason the Elven prince struck her as being... well... younger than that. Her own age. Maybe not in years - definitely not in years - but in maturity. No wonder she seemed like such a child to him.

"Mo duinne, I'm over four thousand-"

"Yeah, I know, but you're _forty!_ You're _old!_ I can't believe it; I'm almost-engaged to an old guy! You're like... forty! You know what? I'm just going to go back to thinking of you as four-thousand and some change. Otherwise I'll end up feeling like I'm disrespecting my elders."

Nuada's mouth stretched into a tired, exasperated smile. The fact that he could smile at all without having to force himself to do it, the fact that smiling at her still felt like the most natural thing in the world, surprised him. What surprised him even more was the endearment that popped out of his mouth without any prompting. "Darling, you know that does not make any sense."

"I know," she grumped. To hide the sudden uncertainty she knew shimmered in her eyes, Dylan turned her face back to cuddle the pillow. Nuada was still warm against her back, but not so warm he was scalding anymore. Her shivers were slowly beginning to taper off. Once they stopped, once the amber-eyed prince decided her skin was warm enough to suit him, he'd get out of bed and leave her. Probably to go wash her human germs off.

And yet... _Darling._ Why had he said that?

"Humor me," Dylan added, deliberately shading her voice with amusement.

"How old are _you_, then?" The prince demanded in mock-outrage. "You are hardly a child, though you often act as one."

"I'll be thirty on December twentieth," she informed him with quiet dignity. So he'd been right that day at Erik's forge - her birthday was fairly soon. She'd been twenty-nine for nearly all of the eleven, nearly twelve months he'd known her. How young she was. How could he... feel the depth of emotion he did, for someone so very young? "Ugh," she added, breaking into his thoughts. "I hate being cold!"

"You seem to be completely yourself again, though."

"Hmmm? Oh, yeah," she added, drawing up her knees to her chest. When she tried to drape her arm across them, a stinging pain made her jerk back. She'd forgotten she'd scraped up her knees on the ice and the pavement. They weren't bleeding, though. The cold had kept the blood at bay long enough for some healing to begin. Still hurt, though. "I'm okay now. Just cold. Thank you for... for keeping me warm. And for saving me. I'm sorry I'm such a nuisance."

Nuada's shrug was loose and easy and Dylan felt it ripple from his shoulders through the muscles of his chest pressed so tightly against her back. Biting back a squeak took all of her concentration for a minute. Then he said, "You are not a nuisance. Well," the prince amended. "Sometimes you are. But that is the way of women- _oof!_" Her elbow in his solar plexus pulled the exclamation out of him. "Ow. I will leave you to shiver here - do not think I won't." Dylan tried to scoot back to plaster herself more firmly against the delicious warmth of him, but there was no room. "And," Nuada added when she'd settled, "I did not save you. You saved yourself. I am... very proud of you."

There was a long silence, and then, "Really?"

He laid the hand that had been stroking her arm on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Kept his chin on her shoulder because he wanted to shift and press the heat of his mouth to the smudged scars on her shoulder from long-ago gunshot wounds. He wanted to trace the moon-white and silver-sheened scars on her back with the pads of his fingers. Send soft, soothing magic into the bruises marring Dylan's back and circling her neck.

Tenderness was not new to him by any means. He knew how to be gentle with a woman in various settings. But it was different here. With her. She was his lady, but... but that relationship was so complex and tangled and if he touched her the way he wanted Nuada dreaded too many of the consequences. So the immortal warrior said only, "Yes."

Then he finished telling her the story of Cù Chulainn. Told her next of Aengus, called by humans the Gaelic god of love, and the woman he loved more than life who was turned into a swan. Dylan had no objections to _that_ story, he thought with a wan smile.

Time moves slowly in darkness, in dimness and shadow. The icy chill in Dylan's body slowly faded - the only way for Nuada to really gauge the passage of time. Eventually the shivers ceased altogether. She was still too cold, however. And, the prince realized when she shifted and rolled over to cuddle against him, she was also asleep. It was safe for her to sleep now. He still had to stay under the blankets with her, but she could sleep. That was not the problem.

The problem was, as midnight slipped by and the cold dark of the earliest morning settled over the world, she was cuddling against him. Before he could even think to stop it, her arm slid around his waist. Her cool hand pressed against his bare back. The heat of her breath against his chest had the prince breathing very shallowly through clenched teeth. Carefully, Nuada shifted until he lay on his back instead of his side.

Dylan's grip on him shifted as he did. Now she was draped against his side, her open palm against his now hammering heart. Silken curls brushed his chest, his belly, like a caress every time she moved.

This was what he'd been afraid of. Now that the danger was past, his mind no longer dwelt on the fear and the rage. On the fiercely driving need to protect. Instead his thoughts centered on the soft skin of her belly pressing against Nuada's side. Her fingers, which twined unconsciously in a lock of his hair. Every time those slender fingers moved, her fingertips stroked his skin. He even felt the delicate brush of her toes against his ankle. Whenever Nuada tried to shift _at all_, Dylan nuzzled her face into his chest. Her soft, cool lips would ghost over the thin scar beneath his right pectoral muscle and his heart would knife sideways in his chest.

He shivered and closed his eyes. Struggled to keep his breathing even. Struggled, if he wanted to be honest with himself (which he didn't) to breathe at all. He wanted so badly to... to... he could _not_ let himself think about that. Could not let his thoughts explore what he wanted. But she had nearly died, he'd nearly lost her and now he wanted so much to hold her. Just to prove to himself that she was alive, that she was all right, that she wasn't hurt. Hold her. Prove to her that he had been telling the truth when he'd said-

_No,_ Nuada snarled silently. _No. Think of something else._

Love, then. How could he be in love with a human? How could he be in love with anyone he hadn't always loved? Nuada did not possess the freedom to love Dylan. And if he loved her, if he allowed himself to love her, then what did that say about his loyalty to others? To his people? To his cause? To his kingdom? His life was not his own. It was wrong to discard those he cared about, those he had a sworn duty to, just to indulge himself with a mortal woman who would one day die and leave him alone again.

But did he not deserve some happiness as well? And Fates help him, he was _happy_ with her. Even now, when her every innocent touch in sleep left him seared to the bone, there was nowhere he would rather have been than at her side. Had his father seen into Dylan the night Nuada had been flogged, the night she'd risked her life to stand by him, to save him? Had Balor known that here was a woman who could snare his son's heart? If so, was his father trying to give him a gift? Or shove him head-long into a fatal trap from which there was no escape? Was his father trying to help him, or destroy him? It hurt that Nuada didn't know the answer.

For one of the rare times in his adult life, Nuada had no idea what to do. And this time, he had no one to ask.

Who could he go to? His sister? The knowledge that she was not to be trusted in this important decision was like an iron dirk in his belly. Every time he remembered that fact, the knife twisted, twisted. Nuada could not go to his father, the setter of this sweetly-baited trap. Wink?

The prince shied away from that option. What would he say to his oldest friend? That his heart had betrayed him and he could not stop thinking of the impossible mortal woman who even now held him chained to her side by bonds as unbreakable as the feel of her heartbeat, the kiss of her breath on his skin, and the way she so softly murmured his name in her sleep? Dreaming of him, as he so often dreamed of her.

_Nuada, please. Please, Nuada. I want you to kiss me._ A shudder let his muffled groan escape. That dream had not left him yet. He wished it would vanish like morning mist in the sun. He didn't want to think of those soft lips turned up to him, so tantalizing, eager for his kiss.

As if Dylan would ever really let him kiss her. Not after everything she'd been through in her life. Yes, she found him attractive. Most women did. But there was a difference between admiring a man she viewed as a friend and allowing that friend to take liberties with her person. And he would be a fool and a churl to ask her. Maybe if the courtship charade demanded it, maybe then. But of his own volition because he could no longer withstand the temptation of that beautiful mouth? Never.

And if the pretense at courtship did demand they kiss? Nuada knew that unless they found a way to break it swiftly, his father would most likely demand they begin to "get caught" every so often locked in romantic embrace of some sort. Could the prince live with that? Could he accept that? Accept that she allowed his touch, his kiss, because the king commanded it of them?

Nuada remembered the strange disquiet in Dylan's eyes when they'd discussed possibly having to marry (and it would be an absolute miracle if that little possibility didn't kill him). Could he allow her to suffer that way, forced to accept the touch of a man she did not love? What would happen to them if Balor forced them into such a situation? Would she still look at Nuada with that wealth of affection and fondness in her eyes? Would her loyalty remain untarnished, her spirit unbroken?

Nuada had grown up knowing he would most likely marry a woman he didn't love. A woman who would be his wife and bear his children and be his queen when he finally took the Golden Throne. Dylan had had no such thoughts, no such preparation. What would happen to her beneath the crushing yoke of the king's commands? And if Nuada let himself love her, let himself surrender to her when she would not, could not love him in return... what would happen to him?

"Wassa matter?" Dylan mumbled sleepily against his chest, and Nuada jerked in surprise. She was awake - barely. Obviously struggling to remain above the sticky waves of sleep pulling at her. Struggling and failing. "Y'okay?"

"I am well enough," he said softly, running a hand lightly over her hair. She sighed and snuggled closer. For a brief, heartbreaking moment, he let himself pretend it was all right to lie beside her this way with her head pillowed on his chest and a slumberous smile on her scarred face. That it wasn't a betrayal of everything he stood for. He said, "Go back to sleep."

She already had before he'd finished the statement. In sleep, Dylan now cuddled against him so that her icy cheek lay on his shoulder, her head tucked under his chin. One hand slowly and absently stroked his other shoulder in slumber while her warm breath shushed against his neck. Her toes flicked against his calf as she sighed contentedly. Nuada blew one of her stray curls away from where it tickled his mouth. She pressed closer. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore her. No luck.

Damning himself, Nuada slipped an arm around her beneath the blanket and laid his cheek against the top of her head. His fingers tangled gently in the curls that hung down her bare back. He wouldn't sleep. Once Dylan was warm enough he was getting out of this bed. Probably getting in the shower and drowning his futile wishes and desires in ice cold water.

But until then he would pretend. Pretend she wanted him, loved him. Pretend he could be happy with her. Be with her at all. So he shifted a little and tried to ignore the still-cool softness of her body pressed against him. Tried to ignore the nagging reminder that this couldn't last, that this way meant grief.

Nuada breathed in the sweet scent of her and laid his lips ever so lightly on the top of Dylan's head. She did not stir.

**.**

Eamonn floated in darkness and agony as the cold gnawed at him, as stomach acid seared him like hellfire, and his flesh slowly died from the Silver Lance's cruel belly cut. If he died, at least the lily-white prince would suffer for it. If he died, then Nuada would fall to the curse and rape his little human sweetheart to death. King Balor would have to have him executed... if Nuada didn't take his own life first out of grief and remorse. Eamonn would have laughed if he'd had the breath for it.

Rough hands slipped under his armpits and began to drag him across the pavement and onto the snow. He didn't bother struggling. He was too far gone to care what any of the carrion-eating forest fae did with his body. Anything was better than this pain.

He frowned - or tried - when a familiar voice grumbled, "You idiot. Why did you go after her? We were supposed to wait and use the dream spells to break the prince's sanity. Why did you go after her?"

Eamonn wanted to tell that voice to shut up. He'd seen an opportunity and seized it.

She'd been vulnerable. Little whore. She'd tricked him. Promised him her favors, just like she'd given the Silver Lance. Curiosity had prompted him to accept. What had the Elven prince seen in her? Mortal flesh, mortal blood, mortal features, mortal charms. Why had Nuada betrayed everything to rut with her? The Elf of Zwezda had wanted to know.

So he'd tried her. She'd whimpered when his teeth sank into her throat and in that moment he'd understood. Mortal pain. Mortal fear. A woman's fear. He'd smelled it, tasted it on her skin. Intoxicating. No wonder Nuada had bedded her. The pain and delicious fear in her as she'd made herself vulnerable to him had been like a drug. An instant jolt of adrenaline and pleasure because she was weak, helpless, and so very human. The heir to the Golden Throne was not as chivalrous as he pretended to be, oh no. Inside he was just as twisted, just as tainted as Eamonn, as Bres.

Then she'd ruined it. Turned on him. Lied to him. Cheated. Used her witch's poisons on him - salt and that other caustic stuff. But his revenge would be sweet, even if he wasn't alive to see it come to fruition. He could imagine the glassy pain and shock in her eyes as the Elven prince broke her to pieces. Could imagine the choked cries, the tears of betrayal and pain. The light fading from those strangely fae eyes as she died.

And Nuada. Eamonn could just picture the grief and despair on that scarred face. Hear the anguished cry as the little whore died. Would he weep? Maybe. If he loved her as much as the dark Elf thought, then maybe. Eamonn certainly hoped so.

That voice was still talking. "Good thing we have a healer nearby. Idiot. Otherwise you'd have been dead long before morning." The dragging stopped. "Yeah, Iolo, I found him. He's hurt bad. Idiot. Silverlance and his little human slut got to him. Can you do aught for him?"

"Maybe," the Welsh fae lord muttered, crouching over the prone and bloody figure. "Maybe."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Oh, come on, guys. You knew I couldn't kill off Eamonn so cleanly. There had to be a question of whether he'd come back or not. So does Eamonn survive? Or not survive? Who knows? And as for our lovebirds, well... that turned out a little sadder/more melancholy than I intended originally. Huh. But was it pretty? Was it sad and pretty and melancholic without being super depressing? I did _not _want Nuada's introspection to be super sad. More like, "I wanna be with her but I can't for all these reasons, and can I really live with having her without actually having her" kind of thing. Did it work? That's question one of the review prompt._

_So real quick note. The Law of Chastity in the LDS Church _does _say that you should not lie in bed, either on top of or beneath the covers, with someone of the opposite gender (although I'm not sure about if you're under the covers and the other person is on top of the covers... hmmm...). However, we are also told that doing so in the case of a situation like this one (hypothermia) is acceptable and encouraged for medical reasons._

_And obviously they weren't gonna throw down and do the mattress mambo right after Dylan got attacked. She's hurt, for one thing. For another thing, I am a firm believer in _not _doing the first-kiss-leads-to-hot-crazy-sex thing in fanfiction. The only time I've ever seen where that worked was in this movie called _the Laws of Attraction, _with Pierce Brosnan and Julianna Moore, and it worked because it was actually about why you should _not _get drunk and have sex with someone (they'll steal your panties and use them against you in court)._

_Okay, our lovely review prompt! Wootness!_

_1) See the question in the first paragraph._

_2) Nuada - he is in character? I have to ask this time because I was dealing with new territory when it comes to him being afraid for Dylan now that he knows he's in love with her and everything._

_3) Bat. Our brave Bat. Who thought he was actually dead? Who screamed/gasped/whatever when he hit that tree? What were your thoughts?_

_4) Dylan. Who was glad to see super-gung-ho Dylan in this chapter? What did we think of that?_

_5) The forced love confession - what was your reaction? How did it make you feel? I feel like a psychiatrist. *shrug* But, yeah - thoughts?_

_6) Ten favorite things, in honor of the bestest holiday of the 10th month of the year. _=)

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title**_**:**A Lick of Frost _is book 6 in the _Meredith Gentry _series by Laurell K. Hamilton. It actually refers to one of the three most powerful men in Faerie in this series, as does the book before it (_Mistral's Kiss_) and the book after it (_Swallowing Darkness_). Those guys would be: Doyle, Frost, and Mistral, the captain and top lieutenants of the Royal Guard._

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- There is a scene in _Daughter of the Blood_ by Anne Bishop where a girl, Surreal, comes home to find her mother, Titian, dead and the walls soaked with a psychic message to run. I don't know if I got the idea of the psychic impression of _runrunrunrun_ from that or not. There is a difference, though - when Titian created the psychic message, she placed it purposely. Nuada was just picking up on Dylan's fear.

- "That's so sweet I'm getting cavities" is from an episode in season 1 of _Sailor Moon_. It's an awesome anime. =D

- Huh. We only had two. How weird. Oh, well.


	43. Book 5 Fever

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So here's the chapter that should have gone up on November 1st (Dias de los Muertos, I believe - Day of the Dead). Sorry I'm late. And this chapter is a bit more sober/solemn/somber than I originally intended, but hopefully there will be hilarity of the sort we usually expect in chapter 44 (which will hopefully be up by Monday, Nov. 7). So there's some cuteness, some angst, some relationship development, and a look at what Balor's thinking tonight. Yay! Just... I really hope you guys don't eat me. I like living. Love ya!_

_Blergh. I'm so tired. Allergy meds. They kill me. *snuggles*_

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**Chapter Forty-Three**

**Fever**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Battlefields, a Kiss, a Scent, Pajamas, Awkwardness, Illness, Half the Contents of a Closet, Fevered Words, and Wisps of Memory**

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Seduction comes in many forms. A woman's touch, a lover's arms. The brush of soft lips against skin. An embrace that offers everything, and demands nothing in return. Out of all of seduction's enticing forms, that last is the one Nuada yearned for the most. Dylan's embrace. Her arms folding gently around him and offering everything he could ever honorably ask of her. But that gift was not the one the amber-eyed Elf prince ended up succumbing to. It was the seduction of sleeping beside her, that innocent and quiet intimacy of sharing sleep with her, that ended up pulling Nuada in. He did not mean to fall asleep, but lulled by the soft sound of Dylan's breathing, Nuada drifted into slumber...

And opened his eyes to Hell.

Battle raged around him. The clash of steel against Elven silver, the roar of trolls and the screams of humans. Diminutive forest goblins launched themselves at human cavalry. Their vicious little teeth drew steaming blood from horseflesh and human flesh alike. Elves slashed and stabbed at their enemies. Blood, red as mortality, soaked into the earth. Ran in rivers to mingle with the amber and silver blood of Elves, the blue blood of goblins and trolls, the bright green and glistening black of other dying fae. The stench of it choked him.

So long since he'd been in battle. Centuries. Yet he was not in this battle now. He stood apart from it, trapped immobile upon a hill overlooking the killing field. The surrounding forest burned. Smoke blacked out the sun. Thickened the air until it was nothing but a poisonous fume. Ash rained down like snow from above. And below, fae were slaughtered by the thousands. His people. His people who needed him. Why was he just standing there? He should have been fighting! But Nuada couldn't move. Could only watch in horror as his people died at the hands of the humans. Where was the Golden Army? How had Nuada even come here?

He'd been in Dylan's cottage, hadn't he? In the haven of her bed. Holding her in his arms. No. No, he would not have done that. She would not have let him. Her faith didn't allow it. This was a dream. Just a dream. A memory long past. Travesties from centuries ago. So many killing fields. So many bloody battles. So much death. Only a memory now.

But the blood continued to soak into the screaming earth. His people continued to fall. The ash rained down and the fields ran wet with the blood of Elf-kind and others. And the Silver Lance fell to his knees and bore horrified witness to the holocaust before him.

After an eternity, the dream faded and sleep fell away, leaving him staring up at the low-beamed ceiling of Dylan's bedroom. It took him several long moments before he even realized he was awake. Dylan's fingers lightly stroking one shoulder pulled him from the soul-sucking echoes of the nightmare. Brushed the dark dream away like brushing aside cobwebs. She was still cuddled against him. Finally warm. Still sleeping peacefully. At least, Nuada thought so, but when he tried to shift out from beneath her soft weight, Dylan made a small sound and hugged him close to her.

Topaz eyes took a long moment to drink in the sight of the mortal clinging so tightly to Prince Nuada Silverlance. He wanted to reach over and brush his fingertips the length of the slashing scar down Dylan's cheek. But his hand was trembling (though only a little). He would wake her if he tried. Instead, for the first time, he allowed himself to fully analyze everything he'd felt since arriving at the cottage to find the door ajar and Dylan missing.

Panic. Fear. Real fear, as he had not experienced in a long time. Nuada had tried to pass it off as mere unease while tracking Eamonn and Dylan through the woods of the Park, but now he could acknowledge that he had been absolutely terrified that he wouldn't get there before the silver-eyed Elf raped and killed her. Even now the remnant of that fear left a sour-copper coating in his mouth. And there was more. Guilt. His fault that she'd been in danger, his fault that Eamonn had been able to trick her using Nuada's own shape. If he'd been here... if he'd been with her instead of off sulking like a callow youth... And then there was the pain. He'd said the words that were a death sentence and a prayer. _I love you._ Knew she hadn't believed him, and thank the gods for that, really, because if she knew how his foolish heart was trying to make him feel, what would become of them? But part of him wanted her to believe him. Wanted to see her reaction to those words. Wanted to know if it were possible for a mortal woman to love him when even those dearest to him could not accept him as he was.

_I am a fool,_ he thought, not for the first time, as he gazed at the peacefully slumbering face he saw every time he closed his eyes. He loved her. He could not love her, but he did. And there was no way for him to stop. No witch's spell, no troll potion. Death would cure him, or nothing would. He knew that because still, in the depths of his heart, the love he bore another still smoldered. Still festered. And not even two thousand years in exile had cured him of that.

This time when he attempted to disentangle himself from his lady, he managed to escape her embrace without waking her or prompting her to tighten her grip. Immediately upon his leaving the warmth of her bed, she snuggled her face into the spot where he had lain. His heart stuttered. A hard swallow helped it to resume its proper rhythm.

And because she slept, because he could do this and no one but the gods would know, he leaned over and brushed the lightest, most chaste of kisses across her bruised cheek. Her skin was like silk under his lips. "Sleep, mo duinne, and dream sweetly."

Then Nuada went to wash the scent of her from his body. Scarcely could he bear it. It only sharpened the yearning to return to that soft, warm bed and fall back asleep in her arms, dark dreams or no.

**.**

Dylan woke sprawled across her bed, her face snuggled not into a pillow, but the level plain of her dark blue sheet. So warm, still radiating that delicious warmth she'd fallen asleep against. The sheet smelled of feral woods and the wild green, of dark forests and moonlight and warrior. Nuada's scent. She recognized it easily. Cuddled her face against it. Sighed dreamily and thought sincerely about going back to sleep. She hurt. Didn't want to hurt. Hurting bad. Sleep instead. Sleep, wrapped up in that delicious smell permeating her sheets...

Then she blinked when recognition recalled memory and she remembered everything that had happened since Sunday morning. The letter (oh what a beautiful letter), and the wonderful gift from Nuada. Sleeping off being sick most of the day, John bringing home the futon, getting ready. Then the knock at the door, and Nuada but not Nuada, Eamonn that monster. Bat hurt and she and Eamonn fighting in the snow. Nearly dying with vindictive hands wrapped around her throat. Nuada, the real Nuada, coming for her, coming and saying... saying...

_I love you._ Oh, brutal lie. Soft, brutal lie. Dylan closed her eyes and bit her lip. Winced when teeth against the cut stung like an angry wasp. But that stinging pain helped her to stop focusing on the words Eamonn had forced out of the Elven prince. The fae couldn't lie - usually. But there were shades and subtleties to the truth that any fae worth its magic could use to their advantage. Eamonn had done so that first night in Findias, promising a cure for the poison he'd slipped into Nuada's system. She'd thought he meant an actual cure for the poison. The silver-eyed Elf had meant death.

In that same way, Nuada had lied. Love? There were many flavors of that particular emotion. She was a psychiatrist - she knew that. For Nuada... the love of a brother, the love of a son, the love of a father. Ally, friend, liege lord, shield-brother, lover, husband. Almost any of those could hypothetically apply to what the prince had said. Dylan knew that most likely it was the "love" of friendship, of affection and fondness. It wasn't like Nuada hadn't already told her that he was fond of her. They were friends - of a sort. Allies, most certainly.

But... but... _I love you._

Well, that was even assuming it applied at all. Nuada was royal. Royal fae could lie if they wanted to. So it might have been entirely untrue and she was just grasping at straws now. Whatever. Not a big deal.

What _had_ been the big deal for her was telling him she loved him back. And because she was human, because she could lie to her heart's content if she chose, Dylan knew there was no way Nuada would guess the truth. She'd finally gotten a chance to tell him the truth and it hadn't made her feel any better. Not that it mattered. He was back. At least he'd come back. At least he wasn't angry anymore. She remembered that much. Remembered, though there were blank spots, getting Eamonn with the rock salt and Nuada going for him and words. Words in Old Gaelic. Dylan hadn't been lucid enough to recognize any of them. She'd been slipping into sleep at that point, feeling strangely, dangerously warm and drowsy.

Vaguely she recalled Nuada's worried expression. Pain as Bat scratched her. Bat okay, Bat awake, Bat alive. Her good boy. Searing heat when they'd come into the cottage, Brighid helping her get undressed. Nuada had tried to help, Dylan remembered suddenly. She hadn't wanted him to do that. It would have hurt him to see. Hadn't wanted him to see the raw scrapes that had begun burning across her hips, or see the fact that Eamonn had ripped away her underwear and nearly-

Dylan pressed her face harder into the smooth sheet when a sudden sob of panic and fury welled up in her throat. It didn't matter. She wouldn't _let_ it matter. It did _not_ matter because Eamonn was dead. _Dead_. Nuada had killed him. She knew she ought to feel sorry about that, knew she ought to pray for mercy on the dark-haired Elf's soul. But right now all she could manage was breathing in the wild scent and basking in the warmth left behind from where Nuada had slept beside her.

_Now I know why sleeping next to someone of the opposite gender is prohibited by the Law of Chastity,_ Dylan thought as the churning emotions began to dissipate. Left in their wake was an odd, distant sense of loss. _It has this odd intimacy about it. Humans crave intimacy. They like to feel close to other people. Sleeping beside someone does that. It leaves you at your most vulnerable, and in front of another person. It creates a bond between you. And that intimacy can be addictive._ She knew that she'd have a really hard time falling asleep for the next few days without Nuada beside her. But that was against the rules (not to mention, the very idea probably disgusted him; being snuggled by a mortal while trying to sleep). Before she'd been in danger of freezing to death. But just because she wanted a giant Elven teddy bear? _I don't think so._

Where _was_ Nuada, anyway? Dylan sat up in bed and looked around. A leather pack slouched beside the cracked bedroom door; Nuada's bag, probably. But where was... Her ears caught the sound of the shower. _Like I thought - washing off my human germs._ Well, while he was in there, she needed to get on something besides undergarments. Like some pants. A sweater. And maybe those amazing socks with the fuzzy rainbow toes that the Elf prince had bought for her.

When Dylan stood up, the room tilted one way, then the other. She staggered a couple steps. _Whoa. Dizzy._ Her skull felt like someone had stuffed it with really hot cobwebs and cotton balls. She'd noticed, but hadn't really processed what that meant until just then. _Oh, crud. My fever's back. Of course it is. Well, whatever. Gotta get dressed._

Once outfitted in black and pink plaid pajama pants covered in Christmas presents and a black long-sleeve shirt (with the blush-inducing words _On the Naughty List_ across the bust in hot pink), courtesy of Francesca a couple years back, Dylan slumped back into bed and crawled under the covers. She would've grabbed a different set of PJs, but these had been the first pair on hand and she didn't have the energy. Being sick as a dog for two days, nearly getting the life throttled out of you, nearly dying of hypothermia, and getting sick again kind of took it out of a girl.

_Well this bites,_ she grumbled silently to herself, huddling beneath the blanket. _Sick while Nuada's here. I hate being sick. I wonder if my sore throat's gonna come back too._ She'd been a little croaky before falling asleep but the rasping tickle in her throat seemed to have faded while she slept. But she'd had the worst sore throat Saturday and Sunday morning. _I hope it doesn't come back; I hate that nasty cough syrup._ Dylan wrapped the thick blankets more tightly around herself. Mmmm. The blanket smelled like Nuada, too. That was nice.

**.**

Nuada felt like a fool, but he flicked open the plastic bottle, bent his head, and inhaled the sweet fragrance of Dylan's soap. The smell of home. He flipped the bottle closed again and stashed it back on its little shelf. Stars curse it, he'd washed away that scent almost an hour ago, along with the fear-sweat and the last remnants of that nightmare. But unlike the sweat and the nightmare, Nuada could (reluctantly) admit that he liked Dylan's scent weaving around him and ghosting along his skin. Did his own scent embrace the slender woman lying on the bed?

He did not want to leave the shower. Did not want to face what awaited him in that bedroom. What if she was still asleep? Could he resist sliding back into bed with her, slipping his arms around her, and lying beside her? Probably not, which was just pathetic. He was the Silver Lance, not some lovesick boy pining for a lock of his sweetheart's hair or some other sentimental token.

And what if Dylan wasn't asleep? What if she was awake, and waiting for him so they could talk?

_I have to pretend she means nothing to me,_ Nuada reminded himself. Frowned. As if that were possible. It was obvious even to the dimmest village idiot that Dylan meant _something_ to him. _I will pretend that she is... a friend. A good friend. That is easy enough._ As long as she didn't touch him. As long as he didn't touch her. Or would that avoidance give him away to her? To others? Curse it, there was no way Nuada could tell Dylan not to touch him without hurting her feelings and hadn't he hurt his mortal lady enough? And may the Fates help him, he loved to touch her. Loved to stroke her cheek with the very tips of his fingers. Brush his thumb over her knuckles when he took her hand. Never mind the temptation of touching those soft, pink lips.

If the Crown Prince of Bethmoora had been a lesser man, he'd have slammed his head against the shower wall in his frustration. Instead he rinsed away the last vestiges of soap and shampoo (his own, thank the stars, packed before leaving the lair) and turned off the deliciously hot water. There was precious little he enjoyed as much as a hot shower.

Dried off and dressed in his standard black and red, he padded barefoot into Dylan's bedroom and frowned. She shivered beneath the blankets. Her breathing sounded strange. Not harsh, but slightly pained. When Nuada sank down onto the bed beside her, the mortal opened tired eyes and offered him a wan smile. Dark lips quirked up of their own accord. Still so easy to smile at her.

"Hi," she said softly. Winced and laid a hand against her bruised throat. "Ow."

"Good morning," Nuada murmured. _Keep the tenderness out of your voice,_ he admonished himself. "How do you feel?"

He wasn't sure offhand if he had ever seen someone shrug lying down, but Dylan managed it. "Cold. Fever's back." She winced again and rubbed her throat. "Sore throat's back. Crud. I hate that." She tensed her jaw and made a low sound before relaxing again. "Trying not to cough," Dylan added with a grimace. "Hurts like blue fire. Knew this would happen. Stupid Eamonn. Is Bat okay?"

"He is just fine," Nuada replied, thinking back to the pudgy kitten being stroked by Brighid while Becan fed him some of his mistress's best cream. Well, after everything that had happened, the little warrior deserved a treat. "A little scraped, but that's all. Mostly just had the wind knocked out of him. Now, be still," he added, and laid his fingers against her bruised throat. The amber-eyed warrior knew the moment Dylan relaxed and smiled that soothing magic eased some of the hurt. Still, just to make sure, Nuada asked, "Better?"

"Much," she said. "Thank you." When Nuada would have pulled his hand back, she caught it and pressed it briefly against her cheek. Nuada blinked at the heat trapped beneath her skin. Fever indeed. But her words distracted him. "I'm so glad you're back. I really... I've been worried about you. Are you all right?"

_She_ was the one who had nearly died and she wanted to know if _he_ was all right? "I am well enough."

Dylan released his hand, but only to reach up and lightly touch gentle fingertips to the edge of Nuada's jaw. "Every time you say that, I worry. When you say you're all right, I know everything's okay. But well enough?" The tender stroke of her finger against his jaw seemed almost unconscious. "Those words mean that for some reason you won't let yourself be anything but okay, and that worries me because it means there's a problem. Something you won't let yourself deal with the way you want to deal with it. What is it?"

He looked so tired. There were shadows in his eyes, weariness in his face and across his shoulders. Dylan wanted to hold him. Wanted to cleanse those shadows from him. Out of everyone she knew, Nuada deserved peace from shadows. But things were tenuous between them still. The fact that the tired-eyed Elven warrior was even letting Dylan touch him at all, she attributed to the fact that she was sick and he was being nice. A touch, she could get away with. But to embrace him? The only times she'd ever done so had been rare - out of relief when he'd found her the night she met Eamonn; as a thank-you for taking her to church that Sunday in Findias; and after he'd pulled her away from Eamonn only hours before when she'd been so cold and so tired and his arms had come around her to hold her upright. But she didn't dare risk trying to hug Nuada right now. For one, she was sick, and moving more than a few inches hurt. For another, he'd probably get mad.

So Dylan only asked again, "What's wrong, Nuada?"

For a long time he was silent, as if he did not mean to answer her. Then there was a flicker. A brief flicker in the depths of topaz eyes. Just a moment of indecision and... was that a plea in those perfect eyes? But then it was gone so fast she wondered if she'd imagined it. Eventually, Nuada murmured, "Many things in life that neither you nor I can mend, milady." When she opened her mouth, he added, "Dylan, let it be."

"Okay." If that was what he wanted. She'd let it go... for now. But whatever was plaguing him, she knew as a psychiatrist that he needed to talk about it with _someone._ If not her, then Wink maybe. But someone.

"Rest now," Nuada said, pulling away from her as he rose to his feet. "The best cure for being sick is sleep."

"You sound like John," Dylan mumbled, but obliged him by falling asleep again.

**.**

Balor, the One-Armed King of Elfland, would have paced if he'd had the energy. Instead he sat at his desk and studied the reports from the borders of Bethmoora. Most of the envoys coming to the Golden Kingdom for the Winter Solstice festivities would not arrive until the second or third week of December. The envoy from Cíocal had come early to ensure that the One-Armed King knew they'd had nothing to do with the attempted coup and assassination attempt against Bethmoora's royal family (they _were_ one of Bethmoora's closest neighbors, and were thus under suspicion by virtue of geography as much as politics). The envoys from Eirc, their other neighbor, and Zwezda, Eamonn's kingdom of birth, would swiftly arrive ahead of schedule, as well.

And Dilong was also on its way.

Balor sighed and dropped his head into his hands. Dilong was coming, and the stars only knew what tangles would crop up when the Jade Emperor's emissaries arrived in Findias. Emperor Huizong would no doubt take offense at the courtship between Nuada and the human woman. Ming Xian was too young to challenge Dylan for the right to the Crown Prince, but her brothers were old enough to fight Nuada themselves in a proxy challenge. Balor knew his son would win any such contest, of course. Nuada was one of the greatest warriors the Hidden Realms had ever seen. But that wasn't the point. The point was the political headache. And, the king thought sourly, the _point_ was that the Crown Prince of Bethmoora hadn't been seen in Findias in more than two _weeks_, in flagrant disregard of his king's commands.

True, the mortal woman had given her permission for the prince to leave the castle (and he, Balor, had given her the power to grant that permission in the first place, hoping that the enticement of such power would help woo her to the idea of becoming the prince's bride). And if Wink could be believed - and the silver cave troll would not dare lie to his king, no matter what his loyalty to the Elven prince - then Nuada had gone because the human that had sworn her loyalty to the prince had a need of him. _I was called away by duty,_ Nuada had told his sister. And later, _When duty no longer calls me away, then will I return_.

The Elf king pursed his lips and pondered this. For so long his son had hated the humans. Balor remembered well the prince's fury when the truce was called between the humans and the fae. Remembered also Nuada's chilling approval of the bloodshed and destruction wrought by the Golden Army. How could the king reconcile the hate-filled, vengeful young man that had left that battlefield almost two thousand years ago with the honorable warrior prince that Nuala had told her father the human woman believed in and swore fealty to? And could that vindictive warrior truly care for a member of the despised race of Man, even in the distant way of a lord for his lowliest servant? If not even that cold consideration, then how could Nuada ever possibly grow to love the girl?

His daughter's reports were, at best, baffling. So many conflicting things. _Called away by duty,_ Nuada had told his sister, and Balor knew neither twin could lie to the other. What duty? To the human? Absurd. And yet... what else _could_ the prince have meant? What other reason not saturated with Nuada's hate could his son have for disobeying a direct order from his father and king?

And then there was the strange feelings the princess had reported to her father. About a week ago, there had been a strange and intense exhilaration mingled with dread and regret and a piercingly sweet ache Nuala could not explain. She had been positive the emotions came from her twin. And earlier tonight, there had been a swift and brutal stab of pure terror. But what, in either the mortal realm or in Faerie, could possibly terrify the crown prince of Bethmoora? Even in the midst of battle Nuada had not felt such fear as that.

Balor pulled off the half-moon glasses he used when reading the often cramped, crabbed handwriting specific to a king's incredibly boring paperwork. Passed a weary hand over his lined face. When had being a father and being a king become so complicatedly intertwined? Before Nuada's return, Balor had mourned for his son and waited patiently for his enemy to strike at the truce between the humans and the fae. Now... now he had to wonder about every little maneuver his heir made. Every gesture, every word spoken, every facet of every thrice-cursed thing Nuada did because the king knew that he had to be careful.

Nuada was clever. Nuada was determined. Nuada was bold when it suited him, but could be diplomatic and even deceptive when necessary. Balor hadn't had to worry in so long about such things. He was old and out of practice. And now the One-Armed King also had to worry about that woman, that human _girl_ - and she was little more than a girl, really - that his son had somehow managed to woo to his side. Balor had no doubt the girl loved Nuada. That was the problem. The king wanted Lady Dylan of Central Park on the king's side, not the prince's. Wanted her biddable and willing to be used by the king of Bethmoora, not unfailingly loyal to the crown prince of the Golden Kingdom. But the only sure way to turn her against Nuada - revealing his plans regarding the Golden Army - would just as surely make her unusable for Balor's current plans regarding his son's courtship to the mortal.

The king rubbed his aching temple with his good hand and sighed. So many complications. Almost all of them Nuada's fault. Life would have been so much easier if he was like Elatha Redtongue, the king of Cíocal. Everyone knew he didn't care which of his children ascended the Fomorian Throne. As long as all the others were dead by the time the winner took the crown. If Balor could have disassociated himself with his son, could have felt nothing for him as Elatha felt nothing for any of his children but Bres - the last man standing, and thus deemed worthy of his father's regard - all of this would have been so much simpler.

But Balor couldn't just forget that day over four thousand and ninety years ago, when he had held his newborn son in his arms for the very first time. Could not forget how it felt to see a piece of his heart toddling and then running around as Nuada grew older and stronger (and recklessly bold, in the way of little boys). It was impossible not to remember singing to that young boy, playing with him, teaching him to ride and swim, to fight and to dance. Of course Nuada had had various tutors (what child of nobility didn't?) but it had been his father's joy to be the cornerstone of his life. It had been one of the greatest days of the king's life when his son had first held the Silver Lance, the weapon of the Crown Prince of Bethmoora. His heart had swelled nearly to bursting with pride in his son.

And then Cethlenn... for a time after the queen's death, Balor knew, the people had whispered that the king had run mad with grief. He had withdrawn from everyone and everything. Even Nuada and Nuala, who had most likely needed him most in those months and years after. Nuala had found solace in two of her handmaidens - a _wakį́yą_ girl and a young Elven noblewoman from Zwezda. Nuada had found his solace with the troll warrior that had avenged his mother's death. Eventually the king had come back to himself, but by then, the reckless, always-laughing boy Balor remembered was gone. Left in his place was a somber, wary youth who rarely shared more than he needed to with anyone - especially his father.

Balor had loved his son. Still loved him. Was proud of the warrior he had become. If only the girl's estimation of Nuada was true - he could be proud of not just the warrior, but the man. But as the humans often said, if wishes were horses than beggars would ride. The king had to look at the situation objectively. His son hadn't changed in all these centuries. Not really. If anything, Nuada had only grown worse. Now he defied his father and king as if it were nothing of consequence. The Silver Lance had the potential to become a very large problem if not made to heel.

_We are going to have to have a serious discussion when Nuada returns,_ the king growsed silently, replacing his half-moon glasses. _And he had better return before the Midwinter festivities begin. He has obligations to fulfill. If he does not come back swiftly, he will face my displeasure. And so will the woman who encourages him to disobey me._

**.**

Dylan woke shivering from a half-remembered dream of darkness and blood. Groping around for her cell phone, she found it on her nightstand and checked the time. Barely five-thirty. Not even dawn yet. There was no way she was going into work today. Moving even an inch filled her half-raw skin with aching prickles. _Fever. Big time._ Dylan slowly dialed her office number and left a brief message explaining that she had the flu and wouldn't be coming in. Since her throat sounded croaky as a dying frog, she was pretty sure the message sounded sincere. Then she dropped her phone on the pillow next to her head and tried to keep her breathing steady. Every breath dragged and rasped inside her chest. Closing her eyes, Dylan tried to fall back asleep. Couldn't manage it. Her throat hurt too much.

_Oh, whatever, I know I've got cough syrup in the kitchen,_ Dylan thought, and threw back the covers. As soon as the cool air of the cottage hit her, she shivered. _Holy crow, it's freezing!_ Getting to her feet took all of her energy. For a long moment she just hugged one of the bedposts and tried to remain upright as the world pulsed and shifted around her. Normally she wouldn't even have tried getting out of bed but her throat was killing her, she wanted some cough medicine, and she didn't have enough voice left to call out for help.

Once everything stopped moving in bizarre ways and the aches had mostly subsided (though her bad knee was still _very_ unhappy with her), Dylan trudged into the hall and went to the kitchen where Becan kept the fever-reducers and the cough syrup. By the time she made it down the short hallway to the kitchen entryway her skull felt like it was splintering. So she leaned against the cool marble counter. Let the cold stone cool her face and ease some of the hot throbbing in her head. _I haven't been this sick in a couple years,_ Dylan thought with distant surprise. _Must be all the stress._

"Milady!" Becan's distressed cry made her wince when it scraped across her brain. The brownie scrambled up onto the counter and raced to her side to lay tiny hands on the back of her neck. She flinched. He quickly jerked them back from the scorching heat trapped beneath her skin. "Milady, you are very sick."

"I know," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I came to get something for the fever. And for my throat."

Becan's sprite magic drew up one of the dining room chairs and Dylan sank into it gratefully. Then she pillowed her head on the cool counter. Her entire body felt like it had been plunged into ice water except her face, which felt like it was burning. The cold stone helped a lot. Becan continued to mumble to himself, though his comments seemed to be directed at his mistress ("Oh, my poor mistress, I'll fix you right up, don't you worry about anything, milady.") as the brownie set out a cup of apple cider just on this side of too hot, three Tylenol, and a dose of the orange dextromethorphan syrup. Dylan took the Tylenol and downed the cider, which made her feel a lot better. A glassy blue gaze eyed the cough syrup warily. She hated that stuff. Now that she was faced with her old enemy, Dylan was reconsidering the syrup route. Maybe a cough drop?

Her brownie folded his arms and pinned her with a stern look. "Lady Dylan. It is for your own good."

"Oh, jeez, now you sound like John, too. Blech. Okay, okay," she mumbled, and hastily knocked back the stingingly noxious cough suppressant. Her fist slammed the counter as Dylan struggled to keep the foul stuff down instead of gagging it back up. Same struggle every time she took this medicine. Pain flashed up her arm. She'd forgotten about the bruises, darn it. "There has to be better-tasting stuff out there," she choked out, grimacing. "Seriously."

Her epic struggle with the fiendish concoction from Hades now over, Dylan realized someone was missing. Against her will a sizzle of panic buzzed under her skin. "Where's Nuada?" Had he left again?

"The den, milady." Becan refilled the mug with cider, watching with approval as his mistress drank it. "Training, I believe."

Dylan pulled herself out of the chair using the countertop and then paused, realizing she wasn't quite sure where she was going. Well, she needed to lay down. But she wanted to see Nuada. Wanted to talk to him. There was so much they needed to talk about. What had happened. What they were going to do now. And there was a futon in the den. John had just gotten it the day before. She could lay on that.

Walking took considerable effort. Not tripping over her own feet was apparently an incredibly impressive achievement just then. But in the nearly-fifteen minutes it took for her to get to the door of the den, the Tylenol had started to kick in, pushing back some of the pulsing headache and cooling the hellish fever a little. At the door she paused and leaned against the doorframe, content to simply watch the Crown Prince of Bethmoora moving through what Dylan vaguely recognized as a _taolu_ - a Chinese martial art form. She sank to the floor when her legs threatened to give out. Stretched out her aching leg. She could still see. And it was so much easier just to sit against the doorframe and watch than try to move at all. She was so tired.

Nuada slowly became aware of eyes on him as he moved sharply and swiftly through the martial art form. _Wŭ_ _Xíng_ was not difficult for one of his experience, but he often forgot to keep his palms open instead of closed when he tried to deliver a punch. He appreciated the speed of this martial art style, however. The Elf prince was moving faster than any but an Elven eye could track. Yet when the topaz-eyed Elven warrior felt the eyes on him, he slowed so that those eyes could watch and appreciate the swift, lethal motions.

Nuada wound down to the end of the _taolu_. Stopped. Turned to study the mortal woman who sat in the entryway with one knee drawn up to her chest, her head resting against the doorframe. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Can't sleep," she replied with that familiar, casual lift of one shoulder. "Thought I'd keep you company." When he didn't speak, she ducked her head and said to the floor, "If... if you don't mind, I mean."

_Behave as if nothing has changed,_ Nuada reminded himself. Aloud he replied as tonelessly as possible, "If you like." He did not miss the way Dylan's eyes dimmed a little. He fought not to curse. Always when someone was ordered to "act natural," what inevitably resulted was anything but. Trying to gentle his tone, he added, "Do you need help up?"

"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. "It's fine, I'm good." Using the doorframe, Dylan levered herself up and leaned against the door, trying to keep her breathing steady. The world tilted one way and then another and then back again so fast she had to squeeze her eyes shut or lose her balance.

Nuada took a step forward. "Dylan?" She'd suddenly gone hideously pale.

"Gimme a minute," she mumbled. "Just a bit dizzy, I'm okay." Things stopped swirling and she made her way to the new futon, which she flopped down on with all the grace of a troll dancing ballet. Nuada, Dylan noticed, did not sit next to her, but took a chair positioned so that he could see her face whenever she happened to speak but wasn't forced to look at her directly if he didn't want to. Dylan blinked back the stinging in her eyes and decided to stretch out on the futon-couch, since she had it all to herself. Her feet made the arm of the futon their new home. Fuzzy, rainbow toes flicked back and forth in the flickering firelight. An awkward silence stretched between them.

_Is this awkward because of the fight?_ Dylan wondered. _Or because of the apology? Or because he was cuddled up to me while I was mostly naked? Or because I asked him what was wrong before?_ Oddly, if she'd been the sort to gamble with something other than dum-dum suckers, her money would've been on the apology. She still remembered every word of that beautiful letter. _You are precious, Dylan._ He couldn't have meant that. Or at least, the prince hadn't meant that she was precious to him, specifically. But she'd known that as soon as she read it. It was still a beautiful letter.

_But again,_ Dylan thought with just the faintest trace of bitterness, _I am reminded of the nature of a faerie lie._ As for the rest, that too had lanced her heart and brought tears to her eyes. _Kind, gentle, honorable._ Of course Nuada had meant that. She'd never doubted he meant what he said. It had been more than she'd ever thought capable of receiving - his thoughts towards her were much higher than she'd ever expected. And friendship. He considered her his friend. Considering Dylan had never held out hope that he would see her as anything but a necessary evil, to be called his friend... that had made her cry even harder than the "precious" thing.

_But is he embarrassed now?_ She wondered, watching her toes curl and uncurl because she couldn't bear to watch Nuada pointedly not looking at her. _Does he regret being so candid with me in the letter?_

As a kid, she and John had often gone swimming. Dylan had been one of those children who stuck their toe in the water to test the temperature, then slowly made her way down the pool steps, trying to acclimate to the inevitable chill. John had been the type of kid who told his twin that toe-dipping was for sissies and just jumped in with a cannon ball or a belly-flop (usually soaking her in the process).

In the very awkward and silent present, Dylan swallowed hard and decided that for once, she was going to take her twin brother's advice and stop being a sissy. Time to just jump on in. Preferably with a cannon ball; bellyflops hurt.

"Nuada," she said softly. Feral eyes leapt to her face. "The letter you wrote... it was beautiful."

He looked back to the fire. "I am... glad you approve." There was no expression on his face or in his voice. His eyes were like a pair of glacial topaz jewels, glittering and distant. For one of the incredibly rare times since she'd met him, Dylan had no idea what he was thinking.

No cannon ball. Bellyflop. Definitely a bellyflop, judging from the stinging. Lots of stinging. _Thanks a lot for nothing, brother._ Then she got an idea. A swift one, probably an insane one, but it would probably do what she wanted. Almost definitely, knowing him. So Dylan shoved herself upright and propped her elbows on her knees. She said in a _very_ casual voice, "I did have one problem with it, though."

Those feral eyes sliced back to her. One knife-thin brow arched. "Oh?"

Cocking her head, she replied, "Since I have a hard time walking right now, how about you come over here so I can explain?" Nuada gave her a considering look. Got up from his chair and came to sit beside her on the couch. The nearness of him was really distracting. So was the coolly expectant look on his face. "Okay," Dylan said. "It's just this one teeny tiny little thing." Then she balled up her fist and thwacked him on the shoulder. Pain lanced through her fist. She'd forgotten about the bruises and scrapes again.

"What," Nuada demanded, his eyebrow winging a bit higher, "was _that_ for?"

She folded her arms beneath her breasts and glared, all casualness gone. "For that whole thing about 'the darkest, most monstrous part of you.' How many times do I have to tell you, Your Highness? There is _nothing_ monstrous about you. At all. Never has been, never will be. Everything about that letter was absolutely perfect except that and the coward thing. You're not a coward. You're the bravest man I know. And you're not a monster, either." She thwacked him again. Winced. "Don't talk about my best friend like that."

Surprisingly, gratifyingly, Nuada huffed a laugh. Shaking his head, a rueful smile playing about his lips, the Elven warrior groused, "Woman, you are exasperating."

"I try," she quipped. Shrugged. Swallowed hard when pale hands grasped her shoulders and gave her the tiniest shake.

"I _know_," Nuada replied. "Believe me." He let her go, even though his fingers wanted to stay curled around those narrow shoulders a bit longer. As a point of pride he didn't brush his fingertips over the scar slashing down her cheek or tuck that one always-rebellious curl behind her ear. Instead he leaned back against the couch, arms folded, and fixed his gaze on the fireplace again. That first punch had actually hurt a bit. For some unfathomable reason, the thought made Nuada's mouth twitch. So he smoothed his features to blankness and said, "No more hitting me."

"Your letter said we were friends; that means I get to hit you when you're being an idiot. And before you say you weren't being anything even close to an idiot," Dylan added sharply, also refolding her arms, "yes you were. There is _nothing_ wrong with you, Nuada. I like you just the way you are." Now she shot him one wild-shy glance before dropping her gaze to her knees. "So... um... I'm feeling kind of awkward. Are you feeling kind of awkward?"

His look was pure male pride. "I am an Elf. I am never awkward."

_Gee, I've heard that before,_ Dylan thought, relaxing a little. "Well, _I_ feel awkward. So... what have you been doing while... while you were... not here?" She fought the urge to groan and drop her face in her hands. If that didn't make her sound like some kind of babbling teenager, she didn't know what would. "Meet any interesting... people? Try new foods? Read any good books lately? All that stuff."

Against his will, Nuada suddenly thought of the sparring sessions with Wink. Being thrown into walls, the floor, various hard surfaces. Thought about shopping at the Troll Market and having to answer everyone's far-too-inquisitive questions about the remarkable human that had somehow "won the Silver Lance's heart." Thought about wandering the City streets at night, desperate to escape his ever-circling thoughts about the mortal. The Elven warrior tried not to scowl. He did not want to scare her. "Nothing of consequence. You?"

It was hard to feel like a stranger with him. To talk to him like a stranger chattering politely about nothing of any import instead of sharing with him all the things she wanted to tell: about Tiana and how much she looked like... like... And about painting John's nails. She knew almost instinctively that Nuada would get a kick out of her brother's embarrassment.

She wanted to tell him about the psych-eval with Westenra, but that felt too much like whining and did she have the right to possibly get that evil snake killed? Not that he didn't most likely deserve it. But if the Elf prince took offense and killed him, so many things could happen as a result. The Blackwoods might think she'd done something. Couldn't risk that. Who knew what they would do then? What might happen to her? And if she made it onto the suspect list, she'd be put on suspension again. So talking about _that_ was not an option.

Most importantly, she wanted to tell Nuada about the dreams. Every night she'd dreamt of him. Dreams of the roaring sea and fresh green fields and so many beautiful places. Dreams of him holding her, telling her things she almost never remembered upon waking but she knew they'd been beautiful. Had he dreamt of her at all?

"Um... I beat the stuffing out of John," Dylan said with sudden inspiration. Nuada turned his head slightly to study her. "For what he said to you. He told me. I hit him." Now she shrugged. "Would've hit him harder but he's really muscle-ly and it hurt. I whacked him till my hands ached, though. Just to make sure he got the message."

"Defending my honor?"

She tried not to flinch at the subtle bite of sarcasm in the words. "Um... sure. Whatever you say. Not that you need it. More like I was so angry that if I didn't hit John a bunch of times, I'd wring his scrawny neck." Was it her imagination, or had Nuada's mouth twitched? "I'm not one for violence usually, but after he told me what he'd said to you, part of me was kind of sad I stopped you from breaking his arm. Although part of me is glad because he's my brother and I love him. And because I don't want to have to put up with his whining about how my boyfriend broke his arm in two places." Then Dylan winced because she'd said _boyfriend._ Sighing, she dropped her face in her hands. "I don't know how to act around you."

"What do you mean?" Nuada frowned, studying the slumped shoulders and tired face. Even when she pulled her hands away from her face, Dylan didn't look up. Just kept her gaze on the floor. Why did she suddenly look so defeated? "Behave as you always have."

Dylan just shook her head and didn't say anything. As if things could really be that easy. She knew better.

The silence that now stretched between the Elf prince and the mortal woman had none of the warmth and companionship of their old silences. Nuada turned away from studying Dylan when he realized his gaze was lingering on the slim muscles of her bruised neck and the slope of her near shoulder. Dylan just gazed down at the floor and listened to the fire crackle. Things hadn't been this tense when he'd been warming her, darn it. Or when she'd woken up and he'd soothed her sore throat. Why was there this tension now? This strange tautness between them? Dylan groped for any explanation that might fit and found one. Had to bite down hard on her bottom lip, ignoring the stab of pain from the scabbed cut.

He didn't trust her anymore. She had no doubt he liked her - why tell her they were friends if he didn't mean it? Why lie about something like that? And she had no doubt that he'd forgiven her because why lie about that, either?

But trust? His trust in her was gone.

She bit harder when her bottom lip began to tremble. Blinked rapidly when her eyes began to sting. She was _not_ going to cry over this like some preteen after a bad breakup. Actions had consequences, darn it. She'd learned that in Saint Vincent's when she'd been learning about the Church. God had given everything on the earth the divine gift of agency, the ability and the right to choose your own actions. What He hadn't given them was the ability to always choose the consequences of those actions. She wasn't going to cry. She was going to accept the consequences of her actions like a grown-up, build herself a bridge, and get over it.

A tear trembled at the corner of her eye. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the tear was gone, broken into tiny invisible water droplets that now spiked her lashes. But she knew if she stayed in this room she'd end up bawling like a baby.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Highness," the mortal said suddenly, lurching to her feet and shuffling quickly out of the room. The topaz-eyed fae warrior watched her go, knowing that somehow he had misstepped. He just wasn't sure how. So Nuada stood and followed slowly after her.

He didn't have far to go. Dylan leaned against the corridor wall near her bedroom door, breathing heavily, shaking. At first Nuada thought perhaps she wept, but then the mortal slid down the wall to the floor and he saw she was out of breath. Her head dropped back against the stone wall. Her eyes squeezed shut. Nuada cleared his throat to make sure she knew he was there as he swiftly approached and knelt beside her. The look she gave him when he crouched next to her was almost pitiable.

"Dylan?"

"I don't feel good," she mumbled, closing her eyes again. "Like, at all." She brushed ineffectually at the wisps of dark curl hanging in her face with an almost-limp hand. "Everything's dancing. Got up too fast. I think... I think I need to go back to bed."

Nuada lightly laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Jerked back at the vicious heat. "That would be wise," he muttered, scooping her up before she could protest. "Back to bed with you, mo duinne." Maneuvering the bedroom door open with his foot was easy. Dylan shivered in his arms. When Nuada laid her back on her bed, she winced and made a small sound of distress. "What hurts?"

"Everything," Dylan whispered. "Fever aches, I think. I already took medicine. Just need to sleep."

"Then sleep," he said, smoothing back her hair from her face. She'd already taken something for the fever, yet she still burned so hotly? The feral-eyed prince tried to ignore the surge of worry that tried to take him. "I will be back in a few minutes."

"You don't... have to..." Then the fight seemed to go out of her. She closed her eyes and fell silent. Nuada strode swiftly from the room and went to the kitchen, where Becan was stirring a pot of something over the stove. Brighid had gone back to her own nest a few hours ago.

"Your Highness!" The brownie glanced nervously between the prince and the steaming pot.

The prince gestured for the wee fae to continue with what he was doing. Nuada only asked, "Does Dylan keep paper anywhere? Just half a page will do." Under Becan's direction, the Elf found a pen and a small notepad filled with some of the most ridiculous stationary he'd ever seen, even by human standards. Tiny pieces of candy decorated the paper along with the words _There's nothing in life that can't be fixed by prayers and chocolate._ The prince did not agree. Nuada hastily scribbbled a short message to Wink, tore off the page, and folded it in half. To Becan, he added, "How soon can you leave that? I have a message for you to deliver."

"This soup is for milady-" Becan began a little reproachfully.

"I'm afraid she's too ill to eat at the moment," Nuada said softly, thinking back to the weakness he'd felt in her body as he carried her back into her room. The brownie's sloe-black eyes widened. "Can it wait until this is delivered?"

Becan assured him it could. After banking the fire in the stove and covering the soup ("To keep out the cat," Becan informed him with a fond, if worried, smile), the little house sprite took the missive, shrugged into fur-lined winter gear, and scurried out the door. Satisfied, Nuada went back to Dylan's room and found her shivering beneath the blankets, drifting through that dazed and mercurial semi-sleep of fever. When he knelt at the side of her bed the mortal jolted awake. Whispered, "Cold. Can I have another blanket?"

He knew from his previous stay that Dylan kept her extra winter blankets in her bedroom closet. Nuada pulled one down from the shelf, checked it for spiders (it _had_ been up there since the winter prior, after all), and laid it over her. The shivers eased a bit. She closed her eyes once more and seemed to sleep.

Of course Nuada knew humans got sick. So did the fae. He'd had his share of illnesses over the years. And he knew, intellectually at least, that humans often died of their illnesses. But that hadn't really prepared him for the way being sick had turned Dylan from the strong woman he knew into this exhausted girl who probably could not have fought her way out of a wet paper bag if she had help. No matter how little sleep she got or how badly her leg pained her, it never really seemed to affect her that much. Not so now with this illness.

To distract himself from worrying, from hovering over the barely-lucid mortal like some sort of faerie nursemaid, he went back into the closet to investigate something that had piqued his curiosity. In Dylan's closet were (obviously) many of her clothes - jeans, shirts, skirts, even dresses. What struck him as odd was that none of the shirts were anything other than long-sleeved. Except for the tank tops she wore as pajamas when it was warm, he'd never seen her in anything but a long-sleeve shirt before. And except for the slinky, glittering black dress she'd worn last night (Nuada hadn't really let himself think about the fact that Dylan had opted to wear such a lovely garment the night he had been scheduled to come back to her), he'd never seen her in any of these dresses, either.

She didn't have a _lot_ of clothes, unlike most idiot mortals who seemed to need to buy clothes the way most rational creatures needed to breathe. But she had a lot of dresses. Blue velvet, red silk, black and white satin. Several in the styles worn centuries ago. He found the one she'd been wearing that summer day at the faire, cream-colored and primrose velvet. The old-fashioned gowns had been worn but not the newer-style dresses. None of these were new, but none of them were extremely old, either. Why have them if she never wore them?

There was a dresser in the closet as well. On top were a few books for keeping pictures. Curious - they were out in the open, but not out in the same room with the book he'd seen the night they had... fought - Nuada picked up the topmost book and flipped it open. Froze. There, staring back at him from that first page, was Dylan. Dylan, but not as he'd ever seen her.

His lady was perhaps seventeen in this picture. Her hair hung in her face, limp and lifeless instead of thick and curly as it was now. Her cheekbones were sharp beneath the skin of her face. Those fey-like blue eyes were haunted. The smile that curved her lips was empty. She was painfully thin. Her hipbones looked thin enough and sharp enough to cut if someone held her too close. She wore a thin black shirt that made her look like a corpse. Beneath the picture was a label that read _Dylan home for Christmas - '93._

Nuada flipped through the rest of the book. Dylan at seventeen looked like a prisoner of war, like a girl who'd been tortured almost beyond breaking. But Dylan at eighteen... the change was almost like night and day. Still thin, but not starved looking. Tired, but in the healthy way of someone who'd put in a hard day's work, not someone being flogged into exhaustion. Her eyes weren't so haunted. Her color was much better. And her smile was the one he knew. Lots of pictures of eighteen-year-old and nineteen-year-old Dylan with a youth who would one day grow up to be the man Nuada knew to be her brother. Pictures of Dylan with a blond woman a few years older than the blue-eyed mortal, in front of a coffee shop. The sign read _Persephone's._ There were dozens of Dylan at various old-style faires and festivals.

A few of the photos were just silly and made dark lips curve into a smile: Dylan balancing a stack of books on top of her head; lying in a chair with her head hanging upside down over the edge; touching the tip of her nose with the tip of her tongue, eyes crossed; blowing bubbles with a straw in a large cup of chocolate milk, the bubbles overflowing the sides of the cup; Dylan covered in various colors of paint and laughing as she tried to attack her brother with a paintbrush. Nuada's personal favorite was one of Dylan curled up asleep on the floor, actually _underneath_ a table, using what looked like an open textbook on human anatomy as a pillow. He wasn't sure why he liked that one so much. Perhaps because she looked so peaceful. Or perhaps because there was a yellow post-it note stuck to her cheek.

Mixed in with the photos were letters Dylan had written to John while trapped in that horrible place. Nuada didn't read past the salutation of the first one. They were private. That thought prompted him to close the photo album and put it back on her dresser. What was the matter with him? He hadn't asked her if he could look at those pictures. She clearly kept them back here for a reason. But his curiosity had been piqued.

The sound of his name softly spoken brought him back to Dylan's bedside in an instant. He knelt beside the bed and gently brushed back the sweat-dampened curls from her forehead. "What is it?"

"I'm... I'm so... sorry, Nuada."

Her chest hitched with every breath, and he remembered what she'd said about how coughing hurt like blue fire. _Probably trying not to cough,_ he thought, but aloud he only asked, "Sorry about what?"

"Everything," she mumbled, shifting restlessly. He could see she was struggling to stay awake. Did she fear fever-dreams? By the stars, her skin was far too hot for his peace of mind. How sick had she been before fleeing into the icy winter night? "I'm sorry. Sorry I'm not... not good enough." She made a small sound. Closed her eyes. They fluttered open a few moments later. "I'll never be... never be good... enough. M'sorry."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You don't want me," she whispered, eyes drifting closed again. "Not good enough for you. Human. You don't trust me anymore. I miss you. And everything would be... so easy... if you'd never... met..." But then she fell asleep again, and Nuada could only gaze at her as she shifted in sleep, desperate even in slumber to escape the brutal heat locked inside her body.

The Elf prince rose to his feet after a long moment. Stared down at the sleeping mortal. _You don't want me._ What had she meant by that? _You don't trust me anymore._ He fought against grinding his teeth. He'd been trying to act as if everything was all right between them (because as far as Dylan was concerned, it was; it was not her fault that he was suffering from some unknown malady of the brain that made a sensible man into a complete and utter fool). Clearly, though, he had failed. Misconceptions. Mislaid blame. Why did she always take the blame onto herself?

_Because she knows I hate humans,_ Nuada thought slowly. There was something niggling at the back of his mind, as tickling as the whiskers of a trout and as darting and slippery as a minnow. If he tried to just grab onto whatever odd thought was forming in the recesses of his skull, he'd lose it. Possibly never get it back again. _Knows I hate humans and so... what? Accepts what she thinks is my opinion on the matter as fact? Why?_ There was something he was missing. Something, perhaps, that he'd forgotten. Something about the night he'd left. But what?

Suddenly he remembered sitting with her on the sofa that night. Her fingers stroking one of the scars on the back of his shoulder. The caress of her breath on his neck. The heat of desire simmering in his blood, his every sense narrowing until his whole world revolved around those softly stroking fingers. He'd brushed the pad of his thumb across her mouth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Fingertips resting against her fluttering pulse.

But that wasn't it. There was something else. Something Dylan had said. Something she'd done. Words. Something she'd asked him. And then she'd... He almost had it.

The front door opening and closing shattered his concentration. Snarling under his breath, Nuada strode down the hall to the front entryway, where Becan stood shrugging out of his little winter coat. Wink, massive as a mountain, shrugged off the cold the way the brownie shrugged off his coat. Pushing the question of memory from his mind, Nuada clapped the troll on one meaty shoulder.

"Thank you for coming, my friend. Did you bring what I requested?"

Wink gave his prince a fond, if exasperated look. "I'm not quite as senile as all that, to forget what you only asked for tonight." Reaching into the bag the troll had slung across his back, he brought out a stoppered bottle of clear liquid. To the average observer it would've looked like water. And actually it was. "Didn't take long. Bought this off a selkie by the name of James Connelly, down by the Hudson Bridge. Wouldn't take coin for it, though."

Nuada frowned. "What did you give him?"

Now the burly troll shrugged. "A fuath was giving his sister trouble. You know the fuath - the worst of them are almost as bad as humans. Master Connelly asked me to speak to this fuath about proper treatment of a lady. That was all."

Nuada fixed Wink with a look. Wink merely arched the brow over his good eye. _That was all_ translated as _unless you want the gory details of how I eviscerated a very angry malevolent water fae who couldn't keep his hands to himself, you should probably stop asking now._ The prince stopped asking. He had other things to worry about at the current moment. So instead, Nuada asked, "Will you brew the stuff yourself, or do you trust me to do it?"

The troll looked positively scandalized. "Trust you to do it? Not likely. I still remember the last time."

The Elf scowled. "That was over forty years ago."

"I have a long memory."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So... no real review prompt (other than I'd like to know your top 10 favorite things). _

_Also, a quick poll.__ Do we want Nuada to get sick from Dylan getting sick? So he looks after her, then gets sick as she gets better so she looks after him? Just curious. Haven't made a decision one way or the other yet. Anyway, loves to all of you guys. Gotta go now. So sleepy. Blergh. *hugs*_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _um... don't remember. Drugged up. Blegh.__ Something about Oomph. I think it's an Oomph song._

_._

_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- I first heard the phrase "blue fire" from my beta.

- When Balor remembers Nuada mentioning "being called away by duty," this is a reference to "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams" by WhenNightmaresWalked.

- I believe Wŭ Xíng is Tiger-style kung fu. I can't remember and I can't find my Wiki page on it.

- "Everything's dancing" is a quote from _The Labyrinth_.

- "There's nothing in life that can't be fixed by prayers and chocolate" is a saying I saw ages ago... I think on a magnet, but it might have been an embroidery sampler or something.

- The cream-colored and primrose velvet gown Nuada notices is from chapter 8 of this fanfic and chapter 2 of _And Twice Beneath a Space_ by OceanFire9.

- Persephone's is the coffee shop owned by Kaye Fierch from _Tithe_ and _Ironside_. In Ironside, she says she might call her shop Moon in a Cup, but that sounds kinda dumb to me, so I changed it to Persephone's, because in that same scene Roiben compares Kaye to Persephone.

- James Connelly is the younger brother of the MC from the movie _The Secret of Roan Inish_. He's not a selkie, but he's a "dark one" - the once-a-generation brunette born to the mostly-blond Connelly family with a stronger strain of selkie blood from their ancestress who _was_ a selkie than any other person in his family.


	44. Twas But a Dream of Thee

_**Author's Note:**_ _and I am a day early but that's because I so want everyone's opinions on this chapter like, ASAP. Why? Because of the surprise. What surprise? Muahahahaha. Okay, this is our last take-a-breather chapter for a while (like, the next 6 chapters or so). And it's kind of long because there's a happy surprise! Yay! Everyone be happy about the happy surprise. We love happy surprises, don't we? Trust me, you will like this happy surprise. Of course, you'll also want to stab me in the eye with a fork, but I hope your love and devotion will prevent you from doing so. So yay! Happy surprises. And this surprise is a big and long one. I made it so for you guys because I know I haven't updated in a while. *huggles*_

_Anyway, this chapter fluff, comfort, sorrow, steaminess, cuteness, rawr-ness, upped stakes, and all that other good stuff we like. Anywho, enjoy!_

_Oh, and for anyone who reviewed chapter 43 and did NOT get a review response, let me know. Things have been crazy around here and I'm sorry if I forgot anyone._

_**Useful Info:**_ _the word "sinistral" means "left," as in "left or right."_

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**Chapter Forty-Four**

**'Twas But a Dream of Thee**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Prince's Vigil, a Brave Little Warrior, the King's Warning, a Ring, Sleeping Arrangements (and Other Details), and a Swimming Lesson**

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Her blood had been replaced with ice water but fire smoldered in her chest, inside her skull. Everything slipped by through darkness and exhaustion. Every so often she awoke from the dark and saw worried firegold eyes gazing down at her. Gentle hands would smooth back her hair. Help her sit up enough to sip from a cup of something warm and soothing that tasted like distilled starlight and the tang of ocean breezes, the green wilds of the Old World and silvery moonbeams. The sweet healing brew banked the fire and thawed the ice. Then there would be another cup, of hot spiced cider to soothe the healing ache in her throat. After that, those same gentle hands would help her lie back and tuck her in again.

Sometimes she heard a familiar voice murmuring the old myths of Ireland, those rare times when sleep proved elusive but she was too exhausted to do anything except shiver. When vicious dreams forced her awake, reassuring words and the whisper of Gaelic lullabies helped her fall back asleep. She thought it was the melodies caught inside the glass flowers Nuada had given her, but the songs didn't sound quite right. The words interwove with the twilight mists of Faerie.

And there was always that tender brush of fingers against her hair. A gentle touch that never failed to soothe her.

Dylan was sick for two days. Two days of burning fever and restless, broken sleep. Two days of dark dreams that wrenched her awake, strangling her with faceless terror. Nuada didn't leave her bedside in case his lady woke frightened. Dylan _always_ woke frightened. Whenever she jolted awake from the nightmares, softly calling for him, he allowed himself to brush back her sweat-dampened hair and tell her gently that he was here, that he was with her. That she was safe. As long as Becan was asleep, Nuada would sing softly to Dylan, or read some of the old stories from his mother's book to her. It seemed to comfort her.

But nightmares found her whenever she managed to catch some sleep. Though he never entered her mind to push the nightmares away, Nuada knew what she dreamed: a heart-pounding race through midnight winter woods, brutal hands catching her, hot scarlet blood spilling across white snow, and those hands sliding around her throat. It always ended just when Dylan began gasping for breath.

Wink's potion was brewed quickly and kept the worst of the fever at bay. Troll potions were the best in Faerie. The bottle Wink had brought held water from the inlet near Roan Inish, one of the islands that served as home to the selkies. Water from Faerie could have either malevolent or benevolent effects on humans. The magic of Roan Inish was, for the most part, benevolent. The seal-shifters were well known as healers and apothecaries, just like trolls. A few drops of that mystic water would keep a mortal from sickening worse, but more than those few drops at a time could be dangerous.

Once the first batch of the potion was made, Wink returned to the underground lair. The troll was uncomfortable in the cottage with its low ceilings and narrow doors. He assured Nuada he would return in a couple days to brew another batch of healing tonic if it was needed.

The Elven prince sat in the chair that had never been taken from beside Dylan's gargantuan four-poster bed. Sat and studied the sleeping mortal woman who tossed and turned, shivering with fever chills. Arched a brow when Bat limped into the room and tried to hop onto Dylan's bed.

They hadn't realized the kitten had sprained a paw landing after Eamonn's throw. Becan had done what he could for it. As for the rest of the cat's wounds...Becan had shorn off a large patch of sleek dark fur to get to the scrapes beneath in order to treat them. Bat still refused to grace the brownie with anything but frosty glares in response to the indignity.

What Nuada hadn't told Dylan was that the little cat's ribs had cracked from the force of the dark-haired Elf's throw. Apparently Becan knew a young _bakeneko_ from Manhattan's East Village in training to be a healer and had called the feline shapeshifter to heal the kitten. Without that aid, Bat well may have died. How sad would Dylan have been then? He knew she loved the (often irritating) little creature. And Bat very well might have saved Dylan's life. Now Nuada watched as that fiercely devoted little beast tried to claw up the blankets to get to his human's side.

Nuada bent down, carefully scooped him up, and deposited him on the bed beside the sleeping human. Bat gave him an affronted look, as if to say, _I could've done that myself, you know._ The Elven warrior gave him a mildly challenging look in return. The cat turned up his little black nose, flicked his tail in Nuada's direction, and curled up next to Dylan in a ball of black fuzz and purred. Not the purr of a happy cat; the purr of a grown cat soothing a distressed kitten. He'd made that same sound while licking the ice from Dylan's eyelashes and trying to massage warmth back into her body.

Nuada rubbed behind the kitten's ears. "Good boy," he murmured.

The purr stuttered for a moment. Bat eyed him warily. Sniffed at the hand that still stroked dark fur. Then a velvety tongue rasped against the underside of Nuada's wrist. A reassuring rumble began in the kitten's chest, this time for the stubborn snarly male who protected Bat's human.

Nuada chuckled. "Looking out for both of us, eh?"

The cat mewed and butted his head against Nuada's palm. Then he went back to purring at Dylan, lightly kneading her side through the blankets.

The Elven prince went back to studying the mortal woman. What had she meant by _you don't want me?_ Why did that sorrowful confession tease at his memory? _You don't want me. You don't trust me anymore._

He trusted her with his life. The knowledge that he even _could_ trust a human that way should've shocked him. Would've shocked his father and sister. But perhaps not Mr. Wink. _Lassling_, the silver troll had called her. The prince's vassal had spoken of the mortal with affection and approval. Wink most likely knew Nuada trusted Dylan that far. But he would not, _could not_ trust the impossible mortal with his heart. For both their sakes, he couldn't.

Was that what she was picking up on? She was quite perceptive. Mind-healers had to be. Or was it simply that he had no idea how to behave around her? If he'd meant to pursue her it would have been one thing. Firm footing there. As easy as stretching out his hand, with his experience (and Dylan's lack thereof). Yet instead the Elven prince had to pretend to pursue while also maintaining emotional distance. And how was he to do that when she always managed to slip beneath his defenses? How was he supposed to act with this woman who called to everything in him? Especially when his own nature fought him at every turn.

And now he was getting a headache. Massaging his temples, Nuada leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Tried to force himself to relax. It was the middle of the afternoon, but except for that stretch of sleep plagued by the memory-nightmare, the prince hadn't slept in two nights.

After only a few moments with his eyes closed, Nuada began to drift. Distantly he felt slim fingers brush the back of his hand. Instinctively Nuada turned his hand palm-up and Dylan's hand slid into his. Weary golden eyes flicked open. Blue eyes blinked sleepily at him before closing once more.

Sleep came quickly then, with that fragile mortal hand in his, her fingers curled around his own. But he didn't dream of her.

Once again he dreamed of battlefields and butchery, of blood-soaked killing fields and the screams of dying men. This time he fought in the battles as well. Felt the sting of smoke in his eyes, the burn of fatigue, the agony of wounds inflicted in the heat of battle. Scars now, Nuada tried to remind himself. Those wounds were scars now. But the memories had him by the throat and refused to relinquish their hold.

Nuada dreamed of the carnage of the Golden Army and the wall of ice that he'd forced around himself so that he could look on that carnage without flinching. It was necessary. He knew that. As a warrior and a prince he knew that. Necessary to protect his people, to protect Bethmoora and all the Fair Folk, from the humans and their mindless hunger for more and more and _more._ He dreamed of the day his father betrayed the fae by seducing the other fayre kings into agreeing to the truce. Centuries' of war crowded into a single nightmare, only to be worsened by that treason, that betrayal, that stab in the back from his own father.

Then there was a brief moment when he thought the hell of memory was ended. Instead of slogging through slaughterhouse mud and carrion, he stood on a hill overlooking the city of Bethmoora, the abandoned capital now hidden beneath the Giants' Causeway. Cursed, the goblins said. Bethmoora, the Golden City, and the humans were putting it to the torch. The city, one of the two places he'd always called home, was burning. The flames turned the skies to pitch blackness edged with hellfire.

But this had never happened and he knew then with absolute certainty that he was dreaming. That made it possible to bear the crushing weight of pain this dream pressed upon him.

Nuala stood with him, her face a blank mask as their home was razed to the ground. Her voice was a blade of ice driving deep when she demanded, "What have you done, my brother?"

"You invade my dreams again?" His voice was tight with the effort it took not to turn to his twin, the other half of his heart, and beg her to hold him, comfort him. He never had to beg for Dylan's comfort. She offered it freely, without being asked. He'd fallen asleep holding Dylan's hand. Why was she not in this dream? And his mind had been shielded against his sister's invasion. How was Nuala here? And a better question was "Why are you here, Sister?"

"Father is going to send the Butcher Guards to find you if you do not return by tonight, Nuada. Do you really want to be dragged back to Findias like an unruly child brought home to face his punishment?"

Feral eyes began melting towards furious bronze. "So I should tuck my tail between my legs and come home like a good dog? Why does Father insist I return when I've told you more pressing things currently hold my attention?"

Nuala said nothing for a long time. The blazing inferno below painted flickering light across her face. Then she sighed. "He told me to ask you something. For myself, I will tell you something that perhaps I shouldn't, because you are my twin and I love you. But first...Father wanted to know if the human still lives." Nuada stiffened. "Is that why you won't return, Brother? Because you've killed her to escape your forced courtship?"

"How dare you?" Hurt and grief and rage sliced through his veins like shards of glass. "How _dare_ you? I swore to protect her and you dare to ask me if I have..."

Flash of memory that stabbed nearly as deep as Nuala's accusation: his knife at Dylan's vulnerable throat and a tiny spill of scarlet blood. And that nightmare. The vicious nightmare of her trapped beneath him, broken and bleeding. Dying. Her body bruising under his hands and the light fading from her eyes. No. Danu's mercy, please no. He couldn't think about that here, Nuala would...

But the sick horror in his twin's eyes when she stared at him told Nuada his sister had already seen. He felt her revulsion through their link. Fought not to flinch from it.

"She's alive," the prince said softly. "Alive and unharmed. And against any who seek to hurt her, my honor demands I stand as her sword and shield."

_I would never harm her. She knows that. Why don't you, Sister?_

"I know you speak the truth because you cannot lie to me when we share dreams," the princess murmured. Her stomach churned from the brutal images she'd glimpsed via the mystical link between the royal twins. She could almost taste her brother's horror at the images, his sickened aversion to them. Were they fantasies Nuada fought against?

Not all those flashes of the human were violent, though. Some were merely edged with a dark passion that sent tremors of fear through the princess. She felt more than a shimmer of lust from her brother when Nuada's thoughts strayed to the human. How much of a nudge would her brother need to go from lusting for the human to taking what he lusted for, whether Dylan wanted him to have it or not? The fact that Nuala didn't know the answer chilled her.

"Know this as well, Nuada. Father is of two minds about the human. On the one hand, he worries you might try to do her harm." Was it her imagination, or had Nuada Silverlance actually flinched? Imagination, surely. "On the other, he's beginning to wonder if the human is a bad influence on you and is considering...removing her from your life."

For just a moment she felt it—shock, fury, instant denial. And beneath that, the faintest whisper of despair. That despair tasted too closely of the same dark emotion Nuala had once felt from her twin on two other occasions: the day of the truce between humans and fae, and the day their mother had died.

Only that was impossible. Her brother wouldn't feel such strong emotion for a human. True, Nuada was fond of the girl, any faerie with eyes could see that. And clearly he desired her. But fondness and desire didn't account for this awful heartbreaking thread of...of _something_ coiling beneath the anger and disbelief that anyone would _dare_ deny the Silverlance something he'd claimed for his own.

Then the mental walls came back up and without warning Nuala was thrust from her brother's mind.

Nuada found himself on his knees on Dylan's bedroom floor, braced against her bed. She still slept. No more tossing and turning. The flickering light of the crystal _rai_ flowers cast dancing shadows across her face. She looked so peaceful.

_Father is...considering removing her from your life._ No. By the Fates...what did that even mean? That Balor would kill her? No. No, not his father, who had long ago become the pet of the humans. What, then? Ordering Nuada, who was bound by honor to obey his king, from ever seeing Dylan again? No, he couldn't _do_ that. His father could not do that to him.

Familiar fingers brushed against his cheek, a soothing caress that pushed the rage and despair back until Nuada could at least breathe. Blue eyes dull with fever still showed concern.

"Cad atá cearr?" _What's wrong?_ "Are you okay?"

_No,_ he wanted to say. _No, I'm not._ But he couldn't afford to be weak. Couldn't afford to give into his emotions when those emotions did nothing but drag at him. Instead, Nuada clasped the hand that lingered against his cheek and pressed it more tightly there. _A ghrá mo chroí, my heart's beloved._ He was shaking. He knew it and couldn't stop the tremors shuddering through him in memory of his sister's message. His father was thinking of trying to take Dylan from him. Take his friend, one of only a rare few he possessed in the world. Wanted to take away this place of refuge and this woman who always comforted him.

He needed her. He couldn't lose her. But Nuada only said, "Go back to sleep, mo duinne."

Dylan gave him a sleepy-eyed look that still managed to convey so much: compassion, understanding, and a just a hint of exasperation. "I'm here if you need me. I can pretend to not be sick if I have to. Don't forget that. I'm here. Don't forget. Okay?"

"I know." Nuada didn't relinquish her hand when she fell back asleep. Only pressed a kiss to the back of it and whispered, "I know."

**.**

Becan scowled at the great lummox of a troll that dared invade Lady Dylan's kitchen not once, but twice (although there was no real heat in the brownie's expression). Instead the wee fae obeyed the troll's orders when he asked for different herbs and, on one occasion, a pomegranate. Lady Dylan's own little tree currently bore fruit so that was no problem. Usually the mortal made her own salves and tisanes for injured or sickly fae who might have need, but lately she'd been neglecting her own store of personal medicines, relying instead on the human stuff her brother had brought her.

_At least_, Becan thought, _her supplies are still fresh_.

Wink kept his face carefully blank as he rumbled at the brownie, "Have a care with those leaves, Master Pipsqueak." Becan scowled more fiercely and handed the troll what he'd requested. Wink crushed the leaves in one fist and let them fall into the little pot on the stove. The pungent smell of broken eucalyptus leaves mingled with the sourness of lemon rind and the tartness of fresh pomegranate juice. "Thyme." The brownie handed over what for Wink would be a pinch of fresh thyme leaves. They too went into the steaming pot. "Willow bark. What is His Highness doing?"

The brownie blinked, then cast his senses through the cottage to locate the prince.

Nuada was staring out Dylan's bedroom window at the nocturnal snow drifting down. Every so often when the mortal made a small sound of distress, feral eyes sliced to where she lay huddled on the bed. Then the prince returned to looking out the window. Sometimes frail moonbeams slipped between the cloud-cover and illuminated the human woman's bedroom, and Bethmoora's crown prince sighed or clenched his jaw.

Becan related all that to Wink. The troll frowned and stirred the tisane slowly. He'd learned as a boy at his father's side to brew healing tonics. Not the potent magical sort that true healers could create, those that could cure even the sickest faerie in a handful of days. Just simple home remedies. He'd even taught the young Elven prince a bit of the herb lore Wink's father had taught him. But Nuada didn't have a head for remembering all the different herbs and plants and their various uses. A scholar, the warrior prince had never been, even as a child.

Still...out of nearly everyone but (perhaps) the so-called princess, Wink was certain he knew Nuada best. And yet his prince's behavior puzzled the troll.

It was obvious the prince was worried about his mortal lady. That wasn't odd in and of itself; Wink knew the Elven warrior felt some sort of fondness for the human. But the strength of that fondness...that was what the troll pondered now as he sweetened the healing brew with honey. Why did Nuada care _so much?_

Wink approved of and liked the lassling well enough, in spite of the iron in her blood. But this seemed to be _more_ somehow. More than just a distant fondness. More even than sweet affection. The cave troll had seen the Elven warrior this concerned about a woman that wasn't his twin sister on perhaps a handful of occasions over the last thirty or so centuries. Always they had been one of the prince's various mistresses or (when he was much, much younger) a girl of the court the prince hoped to catch for a sweetheart. Never had Nuada Silverlance shown such non-honor-bound interest in a human woman.

"Tell me about your mistress, Master Pipsqueak," Wink commanded suddenly as he added dried hyssop leaves and cherry bark.

Becan had been thinking that he needed to make sure his lady's elder trees and rosemary bushes at her garden gate were still free of snowdrifts—how else would they do their jobs?—when Wink spoke, shattering the brownie's thoughts. If looks had ever possessed the power to kill (which, in the Wee Folk, thankfully they did _not_) the brownie's sloe-black glare would've sent Wink straight to Valhalla.

But when the massive troll only offered him a raised eyebrow, Becan sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

**.**

Nuada watched the snow falling and listened to Dylan's breathing as she tossed and turned. He didn't want to be in this room. Didn't really even want to be in this cottage where the scent of her saturated everything and the feel of her soaked into every stone and wooden beam, every scrap of fabric and every piece of furniture. Too many forbidden thoughts stalked him here. Too many empty hopes taunted him. But Nuada wasn't leaving his mortal lady again, no matter what anyone demanded of him. Not until...when? When would the chains that bound him to her finally break? When one or both of them died, most likely, and wasn't _that_ a joyous thought?

He couldn't afford this kind of weakness, Fates curse it! He couldn't afford to be...to be simply Nuada. Couldn't afford to be anything less than Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. Especially not now. Not when he'd already lost so much and still had so much to lose. Molten bronze eyes slid over Dylan's sleeping face before cutting back to the snowy night. Too much to lose.

His father was not to be trusted. His sister was not to be trusted. As much as those cold truths hurt, Nuada was warrior enough to acknowledge and accept them. Only two days ago, both she and his father had threatened one of the things most dear to him. He didn't dare reveal this weakness to them.

Not even Wink could be trusted with this secret because it meant Nuada wasn't the honorable warrior prince who stood for his people and would do anything to save them from the long, slow death of fading into the twilight. He could no longer hold to that so completely because he wouldn't do anything. There was one thing he could never do again: he could never hurt Dylan.

Oh, he could ask her to sacrifice for him, for Bethmoora, for his people. He could ask and hope she would acquiesce. Yet if she denied him, the Elf could not break her spirit by forcing her compliance. A month or two ago he wouldn't just have considered it, he'd have _done_ it, without a qualm or second thought.

But not now.

The Elven prince wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to turn him into this...weakling. Even his sister had never managed to wrap him around her little finger the way Dylan had somehow done. The only thing that saved him was, his mortal lady didn't know how much power she possessed over one of the most powerful males in Faerie. Would never abuse that power even if she did find out.

Not that he would ever allow her to learn of such a thing.

Unbidden came the memory of her body pressed to his as she slept curled around him. He'd woken to her warmth. Her softness. Her embrace. The comfort of her. That memory sent a whisper of heat beneath his skin and a shiver up his spine. He wanted to do that again. Wake beside Dylan again. Just hold her and know that here, at least, there was sanctuary. Even if it was only for the space of a single breath, there was sanctuary. Now that he'd tasted that, he couldn't let it go.

They couldn't take this from him. He didn't know why he thought these things now—perhaps because of Wink's presence? Or the dream of that bloody battlefield and his twin relaying his father's threat? He didn't know, didn't care. All he knew was that no one could be allowed to take this from him. He wouldn't allow it. They'd taken nearly everything else, but they would _not_ take this, would not take this place or her away from him. Not Eamonn, whose corpse already fed the worms; not his enemies scattered throughout Faerie; not the humans who'd already robbed him and his people of so much. Not Oisin, not the chamberlain, not Nuala, and not Balor.

Not his father who was also his enemy. Not the father who refused to see Nuada Silverlance, and saw only a monster. Not the father he loved…the father who hated him.

Nuada heard the rustle of blankets and the creak of the bed behind him, but didn't turn. There was no telltale sound of footsteps. Only the excruciatingly gentle warmth of Dylan's palm against his shoulder. A shudder ripped through him. Tension whipped across his shoulders at the touch. But she didn't draw her hand away.

"Cad atá cearr?" Her voice sounded so tired. He should...he should get her back to bed. Make her rest. She was sick, she needed to rest. Her hand burned through his shirt. "What's wrong?" She repeated in English. How he wanted to tell her, the human whose touch tormented and soothed him, everything in his heart. Could not. Could never. "It's all right," Dylan whispered, drawing her hand away. Nuada felt the absence of that touch like an iron knife in the back.

But then...oh, then...slender arms carefully wrapped around his waist. Dylan pressed softly against him. Her arms tightened a little in embrace. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. Slowly, so very slowly, the tension eased. The edge of panic—he hadn't even realized that razored emotion was riding him until those comforting arms slid around him—faded.

"It's all right. Whatever it is, Nuada, it will be all right."

_My father will try to take you from me,_ he thought, but didn't say. _I need you, I love you, and he may try to take you from me, mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí. That will never be all right. Don't leave me._

But her hands were slowly sliding upward to rest over the heart that seemed to hammer in his chest hard enough to bruise. So he said nothing. Only soaked up the warmth of her and tried to calm himself enough that his voice wouldn't tremble _at all_ when he told her she needed to return to bed and rest.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dylan asked after a few minutes. The soft weight of her cheek against his shoulder warmed him through his shirt even as it comforted him. He could feel her gentle heartbeat against his spine.

The words, when they rasped out of him, were not what either of them expected. "My sister hates me. My father hates me. They both hate—"

"No." Sharp, firm, with just a hint of anger. She let him go then, and it left him aching and cold. But then she put a hand on his upper arm and pulled him to face her. Those fey-like eyes were dull with fever and exhaustion but they glimmered with something else Nuada couldn't name.

"No," she said again. Slender hands reached up and framed his face. Nuada swallowed hard. "Don't say that. Don't think that. They hate what they think you are but that's _not_ who you are. Listen to me," she snapped when the prince began to turn away. Feral eyes flicked to that scarred face. Moonlit blue locked with sunlit topaz, refusing to release him. "You listen to me. If you never listen to another word I say, you listen to this. You wanna be mad about this, you can be mad later when I don't feel like I'm about to pass out. They don't hate you, Nuada, because they can't. They don't _know_ you. They. Don't. Know. Do you understand me? They don't see you. They don't know you. They don't know who you are."

"And you do?" Stars curse it, there was a tremor in his voice he couldn't seem to banish. "You know me? You see me?"

Such compassion in her eyes. Such understanding. Unwavering acceptance. Did she know she had the power to bring him to his knees? With one word she brought down every defense, every wall. Just one word.

"Yes."

Damning the consequences, damning the questions that could come from this, Nuada pulled Dylan's hands from his face (did he imagine that flicker of hurt and disappointment in those eyes?) and then gently tugged her so that if she chose, she could clasp those hands behind his neck…which she did. Her scarred mouth curved into a soft smile. Then Nuada enfolded Dylan in his arms and held that impossible mortal as tightly as he dared. Slowly stroked her hair with one hand.

_You know me? You see me?_ And her answer. That impossible, heartbreaking answer. _Yes._

"Listen to this, too. If all the world turned against you," Dylan murmured against his shoulder, "I would still be here, Nuada." She leaned back enough to look him in the eye. "I see you. I know you. I will always be there for you if you want me. I promise."

"If I want you." He thought of how cold he'd been to her. How vicious. "You would stand by me, even after all I've done? After I hurt you so deeply?"

She laid a gentle hand against his cheek. "It hurt, what you said. I won't deny that. But I hurt you, too, and I'm sorry. I should've told you sooner. I know how you feel about humans. I know your trust isn't easily gained. And I know you didn't mean...what you said. We're both sorry. So it's okay."

"No," Nuada said softly. "No, it isn't. I will never say such a vicious thing again. I promise."

"And we'll be honest with each other from now on," she added. "_I_ promise." She smiled and murmured, "Don't forget—I'm your friend, Nuada. I would do almost anything for you. I know who you are. I see you. Don't ever forget that."

_I see you._ Eyes that saw so very much. Eyes that showed him so very much: trust, affection, respect, concern. _I see you. I know you._ Some of the crushing weight on his shoulders eased a little. It was suddenly easier to breathe when he could just take in the scent of lilies and roses that whispered over Dylan's skin and threaded through those riotous, sleep-mussed curls. It took him too long, though, to be certain he could speak without his voice trembling or, worse, without falling to his knees and confessing just what forbidden sentiment smoldered deep in his chest. Without revealing just how much those firm but gentle words meant to him. But eventually Nuada could step back and look down at her with expressionless eyes and a blank face.

"You should be in bed," the prince told the mortal in his arms. He felt more than heard Dylan sigh. Knew her eyes were sorrowful, that his emotional retreat had saddened her. "You need to rest, mo duinne."

Dylan gave him a look of complete and very feminine exasperation. Instead of retreating from the Elven prince, she carefully brushed back a lock of silvery star-blond hair. Her fingertips ghosted over the whorl at his temple. Nuada stiffened. She'd never touched him this way before. At least not in the waking world. Only in dreams, when his own desire managed to escape his rigid control for a few reckless moments.

"I don't want to rest or sleep or whatever." She tucked that lock of hair behind his ear. The tips of her fingers whispered over the delicate, Elven point and he had to fight a shiver. "If I fall asleep I'll have another nightmare. Can I stay with you instead?"

He wanted to say _yes_. Wanted to put her to bed and then slide in bed beside her and soothe away any nightmares. Instead Nuada replied, "You can stay on the couch if you promise to _stay_ on the couch and _rest._ All right?"

"Nuada, I don't—"

"We will make a trade of it," he murmured, capturing the hand that hovered so close to his face. "Allow me to—"

"Fuss," Dylan said dryly.

The topaz-eyed Elven warrior arched one knife-thin eyebrow and said in a voice as cool and dry as a desert night, "I am an Elven warrior. I am also male. I do _not_ fuss." When the mortal smiled indulgently, he bit back a growl. _Insolent chit_. "Anyway. Allow me to...not fuss...and when you are well, I will...acquiesce to your demands next time you insist I sleep or eat or whatever you may ask of me."

Now her eyebrows rose. "My demands."

"Yes."

Dylan bit her lip to keep from laughing at his sour expression. Instead, feeling more comfortable with him than she had in a while, Dylan stepped closer. He was so warm. The heat of him pushed away the chill clinging to her because of the fever. He still held her hand against his chest. "Don't I owe you an act of service, though? Why not just use that?"

That soft smile of hers sent warmth curling in his belly. Those lovely eyes held just a hint of mischief, which only fired that warmth into a smoldering heat. An act of service? She had so much trust in him, to agree to such a thing. He could've misused that trust. It would have been so easy; she knew that. After the life she'd lived, she had to know that. The fact that Dylan knew he wouldn't do such a thing just proved what she'd been saying about knowing him. _I see you. I know you._

"I consider it prudent to hold that service in reserve."

"I'm really worried that you're going to use that whole thing later, when we get back to Findias. That you'll try and stop me when I go after some bimbo that won't keep her hands off you." Dylan paused. Frowned. "Is that in my job description?"

He couldn't help it. He laughed. Just thinking about Dylan defending his virtue, as it were, from the lust-minded harpies of the court forced the laughter out of him. "No," Nuada replied, still chuckling. "I think the court ladies would be at a distinct disadvantage against you. You can be quite fierce, you know."

"Fierce," she repeated.

"Mmm."

Making what he supposed was meant to be a "fierce" face, Dylan said in a little-girl voice, "Rawr."

He tucked her hair behind her ears, fighting the foolish grin that wanted to spread across his face. How did she make that change from wise and compassionate woman to fun-loving and often silly girl-child so quickly? But all he said was, "Very scary. Now. You need to lie down. Do you feel well enough to walk to the den?"

In the end, he carried her. Because she needed him to, and because he did.

**.**

"I really did love the letter," Dylan mumbled sleepily from the couch. Her eyes were closed, so she didn't see Nuada look up from the book he'd been perusing to study her. They'd been in the den while Becan and Wink eyed each other in the kitchen for the last hour or so. The almost-silence had been very near the companionable quiet the Elf and human had once enjoyed. Until now, Dylan had been lying on the futon, listening to music playing softly from her cell phone while Nuada searched the book he'd given Dylan for his favorite childhood tales. But now she added, "It was so beautiful. It...it meant a lot to me, the things you said." She cuddled beneath the blankets and sighed in contentment. "I love this song, too. Who cares if I'm sick? I'm happy right now."

Nuada closed the book and listened for a minute to the young woman's voice that came from Dylan's phone. Found himself almost mesmerized by the words.

_"Child and a fool in one.  
So sure I could need no one.  
My heart always on the run to nowhere.  
Now as you're holding me,  
Your heart is reminding me,  
Now I could never be without you."_

"_But how can our love succeed? A miracle is what we need_." Dylan sang along in a whisper, a somewhat melancholic peace spreading across her face. "_Keep me suspended in time with you; don't let this moment die. I've got a feeling when I'm with you, none of the rules apply._"

_None of the rules apply._ Oh, if only. If only. Then this place wouldn't be forbidden him. Neither would the woman who called it home.

Home. This was _his_ home now, as well. When had it become so? When had this cottage and this woman become his safe haven? Conflicting loyalties burned in his belly whenever he remembered that simple fact and why it was so very wrong. _A duty to Dylan? Is that greater now than your duty to Father?_Nuala's sharp words, a reminder that he was not just a son, but a prince whose loyalty belonged to his king. A reminder he hadn't needed. He had other things to concern himself with just now.

"Dylan," Nuada said, and her eyes flickered open to focus on his face. "I want to talk to you." She immediately turned off the music and gave him her full attention. Suddenly oddly nervous, the Elven prince reached into his shirt and withdrew the gold chain around his neck. Slipping it over his head, he held it out to the mortal watching him with tired curiosity.

She took the chain. It held two gold rings, each set with a red stone. She wasn't quite sure what they were—they looked like rubies, and since they'd been around Nuada's neck, they very well might have been. A faint shadow shifted and shimmered behind each stone. An image that looked vaguely familiar, but too blurred by the facets of the jewels for her to be sure. The stones were cut differently; the one set in a slender, elegant golden band was small, and the red jewel in the golden man's ring was a little smaller than the diameter of a dime. The man's ring was plain gold, unadorned except for the stone. But the other...

Dylan wasn't sure if the band was made of different pieces of gold or if the pattern of intertwining vines and flower buds had simply been etched deeply into the metal. None of the golden buds were open, though some showed the faintest hint of petal. Only one flower actually bloomed. Nestled in the heart of a fully opened rose was the small ruby. The metal was still warm from resting against Nuada's skin. On the inside of the slim band were words in Old Gaelic. Dylan managed to translate them as, _So we might always find each other._

Wide-eyed and more than a little stunned, Dylan looked up from the spectacular ring to meet Nuada's eyes. "This is beautiful. Where did you get it? Them?"

"I made them," he said softly. Then, as if the words were being dragged from him, he added, "The flowered ring is for you."

Nuada had to admit, he enjoyed seeing that completely dumbfounded look in Dylan's eyes. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened and closed again. Then she stared at the ring again. After a moment where she clearly struggled for something coherent to say, the mortal whispered, "But I don't deserve...I mean, why? It's so...so beautiful. I...you didn't have to...it's lovely. I've never had...Nuada, I'm..."

"Clearly at a loss for words," he supplied, not even bothering to suppress his smile. She liked it, then. Good. That was the one thing he'd wondered about because she seemed so...disinterested in jewels and other fripperies that women usually adored. Wink had told him more than once that all women, as the troll put it, "loved glitter." Apparently they did. Even this one.

"Give it here a moment." When she'd returned the chain with its rings to him, Nuada murmured a short word of release in the Old Tongue and slipped the slender band off the golden chain before dropping the chain back around his neck. "Give me your hand."

Slipping the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand was one of the hardest things the Elven prince had ever done. He suddenly wanted to slide the golden band onto the slender heart-finger on her _left_ hand. A declaration. A blatant disregard for propriety, for politics, for the loyalties that commanded him and the vows that bound him.

The force of that desire hit him with all the power of the bronze hammer Wink called a fist. Nuada took a mental step back, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the ring he'd made for the woman he loved glittering against her skin like an impossible promise. Love was one thing (a forbidden thing, but still only sentiment, with no real action to condemn him). But the sudden sharp impulse that had lanced him had also put a glimmer of a whisper of a thought in his head. One he could ill afford at this moment—or any other moment. Ever. No. He wouldn't think of that. Wouldn't let that shadow of a half-thought unfurl into even a murmur of an idea. No.

Then he opened his eyes and found himself drowning in a gaze of impossible and fey-like blue. His common sense cried, _No, no, no._ Every part of him echoed that sentiment. Except his heart, and the exhaustion there. He was so tired of saying _no_ all the time. Couldn't he say _yes_ to her? Just once?

Maybe. But not with that. He could never say yes to that unless his father commanded it of him, and even then it would still be _no_ in all the ways that counted.

"That ring," Nuada murmured, feeling as if he were slowly strangling. "It has a...you might call it a spell, locked in the stone. It's connected to this one." He tapped the gold band on its chain that hung against his chest. "Turn it sinistral thrice around your finger and repeat the words engraved on the inside of the band. That will take you to Faerie, to me. This way you can still fulfill your duties as a mind-healer and be with me in Findias when your work day ends."

Those eyes filled with soft wonder. "You made this for me so I could—"

"If you're still willing to go with me," the prince added, releasing her suddenly and shifting back against the chair to put a little distance between them. Blast it, he couldn't _breathe_ when she looked at him like that, much less think. "I'll not force you to return with me. If you _do_ agree, I will do everything in my power to make sure you feel safe and—"

"Nuada." The command in her tone was soft, but it was there, firm enough to stop him. He clenched his teeth. Fought not to clench his fists. He hadn't meant to give her the option of not going back with him. Hadn't meant to just come out and say it, at any rate. But he didn't want to chain her to his side with force of any kind. He wanted it to be her decision. Wanted to know she was with him because she _chose_ to be with him and not because...

Somehow she'd managed to lever herself off the couch and onto the floor beside him without the Elven prince taking note of it. Now Dylan dropped her head onto his shoulder and murmured, "As long as you're with me, I know I'm safe. Okay? And I'm going back with you. Even if you hadn't done this, I'd still go back. I go when you go, remember? So what are you so nervous about?"

The Elven warrior shot her a frosty look. "I'm not nervous about anything."

Somehow the mortal woman managed to unman him with a single gentle look. "Okay." Agreement in word but not in tone. A deaf man would've detected that. Even a month ago that would have infuriated him. Now it didn't bother him. When had that happened? Dylan added, "But you're...concerned about something. Something you think I'm not gonna like. What is it?"

"What happened last night...with Eamonn...that was my fault, Dylan."

She sat up abruptly. "No, Nuada, no—"

"Hush," the prince commanded. Dylan subsided, but her silent glare spoke volumes. "Blame is not under discussion here. I mention it only because it applies to something else. I swore to protect you. I was derelict in that duty and as a result you nearly...you were hurt." The mortal's glare softened. When she dropped her head back onto his shoulder, Nuada allowed himself to relax a little. "I want you to know that what prompted this decision was first and foremost your safety and the vow I made to protect you. Do you remember when you stayed in my chambers in Findias? There was a locked door opposite the entrance to my bedroom. Do you remember it?"

"Yes," Dylan said slowly. Why was the Elven warrior so tense? It felt almost as if he were bracing for a blow…or another betrayal. "I tried it the morning after...after you comforted me. But it was locked so I figured it didn't matter." Now she let her mind focus for a moment on that locked door. There had been three doors in Nuada's bedroom—the locked one, the door to the rest of the prince's suite, and the door to the bathroom. Three doors. Only one of them kept locked. Why? Because the rooms on the other side weren't in use, she'd realized. And now..."That door leads to a consort's suite or something, doesn't it?"

"Yes. If you return to Findias with me, my lady…that is where you would stay."

They sat in silence while Dylan chewed that over. Her own rooms—not just a room but _rooms_—with a bedroom attached to Nuada's bedchamber. Did both sides of that door have locks? She dismissed the question as soon as it popped into her mind. What did she need a lock on the door for? It wasn't like Nuada would come in without permission. Unless she was under attack and screaming her head off. Which was probably the point.

The longer the silence stretched, the tenser Nuada became. Dylan wasn't sure what to say to ease that tension. When the prince was tense enough to snap, she finally said, "I just have one question." He managed to stiffen further. "Actually, it's a two-parter. First part: do I get my own bathroom?"

Nuada blinked. "Of course."

"Does it come with a shower?"

The Elf realized he'd been holding his breath. What had he expected her to think about the arrangement? The nightmare of Nuala had twisted him up more than he'd thought. But Dylan hadn't worried about anything save whether she had her own shower chamber. She wasn't worried about the door joining his bedroom and hers. Not in the least. She trusted him. He should have remembered that. "Yes, it comes with a shower."

"Okay then." She snuggled against him. Sighed. Nuada closed his eyes and relaxed into the knowledge that she, at least, still trusted him. Still believed he possessed some shred of honor. "I'm completely okay with those sleeping arrangements. Anything else you (falsely) think I'm going to freak out about?"

"There is one other thing," Nuada said. Dylan shifted a little to look up at him. He looked...worried. Worried and exhausted. Every time she saw him, he looked more and more worn down. "My father has sent the Butcher Guards to search for me. He means to drag me back to Findias whether I will or—"

"No." She jerked away from him and used the futon to haul herself to her feet. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. I'll kick his butt. You just watch. Nobody's taking you anywhere you don't want to go." She took a step. Swayed. "Whoa. Room's spinning. Got up too fast again. Anyway...um...right. Becan!" At her call, the brownie dashed into the den. He skidded to a halt in front of his mistress and stared up into the familiar face he'd rarely seen angry.

Lady Dylan was _infuriated_ now.

"M-Milady?"

"I need my stationary—my official-looking stuff Peri got me for Christmas. And my black gel pen. And..." Dizziness swamped her. She hastily sat down on the futon. "And my lap desk. Quickly, please." Becan raced away and Dylan dropped her head into her hands. "I hate your dad so much right now. Okay, not really, but I'm so not happy with him. Ugh."

Nuada eyed her warily. The Elven prince wasn't one-hundred-percent certain, but he couldn't recall off the top of his head Dylan ever being this angry before. "What are you going to do?"

"Write the king a frigidly polite letter informing him that you're currently indisposed and that anyone attempting to remove you from my presence by force will have to face my wrath. Your father might not find a human's wrath that impressive, but I've got several friends who could give him a run for his money if I was a vindictive kind of person—which I'm not, but he doesn't know that." Becan came back in with the stationary, pen and lap desk. His mistress gave him a fond smile in place of thanks (since offering thanks to a brownie was considered a grave insult and would usually drive them away from the home they cared for) and set to writing.

Nuada said nothing; only watched as Dylan swiftly penned several elegant lines on a piece of somewhat stiff, formal writing paper and then signed it before folding it into thirds. Her brownie perched on the arm of the futon and waited until she was finished before sealing it with magic, since his mistress possessed no official seal.

"Am I to take this to His Majesty?"

"If you please, Becan," Dylan said. The Elven prince didn't say a word. Did not try to stop her. He'd seen most of what she'd written as she'd been writing it. His father was in for a surprise. The thought brought a brief smirk to Nuada's mouth. "And Becan," Dylan added as the brownie began to walk away. "This is a command from your mistress. Do not under any circumstances tell the king or anyone else where Prince Nuada Silverlance is, what he is doing, where he's been, or anything about him. The same goes regarding me as well. And make sure no one and nothing follows you home. Understand?" The brownie nodded, bowed, and left quickly. The human settled back against the futon and sighed. "Okay, done being gung-ho, now. My brain feels like it's being chewed on by a monster with glass teeth." She pressed the heels of her palms to her temples.

"Where did you learn to write a letter like that?" Nuada asked. "It was very diplomatic."

She smiled. "_Pride and Prejudice_." At his puzzled look Dylan added, "It's a book about the Regency period in England, back in the early nineteenth century. There's a letter similar in tone to mine in the book. I've read it probably two-hundred times in my life. It's one of my favorites. And I may have gotten some help from a few friends in polite letter-writing to the fae over the years. Anyway, I don't feel good, so I'm gonna lie down now." Which she promptly did. Scrunching beneath the discarded blanket, Dylan added, "Ugh. I hate being sick. So, okay, we've discussed your dad's impatience and our sleeping arrangements. Anything else I need to know?"

"You know you'll need your own retinue."

"My own what?"

The Elven prince didn't smirk, but he wanted to. She actually sounded a bit panicked. "Servants, mo duinne. If we're going back to Findias, and we're going to play along with the courtship charade to convince my father of our obedience, I must treat you as I would if we intended to wed. That includes procuring servants for you. A lady of your status would have at least two bodyguards, a lady's maid—"

"Okay, you know I'm sick, right? This is not a nice thing to do to a sick person." Shoving a hand through her hair, she gave him a stricken look. "I don't want servants."

"Why not? You have one already."

"Becan is _not_ a servant," she cried. "He's family. I only have him do the housework and stuff because he's a brownie and I know he'd be unhappy if I said he couldn't. But I don't want people taking care of me when I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't want a maid or anything. And I can almost guarantee you there aren't any fae interested in domestic service who'd want to work for a human like me."

Nuada frowned. "Dylan, not all the Bright Ones hate humans." He knew that irritating fact from experience. Just look at his father, his sister. Then there were human sympathizers like Lady Jocasta, and those who were ambivalent toward the children of men, like Erik.

"True, but look at me for a second, Nuada. Really look." She rolled onto her stomach and cupped her chin in her hands, even though lifting her head made her temples pound. "I don't know what you see when you look at me, but I know what most fae think of disfigurement, or anything else that reminds them of mortality and death in some way. I know Ravus the Apothecary—he's a testament to that, and he's pure-blooded fae. Any fae who doesn't care about my mortality is going to care about my face—or the rest of my scars. Which is why I don't want a maid. I'll take bodyguards if you need me to because I know you're worried about my safety, but that's all."

The Elven warrior shifted closer to the couch. Studied the face under discussion. Dylan was not a vain woman. She'd never mentioned her scars to him, really, or indicated one way or the other how she felt about them. So why this sudden self-consciousness?

"What's wrong, Dylan?"

She shrugged. Wouldn't look at him. "Nothing. Look, I'm pretty enough for a human, but that's underneath the scars. I know how the Fair Folk see me: to some I'm an oddity; to some I'm an eyesore; but to many of them, I'm a reminder of something they don't want to think about—their own vulnerability. And I know you care about how _they_ see _you_. I totally understand that. You're a prince; you're the heir. When people look at you, they don't just see Nuada. They see Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor, future king of Bethmoora. And what I don't want is for the...the discrepancy between what you should have and what you're stuck with to be emphasized anymore than it has to be in their eyes. I don't want to make you look bad if I can help it. So I'd rather not give the court the opportunity to compare my faerie handmaiden's no-doubt gorgeous face to this." She indicated her scarred countenance with a circular motion of one finger. "You've got enough problems."

"What I am stuck with?" He echoed, incredulous. "I'm stuck with nothing I do not want."

Blue eyes finally met his, and they were surprisingly sad. "You're stuck with me—a human with iron-laced blood that your father is most likely going to try forcing you to marry. I know you don't want that."

_You don't want me._ Where had this come from? Without thinking, Nuada reached out and gently brushed his fingertips over the scar on Dylan's cheek that was his favorite to touch. Her skin was still a little too warm. She looked so very sad.

Slowly, deliberately, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. Saw her eyes go soft and misty when he brushed his mouth over her knuckles. Then the crown prince of Bethmoora said softly, "Mo duinne, you fear the judgment of my father's court. Why should it matter to you whether they find you lovely or not? It matters nothing to me what they think of you. I already know what I think."

"And what's that?" Her voice was resigned and tired.

"I think you are beautiful," Nuada confessed. The corners of his mouth quirked up when her mouth fell open. "And before you attempt to tell me I don't think this, let me assure you, my fair and gentle lady, I most certainly do."

_Beautiful. He thinks I'm beautiful._ The pleasure from that simple statement shimmered through her like liquid gold. But what about..."But the scars on my face—"

"Are also lovely," Nuada said in a voice that brooked no argument. "And they are a testament to your courage and your strength."

"I just don't want to make trouble for you," she said softly. "You told me once that one of the things you hate about court life is that the women are always after you to screw around with them. If they see me as...as less, they're less likely to respect my...I guess my claim on you, and more likely to bother you despite our 'relationship.' And the men are more likely to think less of you because of the scars on my face." When Nuada raised an eyebrow, Dylan sighed in exasperation. "Don't look at me like that. I know you could have almost any woman you wanted, for one reason or another. You're the prince and you're despicably handsome. Nuala said you were a...what did she say?" She frowned, trying to remember. "Oh, yeah! A consummate lover."

Nuada nearly choked on his tongue. "You and my sister were discussing my virtues as a lover?"

Dylan's eyes widened. "Oh, snaps. I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Crud." She dropped her face into the pillow she'd been using on the futon and covered her head with her arms. "I'm never coming out of here," she said, her words muffled by the pillow. "Never, never, never. I'm going to die of embarrassment. Please bury me in a nice, sunny spot near a tree, okay?"

He simply waited. Eventually one blue eye peeked over her arm. Dylan sighed when she saw him. He just smiled. Wise and compassionate woman to silly, fun-loving girl-child in a single eye-blink. But Nuada only said, "You have to come out to take your medicine."

She scowled at him. "Oh, my gosh, you're so literal." But the scowl wouldn't stay in place because the same words kept replaying over and over in her mind. _He thinks I'm beautiful. Nuada thinks I'm beautiful._ Laying her head on her folded arms, she added casually, "Okay, so I need bodyguards. I'll think about the maid thing. Anything else?"

"You'll need decent court clothes."

Her eyes widened. "Please tell me I get to go shopping with you and not, like, your sister or someone. Can I shop for clothes with you, please?" Then she was pressing her face into the pillow to smother her laughter because of the horrified look on Nuada's face. "Oh, come on. What's the big deal?" Dylan demanded when her giggles were finally contained.

"I am _not_ going shopping with you for clothes."

"Why not?"

Various reasons. Various good reasons. Because if anyone found out, he would be publicly humiliated. Because no male ever wanted to take a female shopping for _anything_, much less clothes. Much less dresses, of which a man would be asked his opinion (he'd made the mistake as a youth of going shopping with Nuala and—Fates help him—some of her friends, and found that out the hard way). Any opinion offered would, of course, be the wrong opinion based solely on his gender.

And most importantly, he didn't want to have to sit there and study the way silk or satin, velvet or lace, molded to the shape of Dylan's body. The Elven warrior knew his eyes would devour her every time she stepped out to show off a new gown. So he growled, "There will be no shopping. The palace tailors will see to you."

"But you'll come with me when I have to go see them, right?"

No, because there would still come a time when she would have to try on whatever the tailors and seamstresses had put together and he would have the same problem: keeping his eyes—and his thoughts and, most likely, his hands—to himself. But now she was looking at him with wide, beseeching eyes. She'd used the exact same look when she'd asked him if he would come to church with her back in Findias. He hadn't been able to say no, then, either. It had felt too much like kicking a puppy.

"I will...consider it."

"Thank you, Nuada," Dylan murmured. "I appreciate that."

Silence. Then, "You're welcome. And that's enough discussion of all things relevant to our return, at least for tonight. Wink should be finished with...ah."

The troll lumbered in holding a steaming mug between his large hands. He handed it to the prince's mortal lady. She blew on it. Took a cautious sip. She'd been barely conscious before when she'd taken the first several doses of troll potion and most likely didn't recollect the taste. But now her eyes widened as she rolled the healing tonic around on her tongue before swallowing.

"This is absolutely delicious," she cried, and took another sip. Winced. "Ow. Burned my tongue. (sip) Wink, this stuff is amazing! (sip) What's in it? (sip) Or is it a secret?" Dylan smiled at the burly cave troll as she put the mug to her lips and took another glorious sip. It tasted like stardust and spring breezes, summer sunshine and the crispness of fresh autumn apples. Did she detect a hint of pomegranate? She adored pomegranates. And the more she drank of the troll potion, the better she felt.

When it was all gone, Wink bowed and rumbled goodbye before leaving the room. Nuada reluctantly agreed to let Dylan sleep on the couch so long as she went to sleep right this minute (which made her feel about five years old, but it was worth having the Elven prince tuck her into bed. Erm, couch). Then the Elf got to his feet and walked to the door to bid Wink farewell.

"Another day or two and she'll be well again," Wink told his prince. "But my prince...the two of you need to return to Findias soon. Your father's patience grows thin. The game you play with him is dangerous."

"It is no game, Wink." Nuada turned to gaze back toward the entryway to the den. "It's dangerous enough to take her back with me. I want to be as prepared as possible, in all things large and small. We mean to try and trick my father into thinking we've capitulated to his desire for this courtship, but—"

"He won't buy it," the silver troll said flatly. Nuada stiffened. "Not after being gone this long. He won't believe that, after such a blatant disregard for his authority, you intend to give into that sort of demand. You'll have to play it another way." At the Elven prince's incredulous expression, Wink sighed. "Pretending to capitulate to the king won't be enough to stay his anger this time. The two of you will have to do something else."

Voice dripping with suspicion, Nuada demanded, "Such as?" Clearly his vassal had a suggestion as to the "something else."

Wink sighed again. "You're not going to like this."

The Elven prince folded his arms across his chest and regarded his oldest friend with cool expectation. "Speak."

One shovel-like claw scratched absently at the spur of his broken tusk. "Well. There is one thing I've thought of. Your father wishes you to soften toward the humans, is that not so?" When the prince nodded, the troll added, "Then instead of trying to convince your father you mean to obey him, work to convince him that you've softened as he desires." Nuada frowned, not quite following his vassal. "Don't bother trying to convince the court, my prince. Convince _the king_ you've fallen in love with her."

Nuada jerked back from Wink. His back slammed against the wall as he stared up at his oldest friend in shock. Did...did the troll _know?_ How could he know? But could he have guessed at the sentiment smoldering in Nuada's heart? All he could manage to say was, "Wink...how would that even help?"

It would kill him. It would break him to pieces to have to pretend well enough to convince his father; his father, who always doubted. Because unlike the charade the two of them had been planning, _this_ charade would never end. They would have no peace from the chains of courtship. Even in their own rooms, the pretense would have to continue in some way because the king's spies were _very_ good and Balor would know if the façade slipped even a little. They'd have no time just to themselves. Could his resolve to maintain some emotional distance stand under that kind of pressure?

Nuada knew his father well enough to know the One-Armed King of Elfland would test the verity of this "relationship" in all ways possible. In order to convince him, the two of them would have to play the courtship game more carefully and more skillfully than ever before. And that could prove torturous—even disastrous—to both of them.

"If you can convince the king you behaved recklessly out of love for your lady and a desire to...ahem, be alone with her, he might be more forgiving of your absence. The king will be so happy with your 'change of heart' that he'll forgive your disobedience. Well, perhaps. There are no guarantees. Still, it would give you a better chance than simply trying to make the king believe you've suddenly decided to play the obedient son."

The problem was that Nuada could see Wink's idea had merit. It _would_ work better than simply going with the old plan of playing along with the king's ploy. Nuada had to admit as much to himself. But how could he...how could they do such a thing? How would he survive it? And what would being forced to submit to such a thing do to Dylan? It would take a deeper commitment to him than he had the right to ask of her. Would she see such a plan as a betrayal?

"I will...think on what you have said," the prince said softly. "Where do you go now, my friend?"

"I need to see Lorelei," the troll replied. "If we're to return to Findias soon, I need to make arrangements with her."

Nuada nodded. "Give her my regards. I shall contact you when our date of departure is determined. Goodbye, Wink."

The troll left and Nuada went back to the den, where Dylan lay curled on the futon beneath the blanket. He studied her for a long moment. His life had been simple once. Well, perhaps not simple. Politics were never simple. But surely it had never been this complicated before meeting the human. Now he had to balance his duty to his father and to his people with his duty to this woman who'd given him her fealty. _Ah, sweetheart. What are we going to do?_

"What did Wink say?" Dylan mumbled sleepily. Nuada blinked. He hadn't realized she wasn't asleep. He was growing lax in maintaining awareness of his surroundings, including the woman in front of him. Silver-washed blue eyes flicked open. "You're worried. What is it?"

He considered saying nothing. Considered it, and discarded it immediately. She deserved the truth from him. But not tonight. He wouldn't burden her with Wink's plan tonight.

"In the morning, mo duinne. Go to sleep."

Those blue eyes considered him for a very long time. Then she whispered in soft Gaelic, "Ná fág mé. Tabhair, fan liom." _Don't leave me. Please, stay with me_. When Nuada took a step back from her, she reached out and grasped his hand. "I've been having bad dreams the last couple nights. Don't go. Stay here, just 'til I fall asleep. Please?"

That softly spoken _please_ echoed through the mental link between their joined hands. The Elf sighed and sat in the chair beside the futon, allowing Dylan to retain her grasp on his hand.

"Close your eyes and go to sleep," he said. She obeyed the first order and, after only a few minutes, the second. Nuada stared at the slender fingers loosely curled around his own. At the golden ring glinting in the firelight. Wished that this woman wasn't human. Wished that he was not a prince. Wished Balor and Nuala would leave him be to enjoy being at ease with his lady while he could. That peace would end soon. Then it would be back into the lethal game again.

_I will keep you safe, a ghrá mo chroí. No matter what happens, I'll protect you. I swear it._

**.**

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he knew he must have because when next he opened his eyes, he wasn't in Dylan's cottage. There was no battlefield, thank the stars. Instead he was back in the meadow ringed by towering trees. The bright sun blazed down from overhead. Birdsong and the babble of the river were the music of midsummer. A gentle breeze rustled the pink and white wildflowers sprinkled across the lush grass.

But there was no Dylan.

Then he heard familiar laughter. Instinctively turned toward it, began to walk. He followed the little river to the edge of the meadow and into the woods. After only a few moments in the forest, Nuada came upon the river's source—a little waterfall thundering down into a large spring ringed with pink azaleas and red poppies, with the sweet scent of honeysuckle in the air. Dylan sat on a moss-covered rock beside the spring, a vibrantly scarlet poppy in one hand. She held it out to a hummingbird that hovered just above the bloom. The mortal was clearly trying to coax the little bird into feeding from the blossom.

For just a minute, Nuada simply watched her. Watched the way the breeze tugged at her summer dress that was an impossibly rich shade of twilight blue; the way that same breeze tugged at her long dark ponytale as if inviting her to come and play; the loveliness of her delighted smile when the hummingbird dropped down to sip at the crimson flower. Then the bird zipped away and Dylan turned to see him standing at the edge of the woods. Her eyes lit up like stars.

He came toward her then because he couldn't stay away. Who could resist that welcoming smile? "Is this my dream?" Nuada called to her. "Or yours?" But he knew. He knew they were sharing a dream. Wasn't sure _how_ he knew with such certainty, but the Elven warrior was sure.

"I don't know," she said, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her thin cotton dress, he realized, was just short enough to give him a perfectly modest view of her ankles and slender calves. Dylan cocked her head. Wiggled her toes at him. "Is this a good dream?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. He climbed onto the rock beside her and, before he even thought to stop himself, slipped his arm around her shoulders and laid his cheek against the top of her head. A thrill went through him when she leaned against him. Dylan draped an arm across his chest and half-hugged him. Nuada sighed. "Yes, this is a good dream." So simple. So easy. Just the two of them in this place.

"I'm glad," she whispered. She'd wondered before falling asleep if she would dream of Nuada. If their joined hands would perhaps let him into her sleeping mind. Dylan wasn't sure if that's what had happened or not, but she was almost positive it had. Strange. Only now did she remember that he'd done this before. He'd come into her dreams at least twice before: once by accident, that very first night spent in the cottage (_"...it is better than dreaming alone,"_ Nuada had told her then); and after the psych-eval, when drugged slumber had kept her trapped in memory. She didn't remember all of either dream, but she knew the Elven warrior had truly been with her.

But wait...why hadn't she remembered that before? Okay, the first dream, who knew. But the second dream. The nightmare. A dark hallway, brutal pain, monsters in the shadows, Elven arms lifting her up and carrying her somewhere safe at last. She should've remembered that dream at least. Remembered, because Nuada had already left the cottage when she'd had that nightmare and yet his presence in the dream meant he'd been in her room that night.

Her head shot up and a cussword popped out before she could stop it. Nuada pulled back to regard her with surprise. "Problem?"

"He didn't tell me," Dylan breathed. Stormy anger brewed in the depths of her eyes. "I don't believe it. You were in my dreams before. In that nightmare. You saved me. When I woke up I thought it was just a dream but you were really there that night." She saw the instant he knew what night she was referring to. "When I woke up you were gone, so I thought I'd just dreamed it. And John didn't tell me you'd come to see me. He didn't tell me!" She smacked the rock with the side of one clenched fist. "Oh, if I remember any of this when I wake up, I'm gonna pound him into the dirt, just you watch me."

"Why are you so angry about this?" Not that he minded her being angry with the feckless human whelp who could claim ties of kinship with her. For all his lady was so wise and compassionate, her affection for her twin was entirely misplaced.

"Because he didn't _tell me!"_ Now she wrapped both arms around Nuada and thunked her head on his shoulder. "That jerk. If he'd told me you'd come to see me, I'd have gone looking for you. If I'd known...I thought it was just my own wishful thinking. I didn't know you were really there. I'd have gone to see you, tried to talk to you. Ugh! John, I'm going to _murder_ you." Dylan paused. "Becan didn't tell me, either. Why wouldn't he tell me? Unless John told him not to. John Thaddeus Myers, you are going to die a horrible and bloody death. I'm gonna...I'm gonna..._I'm gonna drown him in nail polish."_

Nuada choked on a laugh, which helped to calm some of the hurt and anger suddenly sizzling through Dylan's blood. The roar of the waterfall—a sound she'd always been fond of—helped, too.

"Why does this matter?"

She huffed. "Because if he'd told me like a sensible man we might've hashed out our problems that day instead of almost two weeks later! I could;ve had you back that much sooner!" The undercurrent of pain in her voice surprised him. His amusement at her creative threats faded.

"Mo duinne, I wasn't ready to come back."

Not that day. Not when he'd only discovered that morning just how deep a place she'd carved into his heart. But they needed to change the subject. Things were sliding too close to that revelation he could ill afford to share with her, or even think about. Especially not here, where the dreamscape disallowed secrets.

Nuada cast about for something else to say. "This place holds a special place in my heart. I used to swim here as a boy."

Recognizing a rather obvious change of subject, Dylan smiled and shifted so she was back to sitting with her knees against her chest, her arms around her knees. "Really? So this is one of your memories?" The prince nodded. "I've never gone swimming in a natural body of water. I was always stuck with public swimming pools."

Thinking of such water nearly toxic with burning chemicals, Nuada shuddered.

"Yeah, didn't go very often. I was never very fond of swimming. Wasn't very good at it. I can't even float. At least not well. Are you a good swimmer?"

"I am." A considering pause. "I could teach you."

She laughed. "I know _how_ to swim. I'm just bad at it."

"I could teach you to be good." Now he shrugged, though his heart was suddenly, inexplicably pounding. "Or not. As you prefer."

Dylan pursed her lips and considered the feral-eyed Elven warrior who watched her with equal interest. There was no real expression on his face or in his eyes to tell her whether he'd be disappointed if she said no. Funny, she thought, how it was so easy to know when he was upset or hurting, but little things like this were so hard for her to read.

"Are you one of those guys who believe in shoving the person trying to learn how to swim right into deep water and letting them flail around? Because I'm not okay with that. You're not going to shove me into the water, are you?"

The smile curving those dark lips was not at all reassuring. "I might," the prince replied mildly. "If the water wasn't too deep or shallow."

His smile widened when she drew back and eyed his suspiciously. Instead of offering her reassurance, Nuada drew off his tunic and shirt and laid them on the rock to make sure they stayed dry. Then he removed his boots and socks. It was a dream, but who knew how long it might last?

"What are you doing?"

_So suspicious, mo duinne,_ Nuada thought with amusement. _And quite right to be._ "Making sure I can rescue you from drowning, if it comes to that."

"Rescue me from— _hey!"_ He pushed her off the rock into the water. She came up sputtering. "Oh! Oh, you...ugh! Get down here! You are _so_ dead, buster." She continued to snarl at him while wiping water out of her eyes. Nuada ignored her. Instead, he made his way across the rocks to one large boulder jutting over deeper water. Was he showing off? Perhaps. Would it make Dylan less annoyed with him? Probably not. But it would give him one advantage. So he executed a graceful dive into the deep end of the spring and swam quickly to the bottom.

_He expects me to be impressed,_ Dylan thought waspishly as the Elven prince knifed cleanly through the water. _Well, I'm not._ A beat of mental silence. Two. _Okay, yes I am. Darn it._ She waited for a few moments for the prince to surface. A little sliver of worry niggled at her when he didn't. _How long can he hold his breath?_ Dylan took a few steps away from the relative safety of their rock. Scanned the water. Nothing.

A hand closed around her ankle and yanked her under again. When she shot back to the surface, it was to find Nuada sopping wet and grinning at her like a mischievous boy.

"You're dog meat!" She shook the wet hair out of her eyes and glared at him. "I will have my vengeance, Your Highness. And you will _not_ like it. At all."

Nuada didn't answer. He only gazed down at her for a moment, a startled look flickering in his eyes before vanishing like smoke. He swallowed hard for a moment before asking, "What are you wearing?"

"Hmmm?" Dylan looked down, then squeaked and ducked until everything but her head was beneath the surface of the water. "Um...a swimsuit."

And dang it, she _never_ wore swimsuits anymore! The clingy fabric always showed too much of her scarred body. Even this one, a one-piece with a modestly-adjusted neckline and swim shorts for bottoms, still showed most of her legs and a great deal of her back. The legs and back, she thought with no little bitterness, that had been ripped to shreds more than once in her life.

"Humans wear them to swim in," she added defensively. "It's a dream; blame my subconscious. Oh, my gosh, why is this a halter-top? I hate halter-tops. And stop looking at me like that."

The Elven prince wasn't entirely sure in what way he was looking at her, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. He'd never, he was fairly certain, seen this much of Dylan while she still wore a stitch of clothing. Dark blue material patterned with pale lilies covered her from about three inches below her delicate collarbones to a few inches below her hips.

Ripples in the water sent shimmers across her almost-bare shoulders. Shades of Annwn, if she turned around he would be able to see her bare back. See the pale expanse of soft skin gently ridged by delicate spine and shoulders. Surely the rules of modesty in her faith ought to prevent her from wearing such a thing. Ought to prevent her from being able to torment him this way. Tempting him to reach out and lightly stroke...

"Stop looking at me like that," she repeated, covering her chest with her scarred arms. Nuada saw the various marks left by claws and talons, teeth and blades. Dylan's body looked as if it had survived a brutal war. The prince knew it had. Yet she was still so lovely.

"How is it I am looking at you?" He asked with just a hint of amusement. "You must admit, it would be a rare thing for me to see such attire."

Dylan, flushing with embarrassment at being seen so scantily clad, wanted to go back to the rock, but the Elf was between it and her. She didn't want to risk going around him. He might try to duck her again. So she turned and began half-bouncing, half-wading through the water away from the man who'd dared to soak her. Twice.

A tangle of male appreciation and a savage thirst for vengeance knotted in Nuada's belly when he saw both familiar and never-before-seen scars practically cascading down her back—the vicious bite mark, a broken circle of pale pink scar tissue gracing a spot to the left of her backbone at the base of her slender neck; the smudged marks from being shot, high on her left shoulder; the burn-scar in the shape of a handprint on her right, like a rose-pale angel's wing; thin, raised, tendril-like white scars like melted wax near the middle of the delicate column of her spine; seven evenly spaced slash marks the color of old bones, ripped from just under the shoulder blade diagonally across her back, clipping the bottom of the white seemingly-melted scar; another bullet scar peeked at him from the left of the small of her back, just barely visible; a divet from being stabbed hovered just to the left of Dylan's kidney; and there were various tiny white dashes and nicks from little injuries too numerous to count. How many more scars did Dylan carry on that fragile mortal shell?

Yet at the same time he was gifted with a view of the soft skin of her back, the elegant arch of shoulder blade and the shadows of damp curls clinging to her skin. He ached to catch up to her, his fingers itching to trace each of those marks in her flesh. Memorize the pattern of her sorrows with his fingertips. Feel the warmth of her under his hands. If he allowed his touch to ghost along her spine, tracing the ridges of fragile bones like glass, would she shiver? Would anticipation of the next stroke set the blood humming under her skin? How would Dylan's skin feel pressed against his bare chest while he cradled her in his arms and let his mouth trail along the silken line of her neck, tasting her fluttering pulse?

"My swimming clothes aren't important," Dylan called over her shoulder, breaking his studious concentration and helping him shove the sudden desire aside. Not here; not in the dreamscape, where he had no control. The mortal added, "My vengeance is. It will come when you least expect it, Your Highness, and it will be brutal. Now stop smirking at me," she added. "I'm scary and fierce, remember?"

"I remember," Nuada said. She'd been moving while he'd been mesmerized by the old, healed wounds on her back. Now he managed to catch up with her by doing a lazy backstroke. When she shot him a frosty look, he grinned. "You're quite terrifying."

"You think you're so cute."

He stopped swimming and stood. The water came to a few inches beneath his breastbone. On Dylan, it rose until only the tops of her shoulders showed above the water. "You might not want to keep going that way," the Elven prince said. Her look was half inquiry, half aggravation. He offered a negligent shrug. "It was merely a suggestion. Snapping turtles, you know. Not very friendly—" He broke off when she squeaked and threw her arms around his neck. The material of her swimsuit slid slick and cool against his bare skin. "Afraid of a few little turtles, Dylan?"

She scowled at him. "Oh, bite me."

Oh, he'd like to. Especially because the way her hair curled so darkly against the paleness of her throat added to the allure of that smooth, soft skin. He thought again of brushing his lips over the softness, allowing himself a taste of her skin.

Nuada wrenched his mind away from such thoughts.

"I was only teasing," he assured her. Keeping his face perfectly straight, the Elven prince added, "As far as I know, the only thing you need worry over in this spring are leeches—" This time she screamed and clung to him even more tightly. Nuada obligingly lifted her into his arms so her feet were nowhere near the bottom of the spring. "I thought you were a healer."

She thumped him on the chest. "Keep up with the times. Healers don't use leeches anymore, you barbarian. Erm, well...okay, they do, but not usually."

His look was one of Elven superiority mixed with masculine pride as he carried her to some of the rocks jutting out of the water in the sandy part of the spring. "I would have you know I am _not_ a barbarian, my lady. And if you stay away from the mud and keep to the sand, you needn't worry about leeches." When she gave him a pitiful look, he sighed. "There are none on you, if that is what you're worried about."

"Why do boys like shoving girls into water?" She murmured plaintively. "It's mean."

_Boys?_ He didn't snarl. Didn't growl. But he didn't appreciate her referring to him as a boy, either. Retribution had to follow. "You're asking why boys and men alike enjoy seeing a beautiful woman soaking wet?" When silver-swept eyes met his, color swirled across Dylan's cheeks and she ducked her head again. The prince smiled. Her blushes were always amusing.

Nuada set her down on the smooth surface of one of the stones. Dylan shifted to get comfortable and then hastily dropped her gaze, embarrassed anew now that her legs were no longer concealed even a little bit by the water. Now the Elven prince could see nearly all of the silver and pink marks on her legs.

Some he'd seen before; others were often hidden by socks or trousers or skirts or leggings. He recognized several wire-thin silver lines looping around the flesh right above her right knee, but he'd never seen the claw marks that slashed along the lower outside of one thigh. Ripped and ragged marks of death-white spattered her upper calves and a part of her left thigh. A small burn-scar marred part of her lower left calf. Tiny silvery circles peppered part of the inside of her calf, right above where the major vein ran beneath the flesh. There were several thin, silver-white marks from old knife wounds and very small, pale pink circular burn scars at the tops of her thighs, disappearing beneath the material of her swimsuit. On the back of her right calf, barely visible due to the way she sat, was a mark almost identical to the one at her neck, save this was bigger and the mark was a faded purple.

When Dylan finally met his eyes again, her limbs relaxed and Nuada saw the ice-white spill of scars that ran along the inside of both thighs before disappearing beneath the material of her swimsuit. She caught the direction of his gaze. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the thick, wide scars Dylan had inflicted on herself in her efforts to escape the hell of her young life.

His lady made a small sound and hastily looked down, pressing her knees together to hide the scars. "I hate swimsuits," she mumbled. Nuada brought his gaze back to her troubled face. "They show too much."

"Dylan," he said gently, and tilted her chin up. Crystalline droplets of water clung to the delicate line of her jaw and glittered against her cheekbones like jewels, glistened along the slender column of her throat. Even more gently, he placed his hands on her knees and pressed, sliding Dylan's legs apart just enough that he could stand between them. Then, careful not to actually touch her skin, he let his hands ghost higher. One hand became a warm weight against her hip. Nuada reached up with a hand that shook slightly and cupped her cheek. "You needn't feel shame when I look at you."

"It's just...I don't let people look. Ever. I'm covered in...and everyone would stare and I just...you shouldn't have to see this when you look at me. That's all. I'm just...I should..." Her mouth was trembling now and he heard tears thickening her voice. "I should probably go or...or something. I don't...I don't know."

"No." He allowed his thumb to brush her cheek in a gentle sweep that sent her eyelids drifting down. She drew a shuddering breath. Nuada whispered, "No. I want to see you. Come here." She inched forward a bit. "Closer, mo duinne." As if moving through a fog, Dylan shifted forward until she was a hair's breadth away from the solid wall of Nuada's bare chest. "Look at me."

It took her a long moment, almost as if she were afraid of what she would see. Finally she met his eyes. Nuada lowered his forehead to hers. Rested it there, and just stood with her for a moment. Such a hard life, but such a brave and beautiful woman. How did Dylan not see what she did to him? How she fired his blood and left him so aware of her? Of being so close to her?

Whatever she saw in his eyes was enough to relax her. She slipped just a breath closer. Whispered his name like a plea. "Nuada." Each syllable slid over him like silk.

In that instant of awareness, for the first time there was no whisper of heat, no simmer in his blood. Instead there was desire, hot and swift, burning in his belly. His thumb brushed away one of the diamond droplets gilding her cheekbone. He moved just a little closer.

Usually the urge to kiss the mortal in his arms came whenever that enticing mouth came too close or he could no longer resist the urge to touch her lips with the pads of his fingers. But now it wasn't either of those things. Just the softness of her skin beneath his stroking thumb; the sunlight on her hair; her eyes like stardust, shining with trust and an impossible emotion he dared not name because to name it was to break himself against it.

His settled his hands at the small of her back because he didn't know where else it would've been safe to place them. Dylan felt the heat of that touch burning through her. Her arms twined hesitantly around Nuada's neck. She slid a little closer. The blood was humming under her skin and she knew she was about to do something very, very stupid. Very, very dangerous. And very, very right.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, "so beautiful," almost as if the confession hurt, and Dylan knew he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to say anything; knew that every instinct clamored at him to step back from her, to shove her away. Instead Nuada pulled her even closer. Let his forehead rest against hers again; carefully untied the ribbon that held her hair in a ponytail, so that those dark curls tumbled into his hand. He tangled his fingers in the wealth of them before letting them cascade down around her shoulders and back. He tossed the ribbon aside.

Nuada could feel her every soft curve against his body. Feel every beat of her heart, every shallow breath she took through slightly parted lips. Honey-gold eyes shifted to palest sun-kissed ivory. He wanted...he wanted so much...no. No, not wanted. He _needed_ to kiss her. Lay his mouth on hers here in the sanctuary of this dream and his own memory. No one would see. No one would know. Not even Nuala, because the Elven prince had stayed heavily shielded against his twin since that brutal nightmare and his sister couldn't break through such shields.

No, no one would ever have to know about this. Except Dylan. Dylan would know. Unless she forgot because this was a dream. He didn't want her to forget. Would she push him away? Gods, he hoped not. Didn't know if he could bear that. The thought was almost enough to stay him. But his hand moved of its own accord, sliding up her back, whispering along her spine, over the rigid silk of scars and the delicate ridges of shoulder blades, to the nape of her neck. His fingers tangled in her soft, thick hair. His fingertips just barely grazed the side of her neck, small tickling caresses he was almost certain were causing the little shivers down her spine.

Her own fingers, the ones not playing with his damp hair, brushed against his neck. Right above where the pulse beat hard. His heart was suddenly pounding. Did she know it was for her? That her softest touch made his pulse race? Nuada felt each of her touches down to his very bones. There was no fear in those incredible eyes now. Only a welcoming softness. An unfathomable something in the depths of those oh so very lovely blue eyes like moonlit lakes. Nuada could drown in her gaze. Drown in _her_. He wanted to drown. Wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink into her and lose himself, just for a little while.

"Nuada," she whispered. "It's...I...it's okay if...if you want to..." Dylan nervously licked her bottom lip. Saw when eyes like gold-dusted ivory sharpened and focused on her mouth. The delicious heat of his body embraced her. His feral eyes caressed her face, her mouth. The fingers of one hand threaded through her hair, exerting the tiniest amount of pressure. Surprisingly, that pressure didn't scare her. She was safe with him. He would never hurt her. His other hand at the small of her back held her against the hard sheltering strength of his body. It left Dylan lightheaded and tongue-tied. "If you want me to..." A slightly embarrassed laugh escaped. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say, I just—"

"Hush," he commanded, but in the gentlest voice he'd ever used with her, a voice like velvet. Nuada tightened his hold just a little, reveling in the softness of her. She was so very soft compared against him. So small and fragile. The prince studied her face for a moment. He had to make sure there was no fear in her. Not in this moment. Nuada leaned in to breathe softly in her ear, "Dylan. Mo duinne. Don't be afraid." Her breathing hitched. When he pulled back to look at that beautiful face again, those lovely lips had parted. "It's all right. Do not be afraid, a chumann."

"I'm never afraid with you," Dylan said. _Sweetheart_. He'd called her _sweetheart._ And he was so very close. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth, his heart pounding against her own chest. His hand against her back trembled slightly. "I trust you."

"I know," Nuada whispered just before his lips brushed against the soft silk of hers. Just the barest touch. A hint of taste. Eamonn had been right, Nuada realized with a jolt of utter shock. She tasted of strawberries and honey. So sweet. Dylan offered him a soft sigh as his lips caressed hers again. Once. Twice. She didn't push him away. She pulled him closer, making a little kitten sound low in her throat. He _loved_ that sound. Loved that she'd made it for him.

Then he couldn't hold back anymore and his mouth came down fully on hers with a generous hunger that shook him. Nearly undid him. Her mouth was like hot silk beneath his. So perfect. Was he drowning yet? Nuada didn't know. Couldn't find it in himself to care one way or the other.

But careful, he had to be careful of her. Gentle. He didn't want to scare her. Didn't want to bring back dark memories. Wanted this moment to be for her. For them. Even if they never had another moment like this again.

Weakness flooded Dylan's knees and her stomach somersaulted. Absently she reminded herself to breathe. She was only still semi-upright because she clung to Nuada with a desperation she'd never known before. His mouth on hers was everything Dylan could have ever imagined. There was no hollow ache inside her at the touch of his lips. No chill icing the blood in her veins. No bruising hands or cruelty. Only a sweet joy that shimmered through her like sunlight. Easy heat that warmed her from the inside out. Gentle touches at her back with all the strength of steel and all the softness of butterfly wings. Tenderness. Sweetness. A sense of being cherished. Rightness.

He made her feel all of that. All with a smoldering kiss he managed to keep chaste and undemanding while still turning her blood to molten gold. Nuada held her as if she were something precious. As if he never meant to let her go. She had _never_ been kissed like this before. Never been held like this. Never.

Until now. Until Nuada.

He was shaking now. Could scarcely draw breath. He had to stop, or take this too far. Had to pull away from the silken fire of her mouth. Dylan made a soft sound of protest as he moved back. Blue eyes lit with sweet moonglow met his gaze. Nuada swallowed. Tried not to lick his lips to catch the taste of her on his mouth. Dylan murmured in a breathy voice like pure temptation, "Tabhair ná cuir cosc, Nuada." Her voice was soft as a dream when it slid over him.

_Please don't stop, Nuada._

A ragged breath shuddered out of him. The hand tangled in her hair slid around to cup her face. Callused fingertips rasped like rough velvet over her skin. He suddenly remembered Dylan murmuring only a couple weeks ago, _Do with me what you will._Nuada shuddered again. Tried to push back the sudden desperate need searing him. He had to be careful with her. Had to resist the urge to coax those petal-soft lips apart and deepen the next kiss until he could finally sate the hunger for her.

"Please," she whispered, trembling, and the Elven warrior knew then that his hunger would never be sated. "If it's a dream don't let it be over yet."

Then his mouth was on hers again, so hungry, and once more he tasted honey and summer strawberries. Exquisite. When he pulled her even closer, desperate to feel her, tentative hands slid over his shoulders, his chest—not to push away or to stay him. Just to touch him. Just to touch. Could she feel his heart pounding under those caressing fingertips?

He had to remind himself to go slowly. Remind himself that in the most important ways, Dylan was still an innocent and although this was not her first kiss, it was close enough. But the ember of lust nearly always smoldering in his belly was catching fire and it was so hard to maintain control. He trembled with the effort.

_Don't stop,_ she'd pleaded. _Please don't stop._ Ah, never, he would never stop, so long as she kept making those little kitten sounds and pressing against him. Nuada nipped gently at her bottom lip and shivered when she sighed into the kiss. He nipped again. Those lips parted for him and he groaned against that perfect mouth. At last, at last he could—

No. Too fast, he was taking her too fast. Things would go too far here in the dreamscape. So he gripped her fragile shoulders and pulled back, struggling to keep his breathing even. Her eyes were slightly glazed with desire, her lips kiss-swollen and so very tempting. Nuada closed his eyes. Tried to calm his galloping heart. Tried to reclaim his breath. Tried to remember his honor. "Gods, mo duinne..."

"I didn't...I mean..." she whispered. He felt the inward retreat before she pulled her hands away. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Nuada said softly, and framed her face so she was forced to look at him. "No. Do not withdraw from me. Do not pull away. Not here. Please." He leaned in. Feathered gentle kisses at the corner of her mouth, along her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. Tasted the drops of water clinging to her skin. Careful, had to be careful. He brushed his lips over hers once more. Breathed in Dylan's soft sigh. "Do not regret this, Dylan. Do not be sorry for it."

Nuada couldn't find it in himself to regret this, either, though it was reckless and cruel of him to do this. Unfair of him. She wouldn't remember this when she woke. Was it honorable to allow himself to give into temptation, knowing he wouldn't have to face the consequences?

Her fingertips ghosted over his chest, lightly tracing the muscles honed by countless hours of combat training and centuries of war. She followed the short, ridged knife scar that sliced across the top of his abdomen. Brushed against his sternum, felt his heartbeat under her touch. Her fingers trembled. Was she even breathing? Dylan met eyes like palest ivory edged with molten gold. Then she leaned in. Nuada watched with bated breath as those soft, scarred lips laid a tender kiss right over his heart.

Swiftly indrawn breath. A shudder. Hunger flared, heating his blood. But he didn't recapture her tempting mouth. Just let her slide her hands over his chest. His eyes slid closed. Her voice was a mere thread of sound when she whispered, "I can feel your heart beating. It's so fast."

Dylan tried to keep her own heart from racing. Tried to keep from hyperventilating. He was so close, so warm, so incredibly solid. And he'd kissed her as if...as if...

Was she sharing a dream with the real Nuada? Or was this her own little fantasy dream? She didn't know what she was doing. Didn't know what to do in this kind of situation. Had never _been_ in this kind of situation. Dylan just wanted to touch him, feel him and know he was really there with her, but she wasn't sure how to explain that, how to show him. So she laid her cheek against where his heart pounded so hard and asked softly, "What do you want me to do?"

The reckless freedom of the dreamscape dragged the words from him. "Be with me," Nuada whispered. He stroked the side of her face and knew his eyes were soft in a way he rarely let her see. "Let me hold you. Just for now, let me hold you."

"Then hold me," she said, and melted into the warmth and fiercely protective strength of his arms. A tremor shivered through him. Slight, but they both felt it. "It's okay," she murmured. "We're okay. We'll be okay."

"This can't happen, Dylan."

An eternity of silence. Then, "I know." She reached up to caress the royal scar carved across his face. "I know. It's okay."

So many things unspoken, yet understood. Nuada knew Dylan understood she might not remember this. Probably wouldn't remember any of it. He might not, either. He wasn't sure if he wanted to or not. To remember those sweet kisses and everything else would be torture. To forget would give him a moment's peace but he didn't want to forget the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. Did Dylan know how he felt? Could she feel it? How could anything be all right between them again if she did? And how could he bear remembering this moment if she didn't?

Dylan had no illusions. There was something here between them that threatened to break her heart. She wasn't stupid enough to think it was love. At least not on Nuada's part. That was just hoping for too much. But he felt _something_ for her and that was more than Dylan could have ever hoped for.

So she wouldn't question this. Wouldn't demand anything from him. She would just enjoy this moment. Just pretend that it would go on forever. Pretend that, if she did remember, it wouldn't break her heart to pieces because her prince was absolutely right—this couldn't happen.

Nuada caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Dylan." A gentle murmur. Almost a prayer.

"Kiss me again, Nuada," his impossible mortal lady whispered. So he laid his mouth against hers and tasted the sweetness of her again. A lingering kiss, this time, full of simmering promise and regret, an unspoken wish and an intangible dream. Nuada swallowed back the salt of sorrow and regret rising in his throat. He loved her. Gods, how he loved her, which should've been impossible, yet was all too true. Why couldn't he have this? Why couldn't he simply be with her?

Then it was over. Her lips no longer caressed his, her hands no longer tangled in his hair. But she smiled at him, and the sudden weight on his chest eased a little.

"So," she said. "You gonna teach me how to swim?"

Nuada huffed a laugh. She always knew what to say to him. "Aren't you worried about leeches?"

Dylan's smile widened, bright as a sunrise. She lifted one shoulder in that elegant half-shrug. "You'll protect me."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I KNOW! I KNOW! I'm so evil words can't even describe me! Ah-hahahahahahaha! I'm SO evil. I know. So they finally kiss (are you happy now, Ecnelis? Ja Reedus?) but they're probably not even gonna remember! Because that would mess up the dynamic and the plotlines I've got mapped out right now. Hehehehe. But did it at least give you kiss-cravers enough of a fix that you can wait until the real, physical, fully conscious kiss coming up...soon? If so, yay! Now the action can commence (and we got some great, awesome, deliriously sensual but still closed-mouthed kissing in this chapter)! So hope you guys liked chapter forty-four and hope you enjoy 45, which will hopefully be up sometime in the next few days._

_Now our lovely review prompt! Wootness!_

_1) Nuada taking care of Dylan while sick. It was sort of glossed over, but how did we feel about this gentler, more tender side of our angsty panda of an Elven prince? We never see him really being anything other than the savage warrior prince in the film (except that rare and creepily incestuous moment with Nuala in the library and when he's being all techno-geeky with the golden egg thing) so I'm trying to explore his many facets._

_2) Oh, Nuala and her messenger services. Messengers in general, actually. What do we think of the message from the king (relayed by Nuala) for Nuada? And what do we think of Nuala catching glimpses of Nuada's darker memories?_

_3) Wink's plan. What are our thoughts on Wink's despicable and genius plan for tricking the king?_

_4) Oh, the dream. What do we think of the dream? Hehehehehe. I want a long response for this one because I put a lot of work into it for you guys. Yay!_

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_**About the Chapter Title:**_ _"Twas But a Dream of Thee" are the last six words of the first stanza of John Donne's poem, "The Good Morrow." Although not strictly faerie tale related exactly, I first came across this poem in the novelization of "Once Upon a Time in New York," the pilot for the television show,_Beauty and the Beast_(starring our very own Ron Perlman and Roy Dotrice, both of whom were in_Hellboy 2_)._

_**Memories of Kisses Challenge:**_ _Who wants to write a challenge entry where instead of waking up not remembering the kiss, they both wake up and remember? Or only one of them remembers? Someone should totally do that! *pokes Jasper, Nightmare, Jokerfest, and Ocean, as well as anyone else who might be interested*_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- I don't actually know if there's a real island off the coast of Ireland called Roan Inish (Island of the Seals). Roan Inish is an island in a movie (which I think is based off of a book) called _The Secret of Roan Inish_, which is a lovely movie that draws heavily on Irish history and myth.

- A bakeneko is a cat shifter in Japanese mythology.

- Most of the herbs used in the potion Wink was making are for sore throat, except for hyssop, cherry bark, and willow bark (which are for fever).

- I got the idea of Wink as potion-brewer from _Valiant_ by Holly Black, where Ravus the Troll brews potions. Also, because trolls in general are Nordic in mythology, I made Wink's people of Nordic descent (hence the reference to Valhalla).

- The idea of "I see you" is from James Cameron's _Avatar_. There's this really great concept of "I see you" meaning not just "I see you in front of me" but also that "I see into you, I see who you are, etc." I love it so much. The plot of _Avatar_ isn't that original, but it's a good movie for a lot of reasons.

- The song Dylan is listening to/singing along with is "Suspended in Time" by Olivia Newton-John (famous for playing Sandy in _Grease_) from the film _Xanadu_.

- "A duty to Dylan? Is that greater now than your duty to Father?" is a quote from WhenNightmaresWalked's amazingly splendiferous chapter 27 challenge entry, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams."

- I got the idea for the rings from the original "Beauty and the Beast"—at least, I think it's the original. In a lot of the versions I've read or seen, Beauty gets a magical ring that, when she turns it on her finger and says "I want to see my Beast again" or words to that effect, it takes her back to the Beast's castle.

- Azaleas, among other things, stand for passion. Red poppies stand for pleasure, and honeysuckle represents the bonds of love. I pick my flowers very carefully, lol.


	45. It's a Place Downtown

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**__  
Author's Note_  
_About the Chapter Title  
References  
__Suggested Reading List_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So here we go! After that last exciting chapter, let's see either of our lovebirds remembers that sizzling dream. And let's see if the arrival of a certain princess throws a wrench in anyone's plans. I'm very excited to finally get this chapter up. It was supposed to be up last week but life got in the way. Anywho, hope you enjoy. Just in case I don't get chapter 46 up before Thursday, happy Thanksgiving (even to those of you who don't live in America)._

_Also, I've started another _Hellboy _fanfic (this one is AU - sorry, Ocean, I know you like fun with cannon). It's called "Snow White, Blood Red." There's only three chapters up so far because I didn't want to neglect "Once." But I would like you guys to check it out and let me know what you think. I sent a general message to all of you darlings who are on my correspondence list, but for those of you who aren't on that list, here's a head's up. Loves!_

_**Advanced Translation:**_ _Do Mhórgacht is Gaelic for "Your Highness. Mo Mhuire means "my lady."_

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**Chapter Forty-Five**

**It's a Place Downtown...**

**That Is**

**A Short Tale of Medley, a Kiss, Connections, Counter Measures, an Inconvenient Question, and a Prince Among His People**

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Late morning light filtering coldly through the curtained windows slowly roused Nuada. The haze of the dream dissipated as firegold eyes blinked and the Elven warrior sat up, stretched the kinks from his spine. Sleeping in a chair all night was not a good idea for an Elf his age. Maybe if he were ten centuries younger.

The fingers tightly curled around his own recalled his thoughts to the woman stretched out on the futon-couch. Frizzy curls spread out across her pillow like a halo. A smile tugged at the corner of her scarred mouth. Dark lashes fanned out across her scarred cheeks. Her breathing was deep and even and there was no sign or trace of nightmare in those peaceful features. On impulse Nuada reached out and brushed back that one rebellious curl that always seemed to delight in putting itself where it wasn't supposed to be. Dylan shifted and sighed. Didn't awaken.

He'd dreamed of her, hadn't he? The Elven prince couldn't quite remember if he had, or what that dream might have been about. He _had_ dreamed. He knew that much. But when he tried to remember that dream, there was only a deep sense of melancholy and a brief simmer of desire. Not even a wisp of memory to give him a clue.

Dark lashes fluttered briefly. Sleepy blue eyes focused on a pale Elven face. She smiled. "Good morning." A quick and puzzled frown. "Have you been here all night?"

Nuada's shrug held all the casual arrogance of an Elven prince. "I dozed off. How do you feel?"

"I feel absolutely wonderful," she said, engaging in a long languid stretch as boneless and luxurious as a sleepy cat's.

Feral eyes zeroed in on the elegant arch of her spine and the slender expanse of her throat for a moment as that golden simmer flared into something hot and caressing. Nuada wrenched his gaze to the banked fire in the hearth. Oh, he'd dreamed of her, all right. There was no way the sudden lust was a coincidence. So why could he not remember? When he strained for even a piece of that elusive dream, for just a moment Nuada thought he tasted the summer sweetness of golden honey and ripe strawberries, but that was all the prince could catch.

His lady seemed completely oblivious to the male appreciation being leveled at her, though. "Mmm. I think I'm all better." Dylan sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch. "No fever. No headache. Throat feels fine. And I'm starving. I haven't been hungry for the last few days."

Now she grinned. Pumped her fists in the air and kicked her feet like a delighted child. "Yes! I'm not sick anymore! Which means I can take a shower without worrying about passing out! Huzzah for troll potions!" She hopped to her feet. "Going to take a shower now!"

He couldn't bite back the grin that kept trying to steal over his face as his mortal lady hustled for the corridor that led to her room. "Dylan."

She skidded to a halt at the door, sliding a little on the wooden floor in her sock feet. "Is it important? Can it wait? I really, really want to take a shower. There are not enough words in English and Gaelic combined to tell you how desperate I am for a shower. Pretty please? Can it wait?"

It could, so he inclined his head and made a shooing motion with one hand. "Off with you, then."

Dylan half-trotted, half-limped out of the den in search of the desperately longed-for shower. Nuada settled back into the chair. Something niggled at the very back of his mind. Barely a wisp of thought. Another one of those where if he tried to catch it, it would flit away and he'd never learn what it had been. Patience was needed here. Unfortunately, the Elven prince had other things to worry about. Other things to discuss with his lady once she was ready for the day. So he dismissed that flicker of a thought and focused on more important things.

Did Dylan have work today? Nuada realized he wasn't sure. If she did, it would give him some time to think. Wink's plan... was a good one. It had risks, but then, so did Nuada's original plan. Still, the cave troll's idea had fewer risks. But would Dylan see it like that? And then there was the king's threat. Balor was considering attempting to take Dylan away from him. How to prevent him without actively disobeying his father's orders? Once was already too much and King Balor was already incensed about that. Nuada didn't dare attempt disobedience again, especially so soon. Something else would have to be done to keep Dylan at the prince's side. But what?

A quick thought, there and gone before he could grasp it. The amber-eyed fae warrior merely waited. The thought returned, this time as the seeds of an idea. It would only work if they decided to go with Wink's plan of convincing the king, but... but if they did so, then it _would_ work. Balor was old, and tired. He also cared about his people's sentiment. If Nuada could get the fae on his side of things, his father could do nothing to Dylan. And it would buy them time to... to what?

For the first time, the prince realized the full import of what he had learned of his feelings for the human woman. If he did _not_ continue pretending to court her, he could not keep her by his side, and then what? He would be alone again. And what of Dylan? How abandoned would she feel if Nuada left her yet again? But the prince also knew he couldn't court her forever. Then what? Marry her? He could not do that, either. Not unless his father commanded it of him because then (it could be said, at least) his loyalty to the Hidden Folk would not be broken, as he'd be obeying an order from his king.

So was that the best the Elven warrior could hope for? To be forced by a vow of fealty to wed a mortal. Forced to wed the woman he loved, but wed her in name only. Sentenced to however many decades of dangerous political games by day. Cold, empty nights without passion, without the comfort of her sleeping beside him. Making her his princess, his wife. And after so many years of being forced to be the mortal princess among the fae, would things change between them? Would Nuada still be able to lay claim to the friendship and love in Dylan's heart if she ended up trapped with him?

And she would never know the joy of motherhood. Dylan's fondest dream, stolen from her. If she wed the Silver Lance and became a princess of Bethmoora, she would never have children of her own. No child in line for the Golden Throne could have mortal blood flowing in its veins. That mortality could weaken the kingdom, the people. Sap the vitality from Bethmoora itself and all its twilight denizens. If they were ever forced to wed... he could not give his lady the child she wanted so much.

The sound of singing broke the thought to pieces. It was faint at first, but sharp Elven ears could easily catch the words. Dylan sang, her voice weaving in and out with the pattering of the shower so like heavy rain on a rooftop. Nuada got to his feet and headed for her room. The door was cracked. Becan curled up on his little pillow bed just beside the door, snoring softly. Casting out with his senses, he made absolutely certain Dylan was actually _in_ the shower before he pushed the door open and went to sit on her bed. He was just going to listen for a minute.

_"You think I'm pretty without any makeup on,"_ the mortal sang from the shower. _"You think I'm funny when I tell the punchline wrong. I know you get me so I let my walls come down. They're up, then they're down._

_"You're so hypnotizing.  
Could you be the devil? Could you be an angel?  
Yeah, you get me, so I let my walls come down.  
You're gonna leave 'em falling down."_

Nuada closed his eyes and smiled. Human music could not hope to hold a candle to the great ballads and songs of his people. And Dylan really could not keep in tune if she didn't have a melody to listen to. But the words to this song soothed something inside him. Maybe because Dylan was the one singing them. Or perhaps merely because he was still a bit tired. It didn't matter. He would just sit and listen for a bit longer.

In the shower, Dylan luxuriated in the wondrous feel of actually being _clean_. Three days of no showering had left her feeling a bit itchy, both figuratively and physically. Now she enjoyed the rich perfume of her rose-scented soap and shampoo and continued to sing as the water hammered down on her, deliciously steamy.

_"Let's go all the way tonight; do it all again.  
We can dance until we die. Do it all again.  
Kiss me, k-k-kiss me and ignite the light.  
Take me, t-t-take me and let it shine!"_

Once out of the shower, she dried off and wrapped herself in a fluffy blue towel. She stepped out of the master bathroom. She was still humming the Katy Perry Medley. Smiling. Just so flipping happy to be clean and smelling nice. Then Dylan froze.

Stretched out across her bed, deeply asleep, was Nuada. Bat was curled up not on the bed, but on Nuada's feet. The aforementioned feet stuck out over the side of the bed. Bat rumbled appreciatively of his new perch and kneaded the air with little paws. The fact that the prince didn't protest meant he had to be completely out.

Well, crud. She couldn't change clothes in the bathroom - the humidity from the shower meant the door would stick. Last time she'd made the mistake of closing the bathroom door and then trying to shove it open again, it had cracked right down the middle and she'd had to replace it. And no way was she going to stand around and wait for him to wake up. It was freezing, her skin was still damp (not to mention her hair was wet), and she was in a towel! A very thick towel that covered her from knees all the way up to her chest, but still. And Nuada had fallen asleep on the clothes she'd laid out for herself.

_He must be so tired,_ Dylan thought. A pang of worry hit her. _He's been looking so run-down. I hate to wake him_. Then a shiver iced its way up her spine and she had to clench her teeth to keep from squealing. Never mind. He could wake up just for a few minutes.

Dylan crept over to the slumbering Elven prince and, with one hand on a bedpost for balance, poked his booted foot with her toe. He simply grunted and rolled from his back to his side. This served to deposit an irate and supremely offended cat onto the floor. Bat hissed and stalked away, limping a little. Dylan bit her lip. Poked Nuada's foot with her toe again. Another grunt, but this time tired amber eyes opened and the prince rolled onto his back to look at whatever had dared to prod him.

"Hi," she said, clutching the towel to make sure it didn't slip down or fall open. The towel was thick, and fluffy as a stuffed lamb, but under Nuada's beautiful and intense, suddenly ivory-and-honey stare, Dylan felt just a teensy bit naked. Then the Elven warrior sat up and she felt more than a teensy bit naked. More like a whole lot naked. She clutched the towel even tighter. "You fell asleep on my bed."

"My apologies," Nuada said softly. "I came back here because I heard you singing."

She winced. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, no. I... liked it." Just as he liked the way beams of wintry sunlight through the curtained bedroom window danced golden across Dylan's skin. Her delicate collarbones and those lovely shoulders were lightly dewed from the shower. Her hair was still wet. One dark tendril clung to her scarred cheek. As Nuada watched, a drop of water trembled from the tip of that damp curl before dropping to that cream-pale skin. Feral eyes watched the bead of water slip from collarbone and down over the swell of her breast before disappearing beneath the towel. He closed his eyes and strained to keep his thoughts on something innocent. "What was it called?"

Dylan cocked her head. "Um... well, I've been singing for the past thirty minutes, so I'm not sure which song you mean." She hesitated. When Nuada opened his eyes to read her expression and find out why, he quickly shut them again to keep from staring at the way Dylan nibbled gently on her bottom lip. "Would... you like me to sing something for you sometime?"

He surprised himself by saying, "Yes." And he remembered a lullaby in a dream. _Hush, child, the darkness shall rise from the deep..._

"Are you going to open your eyes anytime soon?" Now she was using what he called her kitten voice - the voice that reminded him of Bat when the little black kitten's attention locked on a piece of string and he refused to pay attention to anything else until he was finished thoroughly investigating (and probably shredding) that string.

"I shall open my eyes when you are properly dressed."

Because he'd been a fool to come back here when he was still tired. Still tired, and therefore not in total control of his thoughts. He'd meant to leave her room once the singing stopped or the water shut off. Had not meant to fall asleep. Had not meant to see Dylan prodding him with her foot and giving him a tantalizing glimpse of lean, fantastically long leg silvered in places by old scars. He hadn't seen anything higher than mid-thigh, but... well. He'd learned two things: that the various scars that covered Dylan's body extended that high up both of her legs; and that no matter what happened with the courtship charade, no matter if there was no hope for anything between them, Nuada would strangle any cocksure feckless idiot who tried to put their hands on those exquisitely lovely legs.

"Well, in that case you should probably stand up. You're sitting on my shirt." He obliged and Dylan tried to dress quickly while the prince kept his eyes shut and his back turned. Unfortunately she discovered at that moment that she hadn't grabbed a pair of clean underwear, so she had to go rifling through her closet, with a hastily yelped "Don't open your eyes yet" tossed in Nuada's direction.

The Elf blew out an exasperated breath. "Are you not dressed yet? How long does this take?"

"Excuse me! It's not my fault I can't find my underpants," Dylan hissed as she tossed around for something decent to wear. When was the last time she'd done laundry? Becan wasn't comfortable washing her underthings. As an afterthought, she added with just the barest sniff of feminine disdain, "It's not like I can just grab any old thing and yank it on. It has to match."

_Match what?_ Nuada wondered a bit desperately. The images that question produced set his blood thrumming, so he deliberately shaded his voice with a healthy dose of ire and growled, "You have one more minute before I open my eyes."

"Um, no offense, Your Highness, but you open your eyes and I'll screech like a banshee. Then I'll kill you flatter than dead."

_Whatever that means,_ the prince thought, but his mouth twitched with amusement.

In the end, Dylan ended up screaming. But not because of Nuada. Because she found a spider in her sock drawer. Luckily she was almost fully dressed by that point, and had a tennis shoe on hand, so she shrieked once as scritchy legs made menacing little motions at her before she smashed the sleepy-from-cold black widow with the shoe. Becan gave the tiny corpse to an appreciative Bat as a bribe. Dylan had the brownie magically fetch the freshly-laundered penguin socks Nuada had bought her (Becan knew his mistress's priorities) from the drawer and check them for more spiders before she felt safe in putting them on.

"Are you afraid of spiders?" Nuada asked with one quirked eyebrow.

The look she slashed him with would've left a lesser man bleeding. "No. I'm afraid of anything poisonous enough to kill me with one bite. Aren't you?"

"Cautious, yes," he said with smug male pride. "Afraid? No."

She actually had the gall to roll her eyes at him on her way to study her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"Dylan," Nuada said suddenly, an odd thought tugging at him. The mortal, who stood in front of the mirror cinching the clasp of her golden medallion, glanced at him over her shoulder. "Did you... do you remember dreaming last night?"

The human frowned. "Now that you mention it... no. Like, at all."

She got the necklace situated and walked out of the bathroom. The Elven prince absently wondered about her apparent obsession with jeans. This pair looked exactly like the blue-spangled white pants she'd worn in one of the dreams that had plagued him while he'd been gone from her. _Take what you need._ He couldn't think about that sweetly whispered temptation right now. Or about how strange it was that he'd dreamed of Dylan wearing a pair of uniquely patterned jeans he'd never seen before that she actually owned. Had that dream been a shared one, then? How, when he hadn't been in physical contact with her? Nuada could wander his sister's dreams if he chose, as Nuala could with his own, because of the link that bound them. He had no such link with Dylan.

Then he remembered that strange, mindless panic that he'd felt for just a few moments several days before returning to Dylan's cottage. A mind-touch he hadn't recognized. A mind-touch with a strange familiarity to it. Had _that_ been Dylan? Was a link forming between them? How?

"That's funny," Dylan continued, oblivious to the prince's thoughts. "If I have nightmares, I usually remember them in... well, horrendously vivid detail, actually. The rare times I have good dreams, I remember at least bits and pieces of them. But now I'm drawing a blank." Now she shrugged. "Huh. Weird. Why do you ask?"

He had no idea. The question had just suddenly popped into his head. "Curiosity," the prince replied.

"Oh. Okay. By the way," the mortal added as she approached the Elven warrior. There was an odd hesitation in her eyes. "About the penguin socks."

He put thoughts of odd psychic links between Elf-kind and mortals aside and raised an eyebrow. Clearly she had something on her mind. But Nuada was completely unprepared when she threw her arms around his neck and did her very best to hug the air out of him.

"I love them," she whispered, the warmth of her breath caressing his ear. The deliciously rich scent of summer roses enveloped him. "I love them so much, I love them. Thank you, thank you, thank you. They're the best." And then, miraculously, Dylan brushed impossibly soft lips against his cheek in a sweet caress that left his skin tingling. Hugged him again, even more tightly. "I adore them utterly, thank you, Nuada."

Before he could do much more than open his mouth, she'd released him and was in the corridor, heading for the den. Nuada stared after her. His heart gave an odd lurch in his chest. A kiss. A chaste one, a simple kiss on the cheek, just a friendly kiss, but... freely given. No strings attached. No trap. Just a simple kiss. Innocent.

As if of their own volition, his fingers lightly touched the spot where Dylan had kissed him. He could still smell the sweet scent of roses.

**.**

King Balor placed his half-moon glasses on the bridge of his nose and studied the letter on his desk. His personal secretary had brought it to him as soon as he'd gone into his office that morning. Apparently a brownie had brought it to Findias from "the crown prince's mortal lady." Balor had opened it, read it twice, then spent the next half hour trying to decide whether he should be infuriated or amused. There was no way that Nuada had had a hand in the penning of that letter. It was too devastatingly courteous for his son's somewhat heavy hand. Which meant the human had written this letter.

_"...His Highness had told me of the wisdom of the One-Armed King of Elfland... the prince walks a fine line between honor and duty... he seeks only to honor your orders, Majesty... you bound him to me, and he has sworn in turn to protect me until his dying breath... I am nothing but grateful for Prince Nuada's consideration... I have come to rely on him in many if not all things... he has been gracious enough to be my protector these last few weeks when life in the mortal realm called me from Faerie... we hope soon to be able to return to the royal halls of Findias and I know the prince is looking forward to seeing his family again... _

_"Unfortunately my time is not my own, and there are a few people who need to speak with me before we can return... any questions should probably be addressed to the Shadow Hunter Institute, care of Jace Lightwood or Clarissa Fray... Nuada was also kind enough to offer to act as my escort when I meet with Master Moundshroud... you must be so proud of such an honorable son, Your Majesty, as any true father would be..."_

Carefully worded insults and threats veiled as compliments and bland statements. She played the game well, the prince's human. And one other thing. A handful of names mentioned as if in passing, but Balor knew it was deliberate. Very deliberate. And those names were very interesting, indeed.

_"Nuada was kind enough to allow me to visit a few friends while in mortality. Lady Kaye and Lady Valiant were both very pleased to see me, and I took the liberty of offering Bethmoora's regards (as the prince's lady, of course). I was also asked by Lady Kaye to send back the regards of King Roiben of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts of New York and New Jersey, even though this was more of an informal meeting (Valiant and Kaye are old friends of mine). His Majesty King Roiben Darktithe was pleased to hear about mine and Nuada's new connection, by the way. I think you may be hearing from him soon in congratulations."_

If that wasn't obvious, the Elf king was going senile. No human with the Sight would be foolish enough to claim false ties with someone like Roiben. An Elf knight that had fought his way to the Unseelie Crown, then played the political games necessary to win the Seelie Crown as well. Only for his area, but New York and Jersey covered quite a bit of ground compared to some other American-based fae kingdoms, and held a lot of different types of faeries. As for the Lady Valiant, the particular friend of the pixie-changeling Lady Kaye... the Sight-blessed human with ties to those faerie courts _and_ to the half-human demon-slaying Shadow Hunters was also friends with Lady Dylan of Central Park.

Lady Valiant. Lady Kaye. King Roiben. Three names that carried a lot of weight in the Twilight Realm. Jace Lightwood and Clarissa Fray, two of the best Shadow Hunters in the western hemisphere. And Master Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud. The Keeper of the Samhain Tree. _That_ one was stronger even than fae royalty.

Just how well-connected _was_ Nuada's human lady? How tight were those connections? How far were the Other Kin of Dylan's acquaintance willing to go for one mortal? And, most importantly, were those connections now available for use by the crown prince?

A light knock on the study door had the king muttering, "Enter."

Nuala entered the room and sank into a graceful curtsy before her king. Balor studied his daughter. She looked pensive. Had she heard that the prince's mortal lady had written to the king? Had she also heard that the human's letter was a frostily acidic "go kiss a pig" couched in courtly language? The king fought not to rub his throbbing temple with his good hand. Attempting to use this mortal had turned out to be more complicated in the execution than Bethmoora's sovereign had anticipated.

"Father, has my brother returned?" The princess asked hopefully.

"Can you not sense him?"

Nuala shook her head, her eyes dimming with sudden sorrow. "He has put up so many shields between us that I only know he is alive, somewhere. I cannot read his mood, the state of his sanity, nothing. If I pushed, then perhaps, but-"

"Do not push, Princess," the king commanded. The use of her title was not lost on the fair-haired Elven woman. "Prince Nuada will return when he deems it convenient, or when the Butchers hunt him down and drag him back." Now he offered his daughter Lady Dylan's letter. "Read this."

Amber eyes grew wider and wider as Nuala scanned the note. "M-M-Master Moundshroud? She knows the Keeper of the Samhain Tree? _How?_"

"That's something I would very much like to know," muttered the king. "It appears we've greatly underestimated the mortal that has given her loyalty to the prince. I did not think to find out if she was well-connected or not. What sort of connections could a human possess that would interfere with our plans, after all? But... Moundshroud. How does an adult human know of Moundshroud?"

"But he would not interfere with us, would he?" Nuala asked. "His concern is with those mortal children born on Samhain and the power they wield. Do you think Dylan-"

"No." No, Balor thought. Humans born on Samhain were often blessed - or cursed - with the Sight, but they also possessed other gifts. Other powers. The king would have been able to sense such power in the prince's human if she possessed it. Nuala would have picked up on it when the Elven princess had scanned the mortal's mind for falsehood the night of Nuada's trial. "It is not that. Something else. Connections, not power. In truth, I am not worried about the human. It is the prince's handle on those connections that worries me. Does Nuada intend to use these new potential allies against us?"

"Nuada would not do that!" The princess protested. "My brother would never attempt to break our previous treaties with these allies. His honor would never allow it. And he is unfailingly loyal to you, Father, surely you know that! He may do things which we don't approve of, but Nuada would never deliberately act against..."

The bland look the One-Armed King of Elfland leveled at the princess spoke volumes. Nuala bowed her head. She had not told her father about the disturbing images she had seen in her brother's mind during that shared dream. She would not do so now. Her twin had said that the mortal was alive and unharmed. That had been the truth. If Nuada hadn't hurt Dylan yet, Nuala was fairly certain he wasn't going to.

As long as their father did not push him. Which seemed exactly what Balor was intent on doing.

"He needs to be brought to heel," Balor said in a voice devoid of any emotion. The princess could not suppress a shiver. "He needs to learn obedience to his king. I will not suffer a dog to bare its teeth at its master. I will not suffer my son and heir to thrust aside my orders as if they are nothing. The crown prince must be made to understand that disobeying my orders the first time only makes them harder to swallow the next time 'round."

It had to be done, the king thought. The worst thing a commander or a king could do was issue an order they knew probably would not be obeyed. But this time it had to be done. Prince Nuada had to be made to obey in all things whatsoever his liege lord commanded of him. Including - especially - regarding the human woman.

"Father," his daughter began, and Balor slashed her with an icy look. She stepped back and lowered her eyes to the floor again. "Majesty."

"Princess Nuala?" A subtle reminder that he was the king as well as her father. A reminder that her heart could not sway her now. Her counsel had convinced the One-Armed King to allow his son these past centuries of self-imposed exile. Convinced him to let Nuada's initial rebellion against his father and the treaty with the humans go unpunished and even unquestioned. But no longer. Nuada _would_ learn obedience.

"What do you mean to do, Your Majesty?" The princess asked, dread swirling beneath the words.

Glacial topaz eyes locked with Nuala's amber gaze. The king set his half-moon glasses on his desk and made sure he had his daughter's full attention before Balor said in a voice as soft as shadow and as lethal as poison, "I mean to show him that a wise king commands his subjects' love... but if that fails, a king will settle for fear."

It took her a moment to understand. After all, what could her father possibly do that would instill fear in Prince Nuada Silverlance, the warrior who feared no one and nothing? But she remembered her brother's despair and shock when she'd told him the king was considering taking the human woman from him. A threat to Dylan then? _Disobeying_ _my orders the first time only makes them harder to swallow the next time round._ What order? What commands had the king issued the prince regarding the human? Except...

"No." Spoken with sorrow and pity for the twin slowly being chained by his king's plans. "No, Father, please, that's not fair. Give him more time-"

"The only thing we have left is our honor, Nuala," Balor said gently. His face could have been carved from white marble. "If your brother's own honor does not prevent him from shattering ours, if his love for and loyalty to his king does not compel him to honor the truce with the humans and to show the proper deference to his sovereign... then we must use what weapons we possess against him. The human is one such a weapon. She is the best tool to bring him to his knees."

"And if he refuses?" The princess demanded, desperation edging her voice because _of course_ Nuada would refuse. He might lust after the human, but his pride would not allow that lust (or the softer fondness he inexplicably seemed to feel for Dylan) to be used to force him to do anything he did not wish to do. _Or anything Dylan does not wish him to do,_ Nuala thought. She didn't know where the words came from, but she knew with utter certainty that they were true.

But the king's feral amber gaze was without pity or mercy when he said, "Then the crown prince will be punished for his disloyalty to his king."

**.**

Unfortunately for Nuada's peace of mind, Dylan ended up going to work the same day she'd managed to shake off the worst of her illness, and for the rest of the work week. She wore makeup to cover most of the bruises so she would not incur a lot of unwanted questions. He hadn't said so, but it had eased the sick rage churning in Nuada's belly whenever he saw those dark smudges at her throat and the bruises on her face. He stayed at the cottage, though it made the place between his shoulder blades itch to think of Dylan out there alone without him to protect her. But Eamonn, the enemy they had truly needed to fear, was dead.

_She ought to be safe enough_, the prince thought. _Please let her be safe_.

Friday night, he was cooling down from a light workout - for once in the living room instead of the den, so that he could hear when Dylan came home - when the bolts on the front door slid back, the door swung open, and Dylan stepped into the cottage. Nuada had been in the middle of doing a push-up, but he paused now to take in the sight of her. Winter air had nipped color into her cheeks and a few as-yet-unmelted snowflakes sparkled against her dark hair. She looked tired and a little more worn than he would have liked, but happy. She enjoyed her work. Enjoyed helping the young ones who needed her.

Or perhaps she was happy to come home to him. Maybe...

"Hey! I'm home. Now let's go outside," Dylan said, brushing the snow out of her hair. "We can go to the playground. Please? Can we?"

Nuada shook his head as he went back to doing slow push-ups. "You've pushed yourself too far already these last few days, mo duinne. Maybe tomorrow. Sit down and rest for a while."

His mortal lady heaved a melodramatic sigh and said in a stage whisper, "Spoilsport." But after shrugging out of her cold-weather gear and kicking off her boots, she obliged him by curling up in the leather armchair near the hearth. Within minutes, Becan had a steaming mug of apple cider ready for her. She sipped it gratefully. "Becan, I absolutely adore you forever." Dylan watched the Elven warrior continue exercising as she sipped at the hot cider. "How many of those have you done?"

"I have one-hundred-fifty-six remaining," Nuada said. Nothing in his voice indicated he was under any strain. Dylan just watched the shirtless warrior as powerful muscles flexed with every movement. For once the long spill of star-blond hair wasn't loose or in a horsetail, but a thick silvery braid which brushed the floor as Nuada raised up once more on powerful arms before slowly descending again. Firelight danced along the smooth expanse of scarred back. Every movement showcased the strength of the broad shoulders.

And she _really_ needed to stop staring and close her mouth before she drooled into her cider. "One-hundred-fifty-six remaining? Out of how many?"

"Two thousand," the prince replied. "Although now it's one-hundred-fifty-three." He did another, moving slowly to put more strain on the muscles. "One-hundred-fifty-two." Feral eyes surreptitiously studied the human sipping cider from a porcelain coffee mug. The mug had a kitten with a very wicked glint shining in the depths of its eyes, and the words _Doom - Now in Fun Size_ written across the top. He resisted the urge to shake his head. Some of the oddest things amused her. "How was work?"

"Fine," she said, her eyes locked on a scar gracing Nuada's back to the right of his spine. "Why?"

"Merely curious," the prince replied. Then he frowned when a familiar piece of paper floated to where Dylan sat, courtesy of her brownie.

Dylan beamed and murmured her usual response-in-lieu-of-thanks, "Becan, I adore you." The mortal unfolded the paper and began to read the words written on it. Nuada stopped moving to sit up and study the missive.

"Is that my letter?" He asked. Dylan shot him a wild-shy glance and shrugged, but she pinked up a little. The Elven prince got to his feet. Once at her side, he peered over the top of the page. "It is. That's the letter I wrote you."

He reached for it. Dylan pressed it to her chest. "Hands off. No touching. I intend to have this thing framed." When he kept reaching for it, she twisted to shield it with her body and glared. "Touch my letter and I will bite your fingers."

Surprisingly, he had no doubt she meant it. "It means that much to you? Why?"

The look she gave him would have made a lesser man feel like an imbecile. "Because it's gorgeous and I love it. So no touching. It's mine. If you wanna read a beautiful courtly letter, go write another one for yourself." The look she gave the letter was soft and sweet. Nuada thought he might have blissfully traded his soul for her to look at him that way. Then she turned those impossibly blue eyes on him and smiled. "I wish I could write a letter like this. Where did you learn how?"

Now he shrugged and dropped into the chair opposite hers. "I am a prince, Dylan. And you seem capable of writing a very diplomatic letter when the mood suits you."

"Yeah, but this wasn't diplomatic. It was..." She struggled to think of an adjective she hadn't used a thousand times already. _Beautiful_ was out. _Lovely_ was out, too. So what could she say? The truth. "There are no words for how it made me feel. And you meant every word, didn't you?"

Eyes like warm, melting honey met and held her own. "I did."

Dylan grinned. Set the letter on the side table by her chair. "Jeez, you are the absolute greatest, you know that? You're going to make some incredibly lucky Elf girl really happy one day."

When she brushed ineffectually at her hair, the firelight glinted on the golden band around her ring finger. Crimson sparkles danced briefly across her skin. Nuada felt the weight of the other ring around his neck like a millstone. The metal was strangely warm against his skin. Time seemed to hang suspended between them as he studied her face in the dancing light of the fire. Amber glow caressed her cheekbones and mellowed the harsher scars on her face. Shadows flickered in the hollows of her throat and where her slender neck met her shoulders. She really was beautiful. How had it taken him almost a year to see that?

"Do I make _you_ happy, Dylan?" He asked before the question had even registered in his brain. His jaw tensed and he fought against the urge to scowl. Why had he asked her that? Why did it matter? But there was a soft expression on her face that he never saw except when it was directed at him. Dylan looked at no one in just that way except him, and that made him feel...

She cocked her head and dazzled him with her smile. "You make me happier than I've ever been in my life."

He had to look away for a moment. No one - _no one_ - had ever said such a thing to him before. Just as no one looked at him the way she did. Nuala had once, when they were young, but even his beloved twin had never told him that he made her happy. Nuada asked, "Why?"

A casual lift of one shoulder. "I don't know exactly. All I know is that when I see you, the world is right and everything is fine." Her brows furrowed as she frowned. Then she smiled again. "Unless one of us is in trouble. Then I know that the world _will be_ right and everything _will be_ fine since you're there and I'm with you." Her smile was faintly embarrassed now. "Stupid, I know. Pretty sappy stuff. I'm sorry. Anyway," she added, looking everywhere but at him (which was good since he was struggling a bit for composure), "I'm starving; how 'bout you? Becan probably made dinner."

Becan _had_ made dinner, which turned out to be breakfast - scrambled eggs, toast, muffins the size of small planets, and fresh strawberries. Becan was kind enough to allow them to eat in the living room, for which his human mistress bestowed a kiss and affirmation of her adoration when the meal was almost finished. When Dylan used the word "allow" in her expression of disguised gratitude, Nuada reminded her that the brownie technically called _her_ mistress and not the other way around. The unruffled mortal deftly drew attention to the prince's use of the word "technically." Then she smiled, shrugged, and picked up a blueberry muffin twice the size of her fist. She took a bite. Nuada's eyebrows shot up when she lightly kicked her feet (he ignored the deep satisfaction that came when he saw she wore the smiley-face socks he'd bought her) and made a very happy sound.

"Give me some of that," he ordered. He'd already finished his own food, but the happy sound she was making had stirred his appetite a little.

The happy sound stopped. She shifted and held the muffin away from him, as if he meant to snatch it from her. "Mine."

Nuada bared his teeth at her in a smile. "Darling. You're going to share that with me." Especially if it could make her make _that_ noise. The same noise she made whenever he was massaging her bad knee and hit a particularly lovely spot.

_Darling._ Every time he called her that - all two times - it sent shivery flutters through her belly and made the blood rush into her cheeks. To keep the Elven warrior from noticing her blush, she went back to her muffin while the heat in her face cooled. "Blueberry muffins are my favorite. You told me to be selfish every now and again, so I am. No blueberry anything for you today."

One slender brow quirked sardonically. "I could take that from you with no trouble if I chose, mo duinne," the prince said softly. Dylan shook her head slowly from side to side, a direct and deliberate challenge. Her lips quirked and she took a slow bite of berry pastry. _Nuala used to do that_, he thought with a flash of affection. When his sister had possessed a treat he wanted, she'd often teasingly taunted him with it. "I could easily get that pastry from you if I wanted."

"No, you really couldn't." She popped another bite in her mouth. Licked a trace of blueberry juice from her index finger. A delicious heat bloomed in the pit of Nuada's belly. "Not a chance," Dylan added. "Try it and I will exact supreme vengeance on you. And my vengeance will be slow and painful."

_I will have my vengeance, Your Highness. And you will not like it. At all._ A faint trace of memory, there and gone again. Dream? Probably. Felt like one. With the words came an echo of amused mischief and a twitch at the corner of his mouth as his lips tried to curve into a grin. A good dream, then, whatever it had been about. A dream of careless fun with Dylan, most likely.

But he only shrugged at the foolish mortal woman who dared challenge him. Let her underestimate his ability to snatch pastries. She would learn from the mistake eventually. It had been many centuries since Nuada was a boy, but he wasn't so out of practice that a human could hope to stand in his way.

"So I've been waiting till the weekend for you to tell me," Dylan said, interrupting his thoughts on muffins and revenge. "What did Wink say the last night he was here? What had you so worried?"

And suddenly the lighthearted mood was gone. She felt it the instant the questions were out of her mouth. The honeyed warmth in his eyes faded as his brow furrowed and he turned to stare broodingly into the fire. He wasn't angry. If anything, he just looked worried. And tired. So very tired.

She set dinner on the little side table by her chair and got to her feet. Nuada glanced at her as she came and sat in front of the fireplace, near enough that the heat of the hearth was just the right shade of scorching. She patted the carpet at her side. With a sigh, the prince settled himself beside her.

"Nuada, cad atá cearr?" Dylan asked softly in Gaelic. When the Elven warrior merely sighed, she laid her hand on his where it rested on the rug between them. "Inis dom - tell me. I can't help you fix it if you don't tell me what's wrong."

So he told her. About Wink's suggestion to trick the king instead of the court. About Nuala's warning that the king was considering trying to take her from him. At that, Dylan went very very still.

"I don't care if he orders me to stay far away from you," she said. Cold anger frosted the words. "If you want me with you, Nuada, I'll be there. He can't stop me from being with you if that's what we want. He's not _my_ king."

"But he _is_ mine. He could stop me from being with you," Nuada whispered. "He could order me to stay away."

She jolted. Gaped at him. "But... but you wouldn't!" Seeing an oddly bleak look in those topaz eyes, she added in a whisper, "Would you?"

Would he? The Golden Army... that was disobedience to save his kingdom, his people. Other kingdoms and peoples. He could justify that. His honor _demanded_ it of him. But to defy his king not once or twice, but continuously, just so he could be with a woman his honor should preclude him from wanting in the first place? No.

"Would you?" She repeated, and he could hear just the faintest whisper of dread in her voice.

He could not lie to her, so he did not answer.

Dylan shifted so she could fist her hands in his shirt. "No! He can't do that. He can't just tell you to stop hanging around me. Why would he? I thought he wanted you to be stuck with me. He's the one who tried to force us to get engaged. I don't understand. Why would he go to all this trouble and then threaten to force us apart?"

"He thinks you might be a bad influence on me."

She gave him a disgusted look. "For real? _That's_ his excuse? Do you know how many people say that about me on an almost daily basis? I thought he was supposed to be this great, wise warrior king. Not some angsty parent with no idea how to control his kids." The look Nuada gave her was sharp with the first edge of anger. Dylan sighed and let go of his shirt. Stared into the fire. "I'm sorry. I forget sometimes that he's your father. I just hate... I hate that if he wanted to he could turn your life upside down for no reason other than just because he felt like it."

"My father will only do what he thinks is best for his people," he said softly, trying to believe it.

Gentle fingers brushed against the back of his hand. A tingling shiver pulsed up his arm. Topaz eyes sliced to that scarred face full of compassion. Dylan whispered, "And what about what's best for you?"

"You said it yourself, my lady. I am a prince - my life is not my own."

For a long while there was nothing but quiet as the fire crackled and the Elven prince listened to the sound of Dylan breathing. Her fingers on his hand let him feel the gentle pulse of her heartbeat through that small touch. There was nothing more for him to say. Nothing she could say that would change the cold, comfortless truth of his statement. Finally, however, she did say something.

"Your life sucks."

"Your life has been worse than mine," Nuada said. "And you have lived for only three decades. I have lived for more than forty centuries. When I think of that, when I think of the fact that everything you have lived through should have made you heartless and vicious but has only made you merciful and kind... my life does not seem so hard."

Now she shrugged. "My life has become much... much better, since I met you." She pretended not to see him squeeze his eyes shut and swallow hard. Instead she just said, "So. Wink thinks we should focus on making your dad think we're recklessly into each other instead of worrying about convincing everybody else at court. It might keep him from being so angry that we've been gone for such a long time. Do you think that would work? Do you think he'd be so happy about your so-called 'softening' that he'd forget about punishing you?"

"I think if my father believed me in love with you he would leave gifts of gratitude for all the old gods at every temple and shrine in Bethmoora." As he'd intended, Dylan laughed. "The problem isn't his reaction. It's convincing him of our love to begin with. He wouldn't simply accept we were in love simply because we said so."

Dylan chewed her bottom lip for a long moment as an idea slithered into her brain. He was _not_ going to like it, not one little bit... but that was the point, wasn't it? Because the king would _know_ that Nuada wouldn't like it, would hate it, the fact that he was doing it ought to at least shake Balor's certainty about how the prince felt about her. So she sighed and said, "I have a thought about convincing him." She told him her idea. His eyes went wide. "I know! I know. But it wouldn't be _so_ bad for you. I mean, you said... you said I was... well..." The word _beautiful_ hung suspended between them like a filiment of spidersilk. After a long moment of pregant silence, Dylan added, "We don't have to. It's just an idea."

A magnificent idea, Nuada thought, reckless and quite daring. It would shock the king, no doubt about that. Nuada's lips twitched as he imagined his father's face. And there were ways to play out the scenario to increase that shock. To unsettle King Balor. And beginning a battle with the enemy off-balance was the best way to start. Yes, Dylan's plan was a brilliant one. But did he honestly think so because it would actually work or because he wanted to go through with that idea for his own reasons?

_Both,_ he realized.

"You are right," the prince said slowly as he thought about it. "I know I can convince my father of my reactions in that sort of situation. And I know we would not have to worry about _your_ reactions."

"My reactions? How do you know that?" Dylan asked. He just looked at her. Just looked. Then, very slowly, one ash-blond brow winged upward and dark lips curved into a smug smile. He caught her hand and raised it to his mouth. Brushed his lips across her knuckles. But this time, it wasn't a simple caress of lips against skin. He pressed a slow soft kiss to each of those slender knuckles. Let his mouth linger and his breath warm her skin. Nuada grinned when a shiver raced up her spine.

"As I said once before," Nuada murmured against the back of her hand, deliberately pitching his voice low so that it slid over her like velvet. She shivered again. Her eyes were just a bit glassy. A blush painted usually cream-pale cheeks a charming pink. "Centuries of experience and considerable skill, mo dathúil amhain."

Glassy eyes cleared, then went misty as the compliment translated in her head. _My lovely one._ "Okay, you're right. My reactions are pretty much guaranteed since you're the hottest guy I've ever met in my life."

The Elven prince offered her a winning smile. "You forgot to mention charming."

She extricated her hand from his grip and rolled her eyes. "Modest, too. So you think he'd buy it?"

Nuada nodded. "It would shake him, at the very least. Shake his certainty about us. Once that certainty cracks, we slip in the knife and pry the crack wider-"

"Until we break his certainty wide open," she finished with satisfaction in her voice. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she propped her chin on folded arms. "We make him think we love each other to avoid him trying to come after us for slipping the leash for so long. We play along with his courtship game so that he's not paying so much attention to us and we can find a reason why he can't force us to marry. Play along with the whole thing to lull him into complacency." Now she frowned and nibbled on her bottom lip again. "But if he orders us to marry before we find that reason, then we have to obey. But I think... I think that the love-angle will buy us more time than we would have had otherwise."

He reached out and skimmed his knuckles along the thick, silky scar that slashed down her cheek. His smile was equal parts pride in her and... was that anticipation on his face? The same sort of anticipation Dylan was sure he felt when sparring or doing any of the other things that thrilled him. A warrior's anticipation of the battle to come, of a challenge to be met. "I told you that you were clever."

"So you like my idea?"

The prince loved it. And loathed it. He couldn't quite decide between the two. It was tantalizing. It would also be torture. The entire "love-angle," as she called it, would be absolute torture. But it would _work._ And this first obvious move of theirs would work as well. If they played it right, it would be the first blow against Balor's defenses, and it would be a hard blow. A decimating blow. Balor wouldn't recover from it because it would shock him so much.

"It is a fine plan. And I have a plan of my own for my father's strategy regarding attempting to separate us." Dylan cocked her head in curiosity. Nuada smiled. "The best way to cripple that little idea of his before it gets off the ground is to get our people on our side."

_Our people,_ she echoed silently with shock and a swift catch of breath. _Our side._ And before. He'd said _us._ He'd said _we._ They were a team. He trusted her. She hadn't thought he would ever trust her again but with a simple pronoun-shift, Nuada had told her that she was not the only one who understood loyalty. Not the only one who was sorry for what had happened between them. She knew that the prince was just as careful - if not more so - with his words as she was. That pronoun-shift had been deliberate and specific. Which was why Dylan dropped her head onto Nuada's shoulder and took a deep breath. Soaked up the warmth of him and drew the feral scent of wild woods into her lungs.

"So how do we do that?"

"Simple. I do what all noblemen do when they finally catch the woman of their dreams - show her off. Have you ever been to the Troll Market?" When Dylan shook her head without lifting it from his shoulder, Nuada added, "Good. That means you'll be surprised when we get there. One thing the fae absolutely love is being admired. I expect you'll do a lot of admiring while we're there."

She jerked upright. "You're going to take me to the Troll Market?"

"Unless you object- _oof!_" The air rushed out of him when she threw her arms around him and hugged him hard, pressing her face into his chest. "Well, then. I take it you are excited by the idea?"

Her enthusiastic nod was all the answer Nuada needed. He would have to see if those two rusalki were still playing street corners. Dylan would enjoy their music.

**.**

The four litter-bearers knelt before the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, and the Jade Emperor stepped down from the brocade-swathed litter to stand before the One-Armed King of Elfland. Almond-shaped eyes like gleaming emeralds met eyes of brilliant gold. A thousand things passed between the king of Bethmoora and the emperor of Dilong. Questions and challenge in the slanted dark eyes. A request - edged subtly with command - to wait for the answers, glinting in Balor's gaze. Then Balor just barely inclined his head. The golden light of the King's Hall made the crown of antlers gleam darkly. Emperor Huizong also inclined his head.

"Welcome to Our Golden Hall, Emperor Huizong," the royal Bethmooran Elf said in a voice that held all the power and authority of his kingship. It held no surprise at seeing the emperor himself standing before the Golden Throne instead of mere ambassadors. "You honor Our kingdom, Our hall, and Us with your presence."

Five Dilong Elves stood behind the imposing emperor - three princes well into adulthood who wore the formal black and green dress uniforms of the Dilong military, accented with bronze; a girl with the first blush of womanhood about her, who wore the dark red, elegant silk robes of a first-rank princess; and a very young girl in ensorceled green silk embroidered with silver cranes, whose dark hair was bound and adorned by pale ceramic wood-orchids (cleverly held in place with a touch of magic). Balor knew well the practicality behind putting young children in enchanted clothes. It certainly kept formal court clothes from dying cruel and messy deaths at the hands of their young wearers. He'd done the same with Nuada and Nuala when they were little.

These five were very dangerous for various reasons. Even though Huizong was the one who controlled them, Balor would keep an eye both on the emperor and the young royals who'd accompanied him to Bethmoora.

"We thank you, King Balor, for your generous welcome," the Dragon of Dilong said in the same voice that Balor had used. A monarch's voice. "You honor Us with your consideration." Then the emperor stepped back about two paces to allow the five Dilong royals that had accompanied their emperor to step forward.

Huizong's three oldest sons - Prince Zhenjin, Prince Gaozu, and Prince Hou Junji - offered Balor unison bows from the waist with military precision. The Jade Emperor's youngest sister, Princess Yin-Mei (who was clearly there mainly to keep an eye on the vertically challenged, barely-out-of-babyhood Princess Ming Xian), helped the little princess make the proper feminine bow to this tall, intimidating, antlered man whom she had never met before.

He had eyes like her grandfather, the small princess thought. Her mother's father, not her father's father. Father's father was dead but he'd been very scary when he was alive. This king had nice eyes the color of honey. They were very kind when he looked down at her, even though his face was coolly polite. _Court face,_ her brother Qing Long called it when their father looked like that.

King Balor and Princess Nuala made their own courtesies to these young royals. The king surreptitiously studied the three princes. If there was to be a proxy challenge over Nuada's courtship with Dylan, one of these three would be the one to battle Bethmoora's crown prince. But which one? Zhenjin, the eldest at forty-three centuries, was rumored to be the Silver Lance's equal in combat with edged weapons. Gaozu, who was a few decades younger than Nuada, was a master of hand-to-hand combat (which the crown prince also favored). As for Hou Junji... little was known about the Elf who had recently seen his three-thousandth summer. At least as far as fighting went. Would the third eldest prince be the one to challenge Nuada?

Suddenly, clearly unprompted, Princess Ming Xian looked around and lisped endearingly into the silence, "Where'th Printh Nuada?"

**.**

Saturday dawned bright and clear, the pale sunlight turning the fresh-fallen snow into a glittering expanse of diamond. The sky overhead was the sweet pale blue of aquamarines. Pearly wisps of cloud were kissed by the soft glow of the winter sun. Cold turned Dylan and Nuada's breath to curling steam as they made their way towards the nearest entrance to the subway.

Once they got to the tunnels, they stopped briefly at one of the prince's underground lairs for coin. They planned on getting breakfast, and he planned on finding her another gift. He hadn't told Dylan about that part yet. Knowing her, she would object to him spending money on her. At least in private. In public, she would help him maintain the image they wanted - needed - to present to the rest of the fae. And Nuada could admit (albeit only silently and to himself) that he wanted to give her something to make her happy. Happiness, and peace, would be nothing but a dream when they returned to Findias. He simply was not sure how to give his mortal lady that happiness without the use of material things. He had never had someone tell him that his very presence made her happy before. But once they returned to Faerie, once things began falling into place, would his presence still make her happy? Would he still be able to give her that feeling that the world was right and everything was fine?

They also met up with Wink. Nuada didn't want to risk taking Dylan somewhere as dangerous as a fae bazaar without the troll at his side. Just in case. But finally they were at the main entrance to the faerie market beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

_Are you ready for this?_ He had to make sure, had to be certain that she was ready to engage in this battle. And it _was_ a battle. A political one instead of a fight with fists and blades, but a battle nonetheless. They could afford no hesitation from either of them. Once the fae of the market were allowed to see the prince and his mortal lady, the pretense would have to begin and it could not stop except within the safety of Dylan's little cottage. She deserved one last chance to back out.

Eyes like the moon over Bethmoora met his own, and Dylan smiled. She already held his hand, but now she slipped her free hand around his arm to turn a semi-formal escort's stance into a far more intimate one. A silent request to let the people of Bethmoora see them not merely as crown prince and lady, but also as two people in love.

A wise choice. Nuada noted absently that it would make her seem more approachable to his people, more one of them and less other. Then, in the same words she'd used that night at court, she offered him a brilliant smile of warmth and encouragement before replying, _Let's do this._

Because the charade was about to begin, because Wink knew they were going along with the troll's plan, and because he wanted to and was allowed to because of that plan, the Elven warrior cupped Dylan's cheek with his free hand. Pity he wore gloves. He would've loved to remind himself of the silken feel of her skin. Not that he would ever forget. Still...

His heart stuttered a little when she turned her face into his palm and sighed softly.

Wink grumble-rumbled a reminder that it was cold out here and if they simply wanted to gaze longingly at each other, could they please go back to their cottage and do it there instead of making the rest of the world want to retch?

Nuada slanted his oldest friend a scathing look. _They_ made _him_ ill? What about the besotted look that always stole over Wink's face whenever a certain rhinemaiden crooked her little finger, pursed wine-red lips, and batted those long black lashes? The mention of which made the massive troll warrior scratch at the spur of his broken tusk and glare at the gate to the market. The prince was fairly sure that with just a bit more prodding, the cave troll would have blushed.

But his vassal and shield-brother was right. It was cold - though Dylan did not seem to mind the chill inside her warm, leather coat - and this little maneuver needed to get done before one or both of them lost their nerve.

"_Oscailte_," Nuada commanded the gate in the Old Tongue. _Open._ And the gates eased back to unveil the Troll Market.

At first, none of the Other Kin doing their early-morning shopping noticed anything different. Nuada Silverlance was a common fixture of the Troll Market. He and the massive cave troll shopped there often for various supplies. Sometimes he even brought a woman (usually a lady of leisure). And because the prince was acting as if nothing unusual were going on, the faeries meandering throughout the market didn't notice anything unusual, until one of the various piskeys so numerous throughout the Troll Market squeaked the words, "The prince's lady!"

It wasn't an instantaneous shut-up-and-stare deal. Dylan was very, very grateful that it wasn't one of those. Instead, it was slow and subtle. A piskey seated atop an outdoor bar who got a good look at her squeaked something in Gaelic. The clurichaun knocking back a clear glass stein of transparent blue liquid half-choked on his drink and blinked rapidly at her, as if he didn't quite believe his eyes. And why should he? The Silver Lance striding through the Troll Market with a mortal on his arm? An ugly one, too. Other eyes surreptitiously darted from market wares to the human and Elf before going back to the items again. Sneaking peeks at the much talked about human woman that had ensnared Nuada Silverlance.

At least it wasn't hideously shockingly silent, the mortal thought with no little gratitude. The hushed chatter of a crowded bazaar made her feel a lot better. So did the solid, comforting strength of Nuada's hand holding hers and the warmth of his arm under her other hand. But she could feel those curious eyes glancing at her every so often through the early-morning crowd. Like needles pricking the length of her spine. So she laid her cheek against Nuada's shoulder as they walked through the semi-crowded market street.

_Are you all right?_ Nuada's mental voice was gentle and warm inside her skull. _You're tense._

_They're all staring at us. Well, looking at us. I hate being stared at, I've got to tell you.__ It makes me edgy._ Out of habit she offered a smile to everyone and anyone who glanced their way, even though those glances made her knees want to quake. _Do you know what they're thinking?_

_Envying me, of course,_ the prince replied. Teasing her. Trying to make her smile easier, more genuine. It helped. Dylan's tense shoulders loosened a little. Feeling his lady's nerves fade away some, Nuada added, _An important rule of being royal, mo duinne - never let them see you sweat._ Her smile widened. Remembering that they were supposed to be pretending to be crazy in love with each other, she nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder.

Wink grumbled and put a little space between himself and the "lovebirds." Dylan laughed at the troll, but not unkindly. Like a sister laughing at a brother, the prince thought. Then she sighed. Her breath was a warm caress against his neck.

Nuada swiftly and successfully suppressed the urge to stiffen and pull away from her. It was not that he objected to Dylan nuzzling against him, or objected to the kiss of that warm sigh. Far from it. And that was the problem. He'd been right to think that this charade had the potential to be very painful for him.

When was the last time he'd gone for a simple walk through the Troll Market with a woman on his arm? A lovely woman he could relax around, whose company he enjoyed? Her hand was warm against his, even through his soft, kid glove and her leather one. Her fingers laced with his. It was oddly intimate considering they were out in public. The gentle weight of her head on his shoulder was familiar and comforting.

When the courtship charade ended, if it ever did... he would miss this. The easiness of it. The peace. The simple joy of being with her like this.

And suddenly, for the first time, Nuada seriously considered what would happen to him when Dylan was no longer the vivacious mortal woman that owed him her fealty. What would happen when she grew old, as mortals did. When she died.

The pain that hit him then was an icy fist in his belly. Nuada swiftly shoved it down. Down, where no one - not even Nuala - could feel it. No one could know how much the thought of losing his mortal lady affected him. No one. Not his enemies, not his allies. Dylan was a weakness anyway. But if anyone ever found out exactly how very much he would suffer if he lost her, in the wrong hands that knowledge could effectively cripple him.

_Not if,_ he realized. _When. When I lose her. Gods..._

_Are you okay?_ She snuggled closer, trying to draw Nuada back from wherever he'd gone. She'd felt the mental wandering through their linked hands like a muffled echo. So Dylan squeezed his hand just a little more tightly. Pretended to study the goblin-run stall they were approaching, which displayed various crystal figurines and little golden statuettes. _You're upset,_ she added. She could feel him coming back to the present time and place. _Am I laying it on too thick? Should I let go?_

_No,_ Nuada said quickly. Too quickly. He fought against closing his eyes. Fought not to show anyone, including the woman on his arm, the brief frisson of panic and slashing pain that sizzled up and down his spine. _You are doing just fine. I was... distracted. Time to pay attention. Brief question - do you play chess?_

_Chess?_ Her amused puzzlement helped push back the clutching emotion. _Um, kind of. Not really. I mean, I know how. I know the rules and such. I've never had anyone to play with before, at least not regularly. John doesn't really play, either._

_Would you like to learn how to play? Play well, I mean. On my level._ They were moving rather slowly, strolling rather than actually walking, but Nuada's eyes had settled on one of his favorite market stalls and he'd caught a glimpse of something very interesting. _I could teach you if you like._

He received her mildly confused assent as they stopped in front of the stall. A sallow-skinned Bethmoora goblin grinned and bowed to the prince and the human.

"Good morning, _Do Mhórgacht_," the goblin said. Then, tentatively, but still smiling, he added, "And good morning to you, _m__o __m__huire_."

Nuada inclined his head. His smile was friendly with just a touch of fondness. "Good morning, Laigdech."

Silently he gave Dylan a brief history of his relationship with the goblin. Laigdech was a toymaker who specialized in clockwork. He was a member of the Artificers' Guild. Good enough to become guildmaster in this part of the country, if he'd had the ambition to do so (which he didn't). His goblinwork pieces were some of the best, which was why Nuada used them. And there was a new collection of pieces set up at the corner of the stall shelf that had caught the prince's attention.

Aloud, the prince added, deliberately shading his voice with tenderness, "May I present my fair lady, Dylan of Central Park?"

"Good morning," Dylan murmured.

The goblin studied the mortal woman with eyes as cool and dark as slate. Average height for a human. Slender, but with curves. Not like the stick-like scarecrows most humans seemed to desire in place of women these days. Thick, lustrous hair woven into a dark braid and tied with a pale blue ribbon hung over one shoulder. A blue tunic glinting with silver threads and dark trousers beneath a well-made leather coat. Laigdech realized he couldn't tell whether the coat was made by mortals or by a fae; a _very_ good coat, then. Slung across wide hips hung a white leather belt with a knife sheath. The crest of Nuada Silverlance was embroidered in silver and metallic blue threads across the leather. She had skin the color of fresh cream. Lips of soft coral. The rich scent of leather interwove with the sweet perfume of summer roses.

But those were not the first things the goblin had noticed about the prince's startling lady. The first thing he'd noticed was the scars. Vicious, slashing lines that ripped across what might have been, for a human, a rather pretty face. They cut across those coral lips and the cream-pale skin. Some of them dark pink, some pale as chalk. Thick and thin. The wounds that had left those scars would have been painful and bloody.

And then there were her eyes. Haunted. Ancient. Those fey-like blue eyes may not have seen all the things witnessed by the firegold eyes that gazed lovingly at the scarred face. After all, the prince had lived for thousands of years. This woman was mortal. But she had seen many things. Shadows. Secrets. She understood the darkness of the human race and the mortal realm because it had touched her. Touched her and left her with those brutal scars.

Laigdech had known Prince Nuada as long as the prince had made his base in New York - at least for the last century. The goblin had always considered himself a keen judge of people. One had to be so in order to be truly successful in business. He had only gotten better at it over the last hundred years of knowing the prince. So he was fairly certain about what he saw in those blue eyes. Perhaps that was why the Silver Lance had fallen in love with the human in the first place; because here was a woman who understood the darkness the prince fought so hard against.

_My fair lady,_ the goblin thought. _My _fair _lady._ He found her beautiful, the prince did. Otherwise why compliment her so obviously? The softness in usually hard eyes, the tender undercurrent to the prince's usually regal voice, and the way he kept his fingers linked with hers... the Elven prince loved her. The goblin was glad.

"It is an honor, my lady," Laigdech murmured, and meant it.

"The chess set," Nuada said, drawing the goblin's attention back to retail. "That one." He gestured to a chessboard of faceted amber and white gold. A complete chess set was lined up on the board, white crystal pieces on one side and gold-cast pieces on the other. "It's clockwork. Do you have a set that requires assembly?"

"It might try your patience, _Do Mhórgacht_." But the goblin was already reaching beneath the counter for what the prince wanted. He'd had a feeling once he'd put the chess set together that the sheer complexity of the clockwork would attract Nuada's fancy, so he'd created another set to be assembled. "There are many very small pieces. Or do you mean to teach your lady about goblin work? It might be a little too complicated for a beginner."

Nuada flashed the human a smile that brought out a faint blush to mortal cheeks and put a familiarly feminine look in her eyes. Laigdech had a wife, and he knew what that look in a woman's eyes meant. Fluttering joy from the rush of romance. Every woman in the Troll Market knew that no one did romance like Prince Nuada.

Then the prince lifted his lady's hand to his lips. Despite the slim black leather glove, he dropped a quick kiss to her knuckles. Laigdech hid his grin when the mortal blushed more hotly.

"I would be willing to teach my lady anything she wishes to learn," Nuada murmured against Dylan's knuckles. "Anything at all." He waited a beat. Two. Dylan swallowed hard when his secondary meaning penetrated. "And I would not worry about things being too complicated. She is a very fast study."

_You're killing me, here,_ Dylan informed him. Even her mental voice sounded a little breathless. _Stop that. And I thought we were getting breakfast before actually doing any shopping. How come you want this thingie so much?_

_Because I enjoy putting clockwork pieces together. Do you have __no__recreational interests__? Besides devoting yourself to your God and making trouble for poor, unsuspecting Elven princes._ He felt her mental eyeroll and had to bite back his grin. She was such fun sometimes. _My life does not revolve completely around war and combat training__, mo duinne__._

_So you're a geek?_ Her amusement only increased when he lightly plucked the definition of the word from the outermost edge of her mind, like gently scooping up a delicate soap bubble from the surface of a pool of water. He winced inwardly at the image of scrawny boys in button-down shirts and humongous spectacles fiddling with various mechanical odds and ends while breathing disgustingly through their mouths. _That's so cute. You're a techno-geek._

Clockwork chess pieces packaged and paid for, they bid Laigdech goodbye and continued on their way. Both of them had been acutely aware of the eyes on them. Acutely aware of the various Fair Folk secretively watching their every move, listening to their every word. Many of the observers were surprised to hear the human woman actually teasing the crown prince of Bethmoora about being a "techno-geek." What surprised the watchers even more was how the prince responded to the teasing: by turning to murmur his responses against the mortal woman's ear in a low voice, a warm smile curving dark lips. The Fair Folk continued to watch as the prince's mortal lady caught the delicious scents from a baker's stall.

_Oh, my gosh, Nuada,_ Dylan cried, grinning as she pulled him with all the delight of an eager child toward the minotaur who'd only just laid out two fresh trays of baked goods for the morning rush. _I am fairly certain those are snickerdoodles._

What in the world, the prince wondered, was a snickerdoodle?

Apparently the gods' gift to mortals.

As they reached the baker's stall, Dylan asked, "Your Highness, can we please pretend for the next, like, ten minutes that we're _not_ grown-ups and have cookies for breakfast? Please?" And because they were still pretending, because they were supposed to be pathetically in love, delight and guilt wrestled in her chest as she slid her arms around Nuada's neck and gave him her best hopeful look.

The prince couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face as the minotaur tending the stall kindly turned his amused laugh into a discreet cough (though nothing could hide the Greek fae's smile). Nuada was expected to indulge his lady, was he not? Many fae who made pets of humans spoiled them shamelessly. And once the cookies were gone, if they got hungry again, they would simply go to the Drunken Dwarf, which served wonderful breakfast and lunch. He and Wink ate there often. So Nuada gave Dylan a fond look and said, "Very well, then."

Dylan immediately turned to the minotaur. Pointed at a tray of cookies sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. "Are those snickerdoodles?"

"Indeed they are, milady."

The look she gave Nuada was equal parts gratitude and longing. The Elven warrior was fairly certain the only reason his mortal lady didn't hop up and down and squeal like an overexcited girl-child was due to the fact that they _were_ adults (even if they were shucking such constraints for the moments it would take to devour the treats). So he said, "A dozen." And those fey blue eyes lit up like stars.

**.**

And who needed to be adult? Nuada thought a little wildly later that afternoon. In the last six or so hours, he'd done so many things in the Troll Market that he never would have anticipated. Had snickerdoodles for breakfast (all right, they tasted wonderful, but he was a grown man and grown men did _not_ eat cookies, much less for breakfast). He'd agreed to try a strange concoction of shaved ice and cherry syrup they'd bought after the cookies from a cailleach bheur that Dylan said was basically a slushee (whatever a slushee was. And who ate anything made of ice in winter?).

Mostly they window-shopped, which he _never_ did. When he came to the Troll Market he came with a purpose. Not so with his lady, apparently. They looked at jewelry (although thank the fates, only briefly); books and illustrated scrolls from Bethmoora and Dilong; scarves of Nyame, Alakan, and Onibi silk; weapons both ceremonial and practical from dactyl and álfar forges; ensorceled armor from Idris; handmirrors and other ladies' trinkets of star-bright Iaran silver and gold; embroidered storytelling tapestries from the fiefdom of Roland in Gavaudan; intricately designed, indescribably soft Shahbaz carpets; sculptures of colored glass and bone-white porcelain from Annwn; elegant Eathesburian clockwork pieces. Dylan delighted in every new item displayed by the faerie merchants, and most of the faerie merchants delighted in her admiration and enthusiasm. And Dylan didn't seem to mind the slowly thickening crowds as the day wore on, either.

They stopped at Yang's little space and Dylan admired the _rai_ and _fūjin_ flowers as well as the more natural blooms. The prince could admit he was wary of taking her to Erik's forge (Brünnhilde might be there). He could also admit, albeit silently and only to himself, that he was terrified of the idea of taking her to Aso's tent. What might the weaver _say_ to Dylan? The dark-skinned Elf unfortunately knew a lot of stories about Nuada that the prince never wanted Dylan to hear. Embarrassing stories.

His lady stopped to watch a pair of tawny-maned, tawny-eyed narasimha children as they breathed haunting lullabies from ebony ring-flutes. Their young faerie lioness companion held out a woven basket for coins. Nuada tossed her a silver piece. She caught it with the basket and then offered Dylan her slim hand, palm up. An intricate red _henna_ design of blossoming flowers adorned her palm.

"Oh, that is absolutely lovely," Dylan exclaimed, bending to get a closer look. "Did you do that?"

The young lioness shook her head. "My mother did it. She and my sister will return to the Troll Market in a few days. If you would like to come back, _Mem Sahib,_ my mother can make a mark for you."

Blue eyes flicked to Nuada, but then Dylan had to gently explain to the lioness that as a child of the High King of the World, she wasn't allowed to accept such marks - even beautiful ones such as the _henna_ the maiden bore. Dylan smiled and thanked the young girl anyway, assuring her that she would be back sometime soon to hear the lovely music and admire the pretty lioness again. Then she thanked the girl's brother and sister for the music and she and Nuada walked on.

_Did I hurt her feelings?_ Dylan wondered.

_She is a business woman, despite her young age,_ the prince assured her. _She was not offended._ Then he asked, _You cannot get skin markings? Why?_

_Well, we can if it's a cultural thing. If I was actually from India, then I could probably get a henna tattoo. Or if I was Samoan or something like that. But just for giggles? Nope. It's not my body; God gave it to me. That's what the followers of the Star Kindler believe - that the body you're born with is a gift from Heavenly Father while on this earth, sort of like a loan, and you have to take care of it until He asks for it back according to His rules._

_What happens if you get hurt? If you obtain scars?_

_Well,_ Dylan replied, smiling, _as long as you didn't do it on purpose, I don't think He'd mind. I mean, He'd be sad that you got hurt, because He loves you - wouldn't you be sad if your child was injured? - but not angry or anything. That's why I'm not too stressed out about what He thinks of most of my scars. It's only the ones that are self-inflicted that worry me at all. But God forgives, and I have long since repented, so I'm not _too _worried. Oooh! Persipan apples!_

Completely caught off-guard by the abrupt change in topic, Nuada was yanked along toward the sweets-selling stall.

Dylan also made sure to approach various street performers and admire their skills. A cinnamon-skinned yakshini danced amidst a swirl of crimson and amber veils, needle-sharp teeth bared in a feral smile, her forked tongue flicking in and out to taste the air. Fauns coaxed melodies from honeywood panpipes. Sinuous scitalis dancers wove and swayed like the dazzlingly bejeweled snakes they shifted into. At least half a dozen children surrounded a gravel-skinned puckwudgie telling a story of the infamous and wily Coyote the Trickster. There was even a golden-eyed ifrit, looking like a genie straight out of _the Arabian Nights_, manipulating multicolored fire into deliriously beautiful shapes like blooming roses, fierce dragons, and butterflies with dazzling fiery wings. When they fluttered around the human woman, the flames held none of the blistering heat she'd expected. Only the soft warmth of sunlight.

When they stopped at a street corner to watch a young Nyame Elf juggling blue, black, and white cloth balls full of sand, Nuada even stepped off his dignity long enough to show Dylan that he, too, knew the trick of keeping several items in motion in midair. She in turned surprised him with a bit of sleight of hand, making one of the small pennybit coins loaned her by the juggler disappear in her palm and then reappear behind Nuada's ear.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Nuada asked her as they headed for the corner where he'd seen the two rusalki during his last visit to the faerie bazaar. The resonating melody of a _hardingfele_ and the eerie tune of a _seljefløyte_ hummed on the air.

"John taught me," she replied, and some of his good mood soured.

It seemed that Dylan and her twin were as wrapped up in each others' lives as he and Nuala had once been. John had taught her sleight of hand. John used to tickle her breathless when they were children playing in the snow. John always took care of her. And it was John, her oh so precious and so very human brother John, that had hurled obscene accusations in Nuada's face. _You just watched. You let it happen._ Insolent, blackhearted human whelp. How could he be kin to her? How could he be Dylan's twin?

He'd been distracted, the Elven warrior thought later. And perhaps Wink had been distracted as well. How else had it happened? How else had they managed to lose track of her long enough for everything to happen? But in that instant of distraction Dylan disappeared from his side. He had an instant of surprise. A slice of unease raking down his spine. He started to turn his head to scan the crowded street.

A duet of victorious howling wrenched his attention, followed by a wolf's snarl. Nuada heard the harsh trumpet of an enraged swan. The sound of a frightened child crying. Antiphonal, vicious feline snarls. And a familiar mortal voice yelping in pain.

The the feral-eyed Elven warrior was slicing through the crowd of merchants and their customers. Wink bulldozed a wide path behind him.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _oh, snaps. Now what? After everything that's happened, what else could possibly go wrong? Hehehehehe. I know, cliffhangers make me evil. But my soul is constantly redeemed by your love. So reviews?_

_Um... because I'm in a hurry (my beta is walking to the library to post this chapter and wants me to hurry the heck up with writing the author's note, even though she still has to find a chapter title for me) my review prompt might be a bit... lazy. But do not take advantage of me in my vulnerable state. Please? Lol._

_1) Who groaned or wanted to throttle me or anything else when they got to the part where they realized neither Nuada nor Dylan remember the kiss?_

_2) Balor and Nuala. I'm really trying to portray them as not evil. Because they're not. They're just conflicted and desperate. So what do we think of their little conversation in the king's study?_

_3) Ming Xian. She's here. She's adorable. She's also dangerous (being the daughter of the Dragon of Dilong). So what horrible shenanigans (did I spell that right?) do we see our little princess getting up to in Bethmoora? Especially if she's alongside her almost-betrothed and _his _almost-betrothed. Hehehe._

_4) It's November, so eleven favorite things? And why, of course._

_5) *singing* Nuada and Dylan, sittin' in the Troll Market. Um... *stops singing* Well, they're not kissing so _that _doesn't work. I'm out of fake lyrics for that little ditty. So, what do we think of the geeky (or the indulgent) side of our prince? And Dylan - who can just see her dragging Nuada back and forth between shops and stalls, going, "What's that? Ooh, what's that? Oh! Nuada, what's that?" So what do we think of the whole deal? And isn't it nice that she can get him to relax every now and then?_

_**About the Chapter Title:**_ _chapter forty-five is called "It's a Place Downtown..." and chapter forty-six will be called "...Where the Freaks All Come Around" in honor of OceanFire9 and her contribution to the soundtrack for this fanfic. Ocean was kind enough to give me a list of songs she associated with "Once Upon a Time," and one of them was "Take It Off" by Ke$ha, because it reminded her of the Troll Market. So yeah._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- The song Dylan sings in the shower is the Katy Perry Medley, which is actually sung by someone else (Olivia Something-or-Other). It's on Youtube. It's a combination of the songs "E.T.," "Firework," and "Teenage Dream." There might be other songs in it, but I don't think so.

- When Nuada remembers "a lullaby in a dream," he's remembering that Dylan sang "Mordred's Lullaby" to him in WhenNightmaresWalked's brilliant short, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams."

- Jace Lightwood is the male lead of _the Mortal Instruments_ series by Cassandra Clare. He starts off as Jace Wayland, becomes Jace Morgenstern, and ends up as Jace Lightwood by book three (_City of Glass_). He's on the cover of book one, _City of Bones_.

- Clarissa Fray is the female lead of _the Mortal Instruments_ series by Cassandra Clare. She's on the cover of book two, _City of Ashes_.

- Mister Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud is the keeper of the titular Halloween Tree in Ray Bradbury's children's novel about eight boys who travel through the history of Halloween in order to save the life of their best friend, Pip (aka Pipkin), "the best boy who ever lived." It's a great story and teaches the history of various Halloween traditions and Halloween in various cultures. The animated film takes the eight boys and makes them into three boys (Tom, Ralph, and Wally) and a girl (Jenny). In the film, Moundshroud takes the four children to ancient Egypt, Paris during the building of Notre Dame, Celtic Britain, and Mexico for the Day of the Dead celebration. It's such a great story and everyone should read it, even if you're a grownup. Anyway, so Moundshroud is the keeper of the Halloween Tree (this old dessicated tree that bears hundreds and hundreds of lit jack-o-lanterns), and he's also something else in the book but that's a secret. How does Dylan know him? She knows Tom, Ralph, Wally, Jenny, and Pipkin of course. =)

- Roiben isn't actually named Roiben Darktithe. But it just struck me that Nuada is Nuada Silverlance, and Balor is probably something like Balor One-Arm. So then I had Wink be Wink Ironfist in chapter 40. But then I was thinking, Roiben has no epithet? Hmmm. So I gave him one - Darktithe, because the Unseelie Queen was planning on offering him up as the tithe to the dark powers in Holly Black's _Tithe_ (a modern version of "Tam Lin").

- "Doom - Now in Fun Size" is, I believe, a LOL-cat pic from .

- The scene where Nuada wants some of Dylan's blueberry breakfast pastry (and a later scene that will involve chocolate chip cookies) was inspired by this hilarious but rather sexual scene in _Shalador's Lady_ by Anne Bishop, where the husband of the MC says that his wife will give him a bite of her cookie because she enjoys having sex with him. At which point she snarled at him and said, "You think you can give me sex as good as these cookies?" Now, that's not going to happen with our lovebirds, but as I was reading that scene in the book, the scene with chocolate chip cookies that will pop up in a later chapter unfolded in my brain. Then I stopped reading and just stared into space, and the muffin scene appeared, too.

- Just to give a brief rundown of the various kingdoms (not all of them are Elven, either) mentioned in the window-shopping paragraph: Eirc = part of Ireland; Dilong = China; Nyame = Africa; Onibi = Japan; dactyls are actually not a country (they're from Greece, though, which currently lacks an Elven name); Álfar = Nordic countries; Iara = South America; Shahbaz = Persia; Annwn = Welsh otherworld.

- A yakshini is the female counterpart of the male yaksha, and they both attend on Kubera (also called Kuber), the Hindu god of wealth who rules in the mythical Himalayan kingdom of Alaka. They both look after treasure hidden in the earth and resemble that of fairies. Yakshinis are often depicted as beautiful and voluptuous, with wide hips, narrow waists, broad shoulders, and exaggerated, "jabardast pheda" (spherical) breasts. In the _Uddamareshvara Tantra_, thirty-six yakshinis are described, including their mantras and ritual prescriptions. A similar list of yakshas and yakshinis is given in the _Tantraraja Tantra_, where it says that these beings are givers of whatever is desired. Although Yakshinis are usually benevolent, there are also yakshinis with malevolent characteristics in Indian folklore.

- Fauns are half-goat, half-man; Greek mythological beings that play panpipes, dance, frolick, and chase nymphs (though they don't rape nymphs the way satyrs do).

- We talked about the scitalis in chapter 40. =D

- Puckwudgies are Native American trolls; I don't know what specific tribal mythology they come from, though.

- Ifrits are fire demons from Arabian mythology; they're basically a type of djinn.

- I made the Nyame kid a juggler because the Nyame Elves are mostly inspired by the mythology surrounding Anansi the Spider, who has a lot of hands. I thought it fit.

_**Suggested Reading List:**_

- _The Halloween Tree_ by Ray Bradbury (and the film)  
- _The Invisible Ring_ by Anne Bishop  
- "The Katy Perry Medley"  
- _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ (film by Disney, speaking of hot fauns and their pipe music)  
- "Mordred's Lullaby" by Heather Dale  
- _The Shadow Queen_ by Anne Bishop  
- _Shalador's Lady_ by Anne Bishop (although you kinda need to read _the Invisible Ring_ and _the Shadow Queen_ first)  
- "Take It Off" by Ke$ha


	46. Where the Freaks All Come Around

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So, as I'm writing this author's note, I have a couple things to say that are kind of important. One - happy December first! Woot. Durin's Day was a few days ago, for all you Lord of the Rings/Hobbit fans. So happy Durin's Day! Fun stuff. Second thing, if my wonderful husband decides not to take this chapter to the library today, then this chapter will be a day late and you have my apologies._

_Final thing. Chapter forty-seven isn't up yet because it's not quite done. However, there's a thing about it. Originally it was going to be about political intrigue and danger and stuff. But then my beta said that there was something I had to do and I had to do it ASAP, and I'd already written chapter forty-five and most of forty-six, so it couldn't go in there. So chapter forty-seven, instead of going with what I originally planned for it, is now about doing the thing my beta said must be done. Hopefully you all forgive the delay in our lovebirds' return to Findias. If not... well... lamentations! But I hope you all still love "Once Upon a Time."_

_And thanks to Curb and Nan, who tried out "Snow White, Blood Red" for me. Thanks, guys. And thanks to everyone else who's read it who has an account (if I haven't PM-ed you to thank you guys, let me know, okay?). Huggles!_

_**Important bit of info:**_ _the word "pen" is used in this chapter to refer to a swanmane (a faerie woman who has the alternate shape of a swan). The reason is because a female swan is called a _pen_. A male swan is called a _cob_, and a baby swan is a _cygnet_. So keep that in mind so you don't think the people saying "pen" are talking about writing implements._

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**Chapter Forty-Six**

**...Where the Freaks All Come Around**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Promptings, the Nature of Honor, Insults, Confrontation, Service, Judgment, Colors, and Crests**

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Dylan hadn't meant to actually "wander off" or whatever. But as they'd been watching the jet-eyed Elf boy juggling the brightly colored cloth balls, a trickle of ice had dripped down her spine. A warning. _Look to your left._ She'd cut her eyes in that direction and seen something off. Not sure what. Nothing strange or out of place. Just a young ewah play-stalking through the crowd, small back slightly arched in an invitation to play, her cat ears swiveling this way and that to catch any sounds. Nothing so bad about that. It was actually kind of cute.

But then Dylan had noticed the trio of older teenagers - or at least they'd looked like teenagers - following after the cougar-like humanoid faerie child. And the cold trickle had turned into an icy flood down her back. _Follow them. Go now,_ the Spirit had commanded. So she'd gone. When the Lord commanded, she obeyed.

Now she stood with her feet spread, body braced for pain and combat. The ewah girl cowered behind her, hissing like an angry cat through the tears streaming down her golden cheeks. Two male ewah - maybe ten and sixteen years old, at least in appearance - stood with the mortal woman and the girl. The boy growled menacingly from behind Dylan. The youth stood in front of the human, yowling a warning. He sounded just like an angry tom cat trying to scare off an intruder, but with just a hint of big-cat snarl under the yowl. His claws were unsheathed and the tawny pelt that began as hair before melding into fur down his neck and bare back bristled with suppressed hostility. Normally erect ears were flattened against his skull. Dark amber blood stained his ripped blue jeans.

Blood was also soaking into Dylan's sleeve. She tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the searing, nauseating pain screaming through her arm. She kept that arm pressed tightly to her side while shielding the young ewah girl with her good arm - and the dirk her prince had made for her. She knew how to use a knife, at least well enough to land a blow or three before some ravenous fae decided to rip out her heart and eat it. Which was why the Elven silver was smeared with black blood.

But Nuada was going to be _so_ ticked that she'd ruined his shirt. He really seemed to like this tunic. And that was after he made his displeasure known over the fact that she'd gone off without telling him. But the Spirit had said to go _right then_, so she'd gone. Oh, well.

Two of the trio of teenagers that had been stalking the little girl snarled at the mortal and the three ewah that surrounded her. Both the growlers were _rougarou_, wolf shifters. Both were tall, broad-shouldered. Instead of hair, they sported coarse, shaggy dark fur. They bared massive teeth capable of crushing a human's thigh bone with a single bite. The claws that glinted razor sharp had ripped open Dylan's arm from elbow to wrist. Those claws were red with her blood.

As she eyed the _rougarou_ warily, the wolf-shifter on the right raised those bloodstained claws and licked at the crimson. Blue eyes noted with grim satisfaction the place where she'd sliced _his_ arm open with her dirk. Another slice across the wolf's chest would've made Dylan smirk if she hadn't known any expression of smugness would've gotten her killed a lot faster. Right now the shapeshifters seemed content to play with her and the ewah arrayed behind and in front of her. Or maybe they were worried about the cougar-shifter who stood in front of her. His own claws glistened wetly with black _rougarou_ blood. If the wolf had been a bit slower, Dylan was fairly sure the cougar kid would have taken a hefty chomp out of the other shifter.

The faerie girl with the two wolves was devastatingly beautiful. Her cap of hair was white as ivory and feathery as swan down. Her skin was incredibly pale, even paler than Nuada's. Almost like a pearl. It even possessed the same luminous sheen. She was tall, slender and wiry as a ballerina. A soft swirl of golden color marked the bridge of her aquiline nose. Solid black eyes without sclera, iris, or pupil stared into Dylan's own blue gaze. Anger burned in those black eyes. Anger and snobbish affrontery.

Dylan matched the swanmane's gaze and didn't flinch from it. Her own anger burned when she saw a handful of scarlet droplets spattering the swanmane's white mini-dress. Amber blood also stained the swan girl's death-white cheek. The little girl huddled behind Dylan and the youth in front of her were both bleeding. A bruise was swiftly darkening the ewah girl's eye. The boy acting as a partial shield to the cougar-like faerie girl had a busted lip. The sight and smell of that pain infuriated Dylan.

"You stupid human bitch," the left-hand _rougarou_ snarled through bared teeth. "Get out of our way. They're ours."

"They're _children_," Dylan snapped back. Oh, _jeez_, her arm hurt. She tightened her grip on the silver knife. Did wolf-shifters have silver allergies, the way werewolves did? "She's just a little girl. You outweigh _this_ kid," she added, gesturing to the braced youth with the arm not hollering bloody murder, "by at least a hundred pounds. Where is the honor in fighting them? I thought the fae were all about honor."

The swanmane's pale lip curled. "What would a grotesque mortal cow know about honor?"

"I'm not a cow."

Now the _rougarou_ whose claws were stained with her blood sneered. "Indeed? Would you prefer 'bitch?'" The swanmane and the other _rougarou_ snickered. "Or maybe 'whore?' That's really all humans are to the- _glk!_" The wolf-shifter's words were cut off by a bronze fist slamming hard into his chest. The blow sent him flying back into one of the stone edifices that maintained the boundaries of the Troll Market. Then Dylan heard one of the most wonderful sounds to ever grace mortal or immortal ears - the sweet singing of Elven silver slicing through the air.

"Perhaps I am mistaken," said a familiar and all too chilling voice, like a knife of jagged ice, "but I thought you called my lady a whore." And Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance stepped out of the crowd that had gathered round the group and stepped in front of Dylan, keeping the ewah youth on his right and Wink on his left. The prince's lance twirled almost idly in a one-handed grip. Nuada was grimly pleased to see the remaining wolf-shifter pale. The swanmane looked as if she might faint at any moment. Tension hung over the crowd like a poisonous miasma.

"And if I'm not mistaken, Sire," Wink added in a carefully bland voice, "they also called her a bitch and a cow." He turned to regard the lassling, who looked furious. Good for her. She had real spine if she was willing to stand up to two nearly full-grown _rougarou_ and a swanmane. The swan-shifter could've easily broken the mortal's legs with a single blow if Dylan had gotten too close. As experienced as the mortal was with the Hidden People, she probably knew it, too. Knew it, and hadn't cared.

A child's voice piped up, quavery with nerves. "And they called her grotesque, Your Highness!" Nuada glanced briefly over his shoulder at the young ewah boy who was trying his best to shield what the prince was fairly certain was the boy's younger sister.

"Did they?" Nuada asked far too softly. His eyes were bronze ice when they sliced back to his enemies. "Did they indeed?"

The tension took on a barbed razor's edge.

"Y-Y-Your lady? We didn't know that, Your Highness!" The swanmane's jet gaze raked across the crowd, desperately seeking some sort of support. "We did not know who she was, we swear!" Trembling hands raked through the white feathers that served the swan-shifter for hair. "She came between my friends and these disgusting little thieving urchins who dared to try and steal from honest people-"

"That's not true!" The boy beside Dylan cried, an undercurrent of yowl to the words. His short cap of tawny fur bristled and the usually-erect ears flattened against the boy's skull as he bared his teeth. "We don't steal from people! She's lying! Those stupid wolves attacked 'Sa'ti-"

"_A'du'la'di'_," the youth snarled in a warning tone, and the boy, A'du'la'di', fell silent.

"Well," Nuada drawled lazily, though there was nothing lazy in his posture or bearing. The eerie rushlights of the Troll Market glinted strangely on the silver blade of the prince's lance. "It seems we're at an impasse. What do you suggest I do, my lady? One party lays guilt and the other claims innocence."

Mutters and whispers hissed through the assembled fae. Ask a human its opinion regarding the placing of blame in a fae matter? Even if she _was_ the prince's lady, surely this was not the best way. But a single slashing glance from the prince silenced the mutters and gave Lady Dylan the chance to speak. The crowd noted with approval that the prince's lady did not shrink or try to hide behind anyone. In fact, despite the Silver Lance's presence, his lady continued to shield the two ewah children from danger, though she did clean the blade of her dirk on her leather jacket before sheathing it. And when she spoke her voice held no fear.

"At least one crime has been committed, Your Highness," Dylan murmured, trying to keep the scorching pain of her ripped-up arm out of her voice. She was fairly certain Nuada didn't know she was hurt yet. If he'd known, he wouldn't have sounded so calm. He would have still maintained his princely dignity, but Dylan knew him well enough to know that if the Elven warrior had seen or scented the blood seeping from her shredded arm, the one whose claws glistened darkly with that blood would probably have been dead. Or at least maimed. "I don't know whether these children tried to steal anything. What I _do_ know is that these three," and she gestured with her good arm to the _rougarou_ and the swanmane, "attacked this girl." She put her arm around the ewah maiden's narrow shoulders. "Three nearly full-grown fae attacked a little girl with claws and blows. If the swan maiden speaks the truth - and I am well aware that some fae, like the shifters, can speak falsehoods - that is still no excuse for such cowardice."

"How dare you!" The _rougarou_ that had flown back from Wink's blow had managed to stagger to his feet. "Call me coward, will you? Human bitch!"

Dylan blinked, and Nuada was no longer in front of her. She blinked again as Elven silver sliced through the air. There was a yelp of pain. Another blink, and Nuada was back in front of her, his spear held at the ready. Thick black blood smeared the blade. The _rougarou_ clamped a hand to the side of his neck. That same dark blood seeped slowly through his clawed fingers.

"Conri," the other wolf-shifter snapped. "She is the Silver Lance's lady!" To Nuada, the shifter knelt and bowed his head. "Our humblest apologies, Your Highness, both for our unfortunate trespasses against your lady and for my friend's boorish behavior. We can only claim ignorance as our defense."

"And the children?" The Elven prince asked conversationally. "What of them?"

The _rougarou_ offered a lazy shrug. "They are nothing but street urchins and thieves, Highness." Dylan narrowed her eyes as something cool curled in the pit of her stomach. The pain throbbing through her arm was shooting wicked spikes towards her shoulder now. The wolf-shifter added, "They stole from our lady. They had to be-"

"Nuada, he's lying." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. The shifter stiffened. Dylan swallowed, focusing on the comforting heat suddenly burning in her chest, and added, "Shapeshifters can lie. I know that from experience. There is falsehood in his words."

She waited. Prayed, _Heavenly Father, I need more information. Are these children thieves? Did they steal? Am I making a mistake by defending them?_ A fresh wave of warmth stole over her, easing some of the vicious burning in her arm. Dylan sifted through the impressions she was getting, then spoke.

"These children _are_ thieves, Your Highness. But they didn't steal from these three."

Feral eyes looked to the youth at Nuada's side. Eyes as cold as pale stones met Nuada's amber gaze. The Elven prince demanded, "Is this true? Are you and these two children thieves?"

The youth nodded once. "We steal to feed ourselves, Your Highness. Some of the merchants here are kind enough to leave out the previous day's leftovers. They're saved the trouble of throwing things out, and my little brother and sister do not starve. I suppose you could call that stealing, but if we are caught, the merchants do not punish us."

"They just scold us a little," the ewah girl murmured from the safety of Dylan's sheltering arm. "And if A'du'la'di' or I get caught, some of the bread merchants give us a sweet roll." Several of the assembled fae were the merchants in question, and offered mumbled agreement to the child's words.

"These two are _rougarou_, wolves." The youth shrugged. His smoky turquoise eyes didn't leave the wolf-shifter that was still on his feet. "We are ewah, cougar. Our people are rivals for resources, for territory. When one of us sees another infringing on that territory and we have the greater strength, one of us usually makes a challenge. These wolves steal for their swan lady, for coin-"

"He lies, Highness!" The _rougarou_ bared jagged teeth. "We do not..." He trailed off when the merchants began to mutter angrily. The swanmane had gone ashen.

"Everyone knows that swan maidens require gifts in order to secure their affections," the youth said calmly. "Two wolves, snarling over the same ivory pen..." He shrugged as if it didn't matter one bit to him. "Cuan challenged me, thinking we snitched coin and goods to fence. We told them we only scrounge for food, and leftover scraps at that, but they told us to hunt elsewhere anyway." Now there was a pleading note beneath the teenager's calm words as he slid an eye to the Elven prince. "We have made connections here, and the merchants know me and my brother and sister. They offer A'du'la'di' and I work when there are odd jobs to do and sometimes let my family stay with them for a night or two when it's really cold. We can't afford to find new hunting grounds right now, Your Highness. Especially not with winter coming so hard."

Sunlit amber met moonlit sapphire for a brief moment. Dylan nodded. Nuada inclined his head toward his mortal lady. Whispers went up again as scarred mortal lips curved into a wan smile. Then the prince turned back to the wolf-shifters and the swanmane.

"We trust Our lady's judgment," the crown prince said in a regal voice that carried through the Troll Market. "You three attacked a lone child. With or without provocation, the Lady Dylan is correct - this is unacceptable. Therefore, you will await _Our_ judgment at the Black Manticore." When the three fae tried to protest, Nuada said coldly, "This is Our will. Who will ensure that Our will is done?"

Out of the still-gathering crowd stepped a familiar woman in white canvas tunic and trews, the cloth stark against the ebony of her skin. Rushlight glinted off the obsidian hourglass pendant around her throat and the necklace of copper beads and kishi fangs. Aso the Weaver strode forward. With her came the Nyame juggling boy, Laigdech the goblin, and the crimson-eyed dökkálfr Erik Ashkeson. Aso carried a thin copper dagger etched with the mark of the Anansi just beneath the crossguard. Laigdech and the boy carried nothing. Erik carried a heavy blacksmith's hammer.

"We hear the words of _Prins_ Nuada Silverlance, and obey with glad hearts," Erik said softly. He hefted the hammer. To the three, he snapped, "Get moving." Ignoring their protests, the four fae herded the three disgraced ones towards the tavern known as the Black Manticore. Brünnhilde and Yang came forward out of the crowd. They stopped several feet from the angered prince.

"See to the children," Nuada commanded the two women. To Wink he added, "See to the boy."

Before the youth could protest, the troll had him by the shoulder and was leading him toward the ljósálfr and the shōjō, who had coaxed A'du'la'di' and 'Sa'ti away from Dylan's side and were checking them for injury. The ewah boy and girl were understandably reluctant to leave the safety of the human woman that had inexplicably stood between them and danger, but at Dylan's encouraging nod, they followed the sea sprite and Elf woman.

The prince looked at the assembled crowd and said only, "_Disperse_." Perhaps it was the ice in the prince's voice, or the fury in his eyes. Either way, the fae obeyed.

Then he turned on Dylan. The smile that had begun forming on her face slipped away like a dream when she saw the anger in his eyes. No one else, except perhaps Wink, would have realized that the emotion in the prince's expression was anger and not just sternness, but Dylan knew him.

He didn't say anything, however. Only held out his arm to her in a formal escort's gesture. When she brushed her fingers against his palm before taking his arm, Nuada felt the jolt of pain hissing through their link. Fury pulsed hot in his blood. He beat it back and walked with his mortal lady toward the Black Manticore, the burly cave troll prowling behind them like the guard he truly was. Laigdech stopped Nuada at the entryway to the tavern.

"_Do Mhórgacht,_" the Bethmoora goblin murmured. Nuada paused at the door. When Dylan stopped, the Elven prince silently ordered her to go inside and see to herself and the ewah children. At Nuada's glance, Wink followed after her.

The prince turned to the goblin.

"Those children... they mean no harm. It is said their parents were killed by human hunters a long time ago, though I do not know if this is true or not. The lad will not speak of it and the children do not seem to remember. That boy does his best to take care of his family. It is hard for one so young to find enough work to be able to afford food and lodging for three people. Many of the kinder merchants here do our best to help, but we are not so prosperous that we can afford to provide for more than our families on a regular basis. He is a good lad, though. They are all good children."

"What is the youth's name?"

"His brother and sister call him Tsu's'di, though I do not know if this is all or part of his true name or merely a pet name. I do not know the names of the little ones. What will you do with them, Sire?"

In truth, Nuada did not know. _Killed by human hunters._ It was a common enough cause for orphaning among the shapeshifting fae. Too common. Cursed vermin that humans were. More than likely it was a true enough story. And if Laigdech vouched for the boy's honor and integrity...

An idea began forming in the back of Nuada's mind. A solution to a problem. But before he could put it into practice, he needed to test these three children.

And he needed to see to his lady.

**.**

Dylan allowed the teenager, Tsu's'di, to help her out of her coat because, with her arm shrieking at her that it hurt and she needed to make it stop hurting _right now_, she couldn't get her now ruined jacket off by herself. The little boy - who'd said in bright voice with a smile, "Just call me A'du," which had made his brother give the kid a _very_ sharp look - laid her coat on the table and helped her with her gloves because her fingers kept twitching from the pain searing through her arm.

When Wink saw the rips in her arm, he'd called in the tavern owner, mumbled something in Troll. A few bieresal came in shortly after with several cloths, two large basins of steaming water - one soapy, one clear - and medical supplies.

A'du helped roll up the human woman's sleeve so it wouldn't get wet. Then the child winced in obvious sympathy when Dylan carefully lowered her arm into the basin of soapy water. Swirls of red turned the water faintly pink. The little girl, 'Sa'ti, covered her mouth with both hands and made an "eek" sound.

"It's okay," Dylan murmured. "They just hurt a lot. They're not deep." She knew they weren't deep from experience. She bore claw scars on her stomach and one thigh from tangling with faeries that had wicked talons and knew how to use them. One of those old wounds - the one on her stomach - had punched through flesh, muscle, and raked fragments out of her ribcage when she'd been about twenty. These scratches were nothing compared to that.

"Thank you," Dylan added, looking first at the youth and then at the boy as she picked up a cloth and soaked it in the soapy water. Once she cleaned the blood off of her skin, she'd know just how bad the damage was. "Thank you for protecting me."

Tsu's'di shrugged as if embarrassed. His odd, smoky blue eyes stayed locked on the tavern room's hearth. But A'du grinned like a little boy who'd just had the world's greatest adventure. "No problem! You saved 'Sa'ti, so we had to save you. The honor of the ewah demands it! Right, Tsu's'di?"

The boy's brother didn't get a chance to respond. Their little sister climbed into the chair next to Dylan's and propped her chin in her hands. "Are you _really_ Prince Nuada's _a'ge'lv_?"

"_A'ge'lv?"_

"His lady!"

"Yes, I really am." Just saying the words never failed to give her this little warm shiver down her back, or make her just a little sad.

"Is he nice? He looked kind of scary outside."

Dylan opened her mouth to reply, but A'du got there first. "That's because he's a mighty Elven warrior! And when you mess with a warrior's _a'ge'lv_, you're dead. He's the legendary Silverlance! He's one of the best Elven warriors there is in all of Faerie. The merchants talk about him all the time. So since Cuan and Conri hurt the lady, the prince had to fight them and make them pay for it. And you have to look scary doing that."

"He _is_ nice, though," Dylan said, torn between wincing at the burning in her arm and smiling at A'du's enthuasiasm over Nuada's warrior skills. "To people he cares about, anyway. Sometimes I get on his nerves, but for the most part he's very gentlemanly and chivalrous."

"Did he give you this knife?" A'du pointed at the dirk in its belt-sheath at her waist. "You totally got Conri with it. Two whole times! Did you see her, Tsu's'di? I've never seen a human fighting with a knife before."

Now that her arm was momentarily clean of the blood, she could see that the four parallel ragged scratches were fairly deep. They would need stitches. Would probably scar. But they weren't down to the bone - not even close - and though it hurt to move her hand, she still had full mobility. No nerve damage, then. Good. Just a few more scars. She had so many, what were a few more?

To the cougar child, Dylan said, "I know how to use a knife, a little bit. My brother taught me a few basic moves when he was learning. But His Highness is going to teach me how to really fight with it. And yes, he made that dirk for me. It's a courtship blade."

Wide, tawny eyes met hers. "Wow! He gave you a knife as a courtship present? That is _so_ neat."

"It's tradition," Dylan murmured absently. It felt like something was digging into the furrows in her arm. Poking and pricking like needles. "He's given me other things, though. Flowers. This ring." 'Sa'ti scootched over to get a better look, so Dylan briefly curled and lifted the fingers of her right hand to push the ring above the water, allowing the little girl to see the gold and ruby ring.

"How pretty! That's so romantical," the little girl cooed with a sigh.

"Pffft," A'du replied. "That's girly stuff."

"Ladies _are_ girls," Tsu's'di reminded his little brother. While A'du'la'di was trying to process this, Nuada came in. And though the children didn't notice anything, it was obvious right off the bat to Dylan that the prince was _not_ pleased.

Wink caught one look at Nuada's face and gently herded the two children - and their brother - over to the hearth across the room.

Nuada stalked to the table but didn't sit.

"Fifteen seconds," he snarled softly. Concern coiled in his belly like snakes when he saw how pale and shaken Dylan looked. Saw the vicious rending claw marks in her skin. The concern only served to fire his not-inconsiderable temper. "Fifteen blasted seconds. I look away for fifteen seconds and you manage to antagonize three Bright Ones that could easily rip you into little pieces."

"Don't yell at her!" A'du'la'di snapped, jumping up from beside Wink. The boy, who looked to be about seven or eight years old, would've actually marched up to Nuada and yelled at _him_ instead if the massive cave troll hadn't snagged him by the scruff of the neck and lifted him a few inches off the ground. A'du automatically went limp as a kitten. That didn't stop him from growling low in his chest at the prince who'd dared to snarl at the woman who'd saved his sister.

What _did_ stop the growl was Tsu's'di pushing off the wall beside the fireplace and taking just enough steps that he was closer to Nuada but out of Wink's immediate reach. The Elven warrior would have had to be blind in order to miss the challenge in smoky turquoise eyes.

"Don't yell at her," Tsu's'di said quietly. "You have no right."

One knife-thin brow arched upward. "Oh?" Nuada said softly. "Don't I?"

"No, you-"

"Tsu's'di," Dylan said just as softly. The youth's mouth snapped shut. He glanced at the mortal, who almost imperceptibly shook her head. Tsu's'di studied her for a long moment, then stepped back against the wall again, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at the fire.

Nuada knew then that his idea had been a good one. The boy had already drawn a line and chosen which side of it he stood on. Squaring off against an Elven prince in defense of a mortal woman? To do so was not necessarily treason; the ewah were not native to Bethmoora and did not owe Nuada and his family fealty. Did not owe any of the Elven royal families their fealty. And while attacking a royal was a capital offense, defending against one was not. But challenging a fully grown fae warrior? The lad had guts, Nuada would give him that. And at least some brains, since he'd managed to stay alive on the streets while caring for two children. He would do.

But for now Nuada would deal with Dylan.

"The jacket saved me from too much damage," she whispered, brushing back a lock of her hair with a hand that shook a little. Pain? Or reaction? "I've cleaned them a little bit but I may have missed something; I was only trying to see how bad they were. Hurts like blue fire, but it's not so bad I'm going to faint or anything. I've had worse before."

He thought of the scars that covered her body. More scars than even he bore. She'd had worse before? How well he knew that.

The flesh of her right forearm was ripped and ragged, smeared again with blood since the wounds still bled freely. It made him sick to see those tears in her skin. Sick and furious. He'd been so wrapped up in everything that was happening that he hadn't really recognized the significance of the blood staining the one _rougarou's_ vicious claws. Now the prince muttered obscene promises as he carefully cleaned out the brutal rents in Dylan's flesh and cleansed them with healing potion. She winced a couple of times at the burning sensation but didn't try to jerk away from him.

"These are going to need stitches, my lady," Nuada said softly as he gently cleaned away the fresh blood and excess cleansing brew.

Dylan huffed out an exasperated breath and dropped her face into her good hand, groaning, "I knew it. I _knew_ it. Crud." After a moment she lifted her head again. In a voice so soft it was barely there, she said, "How much trouble are you going to be in because of this?"

The Elven prince shook his head. "None. If anything, my father should be pleased. I defended a human in a non-life-threatening situation against other fae." Shooting her a brief glance, he added, "This will be painful."

"What will- _hn!"_ Dylan squeezed her eyes shut as Nuada used both hands to spread open one of the claw marks. Nimble fingers pulled out a piece of something hard, sharp, and nearly transparent. A shard of something. Whatever had been pricking her and making the wounds hurt so freaking badly. Through gritted teeth, Dylan demanded, "What the heck is that?"

"_Rougarou_ shed pieces of their claws when they strike a victim. It increases the odds of infection and guarantees more pain."

He plucked out another piece. The breath escaped her in a long slow hiss. Then, with all the sarcasm she could currently muster, Dylan muttered, "Nifty."

"Your Highness?" Both adults glanced over to the ewah youth who now approached them. He stopped at a respectful distance and knelt. There was no challenge in him now. "I must offer my humblest apologies, to you and your lady, that I could not adequately protect her." The boy moved as if he meant to run his hand through the mane of tawny fur, but checked the movement. "I can only thank the _a'ge'lv_ for defending my sister and brother."

Nuada went back to dealing with Dylan's arm. His voice was coolly detached when he asked, "What is your name?"

"Tsu's'di Ka'ta, Your Highness," the youth replied, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Or just Tsu's'di. Of the Ewah, the Children of the Cougar."

"And you attacked one of the Pobel Vean, one of your own people, in defense of a human?" The boy's head jerked up and smoky turquoise eyes went wide. He opened his mouth. Nuada cut him off. "You did not know this mortal was my lady. You had no idea that she was protected by another fae. She might have merely been Sight-blessed and arrogant." When Dylan shifted, moving as if she might protest, Nuada tightened his grip on her arm and continued extracting the long razored slivers from her wounds. "So what made you think it was acceptable to betray the fae in defense of a human?"

Eyes of cobalt ice locked with a glacial topaz stare. Held. Very slowly, Nuada blinked. Dylan frowned. Then her expression cleared and something kindled in her eyes, soft as candlelight and warm as sunshine. Nuada inclined his head almost imperceptibly.

Tsu's'di rose to his feet. Dylan was fairly sure he wanted to shove his hands in the pockets of his jeans in defiance but didn't quite dare after that initial challenge. All the kid said was, "Protected by royalty or not, Sight-blessed and arrogant or not, human or not, she stepped between 'Sa'ti and those cowards Cuan and Conri. She protected my little sister. A'du'la'di' got in the way, and she protected him, too. My honor demanded _I_ protect _her_ in turn." Then, realizing he'd basically backtalked to an Elven prince twice in less than ten minutes, he dropped down to kneel before Nuada again, eyes locked on the wooden floor.

Wink settled back against the wall to watch the drama that seemed about to unfold. This youth, Tsu's'di, had all the brash courage of a young male cougar. All the natural fight and warrior's grace of the ewah. So did the little rascal seated next to Wink, watching his older brother kneeling before the Elven warrior. With the proper training these two could become something to be reckoned with. And the little girl was perhaps in her third decade - which put her physically at about five or six years old by human reckoning - but she, too, had the potential to become something dangerous if allowed to grow up somewhere safe.

These two children (Wink would never consider _Tsu's'di_ a child because the young cougar-shifter had already proven himself a man grown by what he'd done for his family) needed a place to stay. Needed to get off the streets. Small as ewah were, the troll still shouldn't have been able to see the little girl's ribs when her dirty, too-small shirt rode up to show her belly. The young boy's eyes shouldn't have been sunk deep into the skull and circled by shadows. And the youth with the hard eyes bore scars indicating an even harder life, even for a fae. Even for a shifter.

When Nuada sent a casual glance toward his vassal, all of that was written in Wink's one good eye.

The Elven prince's nod was barely perceptible.

"What of you?" Nuada asked the younger boy. A'du'la'di', who'd been sitting in Wink's shadow by the room's hearth, looked up. Looked frantically around, as if hoping the Silver Lance was speaking to someone besides him. He pointed at himself. Nuada nodded as if to say, _Yes, you,_ and crooked his finger_._ The boy came to kneel at his brother's side. "Why did you get involved in the fight?"

"T-to protect my sister," A'du'la'di' stammered. His fur bristled with agitation but there was no aggression in his body language and no snarl in his voice. The usually erect ears were flat, but not laid back against his skull. Instead they stuck out a bit comically on either side of his head. Based on what Dylan knew of cats and the way they communicated with each other through body language, the kid was scared. Why? "And t-to p-protect the _a'ge'lv_."

"Are you sorry that you did so?" The prince asked tonelessly. "Knowing that fighting a fae in defense of a mortal is against our laws?"

Surprisingly, the boy didn't respond right away. He studied the prince with oddly grown-up eyes like feral aquamarines. Studied the human woman who tried to keep her face blank. A'du'la'di' opened his mouth. Not as if he wanted to say something, but with the same concentration hunters wore when studying tracks in the forest.

Then A'du'la'di' smiled. His ears perked up. The fur that had been bristling in fear smoothed flat again. "No, sir. It would be wrong to not try and protect her when she tried to help us first. Tsu's'di always says to help people who help us. And it's not against the law to protect a human if they didn't do anything wrong. At least," the boy added with a frown, "I don't think it is. And I like her; she's nice." A'du'la'di' sent Dylan a happy, almost adoring look. "I can tell from her smells."

Tsu's'di cuffed his little brother across the back of the head with just enough force to get the boy's attention. The youth was blushing furiously.

So was the prince's lady.

Wink made a sound that he discreetly disguised as a cough while Nuada's mouth twitched.

"Ow!" A'du'la'di' snarled, baring teeth. Fur bristling, spine arching, ears pressed flat, he growled at his older brother, "What was that for?"

"A gentleman doesn't talk about a lady's smells in mixed company," Tsu's'di snarled, baring his own teeth (which were a lot more impressive than A'du's). He raised a hand to bap his brother again. This time there was a tiny glint of claw. A'du'la'di' automatically shifted position to bare his throat, showing submission. "It's rude," his brother added. "Apologize."

Glancing at Dylan, the boy mumbled, "M'sorry, _A'ge'lv_."

The lady accepted. Her face was on fire, but she accepted graciously. When Nuada arched an almost provacative eyebrow at her, she glared. His fingertips brushed against her palm. _Apparently you have nice smells._ Her mortified expression made him grin. She kicked him under the table.

"I think both of you will do fine," Nuada said to the ewah when he'd finally managed to swallow the laughter down far enough that he wouldn't choke on it. "And the girl - 'Sa'ti, was it? - she should do, as well." At that, four pairs of confused eyes (and a single troll eye) blinked and stared at the Elven prince. The Silver Lance did nothing but thread the stitching needle, which his lady deftly plucked out of his hand before he could use it on her. "I know how to do that, you know."

"So do I," Dylan replied. She began stitching, gritting her teeth against the nausea. She'd had to give herself stitches before. Nothing made her stomach roll like the sight of a suture needle piercing her own flesh. Thankfully Nuada had used magic and some kind of salve to thoroughly numb the injuries first or there was no way she could've paid attention to whatever the prince was talking about.

"We'll do fine with what?" Tsu's'di demanded suspiciously. A'du'la'di' had fallen silent. 'Sa'ti watched from Wink's side with wide eyes like the spring sky.

"My lady," the crown prince said, "is in need of a guard, a page, and a maid. The three of you seem qualified for the positions. You have proven that you do not lack honor. Proven that you have manners - for the most part." At this, both boys blushed. "And you were the first to come to my lady's defense today. You," the prince added to A'du'la'di', "say you like my lady. What of you, little maiden?" Nuada turned his voice gentle when he looked at 'Sa'ti. "Do _you_ like her?" The cougar-shifter nodded, though she kept a wary eye on the prince. "Then it seems that that is no issue." Focusing once more on Tsu's'di, the crown prince of Bethmoora asked, "Would you be willing to serve?"

Wary, smoky turquoise eyes met Nuada's. The prince saw a lot more than the youth thought he did, or would care to. He saw the pain, the anger. The emotional scars that always showed in the depths of the eyes. Dylan's often haunted gaze was proof of that. And Nuada saw the fear that one day this boy would make a mistake and lose the two people who meant more to him than anything else, including his own life.

_I know the feeling better than you think,_ the Elven warrior thought, but didn't say. Now was not the time for coaxing. The children would not be in a position to be dangerous, or to protect Dylan if it was needed. They were not the ones that Nuada needed to be sure of. It was Tsu's'di who would be one of Dylan's bodyguards. Which meant the ewah youth had to be certain he could do this without any outside interference from the prince or anyone else.

Those smoky eyes flicked to Dylan's face. What did the boy see there, Nuada wondered? The same things that he saw? Acceptance. Serenity, even though the pain of her wounds was beginning to resurface a little. Affection Not quite love, not yet. She didn't know any of these children well enough for love yet. But did this Child of the Cougar see that there was a capacity and potential for the kind of love and care that the fae constantly craved but rarely if ever found? A simple love that was hellaciously fierce for all its simplicity. Loyalty that would never yield or break. As the prince knew these three were orphans, they would even have a home.

Even if the courtship charade were broken, Nuada would make sure that they kept that home.

Finally, Tsu's'di bowed his head. Pressed his right fist to his heart. "We three - Tsu's'di Ka'ta, A'du'la'di', and U'de'ho'sa'ti, of the Children of the Cougar - will serve _A'ge'lv_ Dylan."

Nuada brushed his fingers against Dylan's upturned palm. A whisper of a thought had her murmuring in an oddly regal voice, "I, Lady Dylan of Central Park, accept your service on my behalf and on the behalf of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance." Then, in her normal voice, she added, "Now stand up, both of you. You're making me really nervous with all the bowing and kneeling."

The Elven prince sighed and fought not to roll his eyes. For all she was so magnificent, Dylan was still a commoner. Maybe that was why so many of the merchants and craftsmen they'd seen today were happy with her. She didn't let aristocratic dignity stand in the way of fun. Didn't let it keep her from enjoying just looking at "pretty things" and learning about them. Didn't, Nuada realized, let it put too much distance between her and the Hidden Ones who saw her as, perhaps, their future princess.

He glanced at Tsu's'di, who was watching Dylan with a puzzled expression. The poor boy had _no_ idea what he was in for. Good thing they were eventually going to get him some companions to help.

**.**

Nuada sent Wink with Dylan and the three ewah to get the things they would need. A'du'la'di' and 'Sa'ti, he'd been informed by their older brother, had trinket boxes back at their "nest," filled with children's treasures that they didn't want to leave behind. Dylan, taking in the sight of their shabby clothes, had quietly informed him that they'd need at least one new outfit each before the two of them could even think about taking her new retinue somewhere to stay. Wink said Dylan would need a new jacket and shirt, as both were ruined. Nuada had given Dylan his own black overtunic and coat in the meantime. It was warm enough in the tavern and he could handle the cold long enough to meet up with them and get his coat back later.

So the prince sent his lady, his vassal, and the three new servants to get new clothes and to retrieve the children's trinket boxes. Then he went to pass judgment on those who had dared to attack an innocent child and the impossible mortal who was his lady.

They were in another room of the Black Manticore, guarded by Erik and a couple of trolls from the Market. Aso paced the length of the hallway.

When her jet eyes landed on Nuada, she strode up to the Elven warrior with teeth bared in what he thought might have been a feral smile. The prince suddenly remembered that the Nyame were _very_ protective of children. Then she snarled, "Your mortal lady has guts. I'll give her that. And if you've done anything to those children, _Wako Mtukufu_, then let me tell you that you do not deserve her."

_And you don't deserve my loyalty,_ was the unspoken challenge beneath the words.

"I had them swear service to my lady," Nuada said softly. "As a guard, page, and handmaiden." He waited a beat. "They'll need new clothes." Aso's snarling smile smoothed out a little. She nodded and stepped back from him. Then she gestured to the closed door, where Erik leaned lazily to hold it shut with the weight of his body. Crimson eyes carefully studied the stone head of the hammer the dökkálfr held in a loose grip.

He also carefully ignored Nuada and the Elf woman of Nyame until the prince went to the door and said almost lazily, "You're in my way, blacksmith."

"Are you going to kill them?" Erik asked, as if he didn't really care one way or the other. "I know you have a reluctance about killing women."

"_I_ don't," Aso muttered. Nuada glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. She folded her lean arms across her chest and settled back on her heels with one hip cocked, disgust and irritation mixed equally in her jet eyes. "Well, I _don't_. And that lovely little pen is turning out to be a ripe little bitc-"

"You're in my way, blacksmith," the crown prince of Bethmoora said too softly, cutting off the weaver's growling tirade.

Erik slowly stepped to one side. Just before Nuada went through the door, the Elven blacksmith said, "You were right about your lady, _Hátign Þína_ - reckless, but brave. I like her." Then the prince walked into the room where those three fae awaited the judgment of the Silver Lance.

The _rougarou_ both knelt when he entered the room. The swanmane looked over her frail shoulder at him, then turned to offer him full view of her innocent-looking, impossibly lovely face. Between one blink and the next a ravenous hunger rippled over that face. Then it was gone. But Nuada had seen it. Seen it, and knew exactly what it meant. A swanmane in search of a mate. No wonder these idiots seemed to hang on her every gesture. Her magic held them partially in thrall. Even now, he could feel the magical tendrils swirling around the room, entwining around him. Only royal magic kept them from hooking into his mind.

In a voice like shards of ice, the prince said, "Reign in your powers, swan, or I will cut off all of those lovely feathers. See how much power you have then." The swanmane paled further. The magic thickening the room began to dissipate. The swan-shifter slid into a chair as if her legs could no longer support her.

"Your Highness," one of the _rougarou_ said. Cuan, the cougar-shifter youth had called him. "Please. We meant the child no real harm-"

"Bite back the next lie that wants to roll off your tongue, or I will cut that tongue out of your head."

The wolf fell silent.

Then Nuada focused past Cuan, past the swanmane, to the other wolf-shifter. Conri. The wolf whose claws were still stained with Dylan's blood. The wolf whose claws had ripped those vicious furrows in Dylan's arm. Dylan had told him that the _rougarou_ had licked her blood off his claws. And he had been the one to call her a bitch. The one to call her a whore. And _that_ sent black fury rolling through Nuada's belly and boiling in his own blood.

"Do you know what it means to attack a member of a royal house?" Nuada asked. His voice was almost conversational. His eyes were slowly darkening to sanguine bronze. "Even if you belong to another kingdom, attacking a royal is a capital offense. Even if you did not know that was who you attacked."

At his words, the blood drained from Conri's face. The swanmane drew a shaking breath and opened her mouth as if to protest. One look of utter loathing silenced her.

"You are thieves - I have that on good authority from some of the merchants here." Including Laigdech, who'd lost goods to these fae before. "For that and your other crimes, you should be punished." Grim satisfaction pulsed in his blood at the expressions of fear from all three fae. "Do you know what allows you three to keep your heads this day? My lady's mercy. She asked that I spare your lives. I can do no other than oblige her."

Relief overspread all three faces, but was short-lived. The Elven prince darted forward. Even over the high twin yelps of agony, Elven ears heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones.

Cuan clutched his broken hand to his chest and fought to keep breathing through the staggering pain. Conri hunched on the floor. His hand was also broken, only in several places instead of the single fracture his friend could claim. Conri's forearm, upper arm, and shoulder blazed with the searing black agony of more broken bones. Neither would be stealing anything for a while. And both wolf-shifters would remember this judgment for a very, very long time.

Bronze eyes lanced the swanmane, who trembled in her chair. The stench of woman's fear always served to revolt him. He had meant to let her off without punishment, because Erik was absolutely right. He did have a soft spot for fae women. He hated hurting them, even if the law demanded punishment for a crime. Perhaps because they reminded him of his mother. Or his sister. Perhaps because he still remembered the men who had hurt Cethlenn and Nuala. Those memories sickened him still. Haunted him still. And because of those memories he had a weakness for women. When the law required their pain, he was usually gentler with them than he was with others.

But not this time. Because this swan-shifter had goaded two nearly full-grown wolves into attacking an innocent little girl whose only crime had been scavenging for food. She'd used her magic to fuel their natural aggression. Used that magic to see which of them would do their best - and their worst - for her. Hurt a child. Insulted and hurt his lady. And then she had dared try to use that same magic against _him_.

He slowly drew his sword. Elven silver whispered against the leather sheath. Eyes like black pools widened in fear. She began to cry. Softly at first, then louder. Desperately. Gulping sobs that only served to hone his already vicious temper to a nearly lethal edge. When she tried to plead with him, he'd had enough.

"Save your tears for someone who cares for them," the crown prince of Bethmoora said, and let his sword taste the iridescent blood of a swan.

**.**

She felt him the moment he walked into the heavy canvas tent that belonged to Aso Assase Ya, the Elven weaver. Although she'd been in conversation with the dark-skinned Elf woman, Dylan broke off as soon as she felt the ripple of unease crawl up her spine. She turned to the tent entrance as Nuada let the flaps fall closed behind him.

Their eyes locked.

On instinct, though still feeling a bit foolish for being so demonstrative, she went to him and slid her arms around his waist. That sent a fresh wave of pain ripping through her bandaged arm, but she ignored it in favor of the thud of his heart against her cheek. She didn't even bother trying to suppress the little thrill that went through her when his hands settled on her shoulders and he said her name, oh so very softly.

"About time you got here," Dylan said teasingly, and felt the tension slowly drain out of him. Then they just stood that way for a long moment. Neither Wink nor Aso the Weaver said anything about the tiredness in Nuada's eyes or the worry in the human's scarred face. They simply watched.

Finally, Nuada slipped an arm around Dylan's shoulders as they moved to where Wink and Aso stood near the counter.

"So, Aso took our measurements. And she said she'd be happy to snag a few journeymaid and journeyman seamstresses and tailors and put together some basics for everyone's wardrobes, at which point I said she should probably talk to you about that. Then she wanted to know what my house colors were, and of course I had no clue whatsoever, so I said she should probably talk to you about that as well."

Dylan's colors. The colors of Bethmoora were crimson and gold. Every kingdom had their own colors. Every noble house within each of those kingdoms had their own colors, too. Every fiefdom, every branch of the military. It would be assumed by some that Dylan, as a lady, would have her own colors, as well. He hadn't thought of that.

"I'm personally fond of blue," Dylan added, "but Aso said it had to be two colors at least. And I wasn't sure if anyone had taken the colors I wanted." She shrugged. Felt the slight straining edge in Nuada that meant he wasn't as calm as he pretended to be. "Does this matter to you at all?"

"Your servants wear your colors and crest to show they belong to you. So, yes - this matters. What think you of royal blue, silver, and dove gray?" He was rewarded with her smile. "As for a crest..." Nuada snagged a stick of charcoal from the weaver, along with the notepad Aso kept for commissions, and quickly sketched something that looked a little bit like his own personal crest. He showed it to Dylan. "If you choose it, we'll make it official when we return to Faerie. Do you like it?"

"Did you _just_ come up with that?" She asked. He arched a brow. She smiled and went back to studying the crude sketch.

The image was interesting, and unique. Two blooming roses with braided stems entertwined with the Celtic design that graced the blade of Nuada's lance. Dylan tapped one rose and looked at Nuada questioningly. The Elven prince lightly tugged off Dylan's black leather glove and brushed a fingertip over the golden ring with the blooming rose on Dylan's right ring-finger. Then he covered her slim hand with his own. calloused fingertips gently brushed across her bare knuckles, relearning the softness of her skin. A small shiver whispered up and down her spine.

"Cold?" Nuada asked, a smug smile playing about his lips.

"My hand is cold. You know, since you stole my glove."

In answer, the Elven warrior raised Dylan's hand to his mouth and breathed against her knuckles. Deliciously warm air caressed her skin. His breath whispered over her skin, and she was suddenly very aware of several things: the silken weight of Nuada's overtunic against her body; the nearness of those dark lips to her hand, hovering like a soft promise; the wild richness of Nuada's scent surrounding her and sending a different sort of warmth sizzling through her; and especially the too-intense, honey-kissed ivory of those beautiful feral eyes looking right into her own.

Her mouth went dry. Could he hear her pulse racing? Could the beautiful older Elf woman hear it? What about Wink? She didn't know about the other two, but from Nuada's expression he could most certainly hear the way he made her heart pound. She tried to take a steady breath. Failed miserably. _You are killing me. You are absolutely killing me, Nuada. You've gotta stop._

Immediately he shifted. It was subtle, something she probably wouldn't really have noticed if she hadn't been so attuned to him, but as soon as he moved, she could breathe more easily. Her pulse slowed. The heat that had been shimmering under her skin faded a bit. All of that made it a lot easier to think.

_Am I scaring you?_ _Forgive me._

_No,_ she said quickly. She couldn't let him think he frightened her. She knew how much it bothered him when he thought he'd scared her. _No, no. I just... um... well, you're just... you make my heart pound._ As soon as the confession was out of her mouth - or brain, rather - she felt like an idiot. _Sorry. It's just that you are really, really, _really_..._

_Hot._ The word held a world's worth of masculine satisfaction. Then, a bit more gently, he added, _It's all right, Dylan, to be attracted to me._

_Oh yes, of course you _would _think that. Never mind that when you smile like that, you tie my tongue in knots._ Heat flooded her face. She could feel the idiocy-quotient ratcheting up. _Oh, shut up, brain. Shut up, shut up, shut up. No, Nuada, it is absolutely _not _all right to be attracted to you! What if I do something ridiculous?_

_Such as?_

_Such as accidentally-on-purpose fall on your lips._

Nuada grinned, where everyone could see him. Dylan could feel the blush burning in her cheeks. _Considering your mouth is at least half a foot below mine, mo duinne, that would be a bit difficult to accomplish if I did not wish it to happen._

If she needed to worry about anyone "accidentally-on-purpose" falling on anyone else's lips, she needed to worry about him falling on hers. Especially because she tended to lick her bottom lip when she was nervous. Which she was right now. Which was why he was having trouble keeping his eyes off her mouth.

They were in public, however. Kissing her that way in public was a very bad idea. Kissing her that way at all anywhere right now was a very bad idea. He had to keep telling himself that as he dropped a light, chaste kiss to the back of her fingers. He inclined his head, retaining possession of her hand. She rolled her eyes and grinned back at him.

_Do you feel better now? You looked a little depressed when you walked in._

_Yes,_ he said, still managing to be surprised that he truly meant it without condition. _I thank you, Dylan._ _You have eased the shadows in my heart, as you nearly always manage to do._

Her smile this time was soft and pleased. _I'm glad._

Wink coughed into his fist, not even really trying to disguise the word "mooncalf." Nuada glared at him. Gritted his teeth when he caught Aso's wide smile. He'd forgotten about her, stars curse it. By midnight, it would be all over the Troll Market that the Silver Lance had gazed tenderly into his mortal truelove's eyes for... however long he'd been talking to Dylan through their link.

Ah, well. Gossip had been one of the tools they'd planned on employing, anyway.

"So I like the crest," Dylan said. Was her voice just a little bit breathless? Crud. She didn't want her voice to be breathless. "We'll go with that one. And I like the colors. So what does that mean, exactly?"

The Elven prince glanced at the Nyame weaver. Aso shrugged. If the prince wanted her to do this, she would do it. She would even put a rush on it as a favor to an old friend and his lady. The dark-skinned Elven woman said, "Come back by Wednesday. Your lady's livery should be ready by then. And there are a few plain garments for the children until you or Mr. Wink return." She gestured to a stack of clothes in various shades of blue and gray on the store counter.

Nuada sighed at the price. Clothes for three children, two of whom were boys in that age range where stitches seemed almost to rip because said boys kept adding height and muscle during growth spurts. He had gone through that same phase as a boy and as a youth. And where would these children stay? With them? Dylan would have to feed them, as well.

Then 'Sa'ti came jogging up to Dylan and threw her arms around the human's waist. The joy that lit up those fey-like blue eyes sent a swift stab of almost fierce longing right through Nuada's chest. His lady loved children so very much. Wanted so badly to have a child or children of her own. That could never be, so long as she remained connected to him as his truelove. This was the next best thing, wasn't it? To have children in their home, connected to Dylan almost as tightly as she was connected to him?

Very well. He handed over the required coin as 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di' jumped up and down over the seemingly exquisite joy of getting new clothes. Dylan's smile warmed him like spring sunlight. This would work out quite nicely.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _so says the unwary man who's never dealt with a child for more than a couple hours before, and never without a parent or something there to reign in the scariness of their behavior. Sigh. Silly prince, suddenly saddled with a 6-year-old, a 9-year-old, and a 15-year-old (basically). And Dylan has to go to church on Sunday (so she'll be gone for about 4 hours) and she'll be at work all of Monday. Eek. Who thinks they know how that will end?_

_So I don't actually have a review prompt (other than favorites - I ask for 12 because there's no prompt and because it's December; no, I'm not going to ask for only 1 once it becomes January, lol). Well, other than a question. Who thinks that Tsu's'di, A'du, and 'Sa'ti could become a liability and why? That's the review prompt. Woot. *twirls little flag*_

_Okay, running a bit behind with other things, so gotta go. Thanks for reading, you guys! I adore you all! *huggles*_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- An ewah is a human-cougar hybrid in Cherokee mythology.

- _Rougarou_ are French-American wolf-shifters. Probably from _loup garou_ (wolf-man or wolf-human or something), the French word for _werewolf_.

- The children's names all have meanings. The thing I figured out for the ewah was that, as they originated from Native American myth, I'd use some Native American culture for them. In some cultures, a person has a name that everyone in the tribe calls them and then a special name that those who are very close to them use. Considering we're talking about faeries, and names have power in faerie myth, I added a third layer to the name thing. So the children's full common names are Tsu's'di Ka'ta, A'du'la'di', and U'de'ho'sa'ti (Smoke Eye, Strong Believer, and Bashful). Their nicknames (since those full common names are crazy long) are Tsu's'di, A'du, and 'Sa'ti. Their true names, the ones they never give out except to those rare most trusted, are Ka'na'ti (Hunter), Da'lo'ne'ga (Golden), and Nv'ya (Stars).

- The names Conri and Cuan are Irish names that mean "wolf king" and "little wolf" or "little hound."

- Okay, Dylan's ability to tell that the three fae are lying. She didn't just develop a new power or anything. Sometimes (if you believe LDS doctrine, which obviously I do), in an important situation the Spirit will supply you with information you need in order to make certain decisions. Dylan has done this before (like in chapter 13). Basically it works by, if you pray and ask a question and you're really in tune with the Holy Spirit, He will make sure you know or figure out what needs to be known or figured out for the situation at hand. This is not a superhuman power or anything. Talk to any LDS bishop or missionary, and they'll tell you that in very important situations this kind of thing happens sometimes. Same thing with Dylan knowing to go after 'Sa'ti - the Spirit prompted her to do so. This also happens in real life sometimes.

- The aging for the ewah in this fic is one year of physical/emotional/mental maturity for every five or six chronological years. So 'Sa'ti is actually older than Dylan, but she's still a child (she's about 33). A'du is almost 50 and Tsu's'di is 84. Which is why Dylan didn't say bedtime was at 8:30 for anyone under 29 (her age).

- The thing A'du does where he opens his mouth a little and concentrates, he's actually tasting scents on the air. I don't know if cougars can do it, but domestic cats can and cougar behavior is closer to domesticated cats than any other large cat. Domestic cats have this thing called the Jacob's organ on the roof of their mouth that lets them better examine scents by tasting them. So for you guys who have cats, and those cats get into your dirty laundry and then open their mouths, you know what they're doing (our cats do that ALL the time).

- In the world of "Once Upon a Time," a swanmane is a lot like a mermaid - cut off the source of its power (for mermaids it's their hair, for swans it's their feathers). Actually, in actual myth taking a swan-shifter's "coat of feathers" acts a lot like taking a selkie's seal skin - it binds their powers and inhibits their magic, and locks them to whoever possesses the coat. Knowing Nuada, though, he'd probably cut off all of her feathers and then burn them.


	47. Lost in the Darkness

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Challenge Doubly-Won Challenge  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _(from chapter forty-six) Originally [chapter forty-seven] was going to be about political intrigue and danger and stuff. But then my beta said that there was something I __**had**_ _to do and I had to do it __**ASAP**__, and I'd already written chapter forty-five and most of forty-six, so it couldn't go in there. So chapter forty-seven, instead of going with what I originally planned for it, is now about doing the thing my beta said must be done. Hopefully you all forgive the delay in our lovebirds' return to Findias. If not... well... lamentations! But I hope you all still love "Once Upon a Time." _

_Okay, now for the new author's note. This is going to be kind of dark. Actually, really dark. I tried to balance it out with other things but it ended up super dark. However, in order to deal with this one thing that my beta was like, "Do __**NOW**__" I had to go to a dark part of the storyline. So for happy stuff, see the "Important Note" notice below. And because of the thingie that I had to take care of here in this chapter, this chap is a little bit longer than I usually write._

_**Important Note:**_ _between chapter forty-six and chapter forty-seven are a few little one-shot ficlets that I wrote. The first is called "Good Night, Moon." The second is called "Honor-Bound" (which is not out yet). It is canon, it is a necessary part of the storyline (at least that I feel), but it dragged at the flow between chs. 46 & 47, so I made it a little stand-alone piece instead of its own chapter. So go check it out, it's on my profile. Yay!_

_**Important Reference:**_ _the song in this fic is in Gaelic; it's the Gaelic version of "Into the West" from the ending credits of _the Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King_, sung by Annie Lennox. I mention it here because I don't translate the song in-text like I do with the other ones I've used that are in different languages._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Lost in the Darkness" is a phrase from the song "Lost" by Within Temptation, which is track 9 on their new album, _the Unforgiving_. I really thought the song itself fit with this chapter because of the chorus (I'm fairly sure this is exactly how it goes, but I might be off on a few words): "She's lost in the darkness, fading away. I'm still around here, screaming her name. She's haunting the dreamworld, trying to survive. My heart is frozen, I'm losing my mind. Help me! I'm buried alive!"_

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**Chapter Forty-Seven**

**Lost in the Darkness**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Frustration, Coming Home, Pseudo-Motherhood, a Challenge Answered, Wooing, Telephonic Inquisition, and the Debt**

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Monday was lovely. Beautiful. Breathtakingly so, actually, with the sunlight turning the world to diamonds and silver. Frost curled elegantly along the windows. Winter birds sang glorious praises to winter's beauty. The air had bite, but it was more of a nip than a frigid gnawing. So Monday should have been wonderful.

By the time Dylan came home from work, Nuada was ready to tear his hair out.

Maybe it was his own fault for agreeing to Dylan's suggestion that the children stay with them until they were ready to go back to Findias in a few weeks. Maybe he should have made them stay with Erik. The Elven blacksmith had plenty of empty beds because he had so many apprentices coming and going. Maybe Nuada should've said no when his lady suggested the children sleep in the den (Tsu's'di and A'du'la'di slept on the futon-bed and 'Sa'ti was small enough to sleep comfortably on the sofa, with enough room for Bat the Cat and Neytiri the Stuffed Mountain Lion). After all, that meant _he_ was stuck sleeping in Dylan's enormous bed, with linens that smelled deliciously of the floral perfumes from her shampoo and soap and laundry detergent, mingled with the ever-present scent of _her_. Dylan slept on a pallet she'd made of a bunch of blankets in the mysterious room at the end of the hall that she'd asked him weeks ago not to enter. It played havoc with her bad leg but she had insisted.

He should have stopped this entire venture, the prince thought with equal parts baffled masculine terror and disbelief as A'du'la'di' and 'Sa'ti chased each other through the living room. _He'd_ been training in the den with his lance and putting the clockwork chess set together nearly all of Sunday and Monday (except for the incident with the snowglobe), leaving Becan, Bat, and Tsu's'di to deal with the two children. He'd risked coming out now only to find himself confronted by orchestrated chaos.

Even as he watched, the ewah youth scooped up his little sister under one arm. Exasperated eyes met the prince's as A'du'la'di' cried, "Your Highness, save me," and shot toward Nuada. The Elf in question snagged A'du'la'di' by the collar of his brand new blue shirt and hauled the giggling child back to deal with his older brother.

"Forgive us for disturbing you, Sire," Tsu's'di said, tightening his grip on 'Sa'ti when she squirmed to be let down. "_A'ge'lv_ Dylan suggested that in the last thirty minutes before she is due home that I have these two run around. Like maniacs," he added with a comically fierce face at his little sister. 'Sa'ti merely grinned.

_Why?_ Nuada wanted to ask, but didn't. Only passed a hand over his face and tried not to grind his teeth. He had asked these three to be part of Dylan's retinue. It was his own fault, stars curse it. Never mind that he had no idea what to do with children that weren't in dire need of help or comfort. He certainly did not engage in the adolescent games the two children seemed to delight in (and that he really couldn't make head nor tail of). This cottage was supposed to be his haven. Why had he agreed to let them stay here?

The sound of the bolts sliding back dragged his attention from the current problem to his lady stepping through the front door, a bright smile on her face. "Hey, everybody! I'm back. Who's ready to help me make dinner?" A duet of "me's" came, courtesy of A'du and 'Sa'ti. "Okay, go wash your hands. I don't want to see any dirt or anything under your claws when you come back, got it?" She turned that smile on Nuada. He obligingly released A'du'la'di''s shirt collar. Tsu's'di put 'Sa'ti on her feet. Both children raced to the bathroom.

Sensing an odd tension in the prince, the ewah youth who was now the Lady Dylan's bodyguard - or would be, when they went to Faerie - offered a short bow and said, "If you will excuse me, _A'ge'lv._" Dylan's smiling nod let him escape to the bathroom where his siblings were squabbling over whether to use the pine-scented soap ('Sa'ti's choice) or the soap that smelled of pumpkin and spice (A'du'la'di''s). Tsu's'di chose the soap that smelled of lilies to shut them both up.

In the living room, Dylan shrugged out of her new black coat - the shredded sleeve of her leather jacket made it a lost cause and she'd had to throw it out - and carelessly tossed it and her new black gloves (both courtesy of a certain Elf prince) on the back of a chair.

Then, because the children's presence meant they were _still_ pretending, she came to Nuada and melted against him. Sighed when his arms came around her. The reassuring pressure of those arms around her had all of the work-related tension of the day slipping far, far away. How was she going to live without this when the time came? His heart thudding steadily beneath her ear. His cheek resting against the top of her head while they just stood together. She'd never had such a quiet and oddly intimate experience with anyone before.

But there was a strange tension in him tonight that had her pulling back to look up at him. His eyes were that lovely melting honey color she adored, but just at their edges she caught a glitter of topaz. A glitter of empty emotionlessness. He was trying to hide something from her. Like that would work. Like that could _ever_ work.

"Cad é? Cad atá cearr?" _What is it? What's wrong?_ He looked tired, she noted. Why did he look so tired? He should have been relaxing the last couple days while she went to church and then to work. Tsu's'di could watch the children if Nuada needed a break from them. And the Elven warrior hadn't complained about these little intruders in their once-private world of firelight and faerie tales.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what had put that icy glitter in the otherwise warm eyes. She dealt with change well. She had to, in order to do her job. In order to deal with her past. So the children coming to live with them in the cottage that had until recently been their safe haven didn't bother her. But maybe it bothered him. Maybe he hadn't appreciated her "retinue" invading their little sanctuary. What could he say if he hadn't? His honor would compel him to offer that same sanctuary to these children who had no home and no safe place to stay. His compassion would compel him.

She reached up as the realization firmed in her mind. Reached up, and gently framed his face between her hands. "Nuada. You are too good for me. You know that, don't you?" The inclining of his head and the smug expression on his face was her answer. She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Inis dom cad atá i do chroí."

Dark lips curved into a wistful smile. If only he _could_ tell her what was in his heart. Tell her of the smoldering burn at the very core of him that was equal parts love and desire, edged with need and tempered by friendship. Instead he replied, "Why do you ask me this?"

"You're uneasy with the kids here," she said. "Aren't you?" His eyes went carefully blank. "Don't withdraw from me," she added, and noticed the odd flicker behind his gaze. Noticed, but wasn't sure what put it there. "What is it? What about them being here has you all in knots?" Dylan slipped on the familiarity of her professionalism and said, "I know you're not scared or anything. That's not what it is. It's not nerves or anything like that. So what is it?"

Nuada just looked at her. Clearly he wasn't planning to share. Would not be wheedled, coaxed, cajoled, or begged into answering. Not that she would try any of those other than simple coaxing. Which meant she'd have to hypothesize it out of him instead. No problem. She did that to her patients all the time.

"This is our place," she said when he didn't answer. Her hands slid from his face to clasp behind his neck. The part of her not involved with dealing with the Elf prince squiggled with happiness that she was allowed to touch him this way. Practically allowed to snuggle up to him. The hard, warm sheltering strength of him. But she needed to focus right now. "We're safe and alone here. Without people watching, judging. But now we have three people who require us to be... more than we are in private." A silent nod to the fact that the entire game _was_ a sham. "And now we don't have our safe haven anymore."

"I would not have you turn them out," the prince replied softly. "Never that. They are yours. Ours. And they have nowhere else to go."

Her smile warmed him in ways he couldn't afford to think about right now. "I know you wouldn't. That's not the kind of man you are. But I _am_ going to do something so you don't feel so... whatever word would best describe how you feel right now. I'll see if you can get at least a bit of peace from the craziness."

"What will you do?"

Now she shrugged and flashed him a smile that said _this will be fun... maybe_.

"Well, I've always wanted the chance to try out motherhood. Although I'd rather have been a stay-at-home mom than a working mom with kids in daycare, but whatever. I'll give it a shot. Let's see how I do."

In the kitchen, Dylan set everyone to work with the same alacrity and decisiveness as a general on a battlefield. Much like Caspar Kabouter of the royal kitchens, actually. She put Tsu's'di to carving some unknown meat from the Floating Night Market. A'du'la'di' chopped broccoli into chunks, making faces at the greens that dared to offend his adolescent eye. 'Sa'ti grated cheese. Becan stirred some sort of sauce or soup in a pot over the stove.

At the kitchen table, away from the softly chattering ewah children and their older brother, Dylan and Nuada sat across from each other and helped make dinner as well. He, the crown prince of Bethmoora, peeled potatoes that Becan had washed earlier that day. Once peeled, Dylan chopped them into medium-sized chunks. And while she chopped the peeled potatoes, she laid out the ground rules for the children living in the cottage.

Every morning, they would go to the apartment nearby where a sidhe woman and her son lived. 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di' would play with the sidhe changeling boy, Bean, and his human changeling friend Kate. Tsu's'di would drop them off and come back to the cottage to learn fighting from the prince. He was a warrior, and Tsu's'di was not. He had thousands of years' experience. The ewah youth was only into his seventh decade, which put him physically between fifteen and sixteen years old. If the cougar-shifter was supposed to be her guard then he needed to know how to defend her. In the afternoon Tsu's'di would go back to the sidhe woman's apartment and spend time with all four children and help out Lady Peri with any chores, since she didn't have anyone to help out around the house except her son. This would accustom all three to the various menial tasks required of them as Dylan's servants. Lady Peri would also teach 'Sa'ti the basics of what was required of ladies' maids. Afterwards the prince and his lady would fetch them back sometime around dusk so they could all get started on dinner.

And all of that, Nuada knew, would allow the two of them to do what they wanted without having to continue playing the romantic game all the time. It would give him some time away from the children that should not have bothered him, but for some unfathomable reason honed his temper to a knife's edge. Why did it bother him so much? All right, this was his and Dylan's haven. A place where he could be with her without having to worry too much about the political schemes hounding them both, or about the loyalties that demanded he kill the joy in his chest whenever Dylan brushed her hand against his shoulder or smiled at him. But was that all it was?

Only half-paying attention to his thoughts, Nuada added that after dinner he would teach the Lady Dylan self-defense in the den. Alone. The children would do... whatever children did. Dylan sighed and gave him a look he couldn't quite fathom, but nodded. The three ewah agreed.

"Bathtime is right after dinner. Tsu's'di, it's your job to make sure nothing crazy happens during that time. Bedtime is at eight," the mortal said, "for anyone too short to slide back the top deadbolt on the door." When A'du'la'di' snickered at his little sister, Dylan added, "For anyone too short to slide back the top deadbolt with both feet on the floor using their own two hands or magic."

A'du'la'di' groaned, "Awww, nuts." At Nuada's stern glance, the boy ducked his head and added, "Yes, _A'ge'lv."_

Dinner turned out to be broccoli, potato, ham and cheese soup, which none of the fae except Becan had realized was the point of their various tasks. When dinner was over, Dylan shooed the three out of the kitchen to follow bathtime orders. Then she went to the stove and pulled down a frying pan while Becan put the dirty dishes in the sink. A nod from Dylan had the brownie hustling out of the kitchen once the sink had been filled with hot, soapy water. Dylan pulled milk out of the fridge.

"You should get at least two or three hours to yourself now," Dylan said as she pulled down a bottle of Never, the container of powdered chocolate, cinnamon, and a bottle of vanilla. She poured the milk in a pan. "And an hour or so with me where we can just be... just be ourselves. Plan for things. Or do you need more time?"

He watched her make hot chocolate over the stove for a long moment. "It will do."

"I know there have been a lot of changes in the last couple days," she added, stirring the contents of the pan. "And I know that, as capricious as the fae can be, they don't deal well with abrupt change. This way the kids get to spend time with other kids of similar background, Tsu's'di can start learning to do what you want him to learn about being a guard, and you get to have your own man cave."

Nuada arched a brow. "Man cave?"

She shrugged and added another pinch of chocolate powder. "Yeah, man cave. Last time I checked, you were male; you need your own cave where you can do man-things. Even if you just need to be by yourself for a bit. Everyone needs their own space. That's why my parents made sure all nine of us got our own rooms when we all lived at home - just like animals, people need their own bit of territory to make them feel secure. So how's the chess set coming along?"

Now dark lips curved into a smile. "I started it yesterday morning. I expect you to help me complete it." Her stricken look morphed his smile into a full grin. "As a future princess, you need to learn appreciation for the things our peoples are best known for. Goblins make wonderful clockwork pieces."

"But Laigdech said it was hard!"

"Princesses do not shy away from a task simply because it is hard," Nuada said with a carefully blank face. If he kept grinning it would ruin the effect of the pseudo-admonishment. But the melancholy in Dylan's eyes erased any desire to smile. "What's wrong?"

She shrugged again. "Nothing. But I'm not going to be a princess." She tried not to think the rest of it, but couldn't keep the words out of her head. _I'm not going to be anything to you if our plan works out. Not a princess, not a wife, nothing._ Luckily Nuada couldn't hear her thoughts unless he was touching her hand. "So, just curious... what's bothering you?" His eyes went blank again. "Will you stop doing that? I know you well enough that I can gauge your moods. So I know that there's something wrong. You'll have to get over that. You gonna tell me what it is over a cup of hot chocolate?"

Nuada waited until she'd poured the hot chocolate into two mugs and handed him the one with the sweet drink laced with Never. Waited until she sat down close to him, with only the corner of the kitchen table between them. Her knee brushed against his beneath the table. He felt more than heard her kick off the boots she'd worn to work and shove them off to one side. The Elf prince merely sipped the chocolate drink. Let it slide over his tongue, rich and hot, before swallowing.

He'd experienced so many new things since meeting this human. Fairy tales before a fire, snowball fights, hot chocolate and... and the sweet thrumming anticipation of caresses and almost-kisses. Thoughts of the almost-kiss at the playground teased his memory. Thrust slivers of regret into his chest. What if he'd told her to ignore the blasted phone and just continued where they were headed? What if he'd been just a little bit faster, a little bit less hesitant? Would he have tasted the lips that drew his eyes and his fingers like a moth to a candleflame?

"Are you going to talk to me now?" Dylan asked softly, gently. Her voice was a satin caress as it slid over him. The light brush of her fingers against his wrist made the nerves tingle and sent warmth humming through his blood. He had never been in love like this before. Never had love hit him like a fist in the belly. Never had a woman affected him this way. Not even...

"How do you know me so well, when you are so mortal?" Unspoken was the question, _How do you do this to me? How do you make me feel this way?_ But he could never ask her that. She was clever. She would know what those questions truly meant.

Dylan gazed into her mug for a time - the mug with the evil kitten, that said _Doom - Now in Fun Size._ He could tell she was thinking about how best to answer his question. Was she hiding something from him? If she was, it wasn't something important. Nothing he need worry over. He trusted her. So he simply waited until she raised her eyes to his and said, "I care about you. You are an integral part of my life. And the... the love and friendship that I feel for you helps me to see you a bit more clearly than I probably would have otherwise."

A bit more clearly? Only a bit? Somehow the inexplicable friendship that had grown between them had made him as transparent as glass to her. At least, that was how it seemed to Nuada. Even Wink did not see him so clearly. And did Dylan have any idea how ice flooded his veins whenever she said she loved him? He should command her to stop saying that. It would make it easier to refrain from pretending that anything could exist between them. Hell's teeth, he was absolutely pathetic.

Her touch at his wrist jolted him. The concern in her eyes thawed some of the ice. But only some. In her eyes was a gentle, coaxing invitation to tell her anything and everything that weighed down his heart. "The swanmane," he said suddenly. The breath seemed to have frozen in his lungs. "Her punishment."

"Is it that you killed her and now you regret it?"

He shot her a look edged with anger. "You asked me not to kill them. I didn't." Although he'd deliberately and permanently crippled the wolf that had hurt her.

"Then what's the problem?" When he didn't answer, she frowned. "What did you do to her?" Still Nuada didn't speak. Dylan held out her hand, palm up. After hesitating just a bit too long for her state of mind, the Elf prince laid his hand over hers. In a voice that was still a command for all it was so gentle, she said, "Show me." They locked eyes. She didn't know what he saw in hers. Whatever it was must have convinced him, though, because suddenly she saw what he'd done to the swan-shifter that had set two nearly full-grown wolves on a little girl. "You ruined her face."

"It was one of the tools she used to attract savage males to her side," Nuada said softly. "I could not strip her of her magic. That is against our laws. And crippling her the way I would need to seemed... wrong, somehow. So I made sure that when a male looked at her, his first thoughts would have nothing to do with lust."

Now Dylan could see what he'd been trying to hide from her since she came home - self-doubt. Something the Elven warrior didn't usually experience. She knew him well enough to know that, and to know why he was feeling it now. Because of her. Because he had done to the swanmane's face what a pack of vicious human wolves had once done to her own - left it scarred and ruined by the razor edge of a blade.

And what gnawed at him now were two concerns - that he had done something Dylan might not forgive him for, and that he had done such a thing to a fae in defense of a human. In his eyes was the question _Did I do right in this?_ He wanted to ask her; she could see that much in him as well. But would he trust her answer, considering the source?

In the end, she asked, "Did you want to hurt her? Did you enjoy it?"

Nuada jerked back as if she had struck him. "How can you ask me that?" _How can you of all people ask me that?_

Making sure that he was looking at her and giving her his undivided attention, Dylan said, "Because you need to know the answer. _I_ know the answer. But do you? That answer will tell you if you did the right thing here or not. I told you once that though I believe in forgiveness and mercy, that though my God is a God of both of those things, I also believe in justice. That the laws of the Star Kindler uphold justice. So what you need to ask yourself is, was this justice? Or was it vengeance? And the way you'll know the answer to that question is to answer _my_ question - did you enjoy hurting her?"

After a very long moment, Nuada looked her in the eye and said softly, "No."

"Then all you did was what was needed in order to prevent her from repeating what she'd done that day, while still doing the least amount of damage to her. And you exacted that punishment for the little faerie girl who's currently splashing around in our bathtub. You didn't do it for me, for a human. You did it for one of the fae. It was justice. What else can you ask of yourself, Nuada?"

Firegold eyes studied her. Dark lips quirked into a smile when Dylan cocked her head and attempted to look, as the human put it, "cute." Nuada asked, "What did I do before I knew you?"

"Oh, you were very boring," his lady informed him. His smile morphed into a grin as she added, "I got that much from my time in your sanctuary. Work, work, work - all the time." She shook her head in mock-dismay. "I'm surprised you ever got a girl that way before me. Yeesh. Must be your rippling muscles."

He blinked once, the only outward sign of surprise. "Must be."

Dylan smirked. "I mean, of course there's your charming personality. And your eyes. You have absolutely lovely eyes, has anyone ever told you that? Especially when you're in a good mood. They're the most beautiful honey gold. Elf girls probably go gaga over the color."

"You also mentioned once that I had nice hands," Nuada said softly. So she liked his eyes, did she? And considering she was human and not, say, an ekek or an empusa, Dylan's appreciation was purely aesthetic and had nothing to do with the culinary eye of a seductive flesh-eater.

A blush whispered over Dylan's scarred cheeks and his lady looked positively flustered for a moment. Then she said, "Um... I think you'd have to actually _get_ the girl in order for her to find out you have nice hands. So I don't think that technically counts. Although I suppose it _could_ be the way you look with your shirt off. You do seem to be in various states of undress a vast majority of the time. Someone's bound to have seen you. Add the rippling muscles to that and most girls are goners."

His eyebrow arched. "But not you, my fair lady?"

"Yeah, no. You'll have to do better than that if you want me to swoon over you, Your Highness. I mean, you're not bad looking. We've already discussed that. But there's a world of difference between being hot and getting my tongue to fall on the floor and my eyeballs to roll back into my head."

Dylan hid her satisfaction as Nuada's mouth twitched once. Twice. A third time. He was trying so hard not to laugh. Which had been the point of hitting him with the pseudo-compliments.

"But," she added, "even with all of those plus-points in your favor, I still don't see how you managed to acquire those skills you supposedly have."

Now both his eyebrows winged upward. "Supposedly?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, not buying it. I mean, I haven't seen any evidence of these so-called 'skills.' Granted, it's not like we kiss on a regular basis or anything - or at all; that would be weird - but still. The way you make it sound, all you have to do is look at me and I should be eating out of the palm of your hand, right?" She shrugged again, smirking. "Hasn't happened yet."

"I think I am being insulted," he said, but his mouth was curving into a grin. Dylan grinned back before smoothing her face into a mask of innocence. "Must I truly defend myself against such slander?"

Eyes like melting honey narrowed when Dylan laughed. "Oh, right. Defend yourself? What could you possibly do? It's not like you're going to kiss me or something. Disgusting human, remember? You might like me, but I saw your face when we talked about getting married. The whole 'not sullying yourself with a mortal' thing. You looked almost green, Your Highness. So I am not in the least intimidated by any so-called defense you might futilely attempt to muster because there's nothing you can do. So there."

Nuada studied her for a long moment. Oh, but she was so smug. So confident.

Silly girl.

The Elven warrior felt his eyes shift to gold-kissed ivory as he slowly rose to his feet. "Come with me." He didn't need to keep watching to know Dylan would get up and follow him. When they were back in the kitchen, he nodded to the counter. "Stand right there. Face me, but put your hands on the counter."

Those lovely blue eyes held just a hint of baffled wariness now as she did what he said. He was a prince. A challenge had to be answered... unless the challenger backed down. In combat, that never happened. Backing down was a sign of cowardice. But here, if she backed down from this little challenge, it was because he was making her nervous and the Elf prince would also chivalrously withdraw.

Suddenly he was hoping she didn't back down. Even though there was no chance he was going to kiss her, he wanted the chance - and the excuse - to use some of the... softer skills he'd acquired over the centuries on this woman who could never be truly his. Even if he was just torturing himself.

"I've told you before that you should never challenge an Elven warrior... my lady." There was just enough of a velvet caress in the words "my lady" that she heard it. He could tell by the way her eyes widened, just a fraction. "You're right about one thing - I'm not going to kiss you. Not because you're a 'disgusting human,' as you put it. Recall that I happen to find you quite lovely, and my taste is beyond reproach." He bit back a grin when Dylan rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not going to kiss you because I do not need to kiss a woman to seduce her. In fact, I do not need to _touch_ a woman to seduce her. I could, if I chose, seduce you merely by speaking."

At that, she actually scoffed at him. "Oh, yeah right. Nobody's _that_ talented, okay? Except for that guy in _the Wedding Date,_ but that was a movie, and therefore not real. So again, yeah right. I mean, okay, slut-talking is one thing. But that's not seduction, Your Highness. That's pitiful, and not something I see you doing. You have more class than that."

He blinked, completely thrown off-stride. "Slut-talking?" Where did she come up with these phrases?

Now she was blushing. "Come on. You've been around for more than four-thousand years. You have _got_ to know what slut-talking is." Nuada shook his head, looking completely baffled. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. Okay. Um..." Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. Was that a flash of panic in her eyes? "Well... you _know_. You _gotta_ know. Where guys... or girls, I guess... where when they want to make somebody else..." Dylan made a vague gesture with one hand and Nuada had to forcibly swallow the tickle in his throat. Felt like a laugh, actually, but that was of little import at the moment. Flustered, Dylan continued, "So they say... stuff."

"'Stuff.'" The Elf was fairly certain Dylan was currently wishing for the earth to open up and swallow her, judging by the furious state of her blush. "Crude things, I would imagine." His lady nodded, looking anywhere but at him. Good. If she saw his mouth twitch, she might have tried to hit him. "You're right - I have more sophistication than that. However," he added before the look of triumph could totally settle over her face, "I _can_ seduce even you by speaking. If I choose."

Again she rolled her eyes. Well, she would learn shortly. But then she had to gall to challenge him _again._ "No, you can't."

He rested one hip against the counter, half an inch from where her hand was flattened. He made sure he was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body without actually touching him, even by accident if one of them twitched. Already she was a bit nervous. Well, perhaps not nervous. Wary. Ivory eyes saw the pulse fluttering like a butterfly at her vulnerable throat. Her heart raced, just a little. And Nuada's smile was lazy and slow when he deliberately dropped his voice an octave, turning the words to soft velvet when he murmured, "Yes, I can."

Nuada could tell she didn't believe him. Her next words proved it beyond a doubt. "Fine. No touching me - not my skin, not my clothes, not my hair, nothing. No kissing me, either. No magic. Nothing except talking. And no slut-talking." She lifted her chin and dared to meet his eyes. His return look was a very clear challenge to what the prince considered his lady's reckless bravado. Dylan scowled at him and settled back against the counter. "Well, come on, then, if you're so big and bad."

"Big and bad, hmmm?" Smirking, the prince added very softly, "Dún do shúile."

Dylan swallowed hard. Close her eyes? He'd just said he was planning on seducing her using the sound of his voice alone. Which she knew was utterly impossible, but still! And now he expected her to just close her eyes and let him do... whatever? Her heart jumped in her chest. Maybe she shouldn't have baited him. She'd just been teasing. Well, not entirely teasing. Nobody could seduce a woman just by talking. Not even someone as deliriously attractive as Prince Nuada Silverlance. But now...

Well, what about now? What was he going to do? Talk. He was just going to talk. She'd laid down the rules, put up the proper boundaries. He wouldn't do anything inappropriate. This was Nuada, after all. Her prince. Her brave warrior. His honor would not let him do anything to her that she didn't want him to do. And he wasn't seriously interested in doing anything... problematic with her, anyway. Everything was fine. So Dylan closed her eyes and leaned back against the edge of the counter. When Nuada didn't move, didn't speak, she opened her eyes again and gave him a curious look.

"Breathe, mo duinne," the prince said gently. His soft smile was all too amused. Dylan let out the breath she'd been holding and scowled.

Then Nuada shifted, just a little bit. Somehow that subtle shifting brought him a lot closer. The heat of him was suddenly scorching, even through the snow-white tunic she had borrowed from the Elven warrior only that morning. Suddenly Dylan realized she shouldn't have worn his shirt. Worst possible garment at the moment. Despite the fact that it was clean, it was almost saturated with the scent of him. All that fey, feral wildness. All the spice of ancient pine forests and the rich, warm scent of leather and linen surrounding her.

When the ivory-eyed Elven warrior murmured "dún do shúile" once more, her eyes slid closed almost against her will.

"Okay," she said. Did she sound breathless? She really hoped she didn't sound breathless. "Talk."

Nuada leaned one arm on the counter, so he was closer to Dylan's ear. Close enough that when he spoke, his breath ruffled her hair. "If you touch me first, I win this challenge. If you ask me to do anything that breaks your rules, I win."

"And what happens if you win?"

In truth, he hadn't really thought that far. This was more about pride than winning a prize. Besides, any prize he could win from her was forbidden anyway. Nuada thought of a dream of sandy shores and the memory of a clear night at a snow-dusted faerie metal playground. Thought longingly of almost-kisses. Treacherous thoughts that would help nothing. So instead of asking for what he really wanted, the Elf prince said, "If I win you owe me a second act of service. If you win, I will owe you the same."

She pondered that for a minute before nodding. The smile curving her scarred mouth might have terrified a lesser man. "I like those terms."

"Well, then. Trí do shaoire, mo mhuire?"

_By your leave, my lady?_ A simple question that was not a question this time. No, this time it was a challenge... and an invitation to back down if she was too uncomfortable. She wasn't - yet. Just nervous. Playing games with the Tylwyth Teg was usually something she avoided at all costs. But she wasn't uncomfortable, because of who this particular fae was. There was no caution from the Spirit, either. Well, of course not. Nothing was going to happen. Nuada wouldn't let anything happen.

Dylan nodded once.

His voice held all the weight of a touch when Nuada murmured in her ear, "Mo duinne. Amháin a chara, is féidir liom éisteacht le do buille an chroí." _Dear one, I can hear the beating of your heart._ "Your heart is already racing. Why is that? I haven't done anything... yet." Warmth settled over her chest, maybe half an inch from her body. His hand hovering above her heart. The promise of a touch. She shivered. Dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks before she squeezed her eyes tightly shut once more. "I can see your pulse, Dylan, like a butterfly fluttering gently at your throat." A soft breath over her skin had her sucking in a sharp breath. His mouth was so close to her neck. A scant couple of inches kept them separated. Nuada almost seemed to breathe in time with her heartbeat. "I can hear your heart pounding, sweetheart. Don't be afraid."

_Dylan. Mo duinne. Don't be afraid. It's all right. Do not be afraid, a chumann._ Whispers from a dream. Nuada tasted an echo of honey and sweet summer strawberries and somehow he knew that he'd said this to her in a dream. A shared dream? Or one of those forbidden night fantasies that had left him aching and alone, missing her so fiercely during his self-exile from this place? Nuada couldn't remember. He also couldn't afford to get distracted by those memories when the woman in question trembled with nerves - and possibly attraction - when she was merely a scant inch away from him.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured. "Breathe, sweet one. Just breathe. Relax."

"I... I _am_ relaxed."

His breath was hot against her ear when he whispered, "You're lying, love."

Dylan swallowed hard and was profoundly grateful for the counter at her back. Otherwise her knees - which were slowly being rendered into jelly - would have already buckled. She really didn't think this was fair. He wasn't just talking; he was _breathing_ on her. Which sounded creepier than it actually was. And he'd called her...

_Love. Oh, he called me "love." Shoot. I'm in trouble._

And the distance between them, so carefully maintained by the Elf prince, was already driving her crazy. Nuada was so _close_. She could feel his heartbeat because the solid wall of his chest was so close to her body; feel the weight of his firegold-edged ivory gaze as it moved slowly over her face. If he would just _touch_ her - she'd be satisfied with him poking her in the shoulder if he wanted; as long as the tension suddenly simmering between them broke - if he'd just let the hand over her thundering heart drop to hold her heartbeat in his palm, or if the mouth hovering above her neck brushed against her jaw or just _something,_ the tension would break and she'd be fine.

"Mo milis amháin," Nuada whispered. Dylan felt absolutely ridiculous getting quivery over _my sweet one._ But it was the _way_ he said it. The liquid-silver vowels of the Gaelic language held the soft mists of Ireland and the twilight beauty of Faerie. His breath was the softest touch against her skin, a warm caress against the shell of her ear that held a hint of other caresses, promises he would never make to someone like her. And yet there was such a wealth of longing in his voice.

Nuada was a very good actor, she'd give him that. She already half-believed he really meant such tender things. Maybe this was how he did it - that yearning note in his voice. As if he couldn't live without the woman he was talking to. Dylan felt immensely sorry for any faerie girl Nuada had used that voice on because they didn't stand a chance. And oh boy, neither did she if he kept it up much longer.

"Mo dathúil amháin, my lovely one." He drew a deep breath, and she could almost hear the smile in his voice when he said, "Is breá liom an boladh de do chuid gruaige."

The Elf prince allowed himself a brief smile, though it was edged with more than a little pain, when Dylan's breath caught in her throat. _I love the scent of your hair,_ he'd told her. Oh, and he did. The sweetness of lilies and the richness of a thousand red summer roses. He could afford to be so candid just now because his lady thought this merely pretense to prove his point. Somehow, Dylan still had not learned that pretense made the best shield for truth, despite their courtship charade.

But Nuada wasn't finished just yet.

"Is breá liom do chuid súl," the fae warrior murmured, ghosting his fingers along Dylan's temple and cheek. Not actually touching her. Just a hint of stroking fingertips without breaking the no-touching rule. Her knuckles were turning white from gripping the edge of the counter so tightly.

Just to be a bit cruel, Nuada leaned in until he could almost taste the warmth of Dylan's so very soft skin. If she turned her head just a fraction, his lips would kiss the spot just beneath her ear. "Mo duinne, are you listening?"

She nodded. Oh, wow, he was close, he was _so_ close. Electric potential tingled over her skin with every breath that Nuada allowed to caress her. This had been a bad idea. Very, very bad idea. Even after that time he'd kissed each of her knuckles in front of the fireplace, sending golden shimmers racing through her blood, she hadn't realized just how much Nuada could affect her when he was actually _trying._ Thank goodness he didn't normally try. "I... I'm listening."

"What did I say, then?"

"Um..." She remembered, all right. But getting it out without her voice quavering could pose a problem. "You s-said that you like my eyes."

"No," Nuada said. His voice seemed to pour over her like warm honey, rich and thick. His lips were so close to her skin. His arm was barely centimeters from the hand she kept curled around the edge of the counter. She could _feel_ the displaced air when Nuada's chest rose and fell with each breath. "No, I _love_ your eyes. Such an impossibly beautiful blue. So very lovely. Tá réaltaí i do shúile."

_There are stars in your eyes._

He couldn't _say_ stuff like that to her! Not in Gaelic! She was a sucker for Gaelic! Okay, well, maybe it was because it was Nuada, Dylan thought with no little desperation. Maybe that's why the things he was almost purring in her ear made it so hard to breathe. Because she was deeply, pathetically in love with him and he simply had the knack of making her knees go weak.

But she had to fight back somehow. "So you seduce women by flattering them?"

Dylan had been hoping to push him off-stride a little. Maybe throw him off enough that he couldn't think of anymore sweet whispers to croon in her ear but holy crow who was she kidding? She wondered a bit desperately as she realized that she was gone, she knew it, she was hopelessly gone. If he'd asked her to kiss him right at that moment, even if it was just part of the whole seduction challenge, she probably would've jumped on him.

Then he laughed. A soft, rumbling laugh that was almost a purr. "Sweetheart. I'm not flattering you. I am complimenting you. Judging by the state of your breathing, you're enjoying it. And besides, I'm not finished. In fact I've barely begun... unless you're backing down."

"Can I open my eyes?"

"If you like."

Blue eyes snapped open and locked on his face before narrowing. "Backing down? From a challenge from you?" She demanded. Nuada quirked a sardonic eyebrow at her. "You can just bite me."

His grin was feral and dangerous. It made her heart jolt hard in her chest. "If you like." He shifted closer. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs as the idea of Nuada biting her fully penetrated her fogged brain.

"Okay!" Dylan let go of the counter to hold up both hands, palms out as if to ward him off. "Okay, okay. You made your point. You're sexy, I get it." Furious heat seared her cheeks and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was blushing. Crud-tastic. "You've got skills. I will never doubt your skills again, I promise. You win. I owe you two acts of service. Now could you... I dunno, go dunk yourself in a bucket of cold water?"

That grin took on an edge of lazy amusment. "Do I need to?"

Dylan scowled at him. "Maybe not, but it would make _me_ feel a lot better. In fact, go do it outside."

"It's snowing," he protested.

"Don't be a baby."

He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. "You are merely displeased that you lost to me. I warned you never to challenge an Elven warrior. Especially, might I add, an Elven prince. I have my pride, mo duinne. I cannot simply allow you to insult that pride, and my skills, without consequences."

With a move so effortless it had to have been practiced, Dylan hoisted herself up onto the counter so they were nearly eye to eye. "Uh-huh. So that was, what? A punishment?"

"More like a reward." Nuada gave her an affronted look when she laughed. "Are you actually laughing?"

Dylan nodded, still giggling. "Reward, huh? Wow. You are so arrogant. I'm trying to figure out if I feel sorry for all of your ex-girlfriends or jealous. But anyway." She scrubbed at her mouth with the back of one hand as if trying to wash away the giggles. "Okay, okay, serious time now. I'm done making fun of you."

Nuada simply waited. He knew her too well to think that was the end of the mockery.

He was right.

"Can I ask you a question?" Dylan asked. Nuada inclined his head. "Um... do you practice these skills? Like, did you learn from someone? Or were you just born knowing them? Because I can actually kind of see you as short, itsy-witsy little Nuada trying to be all charming and hitting on the servant girls to get extra treats before bed."

The feral-eyed Elven warrior raised an eyebrow. "Itsy-witsy?" She pressed her lips together to lock the laugh away, but it managed to squeak out anyway. Firegold eyes narrowed. Dylan offered the prince her brightest, sweetest smile. "I will be the first to assure you that I was never 'itsy-witsy,' Dylan." By the Fates, he felt ridiculous even using such a sugary term.

Her smile was indulgent. "Sure you were. Everyone was at some point."

"Were you?"

"Yeah, wanna see a picture?" She slid off the counter, which made her body brush against his. Instinct had him putting his hands to her waist in order to slow down her brief descent. Chance landed her pressed against him with her hands flat to his chest. The sudden desire humming in his blood had him sucking in a breath. Dylan made a face. "Oops. Did I land on your foot?"

"No." To Hell with common sense. One kiss wouldn't hurt either of them. Just one little kiss. One searing, smoldering kiss that would leave him burning for far more than he could ever honorably ask of her. He would take just that one little brush of her lips against his and beshrew the consequences. And he wanted to make sure that if anyone else, mortal or immortal, ever dared to kiss her, Dylan would remember the way _he_ had kissed her and compare it to every other pathetic attempt she experienced in her life.

With that in mind, Nuada began to lean toward her.

Her cell phone rang.

The Elf prince yanked himself back the scant two milimeters he'd traveled and snarled under his breath as his mortal lady cast him an apologetic look. "I have to get this. It's late enough it could be an emergency. I'll show you the picture of me when I'm done, okay?"

Eyes hot and copper with frustration watched her snag her phone from the kitchen table and check the readout. Frustration melted away to concern when Dylan went dead white and dropped her phone, stumbling back and swiping the hand that had picked it up against her jeans as if trying to wipe something disgusting off her skin. Her throat worked convulsively, as if she were about to be sick. Her eyes were too large in her pale face. Her other hand was shaking.

"Dylan?"

The phone stopped ringing for a few seconds, then started again. Dylan swallowed hard, shot one wild-shy glance at Nuada, then reached out and picked the phone up again. Her hand shook. "I have to take this call. Um... privately. I'll just... go in my room or... or something. Give me a few minutes." As she limped out of the kitchen, she clicked TALK. Nuada heard her say in a voice like shards of jagged-edged ice, "Just a second."

It was the midnight ice in Dylan's usually warm, gentle voice that made him pause long enough for her to get into her bedroom and lock the door. Otherwise, he would have followed after her immediately. But he'd never heard Dylan talk like that. Not to anyone, not even Eamonn. And he'd only heard her use that tone _about_ someone twice before.

Brief wisps of memory reminded him of the hatred in her voice that frigid afternoon on the roof with the girl, Lisa, and the next morning when Dylan had been on the phone. Talking about another human. A man. Westenra, wasn't it? Was that who was on the phone? Why had Dylan gone so hideously pale?

Because she'd asked for privacy he gave it to her. But they were going to talk when she came out of her room. _Who_, the prince wondered, not for the first time, _is Westenra?_ And what did he have to do with Nuada's mortal lady?

**.**

Bres smiled, a smile that could've charmed a bluebird from the safety of its nest if he'd so desired it. In fact, that was exactly what he wanted. But it was no ordinary bluebird that the crown prince of Cíocal desired. No, this was a very special bluebird. One with lovely eyes of liquid amber that watched him now with a touch of nerves mingling like mulled wine with the feminine interest in the depths of those pretty eyes.

_Princess Nuala,_ the Elf prince thought, forcing warmth and charm into the smile spreading across his sun-kissed face. She truly was a beauty. Countless noblemen sought her company. If the Silver Lance had been in Bethmoora and not at his mortal whore's common hovel, perhaps the Bethmooran courtiers would not be so bold. But it mattered little to the Fomorian prince if the rabble here tried to woo the princess away from him. They would fail. They didn't have his charm, and they didn't have the tools at his disposal that Bres possessed; namely, Ciaran's poison.

The prince watched with that same warm, charming smile playing about his lips as Balor's daughter, with a shy glance his way, took a sip of the cider in her goblet. He could almost feel sorry for the poor naive girl. She had no idea that while Dierdre poisoned the king with Kadru's serpentine bite and used her own unique talents in the prince's chambers, the Fomori that seemed so intent on wooing her was also feeding her tiny bits of gancanaugh venom day by day. Barely half a drop every meal. Not enough to alert the princess, who possessed powerful magic and might detect stronger doses of the poison. But it was adequate to leave her just open enough that it was easy to woo her, to charm and romance her, to draw her closer with every day that went by. By now the little princess was wrapped up in the black widow's web of romance and courtship Bres was spinning around her. Which was exactly what he wanted.

Nuada would not return to his father's court anytime soon. Bres knew that. He was too busy sampling the charms of his mortal toy. The king grew more and more frustrated every day, especially with the Dragon of Dilong breathing down his neck about the crown prince's whereabouts and what Balor intended to do about this matrimonial arrangement between Nuada and Ming Xian, the little princess known as the Jade Flower. Nuala worried. In her worry, she confessed some of her fears to the man who was slowly stealing her heart. So the Fomorian prince was confident that before the other Elf prince returned, Nuala would be eating out of the palm of his hand.

In keeping with that sentiment, and his charade, Bres flashed his soon-to-be-truelove a smile that filled Nuala's eyes with honeyed warmth and a charming sweetness that almost made the crown prince of Cíocal regret his decision to cut out and feed her still-beating heart to Dierdre on his and the Bethmooran princess's wedding night.

Almost.

**.**

And in the shadows of the mortal world, another still-beating heart was slowly being cut out by a man without sanity or soul.

"How did you get this number?" Dylan snapped as soon as she'd flipped the lock on her bedroom door.

"I have my ways." Doctor Lucian Westenra's voice had all the warmth of a cobra as it hissed through the phone speaker. Dylan fought back a shudder. "I just want you to know a few things, Doctor Myers. Just want to explain a few things, now that I'm back from my suspension. Then I'll hang up."

"I don't want to talk to you. I'm not _going_ to talk to you. Goodbye."

But Westenra's icy cobra voice struck before she could pull the phone away from her ear. "Who was the blond man with you the day Lisa tried to commit suicide?"

Her eyes snapped wide. Her heart stuttered. Every protective instinct came roaring to the surface. Dylan's voice was as cold and sepulchral as a winterbound graveyard when she demanded in what might have been an actual snarl, "What do you want?"

"I want some answers, you snotty little bitch." Despite the profanity and the anger she knew had to be there, Westenra's voice remained without inflection or even much volume. "As payment for your meddling. In exchange, I answer the question that I know you've been dying to ask me for years. But my questions get answered first. So, question one. Who was the man with the long blond hair in the business suit who kept staring at you?"

"Jealous?" The word dripped acid sarcasm.

"You know what happened to your sister? To your precious Francesca?" Westenra demanded. Dylan's stomach clenched and she had to fight the sudden surge of fury and nausea. "She was your favorite. That's what you said during our sessions when you were a child. Out of all your sisters, you said, 'Cesca was your favorite. She was always lots and lots of fun. Is she still your favorite, Dylan? Is she still lots and lots of fun? Because Patrick and Xander were wondering about that."

"Do. Not. Threaten. My family."

"Then answer my questions. I'm a man of my word, Doctor, you know that. You also know I can keep both the Blackwoods on a short leash with the right incentive. And with the right incentive I might let them slip the leash like a pair of rabid dogs and see what they do to your precious family. For research purposes, you understand."

Her response was a child's response, but it was the only thing she could force past the choking lump in her throat and her numb lips. "I hate you."

"Who was he, Dylan?"

Oh, she hated the way he said her name. Like they were friends. Like he was the friendly old grandfather or uncle and he actually cared about her. Something hot and wet trickled down her cheeks as she whispered, "He's my boyfriend."

"Name?"

"None of your business," she snapped.

"Just a first name will do," the doctor said gently. "I could always find out for myself, I'm sure, but if I was busy doing that, that would mean no one was keeping an eye on our dear friends the Blackwoods. They know where you live, by the way. They were just telling me about it today. Such an interesting little place you've got. So near the Park. Right on the edge, right? Actually inside the Park, near one of the main entrances. However did you afford the special licenses?"

_Translation: I know where you live. There is nowhere that you're safe from me. Trade me the first name of your boyfriend for the safety of your family and yourself._

For the first time Dylan wondered if there was any point in calling the cops. Peabody and Donovan would help take care of this. Of course they would. But it wouldn't go away. It wouldn't solve anything. If the police could have solved this, they would have done it when she was eighteen and fresh out of Saint Vincent's.

But Westenra was too well-connected. Westenra was untouchable.

Just the first name? It wasn't Nuada's true name, which gave anyone who knew it power over that person. More than likely the only people who knew _that_ name were the king and maybe Princess Nuala. And there _were_ other guys named Nuada in the world. Both the Other Kin and humans often used the old names. And if the Blackwoods came here, to the cottage... what if, for whatever reason, the Elf prince wasn't there? What if Tsu's'di wasn't there, either? A long shot, but it always paid to worry about the long shots. Without the two prime defenders of the cottage, if the Blackwoods came here, A'du and 'Sa'ti could get hurt. Even killed.

And she couldn't tell Tsu's'di about the threat or demand he stay without telling him the details because then he'd tell Nuada and Nuada couldn't know about the Blackwoods. There was no doubt in Dylan's mind that those two deserved death but Nuada couldn't risk being the one to deliver it and if he knew what they'd done, the Elven warrior would insist on it. If she didn't answer Westenra's questions, her prince and the children she was supposed to protect would be in danger. So would her sisters and their children. So would her twin brother.

So she snarled, "His name is Nuada, you bast-"

"All right, then. No need to get snippy," Westenra interrupted dismissively. Dylan opened her mouth to hiss something obscene but the other psychiatrist beat her to the punch. "Does he know you're damaged goods? Or that you need serious help?"

_Help. You need help. You need help, Dylan. We just want to help you, honey. You need help. Once you get the help you need, you can come home. You need help._

Words from her childhood. The one thing she had always hated hearing. She _hated_ it. A sweetly poisoned lie that she was crazy, that what she saw and what she knew weren't true, weren't real, she was sick, she was crazy, she needed _help._

And just like that, she was twelve again.

Even as she was screaming at herself to hang up, to drop the phone, to go back out into the kitchen and slide into Nuada's arms because it was safe there, she stammered, "I... I'm not, I... I'm not. I don't."

"Right. I'll take that as a no, then. What would he do if I told him his lady friend had spread her legs for two boys by the time she was only twelve?"

"I didn't-"

"And what do you think he'd say if I told him about what happened _after_?"

She tried to breathe. Tried to keep from screaming. Couldn't hang up. If she hung up, the snake on the other end of the line might send the monsters after Francesca again, or one of the other girls. Or send them to her cottage.

She was choking on the ice in her guts when she whispered, "He already knows what happened after."

"Oh, the shock therapy and the drugs, I wouldn't doubt that. Almost ten years of those things leave a mark. Didn't you have to take drugs for the muscle tics at first? And there was some rumor floating around the hospital years ago about you being in rehab. Was that just gossip or was that true?"

For just a minute, Dylan wondered if Westenra were the devil. How else did this monster have insight into the darkest parts of her life? Why was it so easy for him to scrape away her self-control while she drowned in her own memories? He stripped away the ice and the stone that kept her strong enough to ignore the past. Left her vulnerable enough for the demons to come sniffing around, lusting for the scent of blood.

Clearly Westenra hadn't expected an answer to those questions, though, because he kept talking.

"And the isolation treatments. Do you still have hysterics when someone turns out all the lights and leaves you all alone in the dark?" Before she could say anything, he continued, "But that's not what I meant. I meant those unfortunate incidents with Mr. Blackwood and his sons. Does he know about those? And remember, Dylan, I'm a licensed psychiatrist. I can tell when you're lying."

A beat of silence. Then, "Does. He. Know?"

"N-no."

She couldn't stop the tears now. She didn't want to think about this. Didn't want to think about Westenra or those years in the institutions right now. Didn't want to think of her first year of college when everything had been falling apart because she couldn't deal, couldn't take care of John _and_ go to college _and_ have a life _and_ help the fae. Didn't want to think about the poisons that had swum in her veins, the residue that _still_ festered in her body. Didn't want to think about nightmares, about therapy, about the hysterics when she'd failed two classes and lost her first job and only the Hidden Folk and the government had kept her and her brother in their apartment and fed. Didn't want to think about memories.

Not because she thought Nuada would turn on her. No. Dylan knew him better than that. She just... just couldn't bother with all of this right now. Not with so much going on. Not with their return to Findias looming, not with the courtship charade and the political intrigues and she had to get off the phone before Nuada came in or heard her crying or something. But the shadows and the hurt were surging up and for once, for some reason, she couldn't just shove them down again. They had her by the throat with their vicious little fang-teeth and wouldn't let go. Would never ever let her go.

"I see. So, you're probably wondering why I called." When she didn't say anything, just continued to cry quietly into the phone, he said, "See, the thing is, you've been a thorn in my side for years. You, you're so ungrateful. I could have made your life a living hell when you were a child and yet I didn't. I just gave you the things you asked for. It's not my fault you went in that basement, after all. Besides, you all enjoyed yourselves, you're simply too stubborn to admit it. So ungrateful. Always making trouble, always being so difficult. But the only things I've been able to do about you up until now were petty and didn't really work. They just pissed you off, didn't they? Made you more annoying.

"But now... now I've got some leverage, don't I? Because little Dylan is finally pulling her pathetic little life together. She finally has a boyfriend. Someone to love her, to hold her, to honor and cherish her. And you don't want him to learn all of your dirty little secrets, do you?"

No. No, she didn't, because if Nuada ever found out about this, Westenra was as good as dead. Which didn't bother her at all after this hellish phone call. Except that if Nuada killed another human and claimed it was in defense of her, Balor was not going to buy that. And since this wasn't a life-and-death situation, even if by some miracle the king _did_ buy it, would he still punish the prince? She had no doubt that he would, and that surety added a frigid layer of fear to the black emotions churning in her stomach. She wasn't going to let her stupid personal problems put Nuada in danger. Not again. Never again, if she could help it.

Her voice was a mere thread of sound when she whispered, "What do you want?"

"I want you to stop bothering me. Stop interfering at my hospital. Stay out of my business."

"They're my patients!" Dylan protested weakly.

"Well, then, Doctor. You're going to have to make a choice. Who do you care about more? Those snot-nosed little thugs you call patients, or the man you've managed to trick into falling in love with you? Although it's not much of a choice, really. He's going to leave you eventually. Count on it. After all, everyone else did."

She tried to speak. Couldn't. Not even a broken syllable would come out. Because he was right - everyone _had_ left her at some point or another: her parents had left her at Saint Vincent's, her sisters had left her once she was out and they realized she wasn't "cured," and even John had left her when he'd been snatched up by that strange dimension and separated from her.

And Nuada had already walked away from her twice. The first time had been the night Eamonn had killed the woodman and his wife. Not his fault, not abandonment, she tried to tell herself, but Westenra's voice was still hissing in her head. _He's going to leave you eventually_. If she hadn't gone to Findias to stand for him, would she have ever seen the Elf prince again?

And then... and then... during the fight... during the fight where he'd accused her of lying to him and called her... called her...

_Disgusting human whore..._

Except he hadn't meant it, he'd said so, he was back, he'd come back. Had saved her life time and again. Saved her sanity. Given her hope and comfort. He'd been her only comfort in the soul-darkness left by her nightmares. Nuada wouldn't leave her again. He cared for her. She was precious to him - he had told her so. Nuada wasn't going to leave.

But John had cared for her. John had loved her, still loved her, more than his own life. He was her twin. They were two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. And John had left her when she needed him the most.

And once the courtship charade was over, once they escaped from it... would Nuada leave her, too?

_Third_ _time's the charm,_ she thought suddenly.

"Now you may ask your question."

It was like she was drowning in air. Every beat of her heart punched against her ribcage, striking the breath from her lungs. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pain spiked through her temples. Wrapped her heart in an ice cold fist and squeezed until all she could do was sit and struggle to breathe through the tears.

"All right. Obviously you're speechless. So let's see if I can guess your question. You want to know why I walked away that night. Right? Of course you do. Why did Doctor Westenra, who was supposed to be the grown-up, supposed to be the one in charge, why did he leave you and the others there that night?" He chuckled now, a warm laugh like an indulgent uncle. "It's simple. Because boys will be boys, Dylan. That's just how it is. All good, clean fun."

Then he hung up.

Dylan just sat there and stared at her phone for a long moment before hitting END.

_Boys will be boys?_ That was his excuse? That was why he'd come down those stairs, seen what was happening, and walked away again? Then he'd had the vicious gall to look her in the eye when she brought it to the three main psychiatrists' attention and tell her that making up stories about other kids and anyone else was not going to get her home any sooner.

_Good clean fun_, he'd said. Good clean fun had ended Gunter and Allison's life. It had shattered Ruby, the other girl who'd been down in that basement with them that night. And Dylan herself still bore scars on her heart and her body from the twisted sexual games the Blackwoods boys had played with so many of the kids.

_Breathe,_ Dylan snarled at herself, hating her own weakness. _Breathe. Don't be pathetic. Stop it. Take a damn breath._

But she couldn't. The world was swimming before her eyes, tears bluring her room into smears of color and shadow with hints of flickering light from the crystal _rai_ flowers. Dylan covered her face with her hands and focused on the moment. Focused on the warm wall of her hands and slowly, slowly began to draw in enough air that she wouldn't pass out. Only when she could draw a full breath without a hiccup, only when her hands no longer shook and her eyes no longer stung, did she stand up and move to the door to go back into the living room.

Nuada stood on the other side of the door, one hand raised as if about to knock. Dylan jumped in surprise. "Whoa. Jeez. H-how long have you been there?"

"I... a few seconds. I came back to tell you the children were in bed." Feral eyes narrowed as he studied her face. "You've been crying."

She quickly shook her head. "N-n-no. Don't be silly. I'm fine."

Dylan tried to slip past him - if she kept looking into his face, kept seeing the concern in his eyes, she'd break down again, the pain would slam into her hard, and she'd only just managed to push it all down again. But Nuada wouldn't let her pass. One impossibly strong arm blocked the doorway before snaking around her waist and pulling her to him.

"You are lying to me," he said, sounding almost bewildered. "You have never lied to me, never purposely deceived me before. Why do it now? What's wrong?"

"Nuada," she protested, twisting a little. He didn't loosen his grip. "Stop it. Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

"Dylan." The slender thread of hurt in his voice made her look up. Their eyes locked. There was such concern and sorrow in those golden eyes. She could feel her mouth beginning to tremble. She bit her lip and looked away. "Dylan. Don't you trust me, then?"

"Of course I do. I'm fine, I..."

No, she wasn't. Sudden fear, sudden hollow weakness, sudden grief speared her through the chest. Her knees trembled. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut as tears pricked the backs of her eyes and the world went blurry once more. No, she couldn't break down now. Couldn't. Not here. Not in front of him. She was already too close to spiraling out of control.

"I'm fine, it's okay, I'm okay. I'm just fine so please, please just... Nuada, it's okay, it doesn't matter, I'm fine, all right? I'm okay, I'm fine. Please. It doesn't matter, just, please, it's fine, I'm fine, please."

_I don't care, I can't... it's just a dream, I don't care. Please. I don't care, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it's fine, I'm fine, I don't care, I'm fine, just don't, please it's fine, I'm fine, it's all fine..._

Nuada swiftly suppressed a shudder as the memory sliced through his mind. Gods, he still had nightmares about that shared dream sometimes. Of finding her, brutalized and bleeding on a dark stairwell. _Blood slicking_ _a dark stairwell. Blood pooling__on concrete in deserted subway tunnels. Blood soaking into_ _Elven silk sheets. _Nuada fought against the insidious thoughts until one surfaced enough to snag his attention. _Always, always she tells_ _me she is fine. Rape, gang rape, mind rape, and she insists she is well. Insists she is fine. But she is _not _fine. Something_ _is wrong here._

"Dylan. Tell me. What's wrong?" His voice was gentle but firm. She shook her head and tried to pull away again. He didn't tighten his grip, but he didn't loosen it, either. Something - instinct, maybe - told him to keep pushing her. "Is it your brother? One of your sisters? Did something happen?"

"No, no. John's fine. Everyone's fine. I'm fine. Nuada, I'm _fine._"

"If you say that one more time, I am going to dump you in that creek by the little stone bridge in the Park."

Her eyes widened. She would've stepped back but his arm held her in place. "But it's snowing!"

His tone was without pity. "Do not be a baby. Now, tell me what's wrong." She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Looked away, fighting to stop her lower lip from quivering. His eyes went flat. "Very well. You still owe me four questions. I'll use one of them now. Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm upset," she snapped, glaring at him. "Obviously."

The look he gave her could have drawn blood from a stone. "Those questions without proper answers do not count as proper questions. Therefore, I still have four left. Why are you upset?" She looked away then. Gritting her teeth didn't stop the small sound of heart-pain from escaping her rigid control. That sound was like an iron spike driven right into his heart. So he reached up and very gently stroked her cheek. One hot tear dropped onto his fingers. "Mo duinne. What is it? I can feel your pain. Your sadness. What's wrong? Tell me. Why are you so upset?"

"I can't tell you."

"Dylan-"

She shoved at him. That flash of temper had a brief wave of relief sweeping through him. "I _can't!_ For your sake and mine, I can't. If I tell you, you'll get angry and you'll do something reckless and get hurt. I know you. I _know_ you! You see me in tears and you go ballistic, okay? And even if that wasn't a concern, I can't because... because..." She swiped her hands over her face in a vain attempt to remove any trace of tears but she was still crying, so it didn't work. Nuada brushed away one of those fresh tears with his thumb. The gentle touch just brought more weeping. Why did he have to be so gentle with her? Why did he have to be so kind? "I can't," she whispered. "Please don't ask me."

"If I promise not to do anything reckless or... or 'go ballistic,' as you put it, then will you tell me?" He could do _nothing_ if he didn't know what was wrong. And besides, he could make that promise and still take care of his lady's problem - if it was possible for anyone to take care of it - since he was _never_ reckless. But Dylan shook her head. Nuada growled, exasperated. "What are you afraid of?"

She sniffled and swiped almost angrily at her cheeks. "Nothing. Now are you gonna let me go?"

"Not until you explain why I can still see the tears glimmering in your eyes," he snapped. She flinched, and for the first time in more than a week he felt like a monster. Far more gently, Nuada added, "Dylan, mo duinne... I look at you and it is as if you're bleeding to death from a wound I cannot see. Tell me what is wrong so I can do something."

Her eyes were wet and exhausted when she met his gaze, and suddenly all of the fight went out of her and she just let herself collapse against him. She didn't cry anymore, but she clung to him with a desperation that unnerved him. As if she thought he might disappear at any moment.

"Sweetheart." The endearment slipped out without conscious thought, and neither of them noticed it. "Sweetheart. Just tell me. It will be all right if you tell me. I promise you. Nothing bad will happen."

"Yes it will," Dylan whispered.

If she told him then she would start to _really_ cry, the hysterical breathless choking crying that involved a lot of tears, snot, and probably saliva. She _hated_ doing that. And once he started being super nice to her, which he always was when she cried (which was one of the reasons she hated crying in front of him in the first place; it felt so whiny and cheap, like she was using him), she would shatter completely. And once shattered, Dylan wouldn't be able to put herself back together because he would demand the story, the entire story, every detail, and she couldn't _do_ that. She'd shoved aside the memories so that she only had to deal with them in dreams and, occasionally, flashbacks. Usually Dylan didn't even think about most of those memories if she could help it. If she thought about them now, talked about them now while Nuada held her and she was so emotionally shaky, she knew she would have to deal with things she did _not_ want to face. Ever.

"Yes, it will," she whispered into his chest. "Nuada, it will, okay? I can't, please don't make me, I can't, please, I just _can't_..."

Then Nuada took away her breath and the last of her resolve by pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. He murmured softly, "Yes, you can, and no, it won't. I will not let anything happen to you, mo duinne. I am here. Rely on my strength. I will let no harm befall you, I swear it." Her shoulders began to shake and he felt her tears soaking his shirt. "I swear to you, Dylan, I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered. "It's all right. Tell me. Let me help you. It's all right, you can tell me."

It was a very long time before she was calm enough to take his hand and lace her fingers with his. Golden eyes roved over her tear-stained face. Dylan whispered brokenly, "I can't... can't tell you. It's too hard to form the words, it's like swallowing glass... but... but you may look. But only at the parts I deliberately show you. Do you promise?"

"I promise." Nuada drew a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Braced himself. And then he slid into her mind like a shadow.

First she replayed the entire conversation for him. Because this was true memory and not just the bits and pieces she could access on her own, he heard every word, and they filled him with a rage so ravenous and black it shocked them both. No wonder she'd asked him not to do anything reckless. Nuada _felt_ reckless just then. His hands itched to hold sword and spear so that he could use them on this pitiless, heartless creature that dared threaten Dylan. Dared reduce her to this sobbing woman-child in his arms.

Then she showed him just what she and Westenra had been talking about.

Flashes. Vague impressions and blurry images. Words hissing through her memory and his mind like snakes. Vicious words that made him yearn for bloodshed. He could feel everything, there was nothing she could do to prevent that, but she wasn't letting him see it all. She kept most of it blurred because... because why? Because she was worried about something. Something to do with him. But it didn't matter right now. Right now he had to focus.

The feral-eyed warrior pushed past the screaming pain and the heartwrenching sound of twelve-year-old Dylan's sobs. Nuada could feel her pain, her fear. Her desperation. The nauseating dizziness that whispered of oblivion if she just gave in and stopped fighting it, stopped fighting the monster above her. But she didn't stop. She kept struggling, thrashing with limbs shaking with exhaustion and pain and blood loss. Kept trying to scream despite the sweaty hand pressing so hard against her mouth that she cut her lips on her own teeth. She kept screaming, kept sobbing, kept fighting. She'd still been fighting the night he found her in the subway, desperate and trapped. Just as she was in these memories.

In the physical world Nuada pulled her closer, vainly trying to shield her from what had happened long ago. Tried desperately to keep his own mind from slipping back into his own memories, memories of Nuala's terrified screams - a child's screams, a girl's screams, just like Dylan's - and his mother's eyes, the tears running like blood, mingling with the amber blood and turning the ground to mud as his mother screamed and fought against a pack of human wolves. By the Fates, he'd _tried_, he'd tried so hard to get loose, he'd been screaming for her, for both of them, for his mother and Nuala, fighting like a hellcat, but it hadn't been enough.

Just as Dylan's struggle hadn't been enough. Not when she was a child, not when she was a woman preyed upon by another pack of wolves. Just like his mother. He tasted the salt of his lady's tears in the physical world, the salt of her blood through the mystical link currently binding them.

In the memory, the cruel whispers stopped and the sickening hammering pain eased for a moment. But Dylan was still crying. The salt stung his mouth.

Then a voice. An adult's voice, cultured and jovial. The same voice that had been on the phone, only younger. "Oh, that's where you all went. Don't make too much of a mess. Your father and the janitors will throw a fit." The image of the memory cleared a little and Nuada saw an older man in a white lab coat - maybe forty or fifty years old - smile almost benevolently before turning and walking back up the stairs with more than just Dylan calling for him to come back, to please come back, to help.

Other children. She'd told him there had been other children but he hadn't quite realized... She let him see the faces of those three children. Two girls, both with curly brown hair like Dylan's. A boy with a tangled mop of brown hair and freckles. She let him see the vicious bruises, the iron-laced blood, the tears. But she didn't let him see the faces of her attackers, or her own reflection in the empty eyes of the filthy human animal brutally using her. Or the face of the man that had walked away from her torment, smiling.

Shock, too heavy to hold back any longer, smashed into the Elf prince hard enough that he stumbled out of the mind link with enough force that Dylan almost lost her balance. When they were both steady, he stared down at her almost numbly. His father wanted to maintain the truce with the humans. Wanted to maintain a truce based on shame with monsters who would leave a child in the dark to be brutalized even when she was begging for help. That human had _smiled_ at those twisted boys that had dared to lay hands on Dylan. What kind of monster smiled while a young girl was being raped? When innocent blood stained the floor and pain saturated the room? Just like... just like-

_- Emerald eyes glassy with shock and pain  
Amber blood soaking into the earth  
Too weak to scream now  
Too weak to fight back  
Mother. Mother! No, Mother!  
Nuala screaming, crying  
Her sobs echoing in his ears_  
_The light fading from his mother's eyes_  
_Just like... just like... _-

The fury burning through him along with the brief flashback left him shaking with the intensity of it. That human wretch had to die. Tonight. He had to pay for what he'd done to that child who'd grown up to be an extraordinary woman. Had to die for what he'd allowed to be done to her. All that pain. All that fear. The human filth could have prevented it _all_. Monster. Putrid, sickening, black-hearted human filth. To do that, to allow that to happen to a child...

_She was just a little girl,_ Nuada thought as a different pain lanced him. _She was twelve years old. Gods, she was only a child and that animal_ _left her there..._

Only Dylan's hands on his shoulders kept him from hunting down that monster and putting an end to him before the dawn. Gentle fingertips ghosted over his face, jerking him out of the black, choking fury and the slashing grief. Blue eyes held his gaze and kept him anchored long enough for the prince to get a reign on his temper.

Then she whispered, "I'm sorry, Nuada."

He stared at her. "Dylan. What, in the name of all the gods beyond the stars, do _you_ have to be sorry for?" Nuada drew her to him and rested his forehead against hers. They were both trembling now. Breathing hard. "You cannot think you were in any way responsible. I won't let you think that."

"I don't. I just... I... I tried to shield you from the brunt of it but... but I... what happened distracted me. I don't let myself think about it, so I was distracted. I'm sorry you had to feel so much of it, no one should have to feel that, it's just..." Tears thickened her voice, but the Elf prince saw with more than a little concern that she didn't let them fall. "He left me there. He was supposed to take care of all of us and he just _left us there._ I wasn't the only one. Gunter... and Allison. Ruby. And then he... there were other times. It wasn't just once. So many other times. Not as often for me - I was in isolation a lot - but-"

"Isolation?"

Now she smiled, and there was an edge of savage satisfaction to her expression that chilled him. He'd never seen her look so... vicious. "Every time someone, _anyone_, tried to get me to do pretty much _anything_, I fought, and I usually drew blood. Copious amounts of it. On a good day whoever I damaged ended up in the infirmary. On a great day they stayed there for a long time."

Then her smile slipped away. Her eyes grew vacant as her mind took her down some old road of memory.

"They locked me away in the dark for fighting back. For defending myself. They stabbed me with needles full of poison and tied me down and locked me away in the dark with the monsters and the eyes, the eyes always watching, always watching, trying to spy, and when they let me out I was scared to fight but I fought anyway and they locked me away again. And I screamed and screamed for help and no one ever came, no one will come when you're in the dark. No one. Only monsters, the monsters with the eyes, always watching, looking for weakness, trying to break you, they want to break you to pieces and I do believe in faeries," she whispered, and the hollow despair in her voice and her words sent ice skittering down Nuada's spine. "I do believe in faeries, I do, I do. I promise I do. I do believe in faeries, I do, I-"

"Dylan," he said sharply, and she jerked as if she'd been stuck with a pin. "Dylan," he murmured. Brushed at the tears she didn't even know glittered on her cheeks. "Do not go down that road. Stay with me, mo duinne. Come away from the memory now."

"Oh," she breathed, and fisted her hands in his shirt. "Oh, Nuada. I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm so messed up; you deserve so much better. I'm sorry. I'm sor-"

"Stop." The word was quiet and ruthless and colder than ice. "Do not apologize to me again. Not for this." _Never for this__, never__._ "Now tell me where this man is," the crown prince of Bethmoora commanded softly. The human had to die. Nuada had to paint the walls of the human's pathetic hovel scarlet with his own blood and it had to be tonight, had to be now, he had to die _now_. "Show me his face."

"No. Nuada, no. You can't. I know what you're going to do. You _can't_. Your father-"

His fist slamming into the doorframe silenced her protests. "Damn my father!" Nuada's eyes burned molten bronze with rage. "Damn my father," he added more softly, and far more viciously, "damn his soul to the most desolate plain of Annwn if he dares to condemn me for this. That... that filthy human left you. I watched him walk away with a smile on his face. He left you!" So much pain. So much blood. Rivers of it. Four children. Four _children_. All that blood and pain and despair...

"You can't use the excuse that Westenra left me as a reason to put yourself in danger for me again, Nuada. I'm not worth it."

He almost wanted to hate her for that. Not _worth_ it? What was she not worth? This woman who'd stood by him when he needed a champion, when he needed solace or just a simple show of support, this woman who stood with him no matter the cost to herself... "If not you, then who is?"

Dylan raked her trembling hands through her hair and sighed. Didn't he understand? She was a commoner; he was a prince. For crying out loud, he was the _heir_. His life was not his own. They had talked about this before. He had to be careful! He couldn't go around pissing off his king and getting hurt or flogged or tortured or maybe even killed just because of her! But first she had to take a breath and reign in the emotion threatening to choke her. Then she took another breath to explain.

"Look, I don't trust your father. I consider him... a threat. Not an enemy exactly but he is still a threat. And I don't trust him not to hurt you. Not after walking into Findias and seeing you chained with iron to the whipping posts with your blood sheeting down your back, half-delirious from the pain. _You_ don't trust him. _I_ don't trust him."

"Mo duinne-"

"Nuada, I still have nightmares about that night! Okay? He whipped the flesh from your back without any tangible proof that you'd even done anything wrong. You almost died. I thought you _were_ dead! So please, don't risk your father's anger over this. Just let it go. It's not a big deal-"

"Do _not_ say that," the feral-eyed warrior snarled, cutting her off. Every time she said that, or words like it, she shoved her pain so far down even he couldn't sense it but Nuada knew it wasn't gone. Knew the hurt and the grief still festered inside of her. Was this why the phone call from the demon out of her childhood had shattered her so completely for those few moments of weeping? Because of that soul-poison locked away in her heart? "Not when I see how much this still hurts you. Do _not_ lie to me to protect me, Dylan. This matters to you, so it matters to me." Gently, he murmured, "Sosanna mo chroí ag brón den sórt sin." _My heart breaks at such grief._

Dylan sighed and pressed her face into his chest. "Nuada, if I wasn't scared that something horrible would happen to you, I'd let you have him in a heartbeat, because that would be justice. But I can't stand the thought of losing you. Can't bear the thought of you being hurt. It would kill me." The sharply knifing urge to sob into his chest was slowly fading as the warmth of his body seeped into her. She hadn't realized how cold she felt until just then. "And I know, I just _know_ your dad will use this as an excuse to do something awful to you if you do this and I'm telling you I'm not worth that, okay?"

He forced her to look into his eyes before he spoke. "I am only going to say this once to you, so listen well. You tell me that I am your friend. That you love me _because_ I am your friend. I will tell you this, then - you are more than worth a few stripes, Dylan. Everything I have sacrificed, everything that has happened to me, is worth what you have brought to my life. Don't tell me that you are not worth it. You are..." Nuada drew a deep breath before he said, "You are worth everything."

Something passed between them, ephemeral and insubstantial as light and breath, but they both felt it. She just wasn't sure what it meant. Bronze eyes slowly warmed toward the honey gold Dylan loved so much. His palm stroking against her hair was so very soothing. Feeling oddly hollow, Dylan said softly, "Coinnigh dom. Tabhair."

_Hold me. Please._

The request was barely a thread of sound in the bedroom. Nuada brushed back a tendril of dark hair with gentle fingertips. Then he slid his arms around her and did as she asked. He held her, and tried to figure out how to ask the thing he needed to ask because this human beast, this Westenra, needed to pay for his crimes. The so-called justice system that Dylan had tried to employ for that purpose had failed her. Now he would step in and call in the debt owed.

But first he needed to know the depth of that debt, to ensure the punishment fit the crime. And instinct made him doubt if it was safe yet to leave Dylan by herself. Every warrior's instinct rebelled at leaving her alone just yet. It wasn't safe for her.

Nuada did not let himself think about why it might not be safe. He would simply do what needed to be done.

"Dylan, listen to me. Listen. I am going to kill him." The words were calmly and quietly said, but she heard the undercurrent of razor-edged steel in Nuada's voice. "Leaving a monster to roam free and victimize others because I was afraid of what might happen to me as a result of doing the honorable thing... that would make me a coward, sweetheart. You call me brave. You call me an honorable warrior. How can I allow you to name me such if I do as you ask and act the coward?" Then he asked what he had to ask. Hated asking because there was a fragility to her that filled him with dread. "He must be punished, for _all_ of his crimes. Will you show me? Will you show me everything?"

She didn't respond for a long time. It may have been an hour. It may have been an eternity. Nuada began to wonder if she would even speak when finally, she took his hand one more time and twined her trembling fingers with his steady ones. She didn't look at him. Didn't speak aloud. Just sniffled and said silently, _I'll walk you through it._

The fragility grew sharper, more pronounced as he acknowledged the offer and then, as gently as he possibly could, slid into her mind once more.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _oh, fun. Dancing around in Dylan's head (again). Specifically looking for dark, depressing crap. Fun. Lovely Christmas present for you all. Okay, just kidding. There will be more. I'm gonna do my best to get out 2 more chapters this month, and both of them will be lighter (except when danger looms, of course, because light danger only works in garlic butter sauce... too much _Master Chef_!)._

_And hopefully we'll get everyone back to Findias before the end of this year. Seriously, that was supposed to happen about __**18 chapters ago**__. Yeah. Didn't work out that way. Le sigh. But whatevers. I'm aiming for __**chapter 50**_ _now. Hopefully I'll get at least 3 chapters out this month and we'll get some Findias action. Woot. Including the surprise plan our lovebirds have cooked up to throw off the king and his deep-rooted prejudices (I almost wrote deeply-rotted... but that's fairly accurate, too, isn't it?)._

_And now for our lovely review prompt!_

_1) Nuada peeling potatoes. Who can actually imagine that? I mean, he's lived on his own for the past 2,000 years. Surely he's peeled a potato himself before. I'm just curious though if this seems too... menial for him._

_2) The seduce-with-the-voice challenge. What do we think of that?_

_3) Who wants to hazard Bres's reaction when Nuada shows up in like, a week or two? "WTF, mate? What are you doing here? By the way, I think your sister's hot."_

_4) Conversation with Westenra. Thoughts? Theories? Questions, comments, smart remarks?_

_5) "You are worth everything." Hmmm. Theories on where that's gonna go?_

_6) Twelve favorite things (funny, cute, sad, scary, growly, happy, romantic, steamy, whatevers)._

_**Challenge Doubly Won Challenge:**_ _can someone write me a little ficlet, don't care how long, about what would have happened if Nuada had kept going with the talking and Dylan had succumbed to his utter hotness? I'm just curious. Thank you!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Neytiri's name comes from the female lead in James Cameron's _Avatar_. I used it because, in _Avatar_, the deity of the Na'avi (the blue cat-like guys) is called Ewah. Since 'Sa'ti and the others are ewah, I thought I'd bring things full-circle by named 'Sa'ti's cat doll "Neytiri."

- I don't think I got the idea of Nuada peeling potatoes from _The Last Unicorn_ (in the animated film by Rankin Bass, Prince Liir is peeling potatoes in the kitchen and keeps cutting his thumb because he's cutting toward his body instead of away from it), but just in case, I thought I'd mention this scene. Really, peeling potatoes has a vast array of connections in my memory. When I think of peeling potatoes I do think of _the Last Unicorn_. However, I also think of movies like _Nanny McPhee_ (the cook makes the kids a potato soup made solely from potato peels) and real life experiences. An example: my beta had me help her peel potatoes, and insisted I use a potato peeler instead of a knife because she thought I'd cut myself. I was 19 or so at the time. I'd always used a knife to peel potatoes (I still do, actually). I've never cut myself. But this one time I used a peeler, to please my beta, and I gouged a chunk out of my palm and got blood everywhere. *nods* I'm just special that way.

- Broccoli, potato, ham and cheddar soup from Campbells (it's a Campbell's Chunky Soup flavor) is DELICIOUS! Nuff said.

- The thing about the man-cave is in _Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus_.

- Nuada's seduction challenge was inspired by a scene from the film _the Wedding Date_. Seriously, go watch it on TNT. It's hilarious. And romantic.

- Westenra's easy-going psycho demeanor on the phone is inspired by a few people: 1) Jim Moriarty from BBC's new series, _Sherlock_; 2) Reed Weyland, an OMC from some of Solain Rhyo's AVP fanfiction; and 3) the Joker as played by Heath Ledger in _the Dark Knight_.


	48. The Baffled King

_**Author's Note:**_ _I am rushing on posting this chapter so I actually don't have an author's note, but hopefully you guys like this chapter. Love me! Reviews are loves._=D _And I don't have references or anything but I'll post them when I repost the chapter a couple days from now._

_**Important Note**__: in case anyone missed this,__**between chapter 46 and 47**_ _there are__**two short stories**_ _written by__**me**_ _(as opposed to the amazing geniuses who normally contribute to Once Upon a Time's fanon world). They are called__**"Good Night, Moon"**_ _and__**"A Hero Comes Home."**_ _You guys should go read them. Thanks!_

_**Necessary Translation:**_ _"Tá mé anseo, Dylan. Tá mé anseo. Shealbhú isteach orm" means "I'm here, Dylan. I'm here. Hold onto me." I don't translate it in-text because it detracted from the scene._

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**Chapter Forty-Eight**  
**The Baffled King**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Comfort, a Witness, an Order of Execution, a Dangerous Oath, a Dangerous Game, and the Silver Blade in the Dark**

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They ended up on the floor leaning against Dylan's bed, the shaking human sobbing into his shirt as he lanced each and every festering soul wound and cleansed the fey-like heart of all the poison inside. She clung to him as if he were the only safe haven in a raging storm, his embrace her only shelter from the deluge of her own pain. She'd been shoving all that pain down since childhood in order to cope. It had built inside her, fermenting into something almost tangible in its foulness. That was why Nuada always felt so uneasy whenever she went from deeply upset to calm so swiftly; he'd known somehow that what she was doing would one day strain her mind to the breaking point.

Now the last of the brutal childhood memories had been stripped of that rot. Dylan's soul bled, but cleanly. The haunted sorrow he'd always sensed in her was somewhat tempered now. It would always remain a part of her, but it lacked the knife-sharp edges that had always hurt her. Soon her heart would begin to heal. How had she kept down all of that hurt for so long without losing her grip on sanity?

Luckily the mental block Nuala had placed in Dylan's mind, acting as an emotional buffer between her and the memories of the psychic tortures Eamonn had inflicted on her, was still in place. What if that block had broken with all this old pain still simmering under the surface? Dylan would always bear the scars from that night, but would it have shattered her? What kind of damage might those memories, combined with these, have done? Nuada was almost afraid to think about it.

"They left me in that horrible place," Dylan mumbled into his shirt. The mortal was tucked into the protective shelter of his body, framed by Nuada's updrawn knees, just as they'd sat that long ago night in Findias. Dylan glanced up and met Nuada's eyes. "My parents. All this time I thought I was okay, I thought I was over it. Put it behind you - that's what everyone kept saying so I did, I thought I did, but... but they abandoned me in that place. They just left me there. How do you get to be okay with that? And John. It wasn't his fault, but he left me there, too. They all left me and now my sisters and my parents blame me for being trapped there. Or my parents _did_. Up until they died they blamed me. The girls blame me. John's the only one who doesn't."

"Dylan-"

"I d-didn't do anything wrong," she quavered. It was a child's words spoken with a woman's voice, but Nuada sensed the wounded child within her and felt his own heart bleeding. "I didn't do anything wrong and they _t-tortured_ m-m-me. Why would they d-do that?"

He had no answers for her. Only comfort, such as it was. The stroke of his fingers against her cheek. The strength of his arm holding her to him. When she fisted her hands in his shirt and trembled anew with each fresh wave of grief, the rich timbre of his voice when he would say, "Tá mé anseo, Dylan. Tá mé anseo. Shealbhú isteach orm," seemed to help ease the pain.

And pet names. They always comforted. Even though Nuada knew she thought he didn't mean them, they still comforted. A litany of soft words that slowly smoothed away the razor edges of grief and hurt. "Mo mhuire. Mo duinne. A stóirín, mo aisling. Amháin a chara. Bheag amháin, ainm ceana. A chumann. A stór, a thaisce. Bhraitheann do croí. A éirí gréine. Mo réalta tráthnóna."

_My lady. My brown one. My little darling, my dream. Dear one. Little one, darling one. Sweetheart. My dearest, my treasure. My heartbeat_. _My sunrise. My evening star_. And the sentiment always left unspoken, but still fueling the smoldering burn at the very core of him: _a ghrá mo chroí, my heart's beloved_.

And then... oh, and then... Dylan laid the very tips of her fingers against the edge of his jaw and the line of his neck. Blue eyes like stardust were tired, but the shadows in their depths weren't so dark. And she murmured in a voice like a sweet caress, "Go raibh maith agat... mo airgeadach." _Thank you, my silver one._ Then, looking almost confused, she added in a voice softened by wonderment, "Mo ridire bán. Mo prionsa dathúil." _My white knight. My handsome prince_. Suddenly her mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. "Prionsa Fheictear."

Nuada smiled, surprised he was capable of it. She'd called him _my silver one._ The Elven warrior was fairly certain he would blissfully trade a century of his life for her to do it again. Then the last two words fully penetrated and his wan smile morphed into what might've been a tired grin. "Prince Charming?"

"Tá," she replied. _Yes_.

For a long while they just sat there while she drifted closer and closer to sleep. He could see she was fighting it. No doubt she feared dreams. Well, he knew now how to soothe such fears.

"Would you like me to sing to you?"

She nodded. Settling himself a bit more so that his arm wouldn't fall completely asleep (though most of his fingers were already numb), Nuada began to sing softly, a soothing Elven lullaby from his childhood. Ironically, he'd first heard the song from his father when, upon waking from a nightmare as a small boy, the princeling had gone to the king in his study and lisped softly that he was too scared to sleep.

_"A leagan síos do cheann milis agus traochta.  
Oíche é ag titim.  
Tá tú tagtha chun turas deireadh na bliana._

_"Codladh anois.  
Aisling de na cinn a tháinig roimhe seo.  
Tá siad ag glaoch ó ar fud an gcladach i bhfad i gcéin."_

Dylan sighed against Nuada's shoulder and relaxed a little. She felt weak and hollowed out, as if she'd been sick for a long time and was only now just beginning to get better. She was cold, too. Her only warmth came from the Elven prince allowing her to cuddle him.

Somehow Nuada had purged the deep, brutal hurt she'd always tried so hard to suppress. It had hurt to walk through those memories. Hurt both of them. With every rape - and every blow, every fresh drop of blood, every scream - sharp eyes had caught the strain on that moon-pale face. Caught the barely suppressed grief and fury. But once it was all done, she'd felt so inexplicably free, as if a weight had lifted off her shoulders. Looking into firegold eyes, she knew that somehow he'd helped her let go of that crushing pain. He'd stood with her in the first true crucible of her memories and kept the promise that he would protect her.

_"Cén fáth a bhfuil na faoileáin bán glaoch?  
Trasna na mara arduithe ar ghealach geal.  
Na longa a tháinig chun tú abhaile._

_"Agus beidh gach dul chuig gloine airgid;_  
_Bhfianaise ar an uisce,_  
_Pas longa liath a thabhairt isteach ar an taobh thiar."_

She wasn't going into work tomorrow. The children might go to Peri's as they'd planned, but she and Nuada would stay at the cottage. They would just... she didn't know what they would do, but she was so tired right then she didn't care. As long as she could just stay with him. And then... tomorrow night... then the Silverlance would go after Doctor Lucian Westenra and put an end to the monster. Unlike the Blackwoods, Dylan actually _knew_ where the psychiatrist was. Now so did the Elven warrior. Once Nuada returned tomorrow night, she would know that that part of her childhood nightmare, at least, was over.

For some reason Dylan felt really brave. Maybe because she'd stared down the nightmare that had haunted her for so long. Or maybe because she was so tired she was reaching the point of punch-drunk-stupid. Whatever the reason, words dropped from her tongue before she could think about what they were, much less what they meant.

"You healed me," she whispered, stroking a fingertip along Nuada's jaw. "You healed my heart."

"No, mo duinne." Nuada brushed back that rebellious curl that always fell into her eyes. "You will heal your own heart. I merely reminded you that you possessed the strength to do so."

"I love you, ya know," Dylan mumbled, snuggling against him and letting her eyes drift closed. "More than anybody else in the world. Except John. You're equal with John. But I get tired of John sometimes - he snores. I never get tired of you. I love you."

His arm tightened fractionally around her as she faded out into that place between sleeping and waking, too exhausted to remain firmly rooted in the real world. She was still shaken, still battered by what had happened, so he didn't let her go once she began to drift further into slumber. He should pick her up and lay her on the bed - he knew he should - but tear tracks still glistened like diamonds on her cheeks and every so often her breathing hitched with the echo of a sob. Leave her? How could he? Not after what he'd witnessed. Not after what he'd _felt_.

He'd felt it all - every drop of pain, every moment of fear and humiliation and hurt. Somehow what had been the worst was the terrified confusion so strong in the first few memories of those brutal assaults. She hadn't been able to understand why those bastards had ripped her apart that way. Like a wolf confused not only about being caught in a trap, but about what a trap was and why it existed in the first place. She'd been a hard twelve-year-old... but she'd still been only twelve. And the pain and degradation and fear had only continued until she turned fifteen.

Something had changed then, but she hadn't told him what. Had asked him not to look. Knowing his presence in her mind was difficult for her, he'd let it go, forcing himself to be satisfied with the fact that she and the children who'd been trapped there with her - at least, the ones that had survived - had put an end to most, if not all, of the dark things that went on in that place once they escaped its grip.

Except this Westenra. The miserable wretch, it seemed, was untouchable. At least by human hands.

The Elf hadn't pushed about Dylan's time after escaping the mental hospital by turning eighteen, either. Some secrets required a level of trust he wasn't sure she could give him yet. At least not now, as fragile as she was going to be for awhile. Some secrets, he could wait for. Instead he focused on those horrors that had weighed her down, and purged the festering pain.

Nuada had done such soul-purging before, with fellow soldiers suffering from battle-haunts. It was an intimate thing, difficult on the one doing the purging. Each time he'd done it during the wars it had taken so much out of him. Left him exhausted in the aftermath. But he'd never done it with anyone whose hurt rooted so deeply in her life, and never for a human. The Elf wasn't certain Dylan would recover the same way an Elven warrior might. In the morning if she seemed easier, he would know what he'd done had worked as it should have.

But now Nuada focused on the present, on the woman in his arms whose body still shivered with tiny tremors even though she was asleep.

Dylan wore one of his shirts. Had he said she could do that? Probably. The prince didn't remember. What he did remember was picking up two stray thoughts from her as she'd begun to calm down from the trial of showing him pieces of her past. One thought had been that Dylan liked it when he called her "sweetheart" almost as much as when Nuada called her "mo duinne." Both endearments gave her a sense of being protected. The other had been that wearing Nuada's shirts, being surrounded by his scent, made his mortal lady feel so safe it almost broke his heart. She truly only felt completely safe at church and whenever she was with him. He hadn't known that until now.

Before, when he'd walked through her thoughts, he'd been looking for specifics about how truly she adhered to her faith. He hadn't seen anything else because he hadn't been looking for it. Maybe one day he would ask her to allow him into her thoughts just to... browse. He didn't even know her favorite color, or which she liked better - summer or winter. Little things that he really should know. But there was time to learn more about her later.

For now, he just leaned against Dylan's bed; the mortal cuddled against him sound asleep. But he couldn't sleep. Not with those memories swimming through his mind. Sensory details still stayed with the Elf as well. The sound of Dylan's sobs in his ears, the copper stench of blood and pain. Only when he breathed in the perfume of roses and lilies that threaded through her hair and focused on the steady shushing of each mortal breath did the memory fade a little.

They stayed that way as midnight came and went, and the wee hours of the morning drifted by. The heavy clouds that had delivered snow the previous evening had cleared. Now the sky through Dylan's window was black velvet studded with diamond stars. Nuada suddenly remembered Dylan murmuring, _Remember the stars are bright tonight, and the moon is beautiful. Heavenly Father is always listening._

Firegold eyes fastened on the waxing moon brightening the dark sky. The High King of the World, the Star Kindler, was also called the Lamplighter of the Moon. Both the moon and stars were said to be gifts from the Highest of all gods to His children, to remind them that somewhere in the world there was hope. That somewhere in the world, there was light. That no matter how dark things seemed, He was always listening. Dylan believed that with all her heart and soul - he'd seen that for himself that night in Findias. Nuada wasn't sure _he_ did. Oh, he believed the gods were there. He also knew that those great beings worshipped as gods in olden days long past weren't the same thing as the Star Kindler. The Elven warrior not only believed the old "gods" were there, but that the High King was there, as well. Had never doubted _that_.

It wasn't presence he doubted. It was predilection. Dylan believed her so-called Christian God listened to the prayers of those on earth, sometimes even if they doubted His existence. Nuada couldn't believe that. Not the way she did. Sometimes he slipped, and found himself pleading with some unknown, unnamed force of the universe that, if he were being honest with himself, he could admit was most likely his lady's divine Master. Even if the High King had no interest in one Elven prince who couldn't bring himself to have faith in such a being, Dylan was a child of that divine King. Surely He would concern Himself with her, at least a little.

But Nuada wasn't sure about that, or about the High King's interest in people in general. Which was why he felt like ten kinds of fool when he stared at the wintry night sky - a sky that, so the followers of the Star Kindler said, was a promise from that deity - and prayed silently, _Please... please. She doesn't deserve this pain. I've done what I can to help her. Please let it be enough. She's so young. Even now, in some ways she's so very young. She has the strength to heal her heart, but she'll need Your help. Please help her._ _Help_ me _to keep her safe._

Dylan stirred, and Nuada realized he was trembling. He took a deep breath and let it out. Forced himself to relax. He didn't want to wake her. She deserved what peace sleep could give her. So the prince watched the stars wheeling in their celestial courses and waited for the dawn.

From the position of those stars, and the beautifully silver moon, it was maybe a couple hours after midnight when a hesitant knock tapped at Dylan's bedroom door. The Elf lifted his head from where he'd settled it against Dylan's hair as his lady stirred.

"Your Highness?" It was 'Sa'ti. What did she want? Before Nuada could open his mouth to ask the child exactly that, Dylan crawled out from under his arm and climbed to her feet. She answered the door while shoving a tangle of hair out of her face.

"What's the matter, 'Sa'ti?" There was no irritation in Dylan's voice. Tiredness, and (surprisingly) affection, but no irritation at being woken. Nuada stood up to more easily watch Dylan handle the ewah girl. The mortal added, "Did you have a bad dream?"

'Sa'ti scrubbed her face with the back of one hand and sniffled. "Yes. I looked for you in the music room but you weren't there. I was gonna ask the prince. A'du and Tsu's'di had bad dreams, too, but they're big boys and don't wanna say anything."

Nuada watched, eyebrows raised, as Dylan hoisted 'Sa'ti up and settled her on one hip in a move so effortless she must've done it a thousand times. 'Sa'ti slid her arms around Dylan's neck and laid her small head on the mortal woman's shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. An odd, distant yearning whispered beneath Nuada's skin. Not a physical longing. Something else. Despite the child's sleepy, tear-glossed eyes, in his mortal lady's arms she went limp with what seemed like a combination of happiness and relief. And on Dylan's face...

He knew that expression. He'd seen it before when she'd come home that evening and spoken to the children. Seen it the first night they'd come home and she'd put the children to bed with maternal kisses and bedtime stories. And he'd seen it on another woman's face, countless centuries before, so long ago he was still surprised he remembered the way that expression had softened moon-pale features and warmed his mother's eyes to rich forest green.

Dylan's face was soft as his mother's had been all those years ago, with the same kind of love his mother had felt. The realization sent another pang through the Elven warrior. As soon as he realized what it was his heart ached for, he swiftly suppressed the longing. It couldn't be. Not with her. But by the stars, he wanted it so badly now that he'd caught a brief glimpse of what it could be like. But it could never, ever be.

"Are the boys awake?" The little girl nodded. "Then how about you go tell them I'm going to make some more hot chocolate? Then I'll come and read you a story to help you fall back asleep, okay?" 'Sa'ti's hands clenched in Dylan's shirt and the child made a soft sound of distress. "Or we can go give the boys the message together and you can help me make the hot chocolate. How does that sound?"

"Okay."

**.**

When Nuada walked into the den an hour later, he almost smiled. 'Sa'ti flopped on her back on the sofa, snuggling Neytiri the Mountain Lion with one arm and a very patient Bat with the other. A'du hung half-off the edge of the futon. Tsu's'di sprawled across more than half the unfolded futon, snoring.

Curled up in the chair between the sofa and the futon, an open picture book in her lap - the title read _Flower Fairies of the Winter_ - Dylan slept like an exhausted child. Her dark curls cascaded around her like a silken curtain. Her breathing was slow and even. No lines of distress marred those lovely, silver-scarred features. Just tiredness and the obvious signs of old sorrow.

Nuada went to Dylan's side and gently extricated the book from her grasp. He laid it on the mantel. Then, careful not to awaken the sleeping mortal, the Elven prince lifted her into his arms. Dylan's arm automatically slid around his neck as the Elf drew her slight form against his chest. She snuggled her face into his shirt. Because she was asleep, Nuada could brush a soft little kiss over the top of Dylan's head. She sighed in her sleep and cuddled closer. Only when he laid her on her bed and drew the blankets over her did she wake.

"Mmm." Dark lashes fluttered. Blue eyes blinked up at the Elven prince sleepily. "Oh. Prionsa Fheictear."

Nuada did smile then. "Mo dathúil mhuire."

Dylan smiled. "Your fair lady, huh? I kinda like that." She curled up beneath the blankets and murmured, "You won't go until tomorrow night, right? You promise?"

He nodded and skimmed his knuckles over the scar on her satin-soft cheek. She went boneless as a sleeping kitten at his touch. If she'd been a kitten, Nuada was fairly certain she would've purred. "I promise. When I go to pay out justice, I will tell you. But I wish you would tell me where to find those other men."

She shook her head sleepily. "Don't know where they are. Besides, your dad might let the death of one human slide." She yawned widely enough that she risked cracking her face in half. "But four humans? Not to mention all their security people? (yawn) I don't think so. If by some (yawn) miracle you get him to agree, then I'll (yawn) try and find them. But only then."

"Even half-asleep you're ridiculously stubborn," Nuada grumbled, then had to chuckle when she nodded vehemently. "So concerned for my safety, mo duinne?"

Those sleepy eyes blinked up at him. "Nuada. You're my best friend. I love you. Of course I worry for you." She reached up and caught a strand of his hair between her thumb and first two fingers. "And your pretty hair. Don't ever cut it. It's so gorgeous." She let it go and snuggled beneath the blankets. "Now go away, I'm sleepy."

"Good night, my fair lady." The Elven prince gave her a gentle smile paired with an unfathomable look before he turned and walked toward the door. He only paused when, in a voice slurred with exhaustion, Dylan mumbled, "Good night, my handsome prince."

Once he closed the door to Dylan's bedroom, Nuada drew a deep cleansing breath. He let it out slowly, as if trying to expel the tender feelings within him. Then he went to the front room, where he'd kept the satchel he'd brought with him upon his return to Dylan's cottage. In the living room the Elven warrior strapped on his sword and slid a knife into each of the sheaths inside his black boots. His dirk fit the sheath on the hip opposite his longsword. Nuada made sure his twin-dagger was in its proper place in his burgundy sash and the golden ring that matched Dylan's still hung around his neck. The weight of their connection was as binding as the chain about his throat. Then the crown prince of Bethmoora slipped his lance into its sheath on his back.

An odd impulse made him peek into the den, to ensure the children still slept. They did. Something about the sight of 'Sa'ti cuddling her stuffed toy, A'du twisted up like an elf-knot in a horse's tail, and Tsu's'di with one arm around his little brother, eased a faint restlessness inside him. He carefully closed the door.

Becan let him out of the cottage with silence so Dylan wouldn't wake, either. Nuada had promised his lady he wouldn't hunt the monster that had allowed other monsters to brutalize her, at least not until the coming dusk. The Elven prince would keep that promise. He wasn't going hunting... yet.

He was going to speak to his father.

**.**

Dierdre hissed and snarled at the faerie that had finally returned to Bres' suite at Findias, but didn't rake her nails across the nuckelavee's single burning red eye as she so desperately wanted to do. No, Arrachd wouldn't tolerate her display of temper. And the female gancanaugh could admit that the finned, centaur-like bogle frightened her. He was nuckelavee - one of the race so vile and horrifying that one look at them was said to frighten some mortals to death. His taloned hands could ruin Dierdre's face so badly that even her glamour couldn't make her beautiful again. One kick of his fleshless horse legs could easily cave in her chest. But that didn't stop the gancanaugh from wanting to shred the skinless, yellow-veined black muscles with her razor sharp nails to give some vent to the fury rising within her.

A witness. The idiot had left a witness behind at the museum. Bres had sent Arrachd to the mortal realm, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was supposedly showcasing various artifacts from Ireland. Including, Dierdre had discovered, something that the humans believed to be a piece of the Golden Crown that controlled the goblin-made Army of golden soldiers once used by King Balor. So the Fomorian prince had sent his most vicious and efficient, most trusted soldier to retrieve the piece - which he had. Unfortunately the piece was a fake. But _that_ was not the problem.

The problem was, Arrachd had also left behind a witness. A mortal brat had hidden in an air vent while her foolish parents had sacrificed themselves to keep her safe from Arrachd's butchery. The nuckelavee hadn't been able to reach the child, shielded by human metals and poisons, before the police had arrived to investigate whatever had triggered the museum's alarm. The idiot had _left the child alive!_

"Calm yourself, Dierdre, my love," Bres murmured, pulling the gancanaugh down onto the sofa beside him. Still snarling under her breath, Dierdre shot her prince and lover a savage look. "Be calm. No one knows yet that Arrachd even had anything to do with the robbery at the museum. Things have died down. Now we can send him back to take care of the child. No human will believe her when she says monsters slaughtered her parents and stole a golden trinket from a glass case."

"Unless they have the Sight-" Ciaran began.

Bres cut him off. "No human of any real power or authority has the Sight. Most of those blessed with any form of the Sight die before they even manage to reach adulthood."

"Prince Nuada's little plaything is an adult," Dierdre reminded the blue-eyed prince. "_She_ has the Sight. She might even be able to see through _my_ glamour, if I'm not careful. You've heard the rumors - she's been blessed by a fear-darrig. She could ruin everything. In the same way, this little brat that you've let slip through your fingers could ruin everything else, Arrachd!"

"Sshe'ss one child," the nuckelavee protested in a sibilant hiss, narrowing his single eye at Dierdre. The gancanaugh moved closer to the Fomorian prince. Bres slipped an arm around her and tucked her against his side. "When I return to the mortal realmss, I will hunt her down and sslay her. Sshe won't be hard to find. I sstayed behind and watched the humanss that came to invesstigate. I know where sshe iss. And sshe knowss the Ssilverlance'ss whore."

Bres bolted upright. "The child knows Nuada's woman? How do you know that?"

"Becausse sshe came to ssee the child at the musseum." Arrachd shrugged as if it was of little import. The greasy ripple of exposed shoulder, arm, and chest muscles made even Bres faintly nauseous. "Sshe promissed to ssee the child again. Keep watch on Ssilverlance'ss toy and we will find the child fairly ssoon."

"Now that you mention it..." Lí Ban, silent until now as he sharpened his iron-edged sword, glanced up from stroking his favorite weapon to meet his prince's questioning gaze. "If you remember, Eamonn and the others that were supposed to keep watch on the human's cottage said she went out with three children. Many times with a girl with black hair and a red-haired sídhe boy, but once with a girl-child of perhaps five summers, with wheat-blond hair. That sounds like the bratling we're looking for, does it not?"

Arrachd nodded, raw-skinned lips peeling back to reveal jagged, yellow-brown teeth. "Oh, aye. That ssoundss like the child. As I ssaid, sseek for the tart and find the child. I'll be on my way, then, Your Highnesss?" At Bres' nod, the nuckelavee bowed and took his leave. Once the door to the Fomorian prince's suite _clicked_ shut behind him, Dierdre snuggled up to the prince and pouted.

"When can I make my move on the prince?"

Bres sighed. "Darling, you'll have to wait at least until he comes back before you can hope to employ your charms. Why so anxious? Should I be jealous of Silverlance, my sweet?"

Dierdre's low laugh was almost a purr. "Jealous? Of course not. I'm merely curious. I've heard things. I want to find out for myself if they're true. And there _is_ the added bonus of hurting a human. You know how much I loathe humans. They are so... mortal. I want to see just how far I can push His Highness, and I especially want to see if I can make his little human toy cry."

"And what would you do to accomplish this?"

The gancanaugh's smile was sharp as broken glass and as toxic as the venom glistening at her lips. She brushed those lips across Bres' cheek. The Fomorian prince shivered as the scorching heat of Branwen's Tears seeped into his skin. He turned to find Dierdre's mouth with his. Cíaran and Lí Ban got up and left to return to their own rooms before they were forced to watch the prince succumb (again).

Just before Bres claimed her mouth, Dierdre murmured, "To capture the prince, all I have to do is kiss him once, fill him with my poison, and he's mine. As for how to make the little mortal cry, and shatter their precious united front..."

She whispered her plan as Bres' ravenous mouth moved over her skin. He grinned and murmured, "You're so devious."

"That's why you love me."

**.**

In another part of Findias, Balor remained behind his desk when his son strode in, armed to the teeth and robed in shadows and scarlet. The old king removed his wire-rimmed half-moon glasses and laid them on the table. Of course a servant had rushed in only moments before to inform him that the Silverlance was here. Here alone, without his human lady. Here alone, and from the molten bronze of his eyes, clearly infuriated. And since Nuada had arrived with his weapons still in his possession, obviously the Butcher Guards hadn't forced him to come before his father. Which meant the crown prince wanted something - whatever it was.

It also meant most of the guards on duty this morning were lying unconscious on the various castle floors. Wonderful.

Because it was the king's study and not the Great Hall, Nuada didn't kneel. He offered his father and king a strained bow and stood at military attention. The king saw his son's left hand clamped down on his right wrist hard enough that his knuckles burned white.

"I require an order of execution for four humans," the prince of Bethmoora said. His voice was a vicious snarl.

"Good morning, Crown Prince Nuada." The One-Armed King of Elfland arched a subtly challenging brow. "It has been so long since last We saw you, We thought perhaps-"

"I don't have time or the patience for political games today, Father," Nuada snapped. "Four men have harmed my lady and I want them punished. I want them _dead_. She won't tell me their identities unless I have your permission to kill them, for fear you'll have me tortured or flogged again. Give me that permission now so I might rid my lady of these monsters tonight."

Balor narrowed his eyes. "You waltz in here after disappearing for nearly a month against my orders, after blatantly disregarding my recurring command that you return immediately, you treat me as your equal if not your inferior, then expect me to give you what you want simply because you demand it of me like a spoiled child demanding a sweet? I do not think so, Crown Prince."

"Father, you must-"

"_I am your king, Silverlance!_" Balor surged to his feet, his own eyes hot copper as they bored into Nuada's molten bronze gaze. "You owe me your allegiance! You owe me your _obedience!_ Yet when I summon you before me I receive a missive from the human woman you despise so much informing me that she 'requires your presence' as her escort for some female gathering or what-have-you and you cannot be spared. She may have written that letter, and she may think it was her idea, but I _know_ you. I know you've manipulated her into defending you against me in the hopes I might show leniency regarding your childish behavior. Then, after nearly a moon, you stroll in as if you are already king of Bethmoora and demand I break the treaty we've stood by for centuries, break my honor for some perceived slight, and you use that woman as the excuse for why I should give in to you. But _I_ must do _nothing_. It is _you_ who are honor bound to obey _me_."

Nuada shifted his weight and straightened his spine. Oh, his father was furious. Nuada had never seen the king so angry. And underneath that anger... was that just a hint of fear? Not surprising. After all, if this was what Balor truly thought of his son and heir, the prince's disobedience took on a whole new meaning. Suddenly all sorts of possibilities opened up - sedition, treason, patricide, regicide. If Nuada was the sort of monster his father believed him to be.

There was only one way to play this. Shock the king. Dylan had been right about that. Shock Balor off balance. Shock him enough, and that balance would never be regained so long as the game was in play. They'd planned for their first move to play out upon their return. Well, he'd have to make a move of his own now.

In a voice without anger, without venom or frustration, each word vibrating only with yearning and soft with sorrow, Nuada asked, "When you bound me to Dylan... when you forced me before the court to pretend she was my truelove... did you know then?"

The king blinked in puzzlement. Taken aback by the sudden change in the prince's attitude, he asked, "Did I know what?"

Nuada met his father's eyes, and knew his gaze no longer burned copper, but softened to honey gold as he thought of Dylan, of moonlit eyes and faerie tales before the fire, gentle touches and impossible promises. Thought of why he was here. Of what he was about to say. Time for truth. Time to risk much to protect even more.

"Did you know that I would fall in love with her?"

Balor sank slowly back into his chair. He stared at his son. "What... what did you say?"

"I love her, Father." He swallowed hard to force down the sharp ache in his chest at the words. He could tell his father, but he couldn't tell Dylan how he truly felt. Stars curse it, anyway. "I had to leave. I'm sorry for disobeying you, but I had to. She begged me to take her to the mortal realm that day. I could not refuse. And then... she did not wish to return. She has responsibilities in her world, people who depend on her. If she were an Elven lady from a great estate," Nuada added, borrowing Wink's words, "would you expect her to abandon her people to be ever at my side? _I_ would not. And I knew that if I returned without her, you would be angry. She knew it, as well, and begged me not to return to Faerie until she could come with me. I gave my word, Father. The word of a prince of Bethmoora."

His father continued to stare at him as if he'd never seen Nuada before. It was unsettlingly similar to the look the king had given him the day the Golden Crown had been broken into three pieces and divided between Elves and men, and he'd walked away from all he held dear. Finally Balor demanded, "When... how did... are you in earnest?"

"Do I not seem so?" Nuada let his king catch a glimpse of what lay beneath all the masks and court polish. Let Balor see the pain, the longing, the understanding that though Dylan made him happier than anyone else ever had or probably ever would, he could never truly keep her. It was more than he'd shared with his father in over three-thousand years. The effort not to retreat under the king's scrutiny was colossal. When the Elf king looked at his son with new eyes, Nuada added softly, "Father, I stayed because neither of us was ready to return. She is still not ready. If I cared nothing for her, it wouldn't matter, but Dylan is the very beat of my heart and being here puts her at risk. I must ensure that when we come back she'll be safe and that takes time."

"But she isn't safe in the realm of the humans, either," Balor pointed out. "These men you hunt - they've hurt her?"

Nuada's hands fisted at his sides. His short nails bit into his palms. "What damage they did was inflicted years before she and I found each other, but she will always bear scars on her heart from what they did to her. They're beyond the reach of human laws. Justice must be had; they must be made to pay for what they've done."

"Is it justice you want, my son, or vengeance?"

Firegold eyes raked the king's face with one slashing look before Nuada began to pace from one end of the room to the other. Only after several circuits did he finally speak. "There is no difference here. What I want and what justice requires are one and the same. And before you tell me they're not, you're not the one who constantly wakes in the night to her screaming from dark dreams. You are not the one who has to hold her while she weeps until she can scarcely draw breath over the soul-pain of her memories. You haven't heard her pleading for mercy in her sleep, night after night. These men did that to her. They _tortured_ her for years. I. Want. Them. Dead."

Balor stroked his beard with his hand of flesh. This was, most likely, a trick. An excuse the prince thought the king would swallow in order to justify slaughtering a few humans. But if it wasn't, then what? _Night after night... hold her..._ He remembered something Nuala had related a couple weeks prior, something the prince had snarled at his sister his last night in Findias. _When I held her in the dark, she whispered to me of love._ "Where have you been staying all this time, my son?"

Glittering topaz eyes narrowed and began melting towards hot bronze. "My honor and my role as Dylan's protector demand I remain at her side. I've been staying at her home, by her invitation."

The king waited a beat. His gaze never left his son's face. "_Where?_"

"I've not bedded her, if that is what you're attempting to ferret out of me, Father," Nuada snapped. "I sleep on her couch. If she has bad dreams, I sit at her bedside until she falls asleep again. That is all."

"That is _not_ all," the king murmured. Not from what he could glean from the frustration in the prince's eyes and voice. Not from what the princess had told him. "If you haven't bedded her, you've at least thought about it." Whether his son loved the human or not, Nuala had been definite about Nuada's desire for the mortal.

That disturbed the king no little amount. Nuada had been adamant for centuries about how he felt regarding fae copulating with mortals; it sickened him. Better for the Hidden Ones to mate with animals than humans, according to the Silverlance. And Nuala, when she'd told her father of the prince's uncharacteristic desire for the human woman, had seemed ill-at-ease. She'd been hiding something. Balor wondered if perhaps Nuada was angry that his body hungered for one of the mortals he claimed were beneath animals, and would allow his lust to fuel his anger - and his anger to fuel his lust - and drive him to hurt the human girl. It had to be considered. So no, that was _not_ all.

Nuada fought against grinding his teeth. Thought about it? Thought about trying to erase those soul-scars by showing Dylan what love between a man and a woman was supposed to be like? Thought about what it would be like to have the scent of her on his body? To hear her whisper his name in his ear the way she did in her sleep? To offer her everything - his heart, his body, his soul - and show her that he loved her? And then to lie tangled together in the aftermath of passion, his head pillowed on her soft breast to hear her heartbeat and feel her breathe? _Of course_ he had. Their relationship was chaste, and he still remembered his honor, but he wasn't _dead_.

"Would you be any better," the prince demanded, "if one of the most beautiful women you'd ever seen was sleeping right down the hall?" She was so lovely when she slept, her hair spread around her like a dark halo. When no nightmares plagued her, the serenity in her face gave him an odd sense of peace. But those nights were rare indeed. More softly, almost to himself, Nuada added, "But I daren't even attempt anything beyond taking her hand, kissing it, or touching her hair. Holding her chastely. I haven't even kissed her."

"Not once?" _That_ didn't fit with Nuala's assessment of her brother's yearning. "Yet you claim to love her."

"And what if I kiss her?" Nuada growled, eyes flashing. "What if I kiss her and she is unready? What if I trigger one of those memories that still haunt her? Do you think I'd risk that? Do you think I wouldn't care about such a thing? That I would be so focused on my own pleasure, I'd have no care for hers? I do not _claim_ to love her - I _do_ love her, with everything I am. I wouldn't hurt her for the world, not in any way. And the reason I have to worry about such a thing in the first place is these humans! I want them dead, Father!"

Calm amber eyes studied the enraged prince for a long moment in silence while Nuada continued to pace and snarl under his breath. "Part of me doubts you," Balor said softly. Nuada didn't roll his eyes, but the king got the impression that if his son had been several hundred years younger, he might have. "You've given me little reason to trust your sentiment regarding humans, my son. To say that in a month you've fallen so in love with a member of the race you've despised for thousands of years, a race you consider lower than vermin-"

"She is different," Nuada snapped. "She was born human, perhaps, but her heart is fey. And it was not one month. I..." Now he thought back, wondering when he'd begun to fall. Was it that summer day at the faire, pink wildflowers in a garland atop her dark curls and the setting sun burnishing her skin? In the old-fashioned gown of ivory and primrose velvet, she'd looked like one of the court ladies of Bethmoora. Had it been then? Or before, in the sanctuary, when she'd eased his pain and tended his wounds with gentle hands? Or after, as she read him tales before a warm fire and offered him the haven he'd craved for so long? He didn't know. Only in dreams had he even realized he was falling. "I do not know when she managed to take hold of my heart, but I've loved her for many months now. I just did not know it. This forced courtship was simply what made me realize it."

"Swear it."

Nuada blinked. "What?"

"Swear that you love her. You know what oath will satisfy me, Crown Prince."

Looking into Balor's eyes without flinching, Nuada said, "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, on that Living Darkness that dwells beneath Faerie, that I love Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Nuada saw shock and quickly-masked concern in his father's eyes. Oh, the king still doubted. Even with that unbreakable oath, he still doubted. The One-Armed King of Elfland didn't trust his son. He _feared_ for his son, because he doubted the truthfulness of his son's oath and so feared the Living Darkness would come for Nuada. But he didn't trust the emotion in the prince's eyes or in his voice; didn't trust the sincerity of his words even though Nuada would never have dishonored himself by lying to his father and his king.

It didn't matter, though, the Elven warrior reminded himself, swallowing down the hurt that never failed to strike whenever he spent time in his father's presence. It didn't matter what the king thought of him. He'd walked into this knowing Balor would react this way. It shouldn't have surprised him. It _didn't_ surprise him. And the king's uncertainty was on even shakier ground now, which was exactly what Nuada and Dylan had wanted in the first place.

But Nuada wanted those men. Wanted those monsters' blood singing over his sword blade. So despite the chill and suspicion in his father's eyes, he kept pushing.

"Father... if it were..." The words burned in his throat like acid. Memories of blood and screams tried to swamp him. He shoved them down and away where they had no power over him, and he demanded, "What if it were Mother?" He saw his father flinch almost imperceptibly. "What if I wanted to execute the humans who took her from us? Would you care about the truce then? Or would you punish them for the pain and suffering they had caused?"

"Those beasts are already dead."

"But if they weren't! If Wink hadn't killed them, then what? If the truce had been in place then, would you have 'honored' it so shamefully? Would you have let my mother's killers roam free?"

Balor's hand of flesh curled into a fist atop the hawthorn-wood desk. "The humans who butchered your mother are one thing. These men you wish to slay are another."

"Why?" Nuada demanded. "Because of this blasted treaty? Or because Dylan is human? Because I am Elven? Because she is common and I am a prince? Or because _I_ want them dead and so they _must_ be innocent?"

"It is different because of what those human butchers did. The atrocities committed against your mother were unspeakable. As for your so-called lady-"

"The only difference," Nuada hissed in a voice like shards of jagged ice, "the _only_ difference, between _Máthair_ and Dylan is that by some miracle, Dylan survived, whereas my mother did not. But the atrocities were _the same_. The sins were _the same_." Emotion choked him and he almost couldn't go on. "You would have killed such loathsome animals in your lady's defense. Yet now you attempt to stand in my way when I would do the same? _I love her_. How can you ask me to let these animals continue poisoning the world after what they've done to her and to others?"

"My son, you must understand-"

"No! All the gods curse you to the bowels of Hell for this, Father, _no!_ _You_ must understand! _She was a little girl!"_

The Elven warrior's fist slammed down on the desk, splitting the wood beneath the infuriated blow. He fairly vibrated with rage. His eyes, the king saw, were dark and tormented and feral. Not quite sane. There was no doubting Nuada's sincerity, if this had scraped away the thin veneer of civility fae royals wore to leash that part of them that was pure magic edged with madness.

"She was twelve years old and they... those monsters, they... _gods_, Father." That tortured gaze shimmered with what might've been the gloss of savagely enraged tears. "She was just a little girl. Who hurts a child that way? What could a child possibly do to deserve being hurt that way? Nothing. There's _nothing_..."

Nuada turned away in order to attempt to regain some control over the emotions churning within him. He hadn't known. By the Fates, he hadn't known the full extent of it. All that blood, all that pain. If not for her fierce loyalty to the fae, she wouldn't have even been in that festering hell pit to begin with. He tried to swallow the fury and grief and nearly choked on them. All of this - her fury and his own, their combined grief, the brutal memories that he'd experienced in her mind, all of it - had been riding him ever since he'd walked through her thoughts. He held onto his control only by the skin of his teeth.

Her parents had left her there, may the gods curse them to the most desolate wastes of Annwn. If they hadn't already been dead, he might've been tempted to hunt them down as well. And those boys... those twisted mortal whelps that had delighted in her tears, her pain, her screams...

_Damn them both_, he thought, shaking, grief knifing him. _Damn them both, damn them_all _for what they've done to her._ Humans. Filthy, festering humans and their cruelty. Damn them _all_.

He couldn't push past the bitter taste of her pain. It still whispered inside his skull, still bled beneath his skin. And part of that hurt was pain _he_ had caused when he'd abandoned her, when he'd left her with nothing but vicious words and the bite of his contempt. No wonder her heart had shattered again; she'd thought she could trust him, and he'd abandoned and betrayed her just like her parents, her sisters, her brother, and the man who would taste Elven silver this night. _Mo duinne, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. But at least one of them will pay. I can do little else but I_can _do that._

Suddenly he just wanted to be home again. Just wanted to be in the little cottage amidst the green, the children asleep in the other room while he and Dylan sat before the fire and could simply be together. Maybe the cat rubbing against his boots because Bat had an inexplicable obsession with Nuada's footwear. And she could read to him. They could finish the story. _Once Upon a Winter's Night_. Once upon a winter's night, he'd found her. Found an ally, a friend, a love. Found sanctuary. Found a home, though he hadn't known it at the time.

By the stars, suddenly he was so tired. His father wasn't going to grant him permission. Was not going to let him put an end to these monsters. Why had he come? Why had Nuada thought Balor would ever allow him to do what was right for once instead of settling for what was easy? He would have to kill Westenra without his father's blessing. And since the king was probably going to punish him anyway, he would eradicate those other three human vermin while he was at it.

_Dylan, mo duinne, I am sorry. I will be sorry for the pain it will cause you when my father punishes me, but these men_must _die, and my father won't help. What else can I do, beloved?_

But then, the sudden and reassuring weight of his father's hand on his shoulder nearly drove Nuada to his knees. A strangled sound escaped him. His father gripped his shoulder in a gesture of comfort Nuada hadn't felt in more than two thousand years. The Elven warrior squeezed his eyes shut.

"I feel your pain, my son," Balor said gently. "I know this sort of evil hurts you because... because of your mother. And I know what it is to thirst for vengeance for one you love. I _do_ know. But vengeance is a dangerous thing, and a quest for justice can easily turn to a search for revenge."

The Old Tongue sharpened the bitterness of his words when the crown prince whispered, "_Áthair_... what else can I do for her? I comfort her as best I can but it's never enough. The nightmares always return. The fear is never far from her. Sometimes - often - I wonder how she can even bear my touch. I dare not court her as I wish for fear I will discover she cannot abide anything more than I've offered. It would sicken me to bring any of those brutal memories back to her. What else can I do but this?" _I feel so helpless_. The words went unspoken, an admission of weakness Nuada couldn't allow himself, but somehow the prince knew the king heard it anyway.

"I know, my son." Balor gripped Nuada's shoulder. "I know. I will give you three gifts, then. One is a choice. I must obey the bindings of the truce, as must you. However," he added when the prince turned to protest, "choose one of these monsters that have left your lady with scars on her heart. Choose one, and do with him whatever you like. I will sanction the execution of one. This way I may satisfy my duty both as a king and, hopefully, as a father."

He could be satisfied with that... for now. Perhaps over time, he could wear his father down until he agreed to let the prince execute the other three men. Or perhaps Nuada could arrange for very painful, violent accidents to befall them. If only Dylan would tell him who they were! Where they were. What they looked like. But he shoved aside the frustration as his father continued speaking.

"The second gift is time. I expect you both to return by Harvest Moon-rise. That's a little less than a week from now. Until that time I shall leave you and your lady in peace.

"And the third is some advice about your lady. Have patience, Nuada. She is strong. I saw that the night she challenged me for you. Give her time and have confidence in her courage. I know from what your sister has said that your lady trusts you implicitly. Don't let fear of hurting her hobble you."

Nuada closed his eyes. He had permission for one. Not only that, but his father was behaving as if he believed in the love Nuada professed to for Dylan, his impossible mortal lady. Although the king still doubted his son and heir, he would act as if he did not - for now. And how long had it been since Balor had offered him advice? How long had it been since he and his father had talked about anything without snarling at each other? Centuries. Since the first moments of his exile. More than two thousand years. It took every ounce of will not to fall against his father's shoulder and embrace him. Instead, he merely looked at the king in mute plea.

"Speak your mind, my son."

"Dylan is... she is mortal. One day she'll grow old. One day she'll..." He couldn't bring himself to say _die._ "I do not want to regret the way I spent what days I have with her. What comfort can you offer me for that, Father?"

His father's eyes, for the first time in too long, held a wealth of affection and sympathy. There was still the lurking suspicion, but it was tempered by softer things because this was a grief Balor knew well; after all, he'd been king for a long time and had seen many of the fae fall in love with mortals. This was the curse of an immortal that lost their heart to a human. Even a king couldn't change that. "Only this - do not borrow trouble before it comes." Then the king released his hold. "Was that everything you wished to discuss?"

Surprised, Nuada said, "Well, yes, I-"

"Good." Balor glanced at the clock on the wall. "Since you've kept me from my paperwork until Caspar has finally deigned to serve the midday meal, perhaps you would pay back the debt to an old Elf and stay a bit longer. Just an hour," Balor added, when Nuada looked as if he might protest. This new, tenuous connection between them, as fragile as a spider web, seemed ready to break at any moment. "Just an hour."

After an interminable silence, Nuada nodded slowly. "Dylan will probably not be awake yet. Long night," he added at the king's inquiring look. "She fell asleep near dawn. I could stay for an hour. Perhaps we might... play a game of chess."

Balor's smile was like a window to the past, as warm and comforting as when Nuada had been a boy. _Here_ was the man that had taught him to ride a horse, to dance without making a fool of himself in front of all the girls at court, how to swim and read and yes, how to play chess. Nuada realized that Dylan had done this. Somehow Dylan had managed to give him back his father. Even if it was just for this one hour where they would eat together and battle across the king's favorite marble chessboard, her presence in his life had given him his father back.

_Thank you, beloved._

"I think a game can be arranged," his father murmured. Nuada's own smile was wary, but it was there, and it was one-hundred percent sincere.

**.**

Dylan glanced at the clock hanging up in the kitchen. Where was Nuada? It was nearly four in the afternoon. He'd left at dawn, Becan said, armed as if for war. But he'd promised not to go after Westenra before dusk. He wouldn't lie to her. So where had he gone?

She could admit she was worried about him; especially because she'd gotten something very interesting in the mail. Even now, as she and 'Sa'ti kneaded the made-from-scratch cookie dough at the kitchen table, one blue eye kept glancing every now and then at the pale gray envelope on the counter. She hadn't opened it yet because she had a fairly good idea what it said, but after the cookie dough was ready she'd have no choice.

"Can I help?" A'du called from the kitchen doorway. "Tsu's'di said I was getting underfoot."

"Sure." She indicated a bowl full of cookie dough on the counter. "Wash your hands, up to the elbows. Then bring that over here and sit on my other side, okay? What's Tsu's'di doing, anyway?" Dylan asked, adding another handful of chocolate chunks to the dough on the wax paper in front of her. Tsu's'di had stayed in the den all morning except to get his siblings dressed and ready for the day. He hadn't even come out for breakfast - Becan had brought him fried eggs on toast. All three children had stayed at the cottage instead of going to Peri's on the off-chance Nuada came home; Dylan didn't want to be out when he returned.

A'du did as Dylan ordered. Then he carefully followed her instructions about how to beat the thick, heavy dough into something soft and malleable. Every so often Dylan added a handful of chunky chocolate bits to the children's lumps of dough. She warned both of them not to eat the chocolate by itself - chocolate had iron in it, and would make the children sick unless mixed with a potion to combat iron fatigue. While the ewah boy helped his new mistress, he explained that Tsu's'di was practicing something the prince had shown him the day before. Something about bodyguard stuff. Tsu's'di had to be able to do it perfectly by the time His Highness came back. At least, that's what Nuada's note said.

"Either of you guys know where His Highness went?" Dylan asked, blowing a lock of hair out of her face before it managed to slip into her mouth (again). And how come Nuada hadn't left _her_ a note? 'Sa'ti and A'du shook their heads. "Oh, well. He'll be back when he decides to come back."

"_A'ge'lv_," the young ewah boy murmured after a while. "What's that paper on the counter?"

Dylan eyed the invitation as if it had grown fangs. "A friend of mine decided to invite himself over tonight. That's why I want the prince to come back soon. I'd rather have him here when my friend arrives." Because who knew how Nuada would react to the Keeper of the Samhain Tree popping up at the cottage on the very night Westenra was slated to die?

"Is he really a friend?" A'du wanted to know. "Or is he a fake friend?"

She frowned, thinking of a twenty-one-year-old psych major volunteering at Saint Vincent's Hospital, forcing herself to confront the nightmare on a semi-daily basis just to prove she could; thought of a thirteen-year-old boy with wild tufts of carrot-colored hair and freckles. A boy everyone thought was going to die. She thought of a stupid and reckless deal she'd made with the shadowy Other Kin hovering in the boy's hospital room; thought of the scar on the underside of her forearm, a scar the color of old bones. And she thought of four other children who'd saved her life, and that boy's, by making the exact same deal she had. Had Moundshroud known that would happen?

"He's a real friend," Dylan replied. And he was going to pay her a visit tonight. Fun. Well, as long as he brought Pip with him, she'd be okay with that. He was a good kid. Hopefully Nuada wouldn't try to severely damage the human youth on principle.

**.**

The spearman moved forward three paces, capturing the pale king. "Mate," Balor murmured. Amber eyes widened in mock-outrage and Nuada scowled. The king laughed. "You're out of practice, my son."

"I haven't had an opportunity to play against anyone with any skill in a long while," the prince muttered as he reset the chessboard. The last few hours had helped him gain some semblance of control over his emotions. Now he could pretend that every muscle in his body didn't strain to be in motion as he hunted down that human and destroyed him. He could actually enjoy, for the first time in a long while, spending time with his father.

"Your lady?"

Nuada shook his head. "She does not really play. I plan to teach her." Firegold eyes darted to the clock on the wall of the king's study. "I cannot stay much longer, Father. Dylan will be wondering what's happened to me. She doesn't trust you, you know." With all the pieces in their proper places, Nuada moved a pawn forward. "She considers you a threat."

A black marble pawn moved. "No doubt due to your sterling commendations of me," the king replied dryly. His son moved. Balor countered. The battle began in earnest as simple foot soldiers fell, slaughtered by Elven strategy. "When you return, I will strive to rectify her opinion."

"I've told her you do only what you believe is best for our people," Nuada replied, and captured one of his father's castles.

The king arched a brow, but said nothing. What he _believed_ best for the people of Bethmoora? To address that little word-choice would dance them both too close to topics they couldn't afford to discuss right now. For now, the king had to let things lie smoothly. He had to wait, and be patient, and see if the prince made any mistakes.

If Nuada spoke the truth, if he loved the mortal woman, that was cause for rejoicing (unless Balor's sneaking suspicion about the girl was correct and she was a bad influence on the crown prince). Yet if it wasn't the truth, it would come through eventually in the prince's speech, his actions. Then the king would know how dangerous his son truly was.

But all Balor said was, "She does not believe you."

The prince's look was equal parts sorrow and exasperation. "No. She says that, as no one else makes my wellbeing their number one priority, she will do so instead." The hidden barb may or may not have been intentional. Balor didn't acknowledge it. Nuada added, "Which means she has little patience for those who may attempt to hurt me." Now dark lips quirked into a smile. "She's very fierce in her defense of me, I must admit."

"The court ladies would do well to run, then," Balor replied with a bland smile. His son's castle fell to the black marble queen. Then Balor exclaimed, half in dismay and half in amusement, "Oh! Missed that," as Nuada's spearman captured the black queen. "Very good. Did you know, my son, that your lady is acquainted with King Roiben Darktithe?"

Nuada admitted he was. Roiben had written to him during his stay at Dylan's cottage to congratulate him on his "romantic conquest," saying Dylan was a catch any man could take joy in, and that she outshone many of the jewels of Roiben's own courts (of which, Nuada added silently, he himself had no doubt).

The Elven prince also admitted he knew that Dylan knew several important Bright Ones and Other Kin both in and on the border of Twilight Realm: Lady Kaye and Lady Valiant of Roiben's Bright and Night Courts; Clarissa Fray and Jace Lightwood of the Shadow Hunters; Aislinn, Queen of the Summer Court; the Daywalker known as Simon. She'd earned the regard of Joan the Wad and her consort; done a service and earned a favor (as yet to be redeemed) of the Reynardine; and yes, she was even on friendly terms with the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, Master Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud and his protégé. Dylan knew a lot of people because she knew a lot of children. Was she friends with _all_ of them? Nuada didn't know that because he and Dylan hadn't discussed it.

The only faerie he knew Dylan knew, that he also knew for a fact Dylan did _not_ consider a friend_,_ was the greenwoman who called herself the High Queen of Grand Central Park. But apparently the human woman knew a girl who'd done the queen a favor once upon a time. Because of that girl's request, Dylan's little cottage was safe from mortal predation - and from most lesser fae who might wish her harm. Only sídhe nobles and other high-ranking fae were a danger.

"She's a dangerous woman to offend, your lady," the One-Armed King said. The words sounded offhand, casual, but Nuada knew better. The king moved a spearman a few paces across the board, leaving it at an angle to the black marble king, and studied his son.

"She is well-liked by many fae," the prince replied. He moved his own white knight to protect his queen from his father's black spearman. "That's all; she would never abuse what favor she receives from the Shining Ones." His father moved again, and Nuada neatly slid a hierophant into place. "Check."

The king countered the maneuver, then mentioned the incident at the Troll Market. Nuada grimaced. Noting the look on the prince's face, his father actually chuckled and demanded the story. Nuada told it with obvious reluctance. He didn't expect to get into any sort of trouble with his father over the incident. If anything, he thought the other Elf might approve. That wasn't the problem. The fact that his father knew of what had occurred meant the grapevine in Faerie was active, and the main topic of conversation was the prince (who disliked having his privacy invaded if he could avoid it) and Dylan (who would blush and become incredibly nervous if she found out the fae were talking about the two of them that much). Although they planned to use the gossip to their advantage, that didn't mean either of them liked it.

"She's brave," Balor murmured.

Nuada snorted. "She's reckless." Better to undersell Dylan's self-control for now. Let his father believe her humanity meant she couldn't play political games with the nobles of Bethmoora. "Sometimes I'm almost tempted to wring her neck for all the trouble she gets into." Then he sighed with no little fondness. "But if she were anything other than what she is, she wouldn't be the woman I love."

"Do you wish she were fae?" Balor asked. Nuada looked up from the board to his father's lined face. "Do you wish she were fae instead of human?"

"I wish she were immortal," Nuada replied without hesitation. "Like our people. Only because then..." Then he could tell her how he felt. Then he could marry her, marry her truly, and give her the children she wanted so much. He could make her happy. He could be with her. And... "Because then I would not have to watch her die."

Balor studied his son, and considered. Did he - _could_ he - believe the Silverlance, the bane of humanity, could ever love a mortal woman? He wasn't sure. It was a hope, but a distant one. To think Nuada could change so much in but a month... The angry warrior that had refused to "sully himself" with a human was a thousand worlds away from this melancholy prince. But was it all real? Or was this some sort of trick by the prince? Well, then, for what purpose? What could be important enough to the prince that he would allow such slander to fall on him? Balor wasn't sure, but he couldn't afford to believe. Not yet.

Yet if it _was_ true... if this love Nuada spoke of _was_ real... there was a way for the two of them to be together. His son wouldn't have to live a life of grief and sorrow in the wake of his truelove's death. If she actually _was_ his truelove, and not just his unwitting pawn.

But would Nuada have sworn that most unbreakable oath if it wasn't true?

In the end, the Elf king bid his son goodbye without straining the new bond slowly forging between them. Before Nuada strode out of the king's study, Balor clasped his son by both forearms in the warrior's way and said, "Do not borrow trouble before it comes, my son. I will see you again soon?"

"Yes." Nuada hesitated. There was so much he wanted to say, but most of it tread too dangerously close to things that might anger his father and erase the minor victories the Elven prince had won today. So he merely inclined his head with the faintest hint of a smile. "Thank you, Father."

"Give my regards to your lady," the king said. Nuada nodded and strode away, anxious to return to Dylan's cottage...

**.**

Although perhaps not right away.

Nuada walked into the Royal Kennels with an ear out for either Miyax, the agloolik that took particular care of Nuada's dogs, or...

_*It's the prince!*_

What sounded like a herd of stampeding cattle turned the corner at the end of entryway for the Kennels. A pack of large dogs - the smallest reached the middle of the Elven prince's thigh at the dog's shoulder, and the biggest stood higher than his waist - raced toward him. The Elven warrior folded his arms and simply waited. As expected, the pack of fey Irish wolfhounds skidded to a halt about a foot from the toes of Nuada's boots, though the puppies all wagged their tails hard enough to half-knock themselves over. The leader of the pack, a red female named Flannán, approached her master and sat, offering him an adoring look from dark brown eyes.

*Master,* Flannán said. Her tail wagged once. Unlike the other dogs, Flannán was fully grown and no longer possessed the excitability and (as she called it) lack of good manners the pups did. So she didn't even consider jumping up on her hind legs and trying to lick the prince's face.

Well... maybe a little. But _only_ a little.

"Flannán," Nuada said, and laid his hand atop her head to offer her a scratch behind the silky ears.

Many faerie hounds, unlike their mortal counterparts, could speak and possessed intelligence at about the same level as Elven adolescents. The prince's hounds were known both for their beauty and their intelligence. He'd bred and trained them over countless centuries to hunt and to fight, to defend, so they had to be clever and able to handle themselves without a master's guidance.

He'd come back every couple months during his exile to see Nuala - though it was clear to him she was uncomfortable in his company, he couldn't deny himself hers - and to make sure that Nils Fjøsnisse, Master of the Stables, was taking proper care of Nuada's horses and that Miyax was taking proper care of his hounds. The prince still took an active role in breeding and training both, even though his role was greatly reduced from what it had been. This habit had been one of the bones of contention between the crown prince and the king; if Nuada could be bothered to return to Findias for the sake of his beasts, why couldn't he be bothered about court events?

The answer had been obvious. Nuada loved his horses, and his dogs. He hated court functions. And because of something his father had often said. "Animals are like children - they don't understand why promises sometimes have to be broken, so be careful what promises you break to them." The king hadn't been able to fault such reasoning. At least not after the initial grumbles.

Now Nuada looked with pride on his best she-hound and said, "I'm going to need one of your pups for something special."

*Hunting? Is it hunting? It is!* The puppies wiggled harder and bounced up and down.

Nuada swallowed his amusement as one yipped, *Wabbits!*

*Shhh!"* Said another, crouching and snapping playfully at another puppy. *We're hunting wabbits.*

*I love wabbits!* Another cried, bouncing so hard and fast it was almost vibrating.

"Not hunting," the prince said firmly. Tthe chatter stopped. Maybe he ought to bring Dylan here, he thought. She liked dogs. No doubt the pups would adore her. "Not hunting," he repeated. "Guarding."

Immediately the pups went very still. Fifteen pairs of wide, eager eyes fixed on Nuada's face. No more wiggling. No more tail-wagging. The pack was suddenly as serious as Flannán had been this whole time. The red she-hound turned her head to study each of her offspring for a moment. Then she reached back with a paw and pushed a she-pup forward.

The pup was about the size of a roe deer, with silky fur the color of fresh milk. Her paws were large enough that Nuada knew the puppy would one day grow into some serious size. She might even be taller than her mother, whose shoulder stood higher than Nuada's waist. The dog's eyes were dark amber, the body lean and wiry, the chest deep and the head long, with a sharp muzzle. Flannán gave the puppy an encouraging lick along the muzzle and nudged her closer to the prince.

The puppy looked into Nuada's eyes and said, *I can guard. I am Eimh Ionsaí, but I like Eimh. I can guard.*

_Eimh Ionsaí_. It meant "swift attack" in the Old Tongue. Flannán named her offspring according to their strengths. Which meant this little she-hound was fast and fierce. Still... To his prized wolfhound, Nuada said, "She's still young." If she'd been a human child, she might've been ten or twelve years old.

*She is fast,* Flannán replied confidently. *Her heart is strong and brave. Her teeth are sharp. She has good sense. She can guard.*

Nuada knelt and looked more closely into the puppy's eyes. A strong heart. He could see that in her. And good sense, which was hard to come by in a puppy. He knew his dogs and knew this one would probably be best for what he wanted. What settled it was that Eimh didn't look away from him. Instead, the pup held out a paw and said, *Shake, and it is a bargain. I will guard for you, Master.*

The Elven prince grinned and shook the proffered paw. "You'll get a little more training over the next week," he said. "When I return at that time, it will be your task to guard..." How to explain Dylan's identity to the guard dog? "My lady."

Eimh cocked her head. *Lady? A female?* Her ears perked and her tail wagged. *Mate?*

_Oh, for the love of... well, why not?_ "Yes."

All the hound pups cried, *There will be new Elf puppies!* Nuada tried not to grit his teeth. The young wolfhounds started wiggling and bouncing again while Flannán gave him a sympathetic look. And Nuada still needed to talk to Nils, now that he thought of it. What would the head groom say about the pups' new idea of "elf puppies?"

**.**

"Then we sprinkle the cheese on like this," Dylan murmured to 'Sa'ti and A'du, who watched with avid eyes as she showed them how to make pizza. Apparently the ewah children had scavenged pizzas out of dumpsters before, but the commercial stuff from Domino's and whatnot was so full of preservatives and grease it had made them sick. Just thinking about the two children having to look for food in a dumpster made Dylan's eyes sting, but she didn't let them see. She'd simply informed them that she knew how to make pizza that could actually be eaten by faeries. Tsu's'di had even helped her by putting the little pizza crusts in the oven and then taking them out for her. Her ripped-up arm hadn't appreciated her attempting to lift something as heavy as the laden cooking sheets.

While the children emulated the way Dylan sprinkled shredded mozzarella on the sauced mini-pizzas, Dylan took a minute to sip from her mug of hot cider and turn on the little kitchen radio. Cheerful Christmas music came out of the speakers. She narrowed her eyes. Thanksgiving wasn't for another few days and the Christmas music was already being played. Christmas Creep was becoming an epidemic these days. Ah, well. Maybe she could find a non-commercial Christmas song she liked a lot. She flipped through the stations and paused at the familiar wind-chimes and flute music from the beginning of her favorite Celtic Woman holiday song.

"_Christmas pipes, Christmas pipes,  
Calling us, calling on Christmas night-  
Call us from far, call us from near.  
Oh, play me your Christmas pipes._"

'Sa'ti and A'du glanced at each other as the _a'ge'lv_ began to sing along to the radio. They'd never heard her sing before. Now they watched her surreptitiously from the corners of their eyes as they worked on the pizzas and the _a'ge'lv_ went to the other side of the stove to chop fresh strawberries and bananas. There was something in a silver pot on the stove that she stirred occasionally with a wooden spoon while she sang. Both children could tell she really liked the song - her smile was really big, and happier than they'd seen it all day. And her voice was kind of pretty.

"_Christmas bells, Christmas bells,  
Over the hills and over the dells,  
Ringing out bright, ringing out clear -  
Oh, ring me your Christmas bells._

"_Christmas strings, Christmas strings,  
Playing that peace that Christmas brings.  
Fiddle and bow, gentle and low,  
Oh, play me your Christmas strings._"

Dylan glanced at the Jello currently taking its sweet time melting in the silver pot on the stove. She only wanted it half-melted, but apparently it was a long, slow, drawn-out process to get it even that softly gelatinous. Oh, well. It gave her time to take care of the fruit. Once that was cut up and the Jello was as dissolved as she wanted it, she could scoop it into a bowl, add the fruit, and stick it in the fridge. It would be ready to eat by the time the pizzas were cooked and eaten (or, in the case of the children - including Tsu's'di - devoured).

"Now what?" A'du asked once there was enough cheese on all the mini-pizzas. He didn't want to interrupt the _a'ge'lv_ singing - he liked it a lot - but he was really hungry and wanted to eat his pizza _now._

"Depends on what you want to put on it," the mortal replied, brushing her hair out of her face and giving the Jello another narrow-eyed look. "There's toppings in the bowls on the kitchen table. How about we..." She trailed off as Becan popped into sight on the counter opposite the stove, looking perplexed. "What's up, Becan?"

"His Highness has returned." He fidgeted with his hands.

"All right," Dylan said slowly, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

"His Highness says he requests milady's presence in the front hallway," the brownie replied. "Alone."

Dylan bit her lip. Why suddenly so formal? But she nodded and indicated the fruit and the pot on the stove. "Becan, can you do something with the Jello? I know you're gonna make pumpkin cookies, but I don't want this to go nuts on me while I'm in the other room. And Tsu's'di," she added, glancing at the youth who'd been scrubbing plates in the sink. "Can you take a quick break and chop the strawberries 'til I get back?"

"Of course, _A'ge'lv_," the cougar shifter replied, drying his hands on a towel. He offered her a short bow and a smile. "As you wish."

She rolled her eyes at the attitude of servitude but smiled back at him. With admonishments for the children to wait until she came back to put toppings on the pizzas (in the meantime, they could snack - _snack_, not feast - on some of the leftover cheese) Dylan brushed imaginary crumbs from her black shirt and walked out into the hallway. As she approached the front entryway she yanked the scrunchie out of her hair and shook out her ponytail. She didn't like tying her hair back, but when cooking, it was a necessity.

Nuada watched Dylan shake out her hair so it tumbled around her shoulders in a careless, dark cascade. She was so lovely. Even in the simple thin black shirt and black jeans, wearing the penguin socks once more, she was still so beautiful. As she approached she carried the scents of baking bread, autumn spices, and sweet things from the kitchen. The whole cottage smelled of baking things. Becan had said Dylan had been baking a lot today. Apparently she hadn't slept as long as the Elven prince had anticipated. Had she been worried with him gone so long?

"Hey," she said softly, sliding her arms around his waist once she got close. Then she pulled back as the dirk and longsword at his waist got in her way. "Whoa. Okay, then. I thought Becan was exaggerating when he said you went out armed for war." Her eyes were concerned when they met his. "Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but where have you been?"

"I went to see my father."

It was a hard and hurtful thing that the first thing she thought to ask when she learned he'd spent the day with his father was, "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Are you okay?" It told him exactly what his lady thought of the man who'd sired him. Dylan reached out to touch Nuada's face. Pulled her hand back at the last minute. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, mo duinne," he said gently. "He didn't harm me. I went to get an order of execution from him for those men."

Silvery blue eyes went wide. "_What?_ No! That wasn't what I meant! You weren't supposed to do that! He could've... he might've... what were you _thinking_! Oh, my gosh, I could _strangle_ you! What the heck were you thinking?"

Nuada blinked. She was _angry_ with him? She was _angry_ that he'd done everything in his power to see her avenged, to see justice served, without suffering the consequences she feared so much? His hands curled into fists at his side as he snarled, "I was thinking that the men who hurt you deserve to die slow, bloody deaths. I was thinking I'm sick and tired of you screaming yourself awake some nights because of what they did. _I was thinking_ that I would do _anything_ to stop you from hurting so damn much. I was thinking-" Nuada cut off the words and looked away. He'd been calm on his way home from Faerie. Calm enough that he thought the storm inside him had blown over. Clearly he'd been mistaken.

"Hey." Gentle touch on his arm. After a long, tense moment, molten bronze eyes met her gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. I was just... I've been worried about you. You didn't leave a note or anything. I'm sorry. I just... I couldn't stand it if you got hurt because you were doing something for me."

"My father didn't hurt me, Dylan."

"I know," she said. "But he might have and I just... panicked." Her eyes were bleak when she added in a whisper, "You nearly died before, because of him. He's your father and you love him, and I'm pretty sure he loves you, but that doesn't change the fact that he nearly killed you once. So I panicked. I'm sorry. Please don't be mad." Dylan bit her lip hard enough that Nuada almost winced in sympathy. Then she opened her arms to him. "Hug?"

"Come here," he said, and gently pulled her to him. She carefully slid her arms around him and let her hands rest on the backs of his shoulders, away from the weapons he carried. The weight of her head against his shoulder comforted and soothed the violence still churning inside him. It didn't lay it completely to rest, but it helped. "I knew it was a risk," Nuada murmured as he let his fingers tangle in the dark curls cascading down her back. "But if it had worked it would have been worth it, mo duinne. As it is, I've my father's permission to go after Westenra tonight."

She jerked back to stare up at him. "You _do?_"

The Elven warrior nodded. "He said I could choose between the four men, and execute one. I chose Westenra... unless you would have me choose another."

It was a struggle to push down the sudden desire to just spill the names and offer up the faces of the Blackwood boys and their father to the Elven prince, so that he could kill them all. Kill them all, and finally end the nightmare. But she didn't dare. She knew she didn't dare, especially now. Having already gone to the king, if Nuada executed all four of them, Balor _would_ hurt him. He would hurt Nuada and maybe this time her interference wouldn't save him. Maybe this time, the One-Armed King of Elfland wouldn't stop until her prince was dead. Dylan couldn't be sure. So she shook her head.

Then she frowned. "You left at dawn, Becan said. Why are you just getting back now? You didn't... I dunno... get in a brawl or something because your dad only gave you the option of killing one of them or something, did you?"

"You're mistaking me for one of the álfar," the prince replied, offering her a half-smile. "Drunken brawlers, the lot of them. Actually, I spent the majority of the day with my father." Seeing the sudden shimmer of almost-fear in those lovely eyes, he added, "Nothing happened, mo duinne. It was... it was almost as if... as if I'd never gone into exile. As if the last two thousand years hadn't happened. We played chess and shared a meal and talked."

"About what?"

"You, mostly," the prince replied. "He was impressed with your... connections." His wan half-smile morphed into a smile for true when Dylan grinned wickedly. "Especially the Keeper of the Samhain Tree. That _is_ a very important political ally to have." His smile slipped away. "I told him we were in love."

She gave him what she hoped was a syrupy smile in case the children were watching, but she took his hand and said through the link, _Could he tell you were lying?_

_I told him I loved you,_ Nuada said slowly. _That isn't a lie._

Her mouth fell open. _What?_

_I am fond of you, Dylan. I care for you. I've told you this before._

Her mouth snapped shut, fell open, and snapped shut again. _Fondness and love aren't the same thing! You can't just... just tell me you love me and then be like, "Oh, yeah, I'm fond of you, remember?" That's not the same thing! Jeez, give me a heart attack, why don't you! Are you sure he didn't see through that?_

_I'm a very good actor, mo duinne._ He disengaged his hand from hers to hide the sting pricking behind his breastbone. Did she have to sound so affronted about the idea of him being in love with her? Well, no matter. He'd known, ever since she'd talked to his father about why she wouldn't marry Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, that she had no interest in any man who didn't follow the Star Kindler. He shouldn't have been surprised.

It still hurt.

Aloud, the prince said softly, "I must go now."

"What?" Dylan blinked, puzzled by the change in topic. "Where are you going?"

Nuada tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes were solemn and his face carefully blank as he said, "I must go now, sweetheart." He could see when it clicked. It didn't take more than a moment. Rain-swept eyes widened. Nuada said, "I will return by dawn. I promise."

"Be careful," she whispered. "Please don't get hurt. Please..."

He framed her face between his hands, cradling it with gentle strength. "You fear him. He is one of the monsters out of your childhood. Of course you fear him. There is no shame in that. But _I_ do _not_ fear him. He cannot harm me." He let his fingers ghost over her cheeks before his hands slid down to settle at her waist. "Do not fear for me. All right? I will be back by dawn, amháin a chara, my dear one."

Then, because the children were in the house and thus the two of them were still entrenched in the courtship charade, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her hair held the mixed scents of chocolate and strawberries and night-blooming jasmine. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his throat.

"Nuada..."

"You've told me I am your dearest friend. That you love me." He stepped back and took her hand. "Hold onto that love, Dylan, until I return."

She scowled. "You think I'd love you less for what you're going to do." When he said nothing, she balled up her fist and thwacked him in the shoulder. "You're being an idiot. If I didn't want you to do this, if I thought this was morally objectionable, I would _not_ have given into you when you asked me for the information. I have more spine than that. If I thought what you were doing was in any way wrong, I wouldn't help you - I'd kick your butt. But you wouldn't _do_ something morally wrong, so there's no worries. Just don't get hurt."

"And if I _do_ get hurt?"

"Then I'll knock you flat on your butt and beat you over the head with your own lance," she informed him flatly. "Then I'll hog-tie you-"

"With what?"

She mock-glared at him. He only raised an eyebrow and offered her a lazy half-smile. She poked him in the chest. "My bed sheets, smart guy. Go ahead and laugh. You think you're so safe just because you've got Herculean biceps of steel. But I could tie you up if I got to you in your sleep. Especially if you went and got yourself hurt like an idiot. And once you're at my mercy, I'll call Francesca and inform her she can have her way with you."

"_What?_"

Dylan smirked at his wide-eyed look of absolute horror. "You heard me. She'll be really excited; trust me. She's been dying to meet you. And to get your shirt off."

Nuada stared at her. "Your sister has not met me - hasn't even _seen_ me - yet she lusts after me."

"Really strokes your ego, doesn't it, Mr. Elven Casanova?"

"I don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. Actually... yes I do. Horrified." Rather, absolutely disgusted that a human (at least, a human that wasn't Dylan) lusted after him. Nuada scowled when Dylan laughed. "This is not amusing." Dylan just pressed her face into his chest and giggled helplessly. "Your sister is..." He couldn't think of a word to describe her sister that wouldn't make his lady punch him again. "You would not really try to tie me up and leave me to her." When Dylan continued to laugh, he added with a bit more uncertainty, "Would you?"

She smiled up at him. "Scared?" He just looked at her. "Oh, you big baby. She's not so bad." Dylan laid her cheek against Nuada's shoulder and sighed. "You know, I don't think... I don't think you're really scared. I think you're just being silly to make me feel better. Thanks for that. I _do_ feel better. I'm just really nervous about this. What if something happens?" She suddenly glanced up at him, wide-eyed. "What if you get shot? The security guards have guns. You can't hurt them, they're good people, some of them are my friends, but they have guns. You could get shot."

"You have no faith in me," he muttered. As if a handful of fat, lazy human security guards could do anything to him. As if they would even _see_ him if he didn't wish to be seen. Did she have no trust in him at all? "I'm insulted."

"Every time you've ever gotten into a fight since I met you, you've nearly died. It's only happened twice, but still. The night we met, you were shot... what, seven times? And the night your father had you whipped, you almost died twice. Once right when I got there and a second time when the poison took effect. Every time I let you out of my sight, something bad happens. Faith has nothing to do with it; it's common sense. So I'm warning you - you come back with so much as a scratch or a bruise or a... a... stubbed toe, and I _will_ take revenge."

"Indeed? As you're not going to tie me up as a gift for your sister, what could you possibly do to me?"

Dylan pursed her lips. Then she smiled. "Something that will absolutely horrify and disgust you to no end, Your Highness."

He arched a brow in challenge.

She took his hand and let the thought whisper through the link. _If you get hurt, I'll kiss you right on the mouth._ Dylan grinned when he nearly choked on his tongue. _See? I've found effective blackmail. A bit juvenile, but effective._ She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen. How long had she and Nuada been out here? Everything in her kept pushing to make him stay, to keep him talking just a little bit longer... but he had places to be and things to do. So she reached up and touched his cheek.

"Dylan-"

"Be careful," she said, now all seriousness. "Please, Nuada, please... just be careful. Come home safely."

_Home. Come home safely._ When was the last time anyone had said such a thing to him? More than two thousand years ago, at the beginning of the war against the humans. Nuala. Soft words of love and blessing. Only he hadn't come home. He'd gone into exile instead. But now... _Come home safely._

Nuada took her hand and pressed the tips of her fingers against his mouth. Dylan's eyes went soft and misty. _I will,_ he said through their link. _I shall be home by dawn._ But as he moved to the front door, Dylan suddenly blurted his name. The Elven prince turned back to her. "Yes?"

"I just... um..." She'd been about to confess that she loved him, that she'd do anything if he just stayed home tonight. She suddenly had an awful feeling about this. But she knew Nuada wasn't going to stay. He'd been right - Westenra _had_ to be stopped. And this was the only way to do it. So Dylan just mumbled, "I'll have dinner waiting. Erm, breakfast. Whichever it is when you come back." She shrugged self-consciously. "Just thought you'd want to know."

"You needn't wait up for me-"

"I want to," she said quickly. Blushed. Brushing ineffectually at her hair, she smiled. "It's okay, I want to." She looked as if she might speak again, her eyes dark with some emotion, but all she ended up saying was, "Good night, Nuada."

"Good night, Dylan."

He waited until she'd gone back to the kitchen, until the gentle murmur of conversation started up between his lady and the three children in her service, before turning back to the front door. Becan locked the door behind him.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _running out of time, sorry I don't have a nice author's note (other than Cyber Keiko, thank you for referring Ya Nefer Ma'at to me). And ch49 will be up soon (hopefully by Christmas). Merry Christmas and Haunakah (I spelled that wrong, didn't I?) and Kwaanza, happy Winsol, happy Winter Solstice, happy Yule, etc. Okay, review prompt!_

_1) What do you think Nuada is going to do to Westenra? I want gory, gritty details._

_2) What do we think is Dierdre's plan for hurting Dylan? (Ocean, you're not allowed to answer, you already know, lol)_

_3) Nuada's conversation with his father (and the subsequent chess game) - what do we think of that?_

_Bye, everybody! I love you! *huggles*_

_._

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- The song Nuada sings to Dylan is simply "Into the West" from _the Return of the King,_ except in Gaelic. I don't actually have the song in MP3 format in Gaelic (although wouldn't that be cool), I just took the lyrics and translated them into Gaelic. As shown in the fanfic text, the English lyrics are:

"Lay down your sweet and weary head.  
Night is falling.  
You have come to journey's end.

"Sleep now.  
Dream of the ones who came before.  
They are calling from across the distant shore."

(and then I skip a few lines...)

Why do the white gulls call?  
Across the sea a pale moon rises.  
The ships have come to carry you home.

And all will turn to silver glass;  
A light on the water,  
All souls pass..."

- "_Remember the stars are bright tonight, and the moon is beautiful. Heavenly Father is always listening"_ is from the one-shot I wrote that takes place between chapters 46 and 47, "Good Night, Moon."

- _Flower Fairies of the Winter_ is an actual book of children's poems and lovely pictures by Cicely Mary Barker; it's one in a set.

- "When I held her in the dark, she whispered to me of love" is a quote from chapter 17. That's not actually word-for-word what Nuada said, but that's what Nuala took from the statement he gave.

- The line "only in dreams had he even realized that he was falling" is a reference to WhenNightmaresWalked's short, "Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams."

- Áthair is the Gaelic word for "Father." Nuada uses it in the movie, actually, when he kneels before King Balor in the Throne Room scene.

- The children can't eat the chocolate chips by themselves because chocolate (as ladyguinevre pointed out to me, THANK YOU! Hugs!) has iron in it. Which is why Dylan puts Never in the cookie dough as well as in the hot chocolate she makes for any of our fae cast.

- The boy Dylan remembers from the hospital (in reference to Moundshroud) is Joseph Pipkin, one of the boys from _the Halloween Tree_. His four friends are actually from the movie, not the book (except the last one): Jenny, Wally, Ralph, and Tom.

- Aislinn is the teenage MC of Melissa Marr's novel, _Wicked Lovely_, and becomes Queen of the Summer Court in that book or the sequel.

- Simon is Clary's best friend (and a vampire who can walk in daylight and bears the not-really Mark of Cain) in _the Mortal Instruments_ series by Cassandra Clare.

- Joan the Wad is, in Cornish mythology, Queen of the Pixies. Her consort is sometimes called Jack of the Lantern (Joan the Wad means Joan the Torch).

- The Reynardine is some famous werewolf in English mythology. Which is odd, because Reynard means "fox" in French.

- The High Queen of Grand Central Park is from the short story "Grand Central Park" by Delia Sherman in the anthology _The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest_. The girl who did the queen a favor has no name in the story.

- Miyax is actually a female Inuit (Eskimo) name; it's the true name of the MC of the novel _Julie of the Wolves_.

- Flannán literally means "little red" or "little red one." I thought it fit, since she's huge.

- Many royals and nobles in ancient times bred horses, dogs, and kept trained falcons and hawks for hunting and war. I figured Nuada likes animals (see scene where he breaks into BPRD and is nice to the doggie) so I brought that in.

- The faerie hounds are inspired somewhat by the kindred dogs known as Scelties in _The Black Jewels _by Anne Bishop.

- The thing about breaking a promise to an animal or a child is paraphrased from one of Tamora Pierce's Tortall novels, I think, but I don't remember which one. _Protector of the Small_, I think, but I could be wrong.

- "Shhh! We're hunting wabbits!" is an homage to _Loony Toons_. =D

- The song Dylan sings with on the radio is "Christmas Pipes" by Celtic Woman. However, I've been told that Celtic Woman doesn't want their music on the radio, so you'll have to go to Youtube to hear the song.

- Álfar culture is heavily influenced by Viking culture in this fic.

- The thing about hog-tying with bed sheets and leaving Nuada for Francesca was my second-string beta's idea.


	49. Hush a By Mountain

**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, Merry Christmas, everyone! So today is Christmas Eve and we have chapter 49! Woo-hoo! Yeah! Now, this chapter has a lot of fun exciting goodies for you all (such as torture, snickerdoodles, and walking trees) so I hope you enjoy. Ecnelis and/or Serbia, whoever reads these chapters first, do not spill the beans to the other one. And just a little warning, there's a lot of singing in this chapter, but still lots of action and torture and fun stuff. So hop to it, yo! Loves to you all!_

_And keep your eyes out for chapter 50, it has something we've all been waiting for, muahahaha. It's a Winter Solstice gift for you guys._

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**Chapter Forty-Nine**

**Hush-a-By Mountain**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Favor, a Hamadryad, a Name, Ornaments, Pictures, Establishing Tradition, Lullabies, and a Vicious Question**

.

Nuada and Wink stopped in front of Aso's tent at the Troll Market and waited. Near the outskirts of the Market, they didn't have to worry about being seen loitering in front of the weaver's shop. Not that the Elf prince would've cared if anyone had seen him. He had his father's blessing - and was that not a wonder? - to do what needed to be done tonight. To extract vengeance, to pay out justice, and to end a human beast's pathetic life. To finally obtain a little peace for his mortal lady. But to make sure the debt this Westenra owed was paid out sufficiently, Nuada needed to speak to the Nyame Elf who had once been a member of the lethal Anansi.

The crunch-shuffle of weary booted feet on the dusty path caught the prince's attention. He turned to see a familiar, white-garbed figure trudging through the eerie, rushlit gloom. A wisp of some dark emotion shivered through the Elven warrior. Aso had to have what he needed. He knew no one else who would.

"It is late, _Wako Mtukufu_," the ebony-skinned weaver grumbled when she saw the prince and the troll. "I'm closed."

"I need a favor, Aso," Nuada said. His voice was as soft as a dying man's sigh.

Jet black eyes locked on the prince's and the weaver frowned. She had never heard Bethmoora's prince speak so before. As if she were not the warrior-woman he'd known for more than two dozen centuries. As if she were a stranger. The words were the words of a friend, but the voice almost made such friendly sentiment a lie.

Cautious now, the Elf of Nyame slid her hands into her pockets and rocked back on her heels. The necklace of copper beads and razor-sharp kishi fangs jingled. Rushlights glinted off the obsidian hourglass pendant around her neck.

"What sort of favor?"

When he told her, she broke out into a cold sweat, but she let him into her tent. With a few brisk words she sent her apprentices home to their families. Children had no part in what Nuada wanted this night. Once behind the counter she reached beneath it and pulled out the teak wood box inscribed with the spider and web insignia of an Anansi. Then she opened it and withdrew the contents.

Unlike the Butcher Guards of Bethmoora, the Anansi of Nyame were not simply royal guards. They were spies, assassins, torturers; the Nyame Queen's most trusted soldiers, and her most deadly. They specialized in poisons, traps, swift deaths, and the extraction of information from enemies of the state. One of the best spells for such an extraction was the Anansi's specialty. Those new to the Nyame guards called it the box-web - a harmless enough moniker for something that had the potantial to be extremely lethal. Veteran guards called it the Widow's Bite, which was its true name. Those who'd retired from the guards - like Aso - called it what it was: torture.

Aso Assase Ya gave Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance the palm-sized obsidian glass box, which the prince stowed somewhere. Aso did not see where. She was in too much shock. For what purpose could the Elven warrior use that spell? Who would he use it on? And what would King Balor do to him for using it?

She asked none of these questions. She merely watched the Elf prince walk out into the night once more.

**.**

Music jingled cheerfully from the radio as Dylan, Becan, and the three ewah shoved the chair, footstool, and lamps to the edges of the living room in preparation for the great migration about to commence.

Dylan knew she had a few hours - it was only seven-thirty - before Moundshroud meant to arrive. He was always punctual, arriving on the edge of midnight. Until then, she wasn't going to fret herself to death worrying about Nuada. She was going to be a productive person.

Which meant only one thing.

Since she probably wouldn't get a chance to do this according to her usual schedule, since they were going to return to Findias sometime in the first or second week of December, and since she had nothing really to do right now (she'd already gone over her patient files, checked the budget, written a grocery list, done her journal entry for the day, double-checked her lesson plans for Nursery next week, and finished baking both chocolate chunk cookies and apple pie) she was going to put up the Christmas tree. Besides, she needed something festive and fun to do or she'd tear her hair out.

But first she had to _get_ the Christmas tree. And to do that, she and the children had to go outside. In the freezing cold. Ah, well.

"Okay, everyone, get your coats," Dylan ordered once the furniture was in its proper places. While A'du and 'Sa'ti rushed to obey, Tsu's'di got Dylan's coat where she'd laid it on the back of the armchair earlier and helped his lady into it. What surprised the human woman was when A'du brought Dylan her boots and 'Sa'ti brought both her scarf and gloves. Although she informed the cougar cubs she was perfectly capable of tying her own boots, the little boy insisted on helping her put her gloves on because "your arm's hurt." 'Sa'ti helped with the buttons on her coat while Tsu's'di put on his own.

Once outside, Dylan led them deep into the Park. She knew exactly where she was going. It didn't take long. Near the faerie metal playground, she stopped and looked around, scanning the dark woods. The moon was heavy in the sky, nearly full. Its silver light illuminated the snow, almost giving it the luster of midday.

"Well, this is pretty nice," Dylan said in a voice that carried through the playground clearing. "So, I'm looking for Lena, of the daughters of Balanos. She wouldn't happen to be here, would she?"

"As if you didn't know," a shivery rustling voice called, like wind through the trees. A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti jumped when a slender young woman in a pair of dark green cargo pants and a brown hoodie stepped out of the shadow of the trees and smiled. Her teeth were the pale green-tinted brown of acorns. Her large, slanted eyes were the rich viridian of oak leaves. Despite the shadows of the night-shrouded Park, all three ewah and Dylan could see her clearly. Her dusky, Mediterranean skin held faint undertones of pale green. Her features were arched and feral. Acorns were sewn up the outside seams of her pants' pockets and jingled almost like bells. Her hoodie glittered here and there with bits of metallic green in the shapes of oak leaves.

The girl - she looked to be about fifteen or sixteen - stepped close enough that Tsu's'di instinctively put himself between her and Dylan. The mortal woman laid her hand on the cougar youth's shoulder.

"It's all right, Tsu's'di. I know her. She's a friend."

Reluctantly, the youth stepped aside again.

The faerie girl - Lena, of the daughters of Balanos, first of the hamadryads - gave Tsu's'di an appraising (and approving) look. Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "Oh, wow. He is so _cute_. Can I borrow him?" She winked at the youth, who blinked and stared at her. "You're a cougar," she added in a sultry voice. "That's _so_ cool. We should go on a date. Wanna catch a movie?"

"Can't loan him out," Dylan replied with a shrug while Tsu's'di blushed against his will. "He's my bodyguard. He's busy. Anyway, I know I'm a bit early, but I'm probably not gonna have another chance to decorate this year, so I was wondering if you'd already chosen-"

Lena waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, we chose already. Those fir trees are so vain. They love you dressin' them up all fancy. Twits." But Lena was smiling fondly at the fir trees surrounding the playground. "But we'll get to that in a second. Gotta ask you a question, girlfriend. I heard the most interesting bit of gossip from these girls a few weeks ago. Something about you getting some, uh... hot Elf liplock action?"

Dylan snorted. "I wish. We almost kissed, but my phone went off." So she hadn't been the only one to think Nuada had been about to kiss her. It hadn't just been wishful thinking. Well, what did that mean, exactly? Trees, even ones without fey beings living inside them, were fairly astute observers. They had to be; what else was there for them to do but watch the world and chronicle its history while they spread life through that same world? So if Lena's fir trees said Nuada was about to kiss her, she believed them. Which meant she had a lot of things to think about.

But not right now.

"Oh, tough acorns," Lena groaned. "_Hate_ it when that happens. You mortals and your cell phones. They're such a waste of space. If you just listened to the wind and actually used your ears... eh, whatevs. Right? So, uh... who's 'we,' exactly?"

"You haven't heard the gossip?" When Lena shook her head a little dejectedly, the mortal grinned. "Guess who Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance is paying court to?"

Those oak-green eyes widened. The hamadryad's jaw actually dropped. Finally, after several seconds of stunned silence, Lena cried, "Get outta town! Really? How the heck did you manage that? I always thought you'd hook up with one of us eventually, but the Silver Lance? Son of Balor One-Arm? Heir to the throne of the Tuatha de? _That_ Nuada Silverlance?"

Dylan nodded. Lena whistled.

"Shoot. That's... shoot. You happy with this?"

Dylan nodded again. Nuada made her happier than she'd ever been in her life, even as a little girl before the institution. She hadn't known then that this kind of happiness even existed. So even though she knew that one day she would lose him, he made her happy while he was there.

She would just hold onto him until... until the day he had to leave. And then she would hold onto the memories of him just as fiercely.

"Well, then, congrats. Lucky girl. You might be a princess soon. Cool. Okay, then. You answered my questions, so my fir gets to take up residence in your house for the next month or so. Fun times." With a sharp whistle, Lena beckoned to the dark treeline.

A ripple of movement. A creaking groan. Crunching sounds as something punched through the crust of ice covering the snow. And then the three ewah's mouths dropped open as a fir tree - only a sapling, really, about seven feet tall, but thickly branched - picked up its roots like a lady would pick up a daintily slippered foot. As they watched, a few of the fir's higher branches lifted the lower branches like a lady lifting her skirts over a puddle. Then the fir moved off in the direction of the cottage.

Dylan grinned and inclined her head towards Lena.

Lena just laughed at the stunned expressions on the cougars' faces. Then, walking up to Tsu's'di, she stood up on tiptoe and planted a peck of a kiss on his cheek, startling him enough that he jumped. His fur bristled sharply before laying flat again. His ears slicked back against his head. Lena laughed again.

"Oh, he's so cute! I'll see _you_ later. Don't forget - I like rom-coms and anime movies." And the hamadryad sashayed off into the trees, Tsu's'di staring after her with another blush burning through his cheeks.

"Come on, you guys," Dylan said, smiling. Tsu's'di forcibly wrenched his attention back to her. "Our Christmas tree is getting away."

**.**

Doctor Lucian Westenra glared at the file on his desk. That girl, that Ramirez girl. She was out of Iso now, thanks to Hollis putting his oar in. Interfering brat. Didn't the young psychiatrist know that Westenra outranked him in years and experience? So Hollis was a genius who'd graduated college at fourteen. He, Doctor Westenra, was _still_ head of Psychiatrics at Saint Vincent's and deserved the little punk's respect!

But Hollis was a friend of Myers, the little witch. She'd infected _another_ one of Westenra's people. She was always getting involved in the hospital's business - in _his_ business. She should know better. She should know not to infringe on another doctor's territory. Didn't she have any professional integrity? Didn't she have any respect? But of course not. She never had. Not even when she was a kid. Only now, finally, had he managed to put the fear of God - and Westenra - into her. Now Myers knew to be afraid of him. Knew what he could do, and what he was willing to do, if she got out of line again.

There were so many ways he could hurt her. So many ways he could punish her for her disrespect. He could let it spill that one of the NYPD's favorite shrinks to work with had been in a mental hospital herself for eleven years. That after she'd gotten out, she'd become a drug addict. Abusing prescription medications was not looked on favorably among the common people. It was even worse in their eyes than regular drugs because these were medicines that other, more deserving people _needed._ And little Miss Myers had been popping them for fun and giggles. Only a year's stint in drug therapy had managed to get her clean. But the question could always be asked, couldn't it, if she was actually clean? As a psychiatrist, she had access to a lot of prescription drugs. How did Doctor Myers handle the stress of her career without chemical help?

And wouldn't that rumor ruin the little slut's day? She could lose her retainer position with the police, lose her access at Saint Vin's, lose her job with Atwaters and Rhodes, the therapeutic offices where she worked on a regular basis. She could even lose her license if he pushed it far enough.

Or he could spill the beans to her new boy-toy. Stupid girl. She should've known better than to open her heart to a man, a weakness. Didn't she know that that just made her more vulnerable to Westenra himself because now - oh-ho, now - she had something she didn't want to lose? Something that he could take away with a single phone call. All he had to do was tell Dylan's boyfriend, Mr. Big-Suit Blondie (what was his name again? Nick? Nathan? Norman?), what kind of woman his cute little bunny _really_ was. Westenra could even show the new stud his girlfriend's file. Or maybe the session transcripts from when she was a kid. That would convince him quick enough that she was a raving lunatic.

He could do all of that to her if she crossed the line even once. Wonderful.

Westenra didn't look up from the irritating file on his desk, complete with the little witch's last photo before she left Saint Vincent's as a legal adult, when the door to his office opened. "Miss Cottingley, is it at all possible that you could get me a decent cup of coffee? Or is even _that_ beyond your pitiful skills?"

There was no answer. Only the door shutting with a gentle _click_. Westenra's head shot up, a snarl on his lips and fury on his face. The anger died away as his eyes met a savagely cold gaze the color of blood. His first thought was, _Why is he wearing colored contacts?_ The second thought was, _Where is security? How did he get in?_ And then the sound of the lock clicking into place penetrated his thoughts like a gunshot.

"Who are you? What are you doing in here?"

The tall man in black studied Westenra with sanguine eyes for a long moment before cocking his head. A feral, alien look glittered in those eyes. "You are what she fears. How interesting."

"Who are you?"

"You should know my name," the man said. The fluorescents brought out blue highlights to his moon-pale skin and turned his long, blond hair nearly bone-white. An odd sense of familiarity pricked Westenra the longer he looked at the odd, death-pale man. "You have heard it before. Last night, in fact."

_Impossible_. Doctor Westenra's chair clattered to the floor as he jumped to his feet and stumbled back against the wall of his office. That voice was soft and almost sleepy, but the psychiatrist would never mistake it for harmless. Not with the hellfire burning in the depths of those black-rimmed, blood red eyes. "_Who are you?_"

Black lips curved into a vicious smile. "I? I am Nuada."

Westenra's bowels turned to water and his guts to ice as the lights went out.

**.**

"The pink one! The pink one!" 'Sa'ti cried, pointing at the glittering icing-pink orb of frosted glass in its nest of tissue paper. "Put it there, please?" Dylan lifted the Christmas ornament out of its box and hung it from its impossibly thin, impossibly strong silvery chain on the fir tree. Just like it had with the first however-many ornaments, the fir tree shivered with delight at the new accessory. "Oooh," the cougar girl cooed happily. "These are so pretty. How do you get them to stay up?"

"Spider silk chains," Dylan said, and hung up one of the jeweled ornaments that Francesca had bought her from Sears ages and ages ago. "The jorōgumo weave them and sell them at the Floating Night Market. Becan uses them for... stuff."

"What are... jorōgumo?" A'du'la'di asked a little nervously. After breaking the _a'ge'lv's_ snowglobe, he was being very cautious around the fragile glass ornaments sparkling on the fir tree that had literally walked into the cottage and taken root (with a combination of Becan's magic and whatever Lena the hamadryad had done to it) in the floor near the one corner of the living room where there were no bookcases. The only thing A'du had been willing to help with was putting up the tiny multicolored lights that now glittered among the boughs.

He'd smiled, though. Especially when the fairy lights - which were technically alive - flitted around Lady Dylan before alighting on Tsu's'di's face in the form of a beard and mustache in bright green. 'Sa'ti, A'du, and Dylan giggled. The ewah youth had rolled his eyes and blew a puff of air at the lights, which then zipped over to the tree and found comfortable places to roost.

Now Dylan answered the cougar boy's question. "The jorōgumo are the spider women from Onibi. They're fantastic weavers. They can even weave metals - silver, gold, all kinds of things. My brother's pocketwatch chain was made by a jorōgumo. You have to be careful of them, though - they're not very fond of males. And they're poisonous."

"Poisonous?" Tsu's'di cried. "Yet you buy from them?"

Dylan shrugged. "Unlike the Troll Market and other fae bazaars, fighting at the Floating Night Market is strictly forbidden. Anyone who fights there - anyone - is killed. Immediately. And painfully. Lady Door ensures that." Hanging another glass ball (this one of pale frosted glass sprinkled with blue starbursts) she added, "Only an idiot would go up against her."

"Or someone very powerful," Tsu's'di replied. "Like His Highness."

His new human mistress shook her head and hoisted up 'Sa'ti so she could place a ivory figurine carved in the shape of a leaping stag, its antlers pressed along the curve of its back - a gift from one of the Bright Ones, like most of the other unusual Christmas ornaments in Dylan's vast collection. "One of the strongest Other Kin in the Twilight Realm tried to kill Lady Door. Lord Islington. Didn't work out so well."

"What happened to him?"

"Sucked into some kind of magical void without any oxygen or something. I don't know. It happened in London, which I've never been to, personally. I've never been out of the country. I heard about it from Lord Richard, Lady Door's bodyguard, when they came to visit a friend of mine."

Ignoring the adults, A'du'la'di knelt down and carefully reached into a box packed with tissue paper. He pulled out a stained glass disk. Each bit of colored glass was so small and so finely done that the disk, which was the size of his palm, showed a detailed picture of a small baby in a brown box full of what looked like straw. The baby held a gray... was that a mouse? A glowing mouse? Something about the ornament drew his curiosity. It was pretty, and interesting. And since it belonged to the _a'ge'lv_, it probably meant something special. "What's this?"

Dylan glanced over as she set 'Sa'ti back on the ground. "Oh! _The Stable Rat_." She watched with an encouraging smile and an attentative eye as A'du carefully hung the stained glass ornament on a middle branch, well away from Bat's cat-like inquisitiveness. "My parents gave me that for Christmas when I was nineteen. That one there," she added, pointing to the other stained glass ornament in the box, "is _the Christmas Mouseling_." The other disk showed a similar image, except this time of a fawn-colored mouse wrapped in blankets in a brown box with a baby, and a bigger mouse cuddling the little mouse. "My brother John bought me that one along with the storybook a couple years ago. I can read it to you guys later tonight before bed. How does that sound?"

"Yeah!"

**.**

Lucian Westenra blinked awake to a skull-splitting headache and a fuzzy, numb feeling in his mouth. He opened his mouth to call for that Cottingley girl (she'd replaced his secretary while she was away on maternity leave) but when he tried to speak, he found that his lips would not obey his silent command to open. The psychiatrist tried to shove his tingling lips apart with his tongue. His tongue would not obey him either. Watery brown eyes scanned his office. What had happened? Why was he lying on his back _on his desk?_

The last thing he remembered was studying the Myers witch's file. Studying the picture of the eighteen-year-old in her ripped up tank top made of blue scrubs, her frizzy hair in her face, a sunrise of a bruise marring one eye. Such an ungrateful child. Always so difficult, always so disrespectful, never giving him his due... but now he was splayed out on his desk, lacking any real feeling in his limbs or even in his lips and tongue. His throat worked to allow him to speak but nothing would come.

"Do not bother calling for help," a cold voice said. Westenra flicked his gaze to the man sitting in his office chair, black boots propped on the desk, flipping through Myers' file. Black lips were compressed in a thin line on that bone-white face as he turned a page. "No one can hear you."

_Who are you?_ The words filtered through Westenra's mind. Scarlet eyes pinned the old man.

"I am Nuada." Something vengeful kindled in that blood-red gaze. "Dylan Myers is my... 'girlfriend,' is the term you might understand." When Westenra's eyes widened, the pale man's mouth curved into an expression too savage to be a smile. "Yes. I was the blond man in the business suit that day Dylan brought the girl, Lisa, down from the roof. And just so there are no misunderstandings, I am fae." The old man's breathing hitched. "Yes. Fae. As in, faerie. The thing that you insisted to a little girl did not exist; here now is proof of the existence of such magic and supernatural things in the world. A shame that you did not learn the truth sooner."

_I've seen you before,_ Westenra realized with a jolt. _She's shown you to me. I've seen you before._ Those feral eyes narrowed. _In the file,_ the old man cried when the narrow eyes flickered with obvious fury and a dark hatred. _It's in the file._ Then pale man turned back to the file in his hands.

After a few minutes of flipping through the thick stack of papers in the manila folder, Nuada found what the piece of vermin was referring to. Near the back of the file were dozens upon dozens of children's drawings. Each bore the name "Dylan M." in crayon or black pencil at the bottom. Many of the pictures were of various fae - blue- and white-robed, childlike yukinko; a wolf-headed Scottish wulver (and where had a child seen one of _those?_); several crude drawings of merrows and demi-merrows; tiny, vampiric jenglot; even a painstakingly pristine drawing of a herd of gold-antlered zlatorog. Even so young, she'd seen such beings? Even as a little girl, she'd been exposed both to the benign and the malevolent of his world.

Nuada even found a drawing of an autumn-withered tree sporting several round orange things that he realized were jack-o-lanterns - the Samhain Tree. This drawing was better, though, and the prince was fairly certain she'd been quite a bit older when she drew this one. How early had she learned of that particular place in Faerie? How intricately had her life twined with the Twilight Realm, even so early in that life?

But that was not what Westenra had been referring to. What the pathetic wretch had been referring to was near the back of the stack of drawings. Despite thousands of years' practice at schooling his expression, Nuada's mouth fell open when he saw the last of the pictures.

They were all of him.

That first punch of recognition was tempered by reason. Of course they weren't of him. Dylan had never seen him before that night in the subway, and she possessed no psychic abilities beyond that connection between herself and her cowardly brother, John. These were of another Bethmoora Elf. It was entirely possible that she, as a child, had seen some of his people during her many forays into the misty borders between Faerie and mortality.

Except for the details of these pictures. The blond Elf wore the familiar black clothing Nuada favored, complete with the crimson sash and both the Aiglin and Eildon crests he sometimes wore, colored with metallic gold crayon. Black crayon formed the mouth and rimmed the golden eyes. Darkly but thinly applied graphite pencil formed the royal scar that carved across Nuada's face and the face of the Elf in the drawings. In the drawn Elf's hand were either a sword (complete with the notch at the tip of Nuada's own blade) or a black-handled spear.

_This isn't possible,_ the Elf prince thought, shock momentarily making him forget the human on the desk. It wasn't possible. He'd never met her before that night, yet she had drawn him countless times as a little girl. Why hadn't she told him?

He immediately cursed his own foolishness. Doubtless, she did not remember. Most of her time in this place was a blur of pain and furious grief. What few good memories she had, she'd never shared with him. He sincerely doubted any of those happy memories included anything that could be taken by the adults in charge and used against her in some way. Dylan most likely did not remember drawing any of these pictures.

But what did they mean? How had she known about him so early in her life when they had never seen each other before?

"What are the drawings from?"

The pitiful human tried to keep his filthy mind blank, but lacking any sort of discipline, there was no chance of him hiding his thoughts - or the images that came with those thoughts - from the Elf prince. _After the shock therapy, she almost always had seizures. She would see things. She liked to draw, so we asked her to draw them. She always drew that man. You._

Seizures. Shock therapy. Disgusting, what this man had allowed to be done - in truth, had _ordered_ to be done - to a child. _He_ had never done such things, even in war, even to his enemies. Fae did not torture their enemies. They were merciful and killed them quickly. If information was needed, one of those with mind magic would extract that knowledge from the opponent's skull before slaying them. Only during execution was the death drawn out to ensure the debt paid by the execution was paid in full.

Nuada shoved the memories swimming in Westenra's mind away so that he would not have to see the way Dylan's young body trembled under the onslaught of burning electricity. It sent fury surging through his blood, but he needed to keep his thoughts (and himself) calm and controlled.

He carelessly dropped the file onto the grand desk and dropped his feet to the floor. "Well, sir. You are probably wondering why it is I am here." Nuada deliberately turned the monster's words back on him. Westenra's eyes widened at the savagery beneath those words. "I am here to kill you. To make you pay for what you have done to that woman, and to the other children you have tortured and brutalized, or allowed to be hurt. I will make you reap every drop of pain you have ever inflicted, and each one will burn like acid in your belly. I will break you to pieces before the night is done. You will beg for death before the end."

The death-pale man with hellfire in eyes the color of arterial blood stood briefly and reached into a pocket. He withdrew a small box of glittering obsidian. Flicking the catch open, black-gloved fingers reached inside and withdrew a palm-sized, bright blue spider with a white-speckled abdomen and glistening fangs. Westenra began struggling against the constraints of his numbness-heavy limbs. Tiny sounds of panic managed to escape the chapped lips.

"Do you know what this is?" The black-lipped man's voice was nearly a croon. "Of course not. You are merely a spineless, gutless, heartless wretch. This spider is not actually a spider." He allowed the poisonously blue arachnid to crawl over his palm and then make its way to the back of his hand. "It is a spell given tangible form. One bite and it will suck your pathetic little mind into a hell so vicious and bleak your sanity would shatter in its confines were it not for the safeguards woven into the magic. You will pay for every moment of fear, every sorrow, every hurt and each tear shed. And then I will end your life in a shower of blood and pain." Was that a tear rolling down the old man's face? "I tell you this to ensure that you understand why I am here and what your actions have brought down on your own head."

And he held out his gloved hand and the blue spider leapt upon Westenra's chest. With pricking, needle-sharp steps it skittered up his torso, over his throat to settle against the mortal man's mouth. Several jet black eyes stared into the human's own for a long moment. A sudden movement from the blond man wrenched Westenra's lips apart. The spider crawled inside the open mouth and those venom-slicked fangs pierced the vein beneath Westenra's tongue.

Nuada dropped back into the chair and propped his boots on the desk. Flipping open Dylan's file, he began to read as Westenra started screaming.

**.**

By eleven-thirty, the Christmas tree was finally decorated, and never had the ewah children seen anything prettier. The fairy lights twinkled amidst the evergreen boughs in pale greens, icing pinks, holly reds, silvers and golds and starry blues. Glass orbs patterned with star bursts, crescent moons, snowflakes, and even pixie shapes hung from the branches by tiny chains of iridescent spider silk. Figures from myth carved of yellowed ivory also hung from the tree branches - leaping stag lords, wild boars with savage tusks, cream-colored wolves loping across the green of the fir tree. Several disks of stained glass showed stories that Dylan had told the children as they put the ornaments in appropriately high places: the Stable Rat, Nestor the Long-Eared Christmas Donkey, the Little Drummer Boy, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and several others. Jeweled holly berries and mistletoe also decorated the tree.

Now the children were all snuggled down in their proper places in the den - 'Sa'ti on the sofa beneath her bevy of blankets, cuddling Neytiri the Stuffed Mountain Lion; A'du'la'di and Tsu's'di both stretched out on the futon. A'du was still nibbling on the last bit of snickerdoodle and 'Sa'ti was nursing a cup of milk. Dylan settled in the chair between the futon and the sofa and opened _the Christmas Mouseling_.

"Wait, _A'ge'lv_," 'Sa'ti cried, pulling back from the cup of milk. Tiny white drops dewed the fur around her mouth. "We can't have a story without the prince."

Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it again. Finally, she said, "His Highness won't be back until dawn, honey. You guys will be asleep."

'Sa'ti and A'du looked at each other across the open picture book. A'du'la'di's ears flicked back and forth a few times. 'Sa'ti's whiskers pricked forward and her brother nodded quickly. Clearly the two cougar children were communicating silently about something. A'du took a moment to finish off his snickerdoodle before he said, "Would... would it be okay if we had the story tomorrow, then? Maybe during breakfast or something? Once the prince comes home?"

"Yeah," 'Sa'ti said softly. "We should wait. It doesn't feel right to read the story without him here. We're all supposed to be here for the story." She drained her cup of milk. Becan took it and carried it into the kitchen.

"How will you guys get to sleep, though?"

Both children exchanged another glance and then A'du asked, "Maybe... could you... sing to us?"

Dylan closed the book and set it aside. Becan came back into the den. Clearly he'd heard the cougar boy's request, because with the brownie came his tiny black pipe. He popped onto a footstool beside the chair. Putting the pipe to his lipless mouth, Becan blew a few slow and haunting notes. His lady recognized the tune. She motioned for A'du and 'Sa'ti to lie down the way they did during a story. The brownie played some introductory measures before Dylan began to sing.

"_A gentle breeze from Hush-a-By Mountain  
Softly blows on Lullaby Bay.  
It fills the sails of boats that are waiting,  
Waiting to sail your worries away._

"_It isn't far to Hush-a-By Mountain,  
And your boat waits down by the key.  
The winds of night so softly are sighing.  
Soon they will fly your troubles to sea._"

She'd known the children would fall asleep very quickly. It was more than three hours past their bedtime, for one thing. They had wanted to help with the tree and they'd been picking up on her nervousness, so she had let them stay up late enough to get it done - just this once. Now A'du was already snoring, sprawled across his half of the bed with both arms and his head hanging off the edge of the futon. 'Sa'ti blinked sleepily at her human mistress. She yawned like a sleepy cat, all teeth and pricked whiskers and stuck-out barbed tongue. Tsu's'di, who'd been helping clean up around the cottage as well as practicing several knife moves Nuada had shown him earlier, slept the sleep of an exhausted and well-fed teenage boy beside his little brother.

"_So close your eyes on Hush-a-By Mountain.  
Wave goodbye to cares of the day,  
And watch your boat from Hush-a-By Mountain  
Sail far away from Lullaby Bay._"

By the end of the last verse, 'Sa'ti was also asleep, cuddled against her stuffed mountain lion. Dylan rose to her feet. She brushed back the wild mane of tawny hair with its dark spattering of baby spots and kissed the little girl's forehead. She offered the same smoothing motion to A'du'la'di's tufty mane, though it did little good. She kissed his forehead as well. Then she and Becan quietly left the room.

**.**

Westenra was a sobbing, twitching mess on the cheap wooden desk now. Tears ran freely down his cheeks and he continuously sniffled and whimpered. Every time Nuada moved so much as an inch, the human cried out in terror.

The Elf prince allowed himself a brief smile of grim satisfaction as he paused the spell. Before his eyes, Nuada had seen bruises bloom across the paunchy body before fading and then blooming again. Blood ran from cuts and gashes and scratches that split the skin for brief moments before sealing up again. Sharp Elven ears caught the _snap_ and _crunch_ of breaking and shattering bones that fractured before healing again. And the magic of the Anansi's spell kept the wretch from going into shock and dying of his injuries. He could only writhe and scream. No one was there to hear him beg for...

"Did you just ask me for mercy?" Nuada demanded in a snarl. He slapped the two-inch thick file onto the desk beside Westenra's head with a sound like a palm impacting flesh. The human flinched and moaned. "How dare you? How dare you ask for mercy after what you've done?"

"She... she would give me mercy," Westenra moaned, and Nuada went very still. "She's Christian; she'd forgive me. She wouldn't want you to do this. She'd want you to let me go. Please, please, for the love of G-"

Nuada's open-handed blow cut off the words and split Westenra's lip. The old man choked on the blood leaking into his mouth for a moment before remembering to swallow it. "How dare you?" The prince asked again. This time the psychiatrist didn't dare answer. "You wish to speak of mercy? To ask for mercy from me? Where was your mercy - where was your common _decency_, you puling scum - when you left four children in the dark to be tortured and raped?"

"It wasn't rape," he moaned. Those blood-red eyes zeroed in on him and Westenra cried, "It wasn't rape! She was asking for it, they all were. She enjoyed it." Anger burned the edge off the fear as the human gasped out, "Little slut _wanted_ it. If you'd heard the things she was saying, the sounds she made... it wasn't rape."

"And what," Nuada demanded between teeth clenched so tightly he was probably in danger of cracking a molar, "did she say?"

"Kept saying 'please,'" Westenra mumbled. "Begging for it. Little whore was begging for it, it wasn't rape, it was all legal. She was perfectly willing. I don't know what she told you, but she was willing. It was just childish fun. Nobody got hurt. Please, nobody got hurt, she just had a case of buyer's remorse after, that's all. Please let me go, please don't kill me."

_Nobody got hurt._ For a second the only things that penetrated the odd, crystalline clarity around Nuada's mind and the awful silence in his skull were memories. Dylan's memories that he'd made a part of himself in a way he'd never done before. Hot blood slicking her thighs. Pooling between her legs. Blood in her mouth, choking her as she fought to scream for help. Blood burning in her eyes. _Nobody got hurt._ Couldn't breathe around the sweaty hand covering Dylan's mouth. Couldn't breathe with the animal's weight pinning her to the stairs. The sharp edges of the steps biting deep into her neck and shoulders and back with every savage thrust. _Nobody got hurt._

Wasn't rape? That obscenity, that abomination, wasn't rape? Lie. Filthy lie. Rage boiled in Nuada's blood, burning in his chest and scorching his throat, blazing in his eyes. Filthy, filthy _lie_. Oh, he would pay. He would pay for his actions and for his lies. The lies that had woven a trap around Dylan and kept her locked up in this place because she fought against the hands always touching, always _touching_, or allowing other hands to touch.

"Did she beg you?" Nuada hissed, and the human flinched and whined like a dog. "Did she beg you, you stinking coward?"

Westenra shook his head. "I didn't touch her. Didn't touch her, I swear, I didn't do anything-"

"You hit her," the prince said in a voice like jagged ice. His words were sharp enough to make the air bleed. "Hurt her. I know you did. Did she beg you to stop?"

"It... it was self-defense," he whimpered. "She _attacked_ me. She was always attacking people. Scratching, biting. She nearly killed me. It was self-defense, she was trying to rip my throat out with her teeth. With her _teeth_, for Chri-"

Nuada bared his teeth in a feral smile and Westenra abruptly choked off his words. "I know what you are," Nuada said. "So making excuses and lying to me is pointless." With a snap of gloved fingers, the spell resumed. The human's body convulsed with vicious agony. If the Elf prince had planned on letting him live beyond the dawn, he'd have been hurting sore in the morning. As it was, eyes like freshly-spilt blood watched with savage pleasure as Westenra began to cry again, keening like a wounded animal. Before Nuada's eyes, countless slashing lines of razor thinness ripped open the doctor's forearms and bled for a handful of seconds before healing, then splitting open again. Healing. Splitting open. Healing. Ripping open. Blood had long ago saturated the white button-down shirt the mortal wore. Now it pooled on the desktop and glistened in the dimly flickering fluorescent lights.

The prince turned back to the file and studied the transcripts from one of Dylan's so-called "therapy sessions" that had taken place a week after the first rape. Fools. Blind, incompetent fools. She wouldn't speak to them. Not after trying to tell them what had happened. They assumed she'd gone down in that basement to meet up with those boys (and curse it, they were only mentioned by first name, which he already knew, and no surname in the notes scribbled in the margins of the transcripts). They assumed she'd wanted sex to cope with her brother's "death." He knew that because this, too, was hastily penned in bright red off to one side of the paper.

She'd been punished for that. _Punished_. Not just her, either. The other girls - Allison and Ruby. The boy, Gunter. All four of them punished for "engaging in inappropriate conduct with fellow patients." What had these adults made of the blood? The bruises? The broken bones? How had this gone unnoticed?

It hadn't, Nuada realized. It had simply been covered up. That was the only explanation. Was this pathetic little nothing-man so powerful, then? No wonder Dylan feared him. He was not just the nightmare out of her childhood. He was her chief tormentor and nothing she or anyone else had done had ever managed to touch him. Westenra must've had a powerful friend. Maybe even more than one.

There were photographs. He couldn't bear to look at any beyond the first one. Of Dylan at twelve years old, lying so still and small in a hospital bed, her flesh nearly black with bruises in some places, leather straps clamped around her already-bruised wrists and ankles. She'd been asleep. Or maybe unconscious. It didn't matter.

_She was right,_ he thought somewhat numbly. His mind barely even registed Westenra's cries of agony. _She was right. It _was _worse before._ She'd nearly died. All four of those children had nearly died and by the gods didn't their parents _care?_ And Dylan had told him that there were other children besides those four. The boys who'd done this preferred brunettes with curly hair but the torture had applied to others, to any child too weak to protect themselves or lucky enough to find protection with one of the bigger children.

He studied her medical files. She hadn't given him permission, but he was looking for something specific. All that trauma, all that damage... was it possible that the brutality had stripped Dylan of even the possibility of her most cherished dream? She wanted to be a mother so badly. Wanted children so much. But could she even carry them? She'd never given any indication that she couldn't, but maybe she hadn't allowed herself to find out the truth in case it was too hard to bear.

And even if she _had_ known she could not, why would she share something so personal with him? _You've already trusted me with so much but not with yourself._ If she thought he did not trust her, why should she trust him?

The sudden silence jolted him from his study of the medical records some time later. Nuada's eyes slashed like garnet knives to the human on the desk. Westenra was still breathing, and was still conscious. But the pain had stopped. Nuada glanced at the clock; after two in the morning. The spell... was it over? Had the mortal truly experienced everything in the last six hours that he'd inflicted on his victims? Or was the shock-prevention component of the Anansi's spell kicking in?

"Please," Westenra gasped. "Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please. I'm sorry, just please let me go. I'm begging you. Please."

His voice wove in and out of the fog of memory that was never far away from Nuada; not since he'd walked into this building with death on his mind, in his eyes. Now the Elven warrior could hear Dylan weeping, begging as Westenra now begged. He remembered the shared dream where he'd raced to find her, her sobs and vicious words echoing off the walls. _Little slut likes it. Best thing that ever happened to her. She likes it. C'mon, babe, hold still._ And Dylan pleading with them to let her go, just please let her and the other children go, before the monsters got fed up and covered her mouth and wrapped choking hands around her vulnerable throat to silence her tears and pleas and screams-

- _Black bruises around her pale neck  
Necklace of choking shadows  
They want her silenced, they don't want to hear  
Choking, choking, choking  
Can't breathe he can feel her panic  
Feel her pain her terror  
Taste the scream building in the back of her throat  
Hands wrapping tight brutal grip  
Pressure lights blinding blood roaring in her ears  
Heart pounding  
Can't breathe can't breathe can't..._ -

Nuada came out of the flashback with his hands clenched tightly around Westenra's throat. Weak mortal fingers scrabbled weakly at the Elf's grip. Watery brown eyes bulged from their sockets. Westenra struggled to gasp for air beyond the crushing grip of black-gloved hands. With a snarl, Nuada yanked his hands away. The human choked and gagged as air flooded his lungs.

_No_, the prince reminded himself. No, this wasn't how he wanted the putrid animal to end his pitiful existence. No, he had a better way.

Drawing his twin-dagger from the sheath inside his sash - black for once, instead of his customary red - Nuada let the light play along the blade. Westenra's eyes widened as the silver blade glinted like pain. Like ice-cold death. Nuada flipped the dagger, catching it by the blade. Flipped it again. Caught it. Flipped it. Caught. Those watery eyes grew wider and wider with every toss. So far the Elf prince hadn't hurt the human himself beyond the ensorceled spider bite. But now... now the spell was over, or the agony would've resumed by now. Which meant it was time to call in the last of the debt and kill this vile creature.

With a sudden, sharp movement that cut off Westenra's yelp of terror, Nuada drove the dagger into the human's chest. A yank on the hilt wrenched it back out again. Westenra coughed and gasped at the pain. The prince wiped the blade on his trousers and sheathed it once more. Blood welled up and spilled across the liver-spotted torso.

Nuada dropped back into the chair and propped his feet on the desk again. "You're not going to bleed to death, human. At least, not exactly. I just barely knicked your right lung. At this moment, your lung is slowly filling with blood. Once the right one is filled, the blood will spill over into your left lung. You'll drown in your own blood over the course of the next four hours and I intend to sit back and enjoy."

"Please," and now there was a faint wet rasp to the words. "Please, you can't do this. You can't. Please, help me, you can't do this. Please. I'll do anything, I beg you, please, please have mercy. Show some mercy."

"My apologies," the prince said with a distinct lack of sincerity. "I seem to be fresh out. But I do have a question, Doctor." Nuada leaned in and tapped the top of the blue spider's abdomen with a forefinger. The venomous fangs bit deep again. Westenra cried out and sobbed weakly. The bone-white Elf hissed in the old man's ear, "Do you believe in fairies _now?_"

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_**Author's Note:**_ _oooh, ouch. I think the answer is "absolutely yes." Too late, now, though. So yeah, I think Westenra's feeling a little stupid about how fairies supposedly don't exist now, since he's being tortured by one. Ouchies. Anywho, so as a special Christmas gift, I've got 2 chapters for you guys. And then in chapter 51 I get to play with politics again! Woo-hoo! But anyway, I hope you guys enjoy your present from yours truly. Huggles and cyber cookies for you all!_

_And now for our review prompt! _=D

_1) The drawings Dylan did as a little girl. What do you think they mean? Any ideas at all?_

_2) Awww! Tsu's'di has an admirer! Who thinks that's gonna go anywhere? Who would like to see it go somewhere?_

_3) So the thing about the kids wanting to wait for Nuada before they read the story. What do we think of that?_

_4) On the twelfth day of Christmas, my reviewers gave to me... twelve favorite things that they liked in the chapter of my story!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the song "Hush-a-By Mountain" is so cute and pretty, and applies to the homey sort of scenario Dylan has going on in the cottage while Nuada's out torturing Westenra. But at the same time, because Nuada is out torturing Westenra, it has this kind of dark, almost sadistic undertone, I feel._

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- I mention the Nyame queen because the Nyame are matriarchal (like most spiders).

- Lena is named after Lena Kaligaris from _the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants_. She is _not_ actually that Lena, however.

- Balanos is the hamadryad (a special kind of dryad) in charge of oak trees. The daughters of Balanos (in this fic) are in charge of evergreens in general, not just oaks (which is why Lena looks all oaky, but controls fir trees).

- The image of the tree walking along I got from two places. The idea itself came from one of Mercedes Lackey's books (I believe it was _Oathbreakers_, but it might have been _Oathbound_) where the two MCs are talking about building a fire and a tree literally got up and walked away. The visual I got from Disney's _the Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian_, with how the trees move in the final battle (except on a much smaller scale, since the fir tree isn't very big).

- The reason for this specific arrangement with the Christmas tree is because a) Dylan would never cut down a real tree, knowing as many fae as she does. Not to mention that's super-dangerous, real trees. And b) plastic and metal trees wouldn't be good for the fae that come to visit. So she gets a real tree that doesn't dry out and die and still looks pretty. And it makes the cottage smell extra nice.

- You guys may remember Miss Cottingley, the college intern, from chapter 26.

- Lady Door, Lord Richard, and Lord Islington are characters from Neil Gaiman's novel, _Neverwhere_.

- _The Stable Rat_ is an illustrated collection of Christmas poems put together as a picture book. "The Stable Rat" is just one of the poems inside, and it's about how the rat is overlooked by all the animals in the stable and all the people, and no one cares for it, until the stable rat comes out one night to see the baby that has been born in the stable and the baby (who is the Christ child) not only sees the stable rat, but loves it. It's very cute.

- _The Christmas Mouseling_ is another story about overlooked animals and the Christ child on the night he was born. In _the Christmas Mouseling_, a baby mouse is born on the first Christmas but then the nest it lives in is blown apart by the North Wind, so its mother tries to find all these different places to have it take shelter because the mouseling is sick from the cold. It tries a cow, a sheep, and a few other places. Each time, the place the mother mouse finds is blown apart by the North Wind. Eventually she makes it to a stable and is going to put her baby in the blankets that are in the manger (those blankets belonging to the baby Jesus). The mother mouse does this, then gets noticed by Mary, who smiles and says, "What a wonderful night to be born," and lets the mother mouse and her baby mouseling stay in the warm manger with Jesus. Yay!

- Yukinko are childlike ice people from Japan.

- A wulver is a wolf-headed humanoid in Scottish mythology.

- Jenglot are described on Wikipedia as diminutive vampires.

- Zlatorog are white deer with golden antlers in Slovenian mythology.

- _Nestor the Long-Eared Christmas Donkey_ is a Rankin-Bass film (they did the movies _Santa Claus Is Coming to Town_ and _Rudolph's Shiny New Year_, stop-motion puppet films like those) about the little donkey with the super-long ears who was given the task of carrying Mary through the desert to the stable. There's no biblical backing for this story but I love it so much and it always make me cry.

- _The Little Drummer Boy_ was also done by Rankin-Bass, inspired by the song of the same name. In the movie, however, it talks about how the little drummer boy's family was killed and the only friends he had left were the animals from his family's little farmstead. During his time as an orphan he ends up hating mankind. Well, one night, the lamb from his farm is badly injured and the drummer boy doesn't know what to do or who to go to. Three richly dressed men tell him that they are going to see a very special king, and that perhaps this king can do something for the lamb. The king they're going to see is the baby Jesus, and those were the three wise men, who have special gifts for him. The little drummer boy has no gift (hence the line in the song, "Baby Jesus, I am a poor boy too. I have no gift to bring that's fit to give a king). Instead, he offers to play his drum for the new king, and because he does his best and offers his best, the lamb is healed. Man, I'm getting choked up just thinking about it. I love these stop-motion Christmas films. I'm such a sucker, lol.

- The song Dylan sings to the children is "Hush-a-By Mountain" from the Disney film, _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_.


	50. Confession

**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**

_Author's Note  
Restraint Challenge  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _here's the Christmas Present Chapter! Hope you all enjoy. I love you all. I would very much like long happy reviews for this chapter telling me what you all thought of the gifty part (not the part about gifts, the part that is a gift for you - you'll know it when you get to it). I really want to make sure everyone is happy with their present. Christmas huggles for everyone!_

_Also, thank you Jasper for loaning me the use of that one line (which I can't write here because it's a bit of a spoiler). But just so everyone else knows, Jasper came up with this beautiful brilliant line that I love, so yeah. _=D _Go read her fanfic, "The Fire's Fuel," and review it. It's so good!_

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**Chapter Fifty**

**Confession**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Gifts Beneath a Tree, a Visitor's Warning, Drowning, Information Just Out of Reach, Music, Comfort, the Truth At Last, and Longing**

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"Milady," the brownie murmured once they were back in the front room. Sloe black eyes absently admired the tree and its baubles while the Wee Fae remained very aware of the passage of time. "Milady, it is nearly midnight."

"Yes," she replied, rubbing almost nervously at the half-circle scar on the underside of her arm. "I know." She laid _the Christmas Mouseling_ on the fireplace mantel and studied the room. There were fifteen or so minutes left before midnight. "I'll be back in a bit."

Dylan went to her room, to her closet, and pulled down from the shelf a box. Inside were several brightly wrapped packages that she'd picked up from the Floating Night Market and other places over the last few months. Some of them were for Becan, others for John. A few, more sedately wrapped in royal blue with Celtic designs in silver and gold, were for Nuada (if he would accept them, which she wasn't one-hundred percent sure of).

And there were a few, which she or Becan had wrapped during the day while the children were doing other things, for each of the ewah. Wink had brought the children's livery, though she hadn't known that at the time. Her brownie had answered the door and accepted the packages while she and the children were out getting the tree. Becan had also wrapped them while the others were out. There were also several smaller packages from the Troll Market that apparently had been arranged for by Nuada during their last visit, though they were already wrapped and therefore Dylan had no idea what was actually _in_ them. These were in simple brown paper and their shape gave absolutely no indication of their contents.

Instead of carrying the presents, she simply dragged the box out of her bedroom and down the hall towards the living room. And it was as she was setting up the presents beneath the Christmas tree that a hollow knock sounded at the front door.

She rose slowly to her feet. Becan was not going to get the door this time. This time, she would answer because no faerie wished to confront Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud if they could avoid it. And because right after the sepulchral sound of an iron knocker against her door where no knocker should have been, there came a rapid and much more natural-sounding knock to the beat of shave-and-a-haircut. Dylan's mouth curved up in a smile almost against her will.

When she opened the door, a skeletally thin man with skin the pale gray color of old bones in a suit of abyssal black inclined his head. Eldritch eyes gleaming with the greenish phantasmic light of St. Elmo's fire raked her from head to toe and back up again. Wrinkled lips peeled back and sharpened teeth glinted in a smile. "Well, now. Well, well, well, now. There you are, my dear."

"It's been too long, Mr. Moundshroud," she said, and embraced him. His arms were like frigidly cold bands of steel, but she had long ago gained a sort of immunity to the graveyard chill that clung to the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, in the same way she'd learned to ignore the mildewy scent of graveyard earth and his incredibly beaky nose and pointy ears (and the tufty wisps of gray and white hair that sprouted out of both). The old Other Kin even brushed a grandfatherly kiss against her forehead. It burned with the iciness of bitter frostbite. "Come in," Dylan said warmly. "Come in."

The person who followed the old fae inside the cottage was tall, gangly, and sported freckles all over his vampire-pale face. Wild shocks of carrot-colored hair stood out brightly against his pale skin and black t-shirt. He kept his hands stuffed in his black jeans, but Dylan could see the half-circle scar on the underside of his arm. A scar identical to her own, and to the ones borne by his four dearest friends. This boy was Moundshroud's protege, Joseph - called Pip, or Pipkin, for his last name - and he had cheated Death twice in his life. He too had the Sight, by virtue of being born at midnight on Samhain. And now he offered Dylan a two-fingered salute and a half-mocking grin.

"Hey," he quipped, grinning. He still had a childlike gap between his two front teeth. "What's up, Doc? Saved anyone else's life lately by doing something stupid?"

She snorted. "Oh, yes. I go around trading years off my life all the time. Have a seat, you punk."

"Take the floor, Pipkin," Moundshroud ordered. "Chairs belong to old people." With a grumble, the freckled boy plopped tailor-style on the floor. Moundshroud took the chair. Dylan sank onto the footstool. After a long moment where Dylan let the withered being study her, the Keeper said, "Do you know why I've come, child?"

Dylan rolled back her sleeve to bare the lopsided, half-circle scar on the underside of her forearm, a scar the color of old bones - the same faded, moldering gray as Moundshroud's wrinkled skin. "Is it time? Because... because if it is, I have to ask you to give me an extension."

"If it _was_ time, you'd know I can't do that. I don't control when your divine Master calls you back to Him. And if it wasn't time, nothing I could do would end your life. That's not why I'm here." The Keeper of the Samhain Tree sighed and glanced at the dying fire in the hearth. "You are being courted by Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, yes?" Dylan nodded. Moundshroud sighed again, like a sere wind through a cemetery in October. "Blast. I'd hoped that was just a stupid rumor. You are in way over your head this time, my dear."

She frowned and cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

"Even I can't protect you all the time, or even most of it. The ones like me, the old ones - we don't interfere much with the fae kingdoms. Bad PR, you know? If we put our oar in too often, the royals would all band together and kill us. They could, you know. If they all worked together, they could kill us one by one. So whatever old One-Arm is planning, I can't help you. You understand what I'm saying?"

Dylan couldn't stop tracing the scar with her fingertips. A scar made by Moundshroud's sharpened thumbnail. A concave scar that marked where the Keeper had pierced her arm all the way to the bone, and penetrated bone to find the marrow. If he could do that, if he could save a dying child, if all the fae kings had to band together in order to kill him, why couldn't he help her? Because of politics. Probably because of the rules of magic as well. "You came to warn me about Nuada's father?"

Moundshroud nodded. "Balor will do anything to maintain the truce between the humans and the fae. Anything that even smacks of an act that might break it puts him on edge. You have to be careful, Dylan. If he has some sort of plan to discredit Prince Nuada to his anti-human supporters and you get in his way, he'll shatter you."

"I'm stronger than I look," she muttered, thinking of the Blackwood boys and the human wolves and Eamonn. "I survived our deal, didn't I?"

"Not strong enough that you can't be blackmailed," Moundshroud replied, running a bony hand over his mostly bald head. Only a few short wisps of stone gray hair sprouted like fungus from his skull and the depths of his large, pointy ears. "You love the prince, which means the king can get to you. If you stand in his way, he'll do whatever it takes to get you out of it. You have to believe that."

Blood sheeting down Nuada's back, soaking his hair and his trews and spattering the floor beneath his feet. A sudden surge of nausea and horror made her stomach clench and her eyes sting. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, she believed that of Nuada's father. He would torture her prince if either of them slipped up in any way. But... "Would he kill Nuada? If he had to?"

"Without hesitation," the old fae replied. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. Her heart plummeted into her toes. "And he would kill you even quicker than that if he thought you were a threat to the truce. And it doesn't take much to convince him of that. If you don't do everything in your power to make the Silver Lance lovey-dovey with the humans, if Balor thinks you're making the prince's prejudice worse or interfering with his plans to make Nuada look bad in front of the courts, he'll kill you. Both of you. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "What do you think he's going to do?"

"It would look very bad for the prince if he married a human," Moundshroud replied. Dylan couldn't stop her flinch. "It would look even worse if he took one for a lover." At her confused expression, the Keeper sighed. "Child, sometimes I wonder how you can be so naive. If the Silver Lance marries you, it could be said the king forced him into it. The impact is lessened. If the prince beds you without the bonds of marriage... well, no one would think the king would order the prince to take a human to his bed. They would think the Silver Lance did such a thing of his own accord. I tell you this because I know if Balor ordered you to sleep with Nuada, you would say no at first."

"Not at first," she protested. "Period. I'd say no period. I'm not having sex with anyone before marriage willingly. I made a covenant-"

"If you refuse the king anything, he will torture and perhaps kill the prince," Moundshroud said. Dylan's protests died in her throat, swallowed by her horror. "Or he will torture and perhaps kill you. But after your rescue of the prince back in October - yes, I heard about that - Balor knows that his son is your weakness. More than likely, he will use Nuada as a bargaining chip, a hostage against you. I want you to be prepared, child."

For a long moment she was so stunned she couldn't speak. The king would do that? Nuada would not have believed such a thing, or he'd have warned her. But that didn't mean Balor wasn't capable of it. Children saw their parents differently than other people, even when they were adults.

"It's always blood or sex with the fae, isn't it?" She asked more than a little bitterly. _Blood or sex. Death or life. I hate that._ She sighed. "Is this why you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Are you frightened?"

"For him," Dylan replied. "Not for me. I couldn't bear to lose him. I love him. If I die, then it's because it's time. The same thing applies if the king decides to... if Nuada... but it won't be the same. Not for me. I'll lose almost everything. A third of my life will be gone. And John... John's job is so dangerous. I could lose him at any moment. Then the only One I'll have left is Heavenly Father."

"The Star Kindler, the Lamplighter of the Moon, the Elves call Him," Moundshroud murmured. "Wood folk call Him the Rain Bringer, the Wind in the Boughs, the Shepherd of the Forest. Even I call Him that sometimes. We don't talk much, the Rain Bringer and I, but I know Him. And I know He'll look after you, child. As long as you don't do anything stupid," the Keeper added after a beat.

"I know," she whispered. "I know. But I just... I don't want Nuada to get hurt."

"Then be careful." Moundshroud rose creakily to his feet and stretched with a groan that reminded Dylan of shambling corpses hungry for human flesh. "Come along, Pipkin. Lazy boy. Never should've taken him as my apprentice," the old fae muttered with a good-natured roll of the eyes, moving towards the front door. Pip merely rolled his own eyes behind the old fae's back and graced Dylan's hand with an insolent little kiss.

At the front door, which opened of its own accord, the Keeper of the Samhain Tree turned back to Dylan and laid his bony hands on her shoulders. His nails lightly pricked her skin through her shirt. The scar on the underside of her arm throbbed in response. "I feel I should remind you... of two things. One is that in a life-or-death choice between sex and blood, the followers of the High King are commanded to choose the former, not the latter."

Dylan swallowed hard. With the fae, it almost always came down to sex or blood. Branwen's Tears, the poison of the gancanaugh, was a prime example. It drove a person to a painful, sometimes maddening or even lethal state of arousal, and no one could maintain control under its influence. But killing something - shedding copious amounts of hot copper blood in a lethal flood of crimson - could ease the brutal need just as easily as sex. But the edicts of the High King of the World commanded that if a Latter-Day Saint had to make the choice between sex and death, to change the choice. To make it a choice between life and death. That was not considered a sin - to be used that way in preservation of sentient life. Her bishop had even reminded her of that fact after her attack in the subway.

_Why is Moundshroud telling me this?_ She wondered, and a sudden burning heat took up residence in her chest. _Oh. Okay. That's why. Because _You _want me to be reminded. I thank Thee, Heavenly Father. Is that because of whatever the king might be planning?_ The heat flared. Dylan's hands curled into fists at her side. _I see. So he's planning something that has the potential to be lethally dangerous to one or both of us?_ Warmth spread from her chest down her back and into the coldness in the pit of her stomach. _I see. I thank Thee._

"What's the second thing you feel you should tell me?"

"The second thing is this - trust in the Spirit. He will never steer you wrong. And trust in those who love you."

Those beetle-black eyes gleaming with eerie green in their depths pierced her to the core. Dylan nodded. Moundshroud gave one sharp nod of satisfaction before pulling her into an embrace once more. Most would probably find the moldering odor of grave earth and cold marble discomfitting, but ever since the night she'd met Moundshroud and Pip, somehow it always comforted.

"Be careful, my dear. I don't want to see our deal fulfilled for a long time yet, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He released her and without another word, turned on his heel and strode into the darkness with Pipkin followed after him. Pip walked backwards, waving at her as he too disappeared into the night. Dylan was about to shut the door when she caught sight of something glittering on the outside doorknob. She lifted up an orb of faceted orange, green, and amber crystal and stared at it for a few seconds before she realized what is was.

A jack-o-lantern Christmas ornament.

Despite the chilling conversation she'd just finished, Dylan found herself smiling.

**.**

Blood bubbled between Westenra's lips as the vermin struggled to draw a full breath into lungs filling with blood. He choked and hacked, trying desperately to clear his lungs. It didn't work. He only succeeded in spitting up more scarlet onto his shuddering chest. Crimson soaked his open shirt. Every breath was glottal and wet and ended in a hacking cough that brought more blood frothing between his lips.

"Please," he choked out. "Please."

Nuada did not spare him so much as a glance. Instead, rage-scarlet eyes flashed to the clock on the wall. The pathetic wretch had perhaps thirty minutes left. Even if the Elven prince had wanted to do something - which he most certainly did _not_ - he couldn't have.

"If... if you help me... I'll tell you their names," the human rasped. Nuada jerked in surprise.

"Who?" His voice was deadly ice.

"The ones... who raped her. Please..." Westenra gasped for breath, his fingers scrabbling weakly against the blood-streaked desk. After several moments of coughing he managed to draw enough air to groan, "I'll tell you who they are. I will. I swear." The pale man cocked his head to the side and regarded Westenra with narrowed, coldly glittering eyes like frozen arterial blood. The stark hatred in the white face sent ice-cold fear sliding through the old man's guts. Tears began to roll down his weathered cheeks again. "I don't wanna die, please..."

Nuada steeled himself to do something so revolting he feared he very well might be sick. Pulling off his black leather glove, he reached out and grabbed Westenra's hand in a bruising grip. Gritted his teeth. _For Dylan,_ the Elven warrior reminded himself. Already he was choking on the chaotic terror and nauseating psyche of the man whose thoughts he meant to investigate. _I must do this for Dylan._ With a deep breath that stank of fear and the first stale hints of death, Nuada rammed into the human's mind.

Instantly he had to fight against the vicious nausea that threatened to choke him. Such depravity. Such callous sadism. The Elven prince found himself drawn inexorably towards the memories of Dylan.

Little girl with riotous brown curls insisting defiantly, "I do believe in fairies. I do. I do. They're real. I _do_ believe in fairies!" Stamping her foot, tears streaming from her eyes. Blows, slaps, pinches, shoves. From other children and from adults exasperated with her defiance. Locked in the dark. Pain. Torture. Humans did these things to their children? Didn't they know that children were the gods' greatest blessing? How could Dylan's parents have let this happen to her? How could _any_ of these children's parents let such things happen?

Weary maiden with just the first blushes of womanhood. Animals slavering after her, hungering for fear and blood. Still whispering in the darkness, "I do believe in fairies. I do, I do. I do believe in fairies." Fist in her mouth to muffle her screams at night when she woke and remembered her twin brother was gone. Westenra had watched her on the security cameras when she was in Isolation to study her, to find out how to break her spirit once and for all. Found it in two teenage boys willing to rip an innocent girl to pieces.

It hadn't just been coincidence, Nuada realized with sudden shocking hatred. Wasn't just fun and games. Oh, it had been fun, they'd wanted Dylan just as they'd wanted the other three children trapped in that basement, but he'd told them to _focus on her_. Told them to use whatever it took and if she died they would figure out a way to hide it. But they'd gotten a taste for her because she'd fought those little bastards like a hellcat and they wanted to break her spirit just as much as Westenra did. Monsters.

_Who are they?_ The feral-eyed Elven warrior roared in the human's skull. In the real world, blood began trickling from the psychiatrist's nose. Delicate blood vessels in his fragile human brain ruptured under the force of Nuada's rage. _What are their names?_

_Help me,_ Westenra cried silently as the blood in his lungs began to asphyxiate him for the very last time. The images, the memories, slammed into Nuada in a slicing whirlwind as the human began to struggle for air. Children, so many children, beaten and abused and brutalized and left in the dark and tortured and tears, so many tears, and sobs, despair, screams and pleading to go home they wanted their parents when could they go home? But what had infuriated Westenra was that Dylan didn't ask because she'd known she was not welcome in her own home, never pleaded to go home, never asked for her parents because she didn't want them, she just wanted her brother and there was nothing John could do. _Help me,_ Westenra begged as his chest convulsed and he struggled for air. _Please!_

_Tell me their names!_ There was too much in his way to just rip the names out of his mind. He could scarcely stomach the thoughts swirling around him, crashing against him like blows as Nuada fought to force Westenra to give him the information. _Tell me!_ But the human's mind was already fading. The chaos of his thoughts and memories was already slowing. The spark of life flickered. Westenra gagged. _No!_ Nuada roared, slamming through the mind's dwindling presence. _Tell me! Tell me their names!_

Two images floated to the surface of Westenra's mind. Nuada nearly choked at what he saw. _Tell me now! Tell me! What are their names? I have to know! Tell me who they are!_

But in the end, the Elven prince had to wrench out of the human's mind before death took a firm hold on him as well. Panting for breath, Nuada swore viciously at the carcass on the desk. Swore, and tried to shake away the sick sense that part of the human's psyche was still deeply entrenched in the Elven warrior's mind. He drew a breath and tasted death on the back of his tongue. Tasted shame coating his mouth, that he hadn't thought to probe the human's mind sooner.

The last images hadn't been what he wanted. Not even close. Knowing he was dying, the human filth had deliberately shown him something that would strike at Nuada's very heart.

One was a memory of Dylan slumped against the narrow bed in her room in the institution. A homemade blade of some sort slick with her blood lay in her limp grasp. More blood gushed from the ragged wound at the bend of her too-pale arm. Her head was tilted back on the mattress. Crimson smeared her death-white skin. Scarlet soaked the white t-shirt with a blond fairy in a green dress and her raggedy blue jeans. Her chest barely rose and fell with each breath. In the memory, when she'd tried to sit up straight, instead her strength had given out and she slumped over and landed in a sprawl in the widening pool of her own blood. Those lovely fey-like eyes were glassy.

And the other... he couldn't think about the other image just now.

Instead, Nuada spat on Westenra's corpse. Then he put the spider back in the box. Lastly, he picked up Dylan's file. He had a choice - take it with him, or leave it. If he took it with him, it would implicate Dylan in any investigation regarding the human's death. So Nuada put the manila folder back in the filing cabinet behind the mortal's desk. Then he turned and, putting his glove back on, walked out of the office.

He ran into a bit of trouble with the security guard on the way out. Unfortunately the fat human managed to shock him with one of those gun-like weapons that could fell even a troll if the fang-like prongs found the right spot. His promise to Dylan meant he could not kill or even truly hurt the mortal. Instead, he thwacked the guard where the jawbone met the skull with the butt of his lance, just as Nuada had done once upon a time to Dylan's brother. The guard dropped like a stone.

Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance strode out into the night.

**.**

She checked on the children again out of nerves. She was so tired - it was five-thirty in the morning - but she couldn't sleep. Not until Nuada came home. So tired, though. Could barely think straight. But she had to check on the kids.

Peeking inside the den, Dylan saw 'Sa'ti and Bat purring together on the sofa. The black cat rumbled appreciatively as the little girl's arm tightened fractionally around his furry bulk in her sleep. 'Sa'ti was purring as well. A'du'la'di had managed to somehow _fall off_ the futon without waking up. Now he shivered on the floor. Dylan's eyes stung when she saw that the boy clutched _the Wonderful Wizard of Ha's_ with the same fervor that his little sister held her stuffed mountain lion. Tsu's'di was sprawled across more than his share of the fold-out bed, but there was enough space for Dylan to pick up the chilled little boy and deposit him back on the bed again. She tucked the blankets around him and smoothed back his hair. He didn't release his hold on the book. But when Dylan leaned down to kiss his forehead one more time, he stirred a little and mumbled, "Mama."

A lump came into her throat and she had to hurry from the room as tears pricked. _Mama._ No, no, no. He hadn't been talking to her. He'd probably been dreaming about his parents, the poor thing. He had _not_ been talking to her. He hadn't even been awake. She was being silly. She was being absolutely ridiculous.

But... but... _Mama._

There was only outlet for this kind of emotional overload (which, Dylan reminded herself a bit tartly, was only happening because she was so blinking tired). Dylan went to the back room of the cottage where she kept her piano. Shutting the door behind her - she didn't want to wake the children - she sank down onto the piano bench with a sigh and pushed back the wooden covering on the keys. Tentative fingertips brushed ivory keys. Was she going to practice? Or just play?

_Just play_, she thought, as she pressed high C and a clear note like chiming crystal shimmered on the air. Playing the piano wasn't hard (unless you were absolutely tone-deaf both musically and vocally, which she was not). The hard part was playing music someone else had written. If you didn't care about recording a composition or recreating it, playing the piano was easy. All you had to do was press the keys and let your emotion or whimsy guide where the song went. Which was what Dylan did now.

She mostly stuck to minor chords and high notes. The music they made had a melancholy, almost lonely feel to it that she generally preferred over regular notes. After a few minutes letting the notes have their way with her, though, she found her fingers going through the music for "Help My Unbelief." Out of all the songs she loved (and there were many), she could only really play a handful of lullabies and perhaps two dozen hymns. Out of those, she had only memorized four or five, and only the melody lines, not the entire song. Playing more than one note at a time - unless she was merely goofing off and didn't need to keep to a particular rhythm - was completely beyond her. Now, though, as her fingers coaxed the melody, the words went through her mind. Playing the song much slower than it was written, she sang along.

"_I feel I'm walking in the rain,  
__D__ripping with the weight of heavy days.  
Empty spaces fill the places You once used to be._  
_It feels dead inside where Heaven used to be._

_"There are times I feel You in the mountains.  
There are times I see You in the fiery sky.  
But tonight,  
I just need to know You're by my side;  
that somewhere out there in the starry sky.  
I need to know that I'm within Your reach.  
Help Thou my unbelief._"

Becan listened to his mistress sing. Her voice was pretty enough when she could keep in tune (which was, he had to admit, rarely; only if she were singing along to a tune could she manage it). Yet the way she sang, true emotion in every word, made the brownie sigh a little. He did not follow the Star Kindler exactly. Oh, he didn't doubt the existence of the gods, or the Highest of all gods. But it seemed as if his mistress's life was very hard considering she claimed her divine Master was looking out for her. Becan wasn't quite sure what to think about all of that. It wasn't really his place to question Lady Dylan, but he had questions. Plenty of them. But they could wait until a more quiet moment in his lady's life.

Brownie magic alerted Becan to the presence beyond the front door before the quiet knock reached sharp fae ears. He scrambled for the door and opened it to the prince. Sloe black eyes looked up into eyes of molten gold that seemed to burn with savage intensity. The prince was unusually pale, his skin bone-white against the blackness of his clothing. Becan stumbled back a little. "I... Your Highness..."

"Where is she?" Nuada demanded in a voice that seemed oddly brittle. "Where..."

"_I feel like I'm drifting in a starless night.  
I'm barely holding on to the light.  
I close my eyes. I try to find Thee._

_"Anchor me. Make me strong somehow.  
When I start to leave the path, hold onto me.  
I wanna be done drifting. Anchor me._"

The music was very faint, but Nuada could hear it. He walked past Becan towards Dylan's room. The music sounded as if it was coming from Dylan's bedroom. But she wasn't in her room. Not even in the shower. The Elven prince sighed and sank down onto the enormous bed. He wanted to talk to her. Not even talk. Just see her. Couldn't. She was in that room she'd asked him not to go into. So Nuada drew off his overtunic, which was speckled in places with dried blood, and tossed it into the dirty-clothes hamper near the door to Dylan's closet. He put his weapons aside. Then he simply sat for a long moment, staring at nothing.

He felt hollowed out and cold. So cold. Not the cold of the body. He did not care about the fact that Westenra was dead, except that it meant Dylan was safe from him now. The blood that had stained his hands - until he'd washed it away in the pristine white snow outside Dylan's garden gate - did not bother him. It was not remorse or regret that plagued him. It was... uncertainty. Doubt. Would she do as she'd said and welcome him now that he had gone out into the night and killed a man?

And it was a sense of... of being soiled by his contact with Westenra, with his filthy mind and, by proxy, the obscene appetites he'd catered to and felt himself. He'd had to walk through the man's mind and memories, though the prince had kept the contact as brief as possible to combat the rising urge to be violently sick. And then Nuada had been forced to sully himself again with that depraved mind when he'd thought the names of Dylan's other attackers were to be discovered.

Now he desperately wanted to bathe; wanted to scrub himself clean with scalding hot water and the harshest soap he could find if he could. But he knew it would not help and he didn't want that as much as he wanted to see Dylan.

_Should I go to her?_ Nuada wondered suddenly. _I... cannot explain this need to see her. I only know that I wish it. Should I go to her?_

"_Like a ship that's worn  
__W__ith sails so torn__,__  
__D__rifting out to sea,  
The wind is blowing in  
__A__nd you're tossed again  
Is it time to leave  
__B__ehind the ship  
__A__nd walk to Him?_"

Well. If that was not a Providential answer, he didn't know what was. The Elven prince rose to his feet and left the bedroom. On the way to this mysterious room (why had he never gone in? Simply because Dylan had asked him not to?) he stopped to look in on the children.

'Sa'ti was in her customary sandwich position, squished between Bat and Neytiri. A'du cluthed a small picture book to his chest. Tsu's'di snored, one arm thrown across his face. Nuada carefully closed the den door and moved on to the room at the end of the short hall.

The door was cracked. Nuada pushed it open. Seated at a grand piano of gleaming mahogany, Dylan slowly made her way through a sheet of music. Every few moments she would glance between the music and the piano keys. Clearly she didn't know all the words to the song, or perhaps all the notes. As he watched, she sighed and stopped playing. The sheet of music went to a pile on the cushion of the loveseat beside her. Another sheet found its way in front of her. After a few false starts, her fingers found the rhythm and she began to play again. After a minute, she began to sing.

"_He knows  
It's hard to hold  
To His light sometimes.  
The world is so far from the right,  
so just close yours eye.  
He'll help you shine._

_"Light Keeper, be strong.  
Light Keeper, hold on through night.  
When all the world is telling you  
__I__t's not worth the fight,  
__H__old onto your light.  
Hold it tight, Light Keeper._"

Nuada leaned against the doorframe. Was she singing this because she liked it, or because she knew he was there? Because she knew it held a message that shored up his failing strength? _Be strong._ _Hold on._ He seated himself on the floor, back resting against the doorframe, and closed his eyes again, and listened as Dylan sang words that seemed to encompass him and many of the sentiments and feelings that often plagued him. As the music continued his brutal exhaustion slowly began to ease. The coldness began to thaw a little.

"_You might feel  
Left behind  
When others leave the light.  
But oh, how the Father loves you.  
He'll never leave your side.  
He'll help you shine._

_"Light Keeper, be strong.  
Light Keeper, hold on through night.  
When all the world is telling you  
__I__t's not worth the fight,  
__H__old onto your light.  
Hold it tight, Light Keeper."_

The silence in the wake of the song jerked him from whatever tired, far away place he'd allowed himself to drift off to. Exhausted firegold eyes opened to meet a gaze of worried, starlit blue. Nuada slowly got his feet. Dylan stood as well, but didn't make another move. She merely watched him. Was she angry that he'd come into the room? Disgusted with what he'd done that night to her tormentor? Was she afraid of him now that she had tangible proof he was capable of bloodshed?

"Nuada," Dylan murmured. Her voice was impossibly gentle. "Are you all right?"

No idle question, this. Not the standard "are you okay?" that humans often employed when they did not truly wish to know the answer. Something about him had her concerned. Had her questioning him. Perhaps he looked the way he felt - exhausted. Hollow. Uncertain in a way he had not felt since he was a boy.

He opened his mouth to answer her and found himself whispering, "Dylan. I... may I... hold you for a moment?"

He could tell she was surprised, but she didn't hesitate to go to him, to slide her arms around his waist and rest her forehead against his shoulder. She didn't stop him from wrapping his arms around her. Pulling her tightly against him. It should not have surprised him when she reached up and guided his head to her shoulder. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, surrounded by the dark wealth of her hair.

Nuada realized he should have known the comfort she would offer would hold nothing back. The Elven warrior tightened his grip a fraction and the words spilled out of him like blood from a wound. The sick, sick rage churning in his belly and the sour taste on his tongue and the insidious feeling that he'd somehow been infected with Westenra's evil and no matter what he did, it would never go away.

Nuada didn't know why he was telling her all of it. Did not know why he told her any of it. Only that the scent of her blocked out the stench of blood and death, and there had never been anything so soothing as the way she stroked his hair and murmured, "Mo airgeadach, my silver one."

This was pathetic. He had killed men before. Killed humans. He'd gone to war against them countless times. Why did this affect him so? Had he become a coward in the years since his father had struck the truce with the children of men? A weakling to be felled by the sight of a little blood? But it hadn't been the blood or the killing that had hit him like a blow to the belly. It had been walking out of that office, out of the building, and realizing even as he set foot in Central Park that he still felt... filthy. Poisoned by that sickening mortal and his cruelty. He shuddered at the thought of never feeling clean again.

"It will fade," Dylan assured him in a voice as soft as a sigh. "Don't worry. It will fade. I know how it feels, that sullied feeling like the monster is inside you, poisoning you. I know. It will fade, Nuada. I promise." She turned her head just a little to whisper in his ear, "I'm here for you. I'm here. This will pass."

Her lips brushed against his ear as she spoke and a sudden spike of hot lust stabbed him. Westenra's memories, Westenra's thoughts and sick fantasies, swamped him. Oh, the human had never touched one of the children abandoned into his care, at least not in _that_ way because he didn't lust after children. Monster he was, but not that sort of monster. No, instead he wanted the girls - those maidens on the edge of adulthood, physically women but emotionally still young and vulnerable in so many ways. He'd wanted girls in their late teens. He'd wanted Dylan, and others. But by then she wouldn't allow anyone to touch her, much less use her that way. The few times Westenra had tried, she'd shredded him with her ragged nails and her teeth, battered him with flailing limbs while she screamed like a banshee. She'd learned the importance of screaming by then. But that hadn't stopped the filthy human from yearning for the girls out of his reach.

Hunger burned in Nuada's belly, mingling with revulsion at the images still imbedded in his psyche from touching Westenra's mind. Gods, he wanted her suddenly. Fiercely. It was a vicious, almost ravenous need. He had to have her. Now. _Right now_. Consequences be damned. She couldn't fight him. Elven strength versus human, a warrior's strength against her mortal woman's frailty? It would take seconds for him to have her pinned against the wall and before she could scream he could-

_No!_ Nuada wrenched away and stumbled back from her. _No, gods, no, please_. Not his thoughts. Not his thoughts, stars curse it. Not. His. He drew a ragged breath and shoved at the savage lust, the memories, and everything else but the shield of his honor. Only when he could draw a full breath did he open his eyes and look at her.

No condemnation. No anger or fear. A flicker of hurt, perhaps, but that was all. "I know," she said gently. "I know. I've helped other friends with psychic overload before, so I _do_ know. But he's not you, Nuada. Part of him might be in your head, but he is _not_ you. Stand apart from him. You would never hurt me. Don't let him make you believe otherwise. You would _never_ hurt me."

"I want to," he whispered, disgusted with himself. This. _This_ was why he so rarely touched mortal minds. Their festering evil contaminated everything it touched. Nuada shuddered and confessed, "Part of me is driven by what was in... in _him_. Part of me wants to hurt you. Wants to see your fear, your pain. I want to..."

"But you _won't,_" Dylan replied firmly. "You would never do anything I didn't want you to. You're not that kind of man. Come here." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Nuada, get your butt over here before I _drag_ it over here," she added, and the tartness in her voice made him smile almost against his will.

He went to her slowly, hesitantly. She did not hesitate to wrap her arms around him again and hold him. "It's okay. It will be okay. You had to walk through his mind, didn't you?" The Elven warrior flinched in her arms. She made soothing sounds and stroked his hair some more. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to do this. I'm sorry. It will be all right, though. I promise."

"I feel... I feel so..." _Unclean._ He couldn't even get the word out. It was almost too much, touching her this way when the nauseating evil still hissed inside his skull and tried to urge him on to do vicious things. It had been so long since he had touched a human mind so intimately, other than hers. He hadn't been prepared. "Dylan, I..."

_Help me._ He would never ask it of her, never. His pride would never allow it. But part of him also knew that he didn't need to ask. She was inside him, part of him, and she knew him just as well as he knew himself. She knew what he needed before he even had to ask for it.

"It will be all right," Dylan murmured. Her breath was a warm caress against his skin, soothing and soft. "I'm here. We're together; we're okay." Her fingers running lightly through his hair lulled him. "Trust me, Nuada. Trust me. It will be all right." Gentle touches. Petting caresses against his face that melted away some of the savagery, some of the sickening rage and the hatred burning in him. "I'm here now. I'm here."

_Do not leave me._ The words seemed to shimmer between them, through them. Though neither Elf nor mortal quite recognized the presence of the sentiment, both responded to it - Dylan by tightening her hold on him, attempting to act as a buffer between the prince and the darkness; Nuada by allowing himself, for one of those rare moments, to draw strength from the woman in his arms.

After several long moments of simply standing with her in the candlelit dimness, Nuada was calm enough to realize she was trembling. Not shivering with cold, though the room was cool, but actually trembling. Not in fear. Something else.

"Dylan?" He lifted his head from her shoulder to look down at her. Blue eyes lit with moonglow made his heart stutter. The candlelight mellowed out the slashing scars that usually ran in pale pink, silver and white lines across her face. It danced along the hollows at her throat and beneath her jaw. It burnished her dark hair and gilded those fragile cheekbones with dancing amber light. And in that moment she had never looked more beautiful to him.

"Nuada, I have to tell you something," she whispered. He stiffened. "It's nothing bad," she added quickly. "At least... I don't think it's bad." She reached up and framed his face between her hands. A tremor went through him at her touch. "Nuada. You're so... you're perfect, you know that?" Dylan smiled when the ghost of the Elven prince's satisfied smirk flitted across those dark lips. Oh, he knew, all right. "I just... maybe I made a mistake with this but I have to tell you... and maybe this isn't the best time... but I've been so worried about you. All night I've just been thinking about what I'd do if you got hurt-"

"Oh, yes," Nuada interrupted, giving her an unfathomable look. "About that." He held up one arm and rolled back his sleeve. Dylan's mouth fell open as she saw the tiny pair of pricking wounds surrounded by faintly irritated skin. "Because you asked me not to harm the security guards, I found myself at a slight disadvantage when one of them woke on my way out."

"That's a... they _Tase__re__d_ you?" She grabbed his arm and lightly brushed her fingers over the wound. Gone was the somewhat flustered woman. Now she was a healer. Dylan sighed. "I can't believe this. You managed to get hit with a Taser prong." Surprisingly, though, she offered him a sympathetic smile. She briefly kissed the injured spot. Her lips were warm and soft. "Poor Nuada. I know from experience that had to hurt."

He scowled, and it was so like his normal expression that relief swept through the mortal woman in an almost staggering wave. "I am used to pain."

Dylan sighed again, though an exasperated smile touched her lips. "Anyway... it seems we're at an impasse now."

One knife-thin brow rose. "Oh?"

"Yeah, see... I can't break my word to any of the fae. That's a capital offense. And I did tell you that if you got hurt, I was going to punish you. Severely." As if in contradiction to the concept of punishment, she slid her arms around his neck and stepped closer to him. His hands automatically settled at her hips. "What do we do about that, then?"

"Dylan..." The Elven prince studied her face. There was trepidation there, nervousness... but was that a little excitement as well? Just a little? No, he was being foolish. She'd meant the threat in jest. He could not honorably force her to bestow a kiss on him simply because he'd been a little too slow in avoiding an attack. And with that revolting human's fantasies still swimming through him like poisonous lamprey... "Mo duinne, you do not have to do this. I release you from that promise."

"What if... what if I don't _want_ to be released from it?"

He went utterly still. For a moment the echoes of Westenra's consciousness went silent in the face of his shock. Words, Dylan's words from the past month, flitted through his mind like silk butterflies. _Do with me what you will. You're hot. Take what you need._

And he suddenly remembered what he'd been trying to recall about the night of the argument, the night he'd left. _Do you want to talk about what happened before?_ She hadn't been upset about what had almost happened at the playground. And when he'd said no, no he didn't want to talk about it, she'd asked, _Do you want me... do you want me to stop this?_ Stop touching him, stop stroking and petting and letting her fingertips ghost over his scars. _Do you want me?_ Not what she'd meant to ask but in that first moment before she'd finished her question he'd been so sure that had been what she was asking and he'd wanted to say _yes._ Even knowing it was pointless, futile, impossible... he'd wanted to say _yes_, to ask her to be his. But there had been nothing in the question to indicate _she_ didn't want to touch him, didn't want him to touch her, didn't want to... to...

Could she want him? Was it possible? After all that she had suffered, after all the nightmares and atrocities, could it truly be that she desired him? Desire and the fiercely loyal love she professed, that he wanted to believe but struggled to find faith in. Could it be?

She was trembling anew in his arms. He cupped her cheek and nearly came undone when she turned her face into his palm and sighed. Softly, so softly he scarcely could hear her over the thundering of his heart, she whispered, "I have to tell you something. Something important."

"Tell me."

Skirting so close to the argument from that night, so close now. Hadn't it begun like this? Dylan saying she had to talk to him, tell him something. He thinking it could be nothing as bad as she seemed to think and urging her to tell it to him. But she'd promised never to blindside him that way again. He had promised never to abandon her again. What could she possibly have to tell him?

"Please don't be angry, but... I..." Dylan swallowed hard. She hadn't actually _made_ the decision to tell him. She only knew that she had to. She couldn't keep it a secret any longer. Couldn't keep letting it beat at her with everything else going on between and around them. It was also dangerous to go into the political situation at Findias with this remaining a secret between them. "I, um..." If only Dylan could get it out without sounding like a teenage girl asking out her first boy.

"I shall not be angry," the prince murmured. He did not currently possess the energy to be angry, for one thing. "Tell me, mo duinne."

She shoved at her hair in a familiar, nervous gesture. "Okay." She blew out a shaky breath. "Okay. Um, the thing is, I think I... I'm fairly certain that I..." When Dylan looked up at him, her expression was soft in a way that was by now as familiar to him as the wealth of affection in her gaze. Soft and sad and almost pleading with him... for what? "Nuada, I think... I think I'm in love with you."

Nuada jolted and stared down at her. His heart knifed sideways in his chest. No. No, that was impossible. It could not be. And yet... "You _think_ you're in love with me?" The words were out before he could stop them.

Dylan blew out a pent-up breath. "No. I... I _know_ I'm in love with you. I've... I'm sorry, I know this probably is not what you needed to hear right now, but I love you. I've never felt this way about anyone. You're the most amazing man I've ever met. You make me feel so safe and I can trust you and you're so gentle and kind and wonderful and I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm so sorry, I know it's dangerous and you're probably completely disgusted but I love you so much and I had to tell you."

She loved him. She _loved_ him. She loved him as he loved her. _Dylan,_ he thought, _oh, mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí, I love you, as well._ Joy smote Nuada's heart, and he knew then he would never recover from the wound. Some of the darkness inside him faded away under the bittersweet pain of that confession. For a long moment all the prince could do was gaze into that beloved face so full of uncertainty. He couldn't tell her the truth, stars curse it. Could not tell her of the power she had over him or the way his heart yearned for her. She was right, after all - it _was_ dangerous. Dangerous enough that she loved him, but it would have been even more dangerous if she knew of the smoldering emotion in his chest that always burned for her. And it would have been torture enough for them both without his complicating things with his own confession. Not when there was no hope for anything real between them.

"I am not disgusted," Nuada said only. "I am... my heart is too full for words. You love me. For how long?"

"I don't know," she said. _My heart is too full for words._ Something warm and soft fizzed in her stomach. "I figured it out that night we were talking about getting married if your father ordered it. But ever since I left your sanctuary, I'd never stopped thinking about you and missing you. Then you came back and I was so happy to see you. And every day you came to see me I felt so happy and wonderful and I just... I don't know when it happened. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry, Dylan. But I... you know that I cannot..."

The regret and apology in his voice would've been obvious if she'd been deaf. Dylan smiled sadly. "I know, Nuada. I know. I don't expect anything from you. I just want you to be happy and safe. That's all." She sighed a little. "I've never expected the fairy tale, you know - meeting the prince, falling in love, getting married and becoming a princess. I never even expected to meet anyone like you, not ever. It's all right. Being considered your friend is more than I could've ever hoped for, so... you don't have to feel the same way. I know better."

Nuada wanted to laugh at that, though it would have been bitter and wistful. She knew better, did she? Silly girl. He skimmed his knuckles down the thick scar on her cheek, over the delicate line of her jaw. Her eyes drifted closed and she drew a shaky breath. Now it all made sense - the way she reacted to him, the devotion, the loyalty in her heart. It seemed Fortune was intent on playing him for a fool. How had this happened? It was almost laughable. It had been ridiculous enough when he'd thought his love one-sided. To know that they loved each other, even if Dylan did not know it... it would have almost been funny, it if hadn't hurt so cursed much. Better to think his love unrequited. So much harder to think that if he gave up everything else, he could be with her and she would have him.

That thought was too much for his control. They could never be together, not truly. Never love as others loved, be as others were allowed to be. All that was available to them was this flimsy charade and the forlorn hope that the king would force them to wed. That would have to be enough, yet never could truly be so. All this circled through Nuada's mind as he made a reckless, perhaps imbecilic decision that he was certain held the power to break him.

He slid his hand around to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft dark hair. Those impossibly lovely eyes roved over his face as he struggled to keep his breathing even. Nuada felt his eyes shift to the gold-kissed ivory of desire. Dylan's breath caught in her throat. She swallowed hard and her tongue darted out to nervously glide over her bottom lip. His desire sharpened. She loved him. This was all right, had to be all right, because she loved him and he loved her and needed her in this moment, needed the cleansing balm of what she felt for him to soothe away the last of the shadows.

"Dylan," he whispered. She was so close. So warm against him, so soft. Everything he wanted. Needed. He didn't want to think of bloodshed and torture and death anymore. Did not want to see the obscene images he'd been forced to pick through in Westenra's brain. All the Elven warrior wanted was to lay his mouth against hers and lose himself in kissing her for just a moment. "Mo duinne. I need... please, Dylan, I need..."

She touched his cheek, tracing the royal scar. Sweet, sweet touch. In a voice of whispered surrender, she said, "Tóg an méid is gá duit."

_Take what you need_.

Before he could even think of all the reasons why he should not - which he had tossed aside days ago, anyway - Nuada bent his head and captured Dylan's mouth with his. She gasped. Sighed against his mouth. The sweetness of chocolate and strawberries, a ghost of taste on her lips, had him groaning softly. Her hands curled in his shirt, tugging him a bit closer. She stood up on tiptoe to more firmly press her mouth to his. He could taste his own racing pulse under his tongue. He tried to be gentle, tried to be careful of her memories and what remained of her innocence, but the events of the night were still riding him hard and he needed this, needed to drown out the shadows with the sweetness of her, the love he could feel through this kiss.

Nuada groaned against Dylan's mouth as she made a soft, kitten sound that shivered over him like a touch. He tangled both hands in the silken strands of her hair because he had to hold onto _something_ and why not the wealth of dark curls he loved to touch? The heat of Dylan's body through the thin shirt scorched him. He growled into the kiss and she shivered. Had to keep it chaste, though, had to keep it close-mouthed and undemanding or he would frighten her but by the Fates he wanted her. This. Wanted, needed, craved.

Dylan gasped when Nuada's teeth nipped at her bottom lip. Golden heat simmered in her blood as his mouth moved over hers, strong but so very generous, gently and patiently coaxing her response. His fingers slipped from her hair to touch her shoulders. The touch was light and caressing, even through her shirt. Nuada's hands slid down her shoulders, down the smooth plain of her back to her hips. She could feel his hands trembling even through her thin top. Could feel his heart pounding so hard against her body. That wild, feral scent that always clung to him wove around her like an ephemeral spell. Whatever uneasiness had been haunting her all night faded away in the wash of sensation - the warmth of his body, the reassuring strength of him against her, the absolute gentleness of his mouth on hers despite the obvious desire in him.

He was kissing her. He was _kissing_ her. _Oh my. Oh my goodness. Oh my gosh._ She'd thought about what it would be like to kiss Nuada. Dreamed about it. Been so sure she would never get to experience it for real. Only now he held her to him and kissed her like he meant it, as if he cared for her. Kissed her almost as if he loved her. As if she were precious, cherished, treasured. Everything about the kiss felt familiar and so very right. Everything about _him_ felt right. She was going to break her heart this way, shatter it to jagged pieces, but she didn't care as long as she could be with him for a while, just a little while. _This is so impossible, this will never work, but if it's a dream don't let it be over, please, please._

"Dylan, I'm sorry," Nuada whispered against her lips. She shivered at the yearning in his voice. Shivered at the pleading note she heard beneath the words. "I'm sorry, I know better than this, we should not be doing this, forgive me, I did not mean to-"

"Kiss me, Nuada... please," she said, tightening her grip on his shirt. She didn't want that warm embrace to end. Wanted him to keep holding her as if he truly cared about her. It was just a game of pretend but for once she didn't let that detail matter at all. "I want this. If you don't want it then okay, we'll pretend it never happened. But if not, then for now just forget about what we should or shouldn't do. If this is what you want, then please don't stop. I want this. You."

"You don't know what you're asking." She was asking, Nuada thought, for his absolute and complete surrender in a way he had never given it before. She was asking for him to give her his heart for a little space, though he knew full well it would shatter when he had to take it back. And she would suffer the same fate.

"Yes, I do. I'm a grown woman, Nuada. I know this can't go anywhere and for you it's just physical but-"

"But you are dear to me," the Elven prince finished softly. "And I do not wish to hurt you."

_Dear to me._ Stunned, she tried to find something to say. Anything. But there was nothing except the sudden strange pain inside her, so sweet and sharp as a knife. There was nothing except that pain and the sorrow she'd carried since realizing how much she loved him. But... dear to him. But not dear enough to love the way she loved him. Too mortal, too human, too so many things that he found so objectionable. _I do not wish to hurt you._ Oh, too late. Far too late. And yet... _dear to me._ She could be satisfied with that. If that was all she could hope for, she could still accept it.

But all Dylan said was, "You won't hurt me." The corner of her mouth quirked in a crooked sort of smile. "I'm resilient, remember?" Still he hesitated. Dylan could feel the warmth and the tenderness of when he'd kissed her fading away from them. She didn't want to let that go. She'd never felt that before, not with anyone. Not ever. Only with him. And maybe she would never feel it with anyone else but she didn't want to lose it now. So Dylan whispered, "Nuada... don't you want this? Even just a little bit?"

His eyes burned into her. Did she know what she was asking? Did she have any idea? Did he want this, what a question. He didn't simply want her. He ached for her in a way he had never known before. It wasn't simply physical, either. Not even mostly physical. Dylan filled an emptiness inside him he hadn't even known existed until the first moment when she'd whispered, _I consider you my best friend._ She met his need for something he still did not quite understand. She offered Nuada so much that he had always wanted but could never hope to attain - a home, a family, a love that was unyielding as the iron in her blood and as bright as the starlight in her eyes. He wanted this more than he'd ever wanted anything.

But he could not have it. Not ever.

Before the Elven warrior could say anything to that effect, however, Dylan stood up on tiptoe again and pressed her lips against his. This kiss, unlike the one he'd initiated, was tentative. Slow. Very careful. If he moved even an inch, Nuada was positive she'd step back and never kiss him like this ever again. Which meant he _should_ move. Should stop her now before he surrendered to the silken seduction of her lips caressing his. Except he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. That feather-light whisper of movement against his mouth kept him rooted to the spot. It tasted of sadness and wishes. Of abandoned hope and pleading. It was innocent, only a girl's kiss, but it stripped away everything until he was barely holding onto his control.

His eyes drifted closed and he gave himself up to the feel of Dylan kissing him. Her hands had been tightly fisted in his shirt, as if she thought he would try to escape, but now they smoothed across his chest and slid up to his shoulders. His own hands against her body were light as a sigh but held all the weight of the choice he was making as he gently pulled her closer. Then she whispered against his mouth, "What do _you_ want, Nuada?"

Their eyes locked for a moment. Then, in answer, he shifted so that she was caught between the stone wall and his body. He shoved the door to the music room closed before capturing her mouth again with all the heat he'd been trying to suppress for so long. By sheer force of will he kept the kiss chaste, close-mouthed, but it was a struggle. Dylan's arms twined trustingly around his neck and his hands slowly ghosted up along her ribbed cotton shirt and the length of her slender back for just a moment before settling again at her hips. Nuada wanted to get the feel of her, wanted to memorize the way Dylan felt in his arms, held between his hands. Wanted always to remember this moment and how it felt to touch her, even so innocently, because he was almost certain he would never have this chance again.

Dylan tasted of summer strawberries and honey. The taste of her brought back whispers of memory, but nothing brutal or vicious. Sweet memory, memories of a dream where he'd kissed her and held her in the waters of a warm spring and felt every soft curve of her body pressed against him. A shared dream? He did not know. Right now, he didn't care.

"Nuada," Dylan sighed into the kiss. He wanted to hear his name on her lips like that again. Hunger took root in his belly and he let the very tips of his fingers slip beneath the hem of her dark shirt. His fingertips grazed the incredibly soft, sensitive skin just above the top of her jeans, over her hips. Touched the silky scars at her stomach. His touch was just light enough to tantalize. Her breath caught in her throat. Having her so close, tasting her, touching her, was intoxicating. He lightly caressed her skin again and she gasped, "_Nuada_."

"I want _you_," he whispered, his voice nearly a groan. His mouth trailed kisses over her jaw and down to her vulnerable throat. His lips brushed over the fluttering pulse. She made a sound that was almost a whimper. "By the Fates, Dylan, I want you." _Need you, love you, can never have..._

But he knew suddenly that if he asked it of her, she would give herself to him. Completely. If he asked her or commanded her to let him have her, she would do it. Not merely out of lust or longing, but because her loyalty, her love, and her oaths to him ensured it. It was such a temptation to whisper a suggestion - not even ask, just simply murmur oh so softly in her ear that perhaps this was best finished in her room or over by that inviting little sofa, where he could purge the shadows in his mind by losing himself in the haven of her embrace, her body - but no, no. That would have been a hideous betrayal of her trust. Shamed scraped at him, that he'd even thought of it. Besides, such intimacy could never be between them. Kisses, perhaps, but nothing more.

"Tell me to stop," Nuada murmured, and found her mouth again. Delicious shivers raced up and down Dylan's spine at the huskiness of his voice. Her fingers tangled in his hair. There was no question about whether she wanted this or not. No question that she wanted _him_. "Tell me," he insisted against her lips. "Tell me to stop or leave or something, tell me you do not want this." It was the only way to possibly save them both from more heartache, more grief. As if this moment wouldn't haunt his dreams for a very long time.

"Nuada," she whispered, clinging to him. "Nuada, I trust you." He wouldn't let this go beyond what was appropriate, what was safe. He had enough control - more control than she did, with her lack of experience and the way his slightest touch could make her breathing hitch and her head swim - to keep things chaste. So far every kiss had been completely close-mouthed. She trusted him. She knew he wouldn't let things get out of hand. "It's okay, I trust you."

"Do not say that," he pleaded. He kissed just under the delicate line of her jaw and she sighed. His lips found her racing pulse and she shivered at the whispering caress. His hair slid against her skin like silk. He nuzzled the smooth expanse of her slender throat because he couldn't help himself. He just wanted... just wanted her to be his. Truly his, forever and for always. Just like in her faerie tales. Why could he not have that? "You should not trust me. Not with this."

"I do, though," she said. Her voice was more than a little breathless. "You wouldn't hurt me. Not ever, not in any way. I know you. It's okay."

"Dylan." Her name was a desperate plea against her throat. His control hung by a thread. Then his teeth scraped ever so lightly against the delicate skin over her pulse and she cried out. There was no pleasure in that sound. Her hands slid around to shove hard at the solid wall of his chest.

"_No,_" she said. "Don't do that." Her heart raced like a frightened rabbit's. "Don't, please don't."

Nuada jerked back. Shame gripped him like a vise. "Forgive me," he said quickly, brushing back her hair in a soothing gesture. Where there had been slumberous desire in her before, now there was only a sharp panic. Old fear that raked at his belly like talons. "I did not mean to take it so far. Forgive me, Dylan."

"It's okay," she mumbled, though she briefly covered her face with both hands in her familiar calming gesture. Her hands shook and her breathing came in ragged, frightened gasps. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak out. I'm sorry. We shouldn't... we shouldn't have let it go so far. I just... I'm sorry, I... I'm sorry." Dylan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I just have this thing about neck biting. Sorry. I know guys like it but I just... I can't. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for... for crawling all over you like that. I don't know what I was thinking. Jeez. I'm so stupid. I shouldn't have let this happen. Law of Chastity, Dylan, jeez. Stupid, stupid. Nuada, I'm so sorry."

"Dylan," the Elven prince murmured reprovingly. Then, more gently, "Dylan. You need not apologize. I cannot say that I did not enjoy this," he added, his voice warm. Her smile was wry, but it was there. The rolling of her eyes made him feel even better. He hadn't frightened her _too_ badly, then. "As for your fear, I should have been more careful. I knew about... about this." Nuada _very_ gently touched his fingertips to the bite-scar at the base of the back of her neck. Even though he was gentle, she flinched almost imperceptibly. "_I_ am sorry, for that. And I am sorry for... taking advantage of your feelings, even though I knew your faith probably prohibited such things."

She bit her lip, unsure if she actually wanted to ask this question, but finally said, "Why did you? 'Take advantage,' as you put it. Which, by the way, is silly. I'm just as much at fault as you are."

Nuada smiled and tucked that one rebellious curl behind her ear. "Why? Because you are a _very_ beautiful woman, one I care for very much. As I said, you are very dear to me. And so beautiful. Because I was tired and... unsettled, I let my desire get away from me. I can only ask your forgiveness, my lady."

"It's fine." _Very dear to me._ He had to stop saying that, or he was going to give her heart palpitations. There was such sadness in the words. In his voice. Such sorrow. Why? Because he hated that he cared for a human at all? Or some other reason? "I'm okay," she added. "We just have to... just have to keep things a little less... um..."

"Heated," he said in that velvet voice that always made her shiver.

"Um... yeah. Thanks for keeping your tongue in your mouth, by the way," she added, then could've kicked herself. As if that didn't make her sound like a complete and total moron with absolutely no kissing experience. How was it that this prince could reduce her to a flustered teenage girl with such ease?

"You are welcome," he said, and drew her back against him because she was blushing so sweetly that he couldn't resist. "Though I admit, a more intimate kiss _was_ a temptation."

She blushed hotter. Some of the tension between them eased a little.

"So what does this mean for us, exactly?"

He smiled a little, though there was something pained in it. "It means we shall be more at ease whenever the charade requires that we kiss," he said, and she laughed a little. Then he brushed his fingers against the softness of her cheek. "And it means we care for each other. Perhaps to different degrees," Nuada added when Dylan blinked at him in shock, "but we _do_ care for each other, mo duinne. And that is no bad thing. We simply must be careful how we express such things, and must keep in mind the... realities of our lives."

_Such as the reality that this can never really go anywhere._ The pain hit her hard again. She shoved it down where she wouldn't have to worry about it. Maybe it was absolutely stupid to let herself pretend this could ever become anything... but if that were so, then for once in her life she would deliberately allow herself to be stupid. She just had to ask, "Then... you're not angry? At all?"

"No, a chumann. I could never be angry because of your love for me. Tá tú mo chara daor." _You are my dearest friend._ The words were like cold stones in his mouth, that bruised his tongue and left it bleeding. They struck Dylan with the force of a blow and somehow both soothed the ache in her chest, and made it so much worse. Nuada looked as if he might ask her something, or speak some other soft word. But in the end, he only added, "I think we should both go to bed. Once we have slept we can... see if anything else needs to be addressed."

_Translation_, she thought. _"I'm okay with everything that just happened, but I'm not sure if you are, and I'm not sure I will be in the morning. We'll figure it out then_._"_ Dylan forced herself to smile up at him. "All right. Good night, Nuada."

"Good night, Dylan." He moved to leave, but at the door he paused and looked at her again. Could he truly walk away from her and leave things as they were? She looked so uncertain. Almost lost. In a sudden move he pulled her against him and kissed her. Slowly. Thoroughly. Now he was in control of the passion and the desire. Now he could give her sweetness and romance. Nuada put just enough heat into that kiss to make her legs weak and her stomach flutter before he pulled back. "Dream of me," he added in a whisper like velvet. "And dream sweetly, mo mhuire - my lady."

Dylan nodded, smiling almost dreamily. "I will. Good night, my silver one." Only when he was out the door and going back down the hall did she close the door to the music room and sink down onto the piano bench. "Wow," she mumbled. Her knees were weak and she had the sudden urge to giggle like a little girl, though she wasn't sure if those giggles were happy or hysterical. Though judging from the stinging of her eyes, she'd have been willing to wager a five-pound bag of lollipops that it was hysterical. The smile slid from her face and she touched her tingling lips with shaking fingers. "Oh, wow. I'm so screwed."

Nothing she did could erase the heaviness in her chest or the melancholic, self-deprecating half-smile curving one corner of her suddenly trembling mouth. She wasn't going to cry over something so silly. She wasn't.

Eventually she laid down on the sofa and fell hard into vivid and shadowed dreams.

And in Dylan's bedroom, stretched out on the enormous bed with his face pressed into the pillow that somehow still smelled of her lily-and-roses shampoo, Crown Prince Nuada tried to sleep as well. Exhaustion dragged at him. The late hour - dawn was scarcely a breath away - called to him. But he knew that if he slept he would dream of her and when he did, it would be a continuation of what had begun in the music room. Now that he knew how she felt the yearning filled him more than ever. She loved him and he loved her. Only his rank and her faith kept them from truly being together now. Nuada's hands fisted in the sheets as he realized the full depth of what kept them apart and how simple it would be to push it all aside.

_All I must do,_ the Elf prince thought bitterly, _is abandon my people and my honor. All I must do is lie to her, and follow a God I cannot trust. All I must do is forget everything I stand for and everything that has happened, and for a few short years she can be my lady and my love in truth as well as pretense. But even then, even if I wed her, there is so much forbidden us. Children. A family of our own. Safety. I cannot wed a woman while I remain in exile and it is not safe for her in Faerie._

He thought of the kiss she'd laid against his lips. Sweet kiss full of longing, full of sorrow, full of love. Thought of that confession. _I think I'm in love with you... I love you so much..._ It wasn't fair, but when was life ever fair? It did not matter. Those lips against his, the taste of them... he would never forget. But what would change between them now? Because of course things _would_ change. There was no way they could not.

_In the morning,_ Nuada told himself. _Think about it in the morning. Well... it _is _morning,_ he thought as the first hint of dawn began to glow through the window. _When we've both had some sleep, then. The world's burdens can surely wait until then._

And in the meantime, he would let the burning of those remembered kisses sear away the last of tonight's brutal darkness, and sleep.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Eeeek! They kissed at last! They kissed in real life!_ _Even though it ended a bit sadly._ _And she confessed her love for him and he was happy! Yayness! And he said he cared for her and found her beautiful and was attracted to her! Yay! So happy joyousness! Everyone excited about this? Happy Christmas! Hey, how come in England it's "Happy Christmas" but in America it's "Merry Christmas?" Just curious._

_1) Moundshroud. He (and his ilk) will pop up every now and again. Thoughts on his warning, or on the character himself? His relationship with Dylan?_

_2) *sings* Ding-dong, Westenra's dead! He's so dead, he's all dead! Ding-dong, the stupid freak is dead! Who's happy? Any dissatisfaction in the dying?_

_3) On the twelfth day of Christmas, my readers gave to me... twelve favorites things in the story! Lalala!_

_4) Oh, the kiss! They finally kissed in real life AND it wasn't just a quick peck on the lips, either (though there was no tongue involved, as a personal favor to WhenNightmaresWalked, lol). And Dylan finally confessed her love. How do we feel about this?_

_5) And the conversation afterwards. What do we think about this?_

_**Restraint Challenge:**_ _so what if Dylan hadn't had a panic attack? What if the kissing had continued? Where would that have gone? Just curious again._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the song "Confession" is one of my all-time faves by Josh Groban. It, "She Dances," and "In Her Eyes" are my favorites! Eeek!_

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- "Help My Unbelief" is a song by Jenny Phillips. I have a video I made for it on my Youtube account (username: NightmareDolly) if anyone wants to see it.

- Dylan's actually flitting between four different songs while she's on the piano. The one that begins "I feel like I'm drifting in a starless night..." is "Anchor Me" by Jenny Phillips. She does a lot of spiritual music for the LDS Church.

- The song that begins "Like a ship that's worn with sails so torn drifting out to sea..." is "He Will Not Fail You," also by Jenny Phillips.

- The song Dylan finally settles on and plays is "Light Keeper." All four of these songs have videos that I made for them on Youtube. You guys should totally go watch and comment on them. =D

- The line "Joy smote Nuada's heart, and he knew then he would never recover from the wound" was borrowed with permission from JasperIsAManlyMan. It appeared first in her amazing Hellboy II fanfic, "The Fire's Fuel."

- "My heart is too full for words" is a common phrase from the Territory of Shalador Nehele, used in the novels _the Shadow Queen_ and _Shalador's Lady_ by Anne Bishop.


	51. Book 6 Take Me Out Tonight

**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Dedication:**_ _To __**Hana**__, who said she was waiting for this chapter. To __**chickenandsheep**__, for "nagging." To __**vampgurl90**__, for not sounding like a crazy stalker, lol. I told you I hadn't abandoned it. For __**JasperIsAManlyMan**__, for doing word-prompts. To __**OceanFire9**__, for the awesomeness of "Caves and Rivers." To __**Jokerfest**__, __**EcnelisEsion**__, and __**SerbiaTakesCntrl**__, whom I miss. To __**xxyangxx2006**_ _and __**Captain Zombie**__, for playing Review Catchup. For __**Chymerea**__, who probably won't see this dedication but asks really good questions. To __**WhenNightmaresWalked**__, who I hope has not been eaten by monsters. Finally, to everyone else who has been so patient while life has been trying to squash this fic (and me). I love you all. =)_

_**Author's Note:**_ _I spelled "madoigna" wrong. It's actually "mo duinne." And "my silver one" is actually "mo airgeadach," not "mo amhain airged" or however I spelled it. So I've gone back and changed at least the first 30 chapters to reflect this discovery. I think. I hope. I'm working on it._

_Also, to warn you, this is the happy chapter before the danger comes back to bite everyone. Please keep that in mind. So it's going to be a bit fluffy. Hopefully not gag-me fluffy, and hopefully with enough sizzle to make everyone happy, but... yeah. And we get to see the elusive and mysterious Elf prince in his natural habitat._ =)

_**Should read:**_ _"Caves and Rivers," by OceanFire9. It's a companion piece to_ Once Upon a Time, _focusing on the relationship between Wink and Lorelei! It's amazing. Go read it._

.

**Chapter Fifty-One**

**Take Me Out Tonight**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Watchers, Repentance, Establishing Boundaries, Goodbye, a Recurrence, an Invitation, Something Odd, Entertainment, and a Question**

.

.

Cold, emerald-glamored eyes watched the little cottage amidst the green. For just a moment, the icy crimson-slitted black gaze of a gancanaugh flickered through the fey illusion as rage surged through faerie veins like poisonous iron. He shouldn't have still been here, stars curse him to the blackest pits of Annwn. He should have grown tired of the stupid human cow long before this. It had been a month. Yes, she was good at showing a calm face to Bres, but Dierdre was growing hellishly impatient waiting for Silverlance to get finished playing with his annoying mortal toy and return to Bethmoora. When would _she_ get a chance to play with _him_?

"You shouldn't be here, milady," a cool voice murmured from the forest behind her. A shadowed figured leaned against a tree. Cool gray eyes regarded the venomous fae woman in her sultry black dress and scarlet cloak, her curls spilling around narrow shoulders in a cascade of snow-flecked spun garnet. "His Highness Prince Bres would not like it if he found out you'd ventured into the realm of mortals without an escort."

Dierdre scoffed. "I'm not his possession, Iolo," the gancanaugh snapped at the fae lord. "And I want to set the first layer of my trap _now,_ to make sure the Silver Lance is ready for what I have in mind when he returns. I could have done this in Findias if he was actually _there_, but he isn't. He's here. With _her,_" Dierdre added with a feral snarl. "Now shut up and leave off, Huntsman."

Iolo arched one soot-black eyebrow before turning and fading away into the woods once more. While his master worked with Prince Bres, he had to put up with Lady Dierdre and her childish ways. Once that alliance was over, he could be done with all of the petty antics of his master's allies. Elves were so juvenile.

The gancanaugh woman bared her teeth in a savage smile as she pulled the dream spell out of the pocket of her blood-red velvet cloak. So Nuada had not yet tired of his little pet. It mattered little, once you got right down to it. In fact, perhaps it was better this way. Better because the human's pathetic protective enchantments - the wooden gate of white oak, the elder trees planted every so often along her garden walls, the dark green rosemary bushes - were less of an obstacle to laying a dream spell than the prince's room being warded against such magic. Once Nuada returned to Findias, Dierdre would have to settle for using her own poisonous wiles on him. Which was why she was here to begin with.

She studied the woven dream spell in her black-gloved hand. This one was different from the others. There was no silver thread for memory or scarlet thread for anger. Only blue for nightmares, black for dread and madness, white for grief and heartache, blood-red for violence, and burgundy for lust and sex. Thirteen knots for a dark purpose. Silken cord, for a silken trap. All the threads soaked in the glistening venom of the dangerous and fey Love Talkers.

Bringing the knotted spell to her poison-slicked lips, Dierdre breathed the words to activate the spell, her lips so close to the threads that they brushed the silk in a mockery of a kiss. Magic slithered through the the threads. Swelled in the gancanaugh's palm like a toxic bubble slowly expanding. With a swift _pop_ of release, the bubble ruptured and enchantment swept toward the cottage amidst the green. The protective charms around the house were as nothing in the face of the dream spell. The magic washed over the human dwelling, slowly seeped inside it, and settled therein, as heavy and sticky as black mud.

"Let's see how you like that, Silverlance," Dierdre said softly. "When it becomes too much for you, I'll be waiting."

**.**

Rivulets of fear-sweat worked as well as being doused by a bucket of ice water to shock Dylan out of a half-remembered dream of her screams and rivers of amber blood, Nuada's cries of pain and the salt of mortal tears. Shoving at her sweat-stringy hair with a hand that shook, she struggled to focus on the real, the now. Struggled to focus on something other than the memory of Nuada being tortured in her dreams.

_Please, no,_ she prayed. Her breath came in ragged gasps that seared her throat. _Please don't let that happen. Please._ Moundshroud's warnings and her own fears throbbed through her skull. She could still hear the crack of the whip as it bit deep into Nuada's back. _Please, Heavenly Father, I beg You, please._

Dylan swallowed hard as warmth slowly seeped into her body. Everything was all right. Well, maybe not all right, but close enough that she didn't need to worry right that minute. Everything would be fine. She was okay. Nuada was okay. They were both all right, everything was all right.

Except for... except for...

Warm soft lips on hers. Gentle. So very gentle. His arms around her, different from any other time before. She'd trembled in his arms as he'd whispered that he wanted her. _Her._ No one else. He chose _her._ Kissed _her._ Loved...

Someone else.

The reminder crashed down on her, wrenching her back to reality. What was she doing, daydreaming about something so pointless? She had more important things to worry about, darn it. What time was it, anyway? How long did she have before she had to go into work? A trembling hand picked up her cell phone from the piano bench beside the sofa-bed where she slept. Dylan glanced at the readout and the worst of the sharp pain pulsing in her chest fled to the back of her mind.

_Oh, crud,_ she thought, hauling herself to her feet using the piano bench. Her knee threatened to buckle as the cold air and stiffness from sleep threatened to lock it. She leaned against the piano for a moment, forcing the stiff joint to bend until she could actually walk. _I'm gonna be late for work. Crud, crud, crud! Super crud! Crud-tastical!_

Then she paused. _Wait... I don't _have _work today, do I?_ She sank back onto the sofa-bed and tried to think through the haze of exhaustion fogging her thoughts. Today was Wednesday, but she'd cleared her schedule the day before, right? Because Nuada had left to go and face Westenra and she'd waited up for him. She hadn't wanted him to be alone when he came back, not after facing off against that sort of nightmare. No work meant she could sleep in.

_Oh, good,_ she thought fuzzily, and slumped back onto the sofa. Even as utter weariness dragged at her eyelids and nearly glued them shut, she managed to get one more thought through her head before she fell asleep. _I'm probably gonna sleep all day. I hope Nuada... can handle... the kids..._

**.**

Golden eyes snapped open as night began to descend. Memory came flooding back, drowning the fog of sleep and battling briefly with the wisps of nightmare before Nuada returned to full consciousness.

His first thought upon waking echoed hollowly in his skull. _She loves me._ _Oh, gods... she_ loves _me._

The second thought was, _Where is she?_

He found her sound asleep on the sofa in her music room, shivering a little beneath a blanket. A second blanket had slipped to the floor during her slumber. Nuada brushed it off and carefully draped it over her. After a few moments Dylan's shivering stopped. She did not stir. Had she truly been up all the night before, waiting for him? He could not recall a time when someone had waited up for him that way. The thought sent warmth curling around his heart and inflicted just a brief twinge of irritation. She constantly hounded him about sleeping and eating properly, and then neglected herself in favor of looking after others. They would have to talk about that at some point.

"Nuada..." The quiet murmur was heavy with exhaustion. Scarred lips quirked into a sleepy smile. Something soft and golden filled his veins with light when he realized that his lady dreamt of him. Dreamt sweetly, as he'd asked of her. What did she dream? She looked so happy. So at peace.

If only his own rest had been so, instead of plagued by hell-visions of that lovely face bruised and the fragile bones broken. Nightmares of the light fading from Dylan's eyes. He loathed the nightmares that seemed to constantly plague him. Dark dreams of failing to protect one of the ones most precious to him, of being forced to cradle her corpse in his arms as he begged her forgiveness.

Memory had him reaching for her. Gently brushing the pads of his fingers across her cheek, her lips. Feeling her breath warming his fingertips. Each small puff of air was a reminder, a reassurance that Dylan was alive, unhurt, protected here. She was all right... and she loved him. Bane and blessing, gift and curse, that love. He would never let it go.

Nuada sighed and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him so as not to wake the mortal slumbering so deeply. She never slept enough. They would have to discuss that; they would have to talk about a lot of things, to be honest. Such as the events of the previous night. The kiss, the confession. What it all meant. What he intended to do, and what she intended to allow.

But until then, he had some errands to run, and Dylan needed to sleep. They could speak once he returned.

**.**

She woke only briefly, still physically and emotionally drained from the last few days. The attack at the Troll Market, Westenra's attack and consequent execution, the soul-purging, and the confession, had completely tapped Dylan out. Consciousness only stayed with her long enough for her to eat something, drink some water, take something for the headache brewing like a thundercloud behind her right eye, and read the note Nuada had left for her on the refridgerator.

_Gone to run some errands. I shall return soon. Try to stay out of trouble._

No soft words, no endearments. The note was clear and succinct, straight to the point. If she hadn't been so beastly tired, Dylan might have been worried about that. Worried that Nuada had suddenly become so taciturn. Wondered if perhaps it was because of the kiss. Or what she'd said.

Instead she stumbled back to bed and slept until Thursday dawned soft and gray.

The Elf prince returned while the mortal still slumbered, coming in just on the edge of the pearly-gray light of false dawn. He, too, was tired. Bone-weary after the ordeal of the day before and the journey through the sick mind of his lady's enemy. Unsure, in a way he disliked immensely, after the events of the night before. Would Dylan regret what had passed between them in the cold light of the new day? When she woke, would she still look at him with that same affection and trust? He didn't know. Was almost afraid to find out.

He looked in on the children first. They sprawled across their respective surfaces in the den, sleeping the death-like slumber of exhausted children. Perhaps he and Dylan had been abusing Becan, forcing him to deal with the ewah cubs while the prince and his lady dealt with other matters.

Well, there was no help for that. And he had been receiving aid from Dylan's sidhe friend, Peri. Still, mayhap once they returned to Findias, Dylan could spend more time with the children.

Before trudging to the bedroom, he looked in on Dylan as well. She was still asleep, but her face still lacked the signs of brutal exhaustion and nightmare. He knew from the brownie that she'd suffered a few ill dreams while the prince had been absent from the cottage. Yet for once, his truelove had not screamed herself awake in the aftermath of those nightmares. For that, Nuada could only be grateful.

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to reach out and brush his fingers across the satin-soft curve of her cheek once more. Feel her breath warming his skin again. But he was so tired, he would wake her if he did so. So he only closed the door and went to bed.

**.**

In the morning, early winter sunlight creeping through the windows, Dylan limped down the hall to her room and knocked perfuctorily on the cracked door before pushing it open. Nuada lay sprawled on his belly across her bed. She knocked once more, a bit sharply this time, and sleepy golden eyes blinked open and half-heartedly glared at her.

"Danu's mercy. _What_, woman? Do you have any idea what time it is?" He reminded her so much of John in that moment, John when as a kid she'd had to wake him up for school and he'd been a complete grouch-potato, that Dylan actually managed a smile. Nuada scowled at such loathsome cheer so early in the morning. She could sympathize. Knowing him, he hadn't been asleep long.

"Actually," she replied, hustling toward her closet and giving nothing away by tone or expression, "I do. It's eight-fifteen. I have to meet a patient at nine-thirty. I have less than an hour to get ready before I have to leave. I have to hop in the shower, and I didn't want you to snap awake if I have to trot out here to get dressed, wearing nothing but a towel since my bathroom is the size of a spitwad and the humidity is terrible. We've been there, done that, even bought a t-shirt."

"Fine," he grumbled sleepily, and grabbed a pillow out of the chair beside the bed. By this time, Dylan had collected underthings, her rainbow toe-socks, jeans, and a shirt. She started to make her way toward the bathroom. "I will not look. Now let me sleep." And the crown prince of Bethmoora covered his head with the pillow.

Just before zipping into the bathroom, Dylan tossed over her shoulder, "You know, it's a good thing I trust you or I'd have actually made you get up and go somewhere else to sleep."

A muffled snort issued from beneath the pillow. "You and what army?"

But she'd already hopped in the shower.

Once in the safety of the white and blue tiled cubicle, she sank into her shower-chair and stretched out her bad leg. The water was shockingly cold because she hadn't waited for it to heat up. Icy needles drove into her knee and she winced. Grumbling under her breath, she pulled down a bottle of soap. She never showered standing up anymore. Her leg wouldn't allow it so soon after waking up. Getting up from the shower-chair would be a pain in the kiester, but she could handle it. She could handle just about anything... except last night.

As soon as the thought managed to flit through her head, she finally registered the guilt in her chest and knew exactly where it came from. _I'm sorry, Heavenly Father,_ Dylan prayed silently as the water began to warm up, driving away the cold. _I shouldn't have let him kiss me like that. I know that necking is against the Law of Chastity. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Well, unless it has to for the courtship charade, but I doubt it will. Anyway, I'll talk to him. I don't think he actually knew we weren't supposed to do that, so it's my fault._

She knew some people might have thought that a bit silly; something as PG as what Nuada had done being called necking in the first place, much less that such a thing was forbidden by her faith. Her sisters had often told her that kind of thinking was prudish. But honestly, what would've happened that night if Nuada's gentle nip - and he _had_ been gentle, so exquisitely gentle - hadn't frightened her?

Dylan remembered whispering, _I trust you._ Also remembered him begging her not to say such things, whispering that she shouldn't trust him with this particular thing. And she knew exactly why, now, in the light of day, without that enticing shivery feeling blurring her faculties. Because if she gave Nuada free reign to do as he wanted - which she probably would have, if he'd asked for it, and thank heaven he hadn't - they would've ended up in bed together. And _that_ was entirely unacceptable.

_I'm so sorry, Heavenly Father,_ Dylan said silently, and a tear spilled down her cheek. Regret for the transgression, but also sudden nerves because she wasn't sure how Nuada would take what she had to say (her last - her _only_ - boyfriend hadn't been receptive _at all_ to the boundaries placed around their relationship by her faith). Dylan swiped the tear away and sighed. _I'm okay. It's fine. Nuada isn't like that. Anyway, it won't happen again. I'll make sure. I promise._

Once out of the shower, shivering in the chill as cold water trickled down her spine even after she was dressed, she poked her head out to peer at the prince stretched out on the bed. "Are you asleep?" She asked.

"Yes." The word came out sounding more like a bear growling than an Elf speaking, but Dylan shuffled out, attempting in vain to clasp her medallion around her neck. Popping into the chair beside the bed, she gave up and dropped the necklace on the bedside dresser so she could deal with her socks instead. Her feet were freezing.

Her cell phone chimed. Nuada bear-growled something else from beneath the pillow about "odious contraptions." Dylan saw that Ariel, her secretary, had texted to inform her that she would be at the cottage in about twenty minutes.

_So much for breakfast,_ Dylan thought, stuffing on her socks. The phone chimed again, and the psychiatrist smiled wanly at the second text. Ariel was bringing food from the local Farmer's Market, just on the off-chance that her boss hadn't had a chance to eat breakfast yet. The younger woman had worked for Dylan for more than three years; she was more like an executive assistant than a secretary. Luckily for Ariel, Dylan wasn't exactly demanding. Her only extravagance was getting a ride to and/or from work during the week when John couldn't be had.

Dylan hastily texted her secretary back and informed her she'd be out when Ariel arrived. It was a thirty-minute drive to the office. That meant if Dylan was going to be on time, she had to be out the cottage door and through the Park's gates by the time the other woman's rust-bucket of a Chevy truck pulled up.

Another chime let Dylan know Ariel had gotten the message.

"Could you turn that hideous thing off?"

She'd never heard him so grumbly before. He sounded just like a growly boy. As soon as the thought fleshed out in her mind, Dylan smiled. Nuada was actually relaxed enough that he didn't feel as if he needed to hide how tired he was. She imagined this was probably how he sounded with Wink when the prince had had too little sleep, as well. It meant he trusted her. But all she said was, "I thought you were asleep," as she pulled on her boots. They still had to talk.

One bleary golden eye peered out at her from beneath the pillow. "Even A'du'la'di could not sleep through such a racket."

"Are you lucid?"

Nuada blinked at the lack of amusement in Dylan's voice. He'd only been teasing. Nuala had often said when they were children, before the wars and before she had pulled away from him, that he was as testy as a wasp-stung bear in the mornings if he didn't get enough sleep. But somehow being in Dylan's very comfortable bed, in the cozy little stone cottage at the edge of the Park, soothed the exhausted irritation and made it possible to jest with his lady. It seemed she was not in the mood, however.

"Lucid enough," the warrior replied, forcing himself to full wakefulness. His tired body begged for mercy but he ruthlessly denied himself. He wanted to ask Dylan if something was wrong... but that would have been foolish. He could tell simply by looking at her that something was amiss. Once again he thought of the bittersweet pain her confession of love had wrought in him. How she'd responded so eagerly to his lightest touch, to his kisses, two nights ago. Was she regretting that now? He said nothing, however. Merely waited for her to speak.

She picked up her medallion and let the chain slip and slide through her fingers, a nervous gesture he'd never seen her do before. Her hands were shaking. When he glanced down at her feet, he could tell she was scrunching her toes, even through her boots. For some reason she wouldn't look at him.

After a long moment, feeling inexplicably nervous, Dylan said softly, "Nuada... what happened last night... or the night before, I mean... it can't happen again."

An interminable silence. Tension strung out between them, and still she couldn't seem to bring herself to glance his way. Instead she focused on the flickering coin-like glitter of her golden medallion. Her hands shook with nervous tremors.

"I see," Nuada said. That was all. No questions, no demands for an explanation. Just two words that conveyed absolutely nothing. For just a moment Dylan was terrified that he would get out of bed, pack his things, and leave again. He sounded so similar to how he'd been the night of their argument. Was he angry?

"It's not that I didn't like it," she hastened to explain, her words sounding weak even to her own ears. But liking didn't even come close to describing the fluttering warmth and happiness that Nuada's arms around her and his kisses had left in their wake. And the rough-velvet caress of his fingertips across the scars on her stomach still sent shivers down her spine. Which was the problem. "I just... we can't... I mean..."

This shouldn't have been hard. She had to follow the Law of Chastity, end of story. She'd made a covenant, a sacred oath. Surely Nuada, who was so honorable and valued promises so highly, could understand that. So why did she feel so nervous about this?

Because she had no idea what he would think, what he would do. Because she didn't want him to think... what? That she was toying with him. He'd talked to her before about how so many women at court came after him because of his station. He'd told her of women who tried to play games, tried to make him feel things for them before attempting to use him for their own ends. She never, _ever_ wanted her prince to feel as if he had to worry about such things with her.

"Is it because..." The prince's voice was as soft as a shadow. Dylan hadn't known Nuada could sound so unsure. "Because I frightened you?"

Her head whipped around and she stared at him. "No, Nuada, no. Of course not." _He_ hadn't frightened her; the ferocity of her reaction to him had. There _had_ been that instant of flashback, that lightning-strike moment of mind-numbing terror, but that hadn't been at _him_. He couldn't think that. And besides, that wasn't even the crux of it, anyway. The main issue was her; her vulnerability to his longing meant that she absolutely had to stick to the rules she lived by. "No, it's just that you're... I think you're... I mean, physically, you're just really, really-"

"Hot." The corner of Nuada's mouth quirked a little. "Yes, I know."

Dylan rolled her eyes, suddenly feeling more at ease. He was teasing her. He knew she was nervous, and he was trying to make her feel better. Was it any wonder she adored him?

"Your pride in this fact apparently knows no bounds, my love. Anyway," she added, missing the look of sweet pain that flickered for a moment in Nuada's eyes, "the point is, you are very attractive. Very. And I have no real sexual experience of any kind to draw on here. No kind of defenses or anything. Until last night I'd never really been kissed except by that drunk idiot at my prom that I told you about and that doesn't really count because _that_ was like being kissed by an inebriated dog."

The Elf prince nearly choked on a laugh.

She nodded, smiling a little. "Yep - teeth, tongues, and drool. He lacked your skills. So the thing is, if you wanted to, you could kiss me probably once and turn me into a puddle, to which you could then do whatever you wanted.

"I know you wouldn't," she added quickly. "I know you wouldn't do anything I wasn't comfortable with. My point is, I am _very_ comfortable with you. You're so... gentle. And sweet and careful and just... I can't even begin to describe how amazing you are and how grateful I am that you _are_ just _so_ amazing. But because of that, when I'm around you, I want so many things that I shouldn't. And it's really important because of _that,_ that I follow the Law of Chastity at all times or we're going to end up doing something that's going to get me in serious trouble. I don't necessarily mean sleeping together, although there's that, but... well, there's just a lot that could trip me up. I know you probably think this is all ridiculous, but I covenanted with the High King of the World when I was eighteen to obey His laws and I have to. Does that make sense?"

She'd been saying all of this to the medallion being twisted around in her trembling fingers, but now she finally shot the Elf prince one wild-shy glance to gauge his reaction. He was staring up at the ceiling, hands behind his head, expressionless. Dylan bit her lip. "Nuada? What are you... thinking?"

"I am thinking," he replied, then jerked his chin toward the door, "that you should eat breakfast."

"Are you angry with me?" She asked softly.

One brow winged upward. "If I was, would you back down from this?" Dylan shook her head. "Go eat, Dylan. I need to think."

**.**

As pathetic and juvenile as it was, she found she had a hard time forcing herself to take her daily pain meds or eat more than a few bites of the scrambled eggs and toast Becan made for her. She was too distracted to even be surprised that there _was_ breakfast this early. Usually Dylan had to fend for herself in the mornings before work. But instead of thinking about that, she sipped absently at a glass of orange juice and tried not to fidget as she shredded her toast into crumbs. The children were up, but were playing in the den, so she didn't have them to distract her.

She jumped when Nuada's hands came to rest lightly upon her shoulders.

"It's only me," he said gently.

"You scared the living daylights out of me," Dylan mumbled, and took another sip of juice. "Done thinking now?"

"I have a few questions." He took the seat diagonal from hers. His knee brushed against hers beneath the table. "Why is this so important to you?"

"You know I value my commitment to the Star Kindler," she said. "This is what He has asked of me. I promised to do it. You should also know I take my promises very seriously." She hid her hands under the table. For some reason they were still trembling just a little. Sometimes that happened when she was nervous - an involuntary reaction brought on by prolonged use of thorazine and other anti-psychotics - but she didn't want Nuada to see it. "And I don't know if you know this, but I consider... I consider sex and kissing and pretty much everything in between to be very special. It has a profound effect on people, or it should. So I wouldn't do that with just anyone. Although you're not just anyone," Dylan added, feeling her cheeks heat.

There was a wealth of amusement in the Elven warrior's voice when he replied, "Oh? Am I not?"

She gave him a look that spoke volumes. "No, Your Highness, you're not. As if you didn't know that already. You know how I feel about you, but you also know how much I value keeping my promises."

And she knew the consequences of breaking that particular promise. If they ever... ever slipped up like that, it had the potential to ruin her life. The certain - and the worst - resultant problem would be that it would cement her emotional attachment to Nuada and quite probably deepen it. Once they were no longer together... how much worse would the separation hurt then? And how much would it hurt if she ever got to experience that kind of intimacy with Nuada, only to see or hear about him sharing it with someone else?

Oblivious to her thoughts, the Elf prince inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I do know that. Which leads me to another question. You owe me two acts of service. You swore that no matter what they were, you would perform them. What if I asked you to do something that broke your Law of Chastity?"

"It's not my Law," she replied in a voice that was a mere thread of sound. "But breaking my word to any fae is a seriously dangerous thing to do. I know you wouldn't hurt me, but other fey things would more than likely hunt me down and eat me for not keeping that promise. So if you asked me for something... sexual, it actually wouldn't break the Law of Chastity, because it's not a choice between obeying or being forsworn. It's a choice between obeying or getting killed. There's only one thing forbidden me in a situation like that, and it has nothing to do with chastity."

"Convenient."

The prince noticed she said nothing about what such a request would do to the two of them, to the trust between them. But he knew. Such a request would shatter her faith in him like crystal beneath the blow of a goblin's hammer. But she had agreed to the service because she trusted that Nuada wouldn't abuse that trust.

"Fair," she countered. "He is a God of justice _and_ mercy, after all. I don't know how it applies to someone being tortured, though. I think that would be a situation-by-situation thing, and you'd probably have to get permission or something, but I don't actually know. It's not exactly something that gets brought up in Sunday School."

Nuada huffed a laugh. "I would imagine not." Catching her eye, he added, "You thought I would be angry over this. I am not. Merely curious. What, exactly, is allowed? Things did not really go very far that night."

Dylan's mouth dropped open. "Speak for yourself. The stomach-touching was a _big_ no-no. Neck kissing, also not okay. Not to mention it gives me the tingles," she added, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "You didn't hear that. That did _not_ come out of my mouth." Was he secretly laughing at her? She was afraid to look and find out. "Anyway, mouth-kissing is acceptable. Hand-holding. Hugs. Basically everything we've been doing up until our little makeout session-"

"I'm not familiar with that term."

She blushed hotter. "Passionate kissing. Everything up until last night is fine, and closed-mouth kissing on the lips is okay. Anything else is banned until further notice." Anything else had the power to turn her into a giant puddle of goo. Gooey-ness needed to be avoided at all costs.

"I see."

Again with those toneless words. It made her nervous. "Is that acceptable to you, Your Highness?"

The prince arched a brow. So formal suddenly. He reached around and captured Dylan's hand, which trembled a little in his grip. He brought it to his lips and brushed a soft kiss across the knuckles. "I will admit I had hoped for a little more... but this makes things far more interesting for us both." He offered her a crooked half-smile. Then he added, more seriously, "And you must know I will always respect what boundaries you set, mo duinne. I would _never_ force you into anything, no matter how innocent _I_ deem it, if it makes you uncomfortable. Never."

Dylan nodded and smiled. "I know. I trust you. I don't know why I was so worried; I feel kind of silly now. Thank you, Nuada." Her hands no longer shook, so she gently extricated her hand from Nuada's grip and picked up her medallion. Despite the lack of trembles, she still couldn't get the stupid thing clasped. "Ugh. For real? I always have a hard time with this. My fingers are so fat."

The Elf prince got to his feet and came to stand behind her. He plucked the necklace clasp from her fingers. "Allow me."

It took him barely half a minute to hook the tiny chain-link onto the hooked clasp, but in that time the very tips of Nuada's fingers continuously hovered over Dylan's skin at the back of her neck, tantalizing with the promise of a real and solid touch. It was so much like when she'd challenged him to seduce her using only his voice. She hadn't believed he could do it - and truthfully, he hadn't. He'd used his voice and his breath, his warmth and his nearness, and the temptation of a single touch which she wanted so that same nearness wouldn't drive her crazy.

Now, with the heat of his body at her back, warming her through her shirt, she fought a shiver. Those deft fingers easily adjusted the chain, sliding the cool gold against her neck and over her collarbones. Dylan could feel the gentle rhythm of his breath ruffling her hair. Almost feel his heart beating steadily in his chest which was so close to her body. And he wasn't even actually touching her. He only touched the chain and the necklace clasp.

Then Nuada allowed his fingertips to graze the soft silken column of her neck. Dylan's breath caught in her throat. Those gentle fingertips whispered over her pulse. Ghosted over her skin in the barest hint of a caress. His only excuse, Nuada decided as he focused on memorizing the feel of Dylan's skin under his fingers, was that he was exhausted. He'd been asleep for perhaps an hour or so - slumber had proved elusive while doubts and second thoughts and futile wishes had plagued him - when Dylan had woken him. That was his only excuse as to why he couldn't seem to stop touching her. Why he traced delicate, intricate patterns like phantom knotwork along the side of her neck and listened to her struggling to breathe evenly. He did that to her - _he_ did. He made her breath catch. Made her heart pound. Not only that, but she allowed him to do it. And by the stars, her skin was so exquisitely _soft_...

"Is this all right?" Nuada asked in a murmur. "Do you want me to stop?

She had to swallow a few times before she managed to say, "Um... I don't... it's okay. I just... you're turning up the charm now, aren't you?"

"Hmmm. Perhaps a little," Nuada replied. She could hear the smile in his voice. He brushed his lips against her temple and felt the shiver whisper down her spine at the tantalizing caress. "But I shall stop if you wish."

Dylan was definitely on her way to being a nice big puddle.

"I think you should," she mumbled, and he slowly pulled away. "Okay, a little lightheaded now. Your fault. All your fault. Stop that. You're killing me." Nuada's smirk was one-hundred-percent male satisfaction. Once she got her equilibrium back, Dylan rolled her eyes. "You're terrible." Then, biting her lip, she added, "So... what do we do now? I have to go to work in a few minutes, but when I get back... what do we do?"

"How do you mean?" He leaned a hip against the kitchen counter.

Suddenly nervous again, she shoved at her hair. "Well... I know that you... I know you don't love me, and I don't expect you to. I'm just wondering... I'm just wondering what you expect from me, I guess. I wonder how... how you feel. I mean, you said I was... I..." She groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "Do you feel awkward? Because I totally feel awkward whenever you're not being all suave and charming, and if you felt awkward I would feel so much better because I feel really really... I don't know what to do here. I mean... we're completely screwed, aren't we?"

Raking her hands through her hair again, still damp from the shower, she added, "We can't be... we can't really be anything to each other, can we? Even if we wanted to be. I mean, I... I _never_ thought you would feel anything for me other than hate or, if I got really lucky, tolerance. So the fact that you can look me in the eye and say that I'm dear to you is just incredible to me. I'm lucky. But what about you? Do you even... do you want to... I don't even know what I'm trying to ask. You know what, never mind. I'm exhausted. I'm not making any sense. Just ignore me."

Nuada opened his mouth. Closed it again. Chalk it up to tiredness, but he hadn't followed practically any of that. He frowned, then opened his mouth again to ask for clarification. Her phone chimed. Nuada glared at the irritating device and muttered something uncomplimentary.

"I have to go," she said softly, snagging his attention back from whatever foul fate he was currently devising for her phone. "I'll be back tonight."

"I will be here," Nuada said.

She met his eyes, warm honeyed gold as soft and melting as sunlight. Did he know she was still afraid she would come back one day and he would be gone? Vanished into the wild woods of the Park again, the swirling whiteness of the snow covering his tracks. Did he know how much the possibility of it terrified her? But she didn't ask. Only smiled a bit wanly and went to get her outdoor gear.

At the door, as she reached for her coat, Nuada caught her hand. Startled, Dylan turned to him. Very gently, giving her time to protest, he pulled her against him. One arm slid slowly around her waist. His free hand came up to cup her cheek. The rough-velvet of his fingertips brushed along the scars banding the satin softness of her cheek and the delicate line of her jaw. The breath shivered out of Dylan on a sigh.

"May I kiss you goodbye?" Nuada's voice was a gentle murmur so close to her ear that his breath caressed her skin.

"I..." Dylan tried to swallow the giddiness tickling in her stomach. It was so strange to think that he would ask this of her. That she could have this. Strange and wondrous. Even if it was only just one more kiss, or a dozen, or a hundred, it didn't matter. So she said the only thing that felt right. "Yes."

His lips touched hers with a sweetness she hadn't expected. Last night, even that final kiss hadn't been so feather-light and gentle. There had still been an urgency, a need under the veneer of Nuada's self-control. Now he let his mouth linger against hers, a whisper of promise as soft as a sigh. He breathed her in. Tasted the longing within her, and let her taste his own. Dylan twined her arms around his neck and melted against him. He was so solid and warm. She ignored the soft ache in her chest at the thought that this couldn't possibly last, couldn't possibly go anywhere. It didn't matter so long as the Elven warrior kept kissing her so sweetly. She could be content just with his arm around her and his mouth on hers.

"Mo mhuire," he whispered against her lips. Nuada lightly caressed her cheek, the edge of her jaw, the side of her neck where the pulse fluttered like a trapped butterfly. It was a struggle to keep his hand above her shoulders when what he wanted was to ghost his fingers over the scars on her belly, the silvery marks on the nearly-smooth planes of her back. He wanted so much to trace that spill of whiteness above her heart.

Instead he kissed her again. He'd never realized until last night just how tempting Dylan's mouth was. Especially her lush bottom lip. It took an extraordinary amount of control not to nip at it now. Every instinct urged him to ignore the constraints of his station, his duty to his people. Ignore everything that kept him from showing her just how much she meant to him. But he would not. Because he couldn't, and because she'd asked him not to. So he only murmured, "Mo duinne."

Was she imagining the slight tremor in his voice? Imagining the way his gold-dusted eyes lingered on her face as if drinking in the sight of her? His gaze caressed her face, and something shimmered between them, as intangible as light and breath. A wish and a fantasy. It felt like there was something just dangling out of reach, something she wanted desperately that was just waiting for her to reach out her hand and grasp it.

"Mo airgeadach," she breathed, _my silver one,_ wishing she could stay for just a few more minutes and be in his arms. Was this what it meant to be in love? Never wanting to leave the presence of the one who held your heart? There had never been anyone who made her feel like that before. Even from John, who meant the world to her, she often needed a break. Just some time to be by herself. But not from Nuada. She didn't want to leave him, not for a moment.

Unfortunately, real life was calling, so she only said, "Tá grá agam duit, Nuada."

_I love you, Nuada._ He closed his eyes and took a deep and shuddering breath to draw the scent of her into him. Something treacherous pried his mouth open and the words began to unfurl on his tongue before he could stop them. "Dylan, mo duinne, I-"

Her phone trilled, shattering the moment. The Elf prince growled something and tightened his grip on her a fraction, but when she pulled back a little, he let her go.

"I have to go," she whispered. Nuada liked the slightly ragged way she spoke, as if his kisses had stolen her breath away.

What he did _not_ like was the huskiness to his own breathing. Didn't like that he had almost slipped up and confessed the truth of his heart. He had to get control of himself around her. He couldn't let this yearning, this adoration, affect him so much. Even though her lips beckoned, inviting him to kiss her again.

Dylan added, breaking his thoughts, "My ride's here. I can't stay. Though I really, _really_ want to."

"Be careful," Nuada said. He compromised on not kissing her mouth by brushing his lips over one of the scars gracing her cheek. Her soft sigh sent a frisson of awareness down his spine. "I shall see you tonight."

Her smile when the Elven warrior released her warmed him in ways he couldn't afford to think about or feel, but when she walked out the door, the absence of her left him cold.

**.**

"My sweet," Bres growled, and Dierdre jumped nearly a foot in the air. The gancanaugh whirled to see the Fomori prince watching her with cool eyes. "I was growing lonely without you, my love," he said softly. "Two visits in two days to the mortal realms have left me feeling bereft." Then, frost coating his words, he demanded, "What are you doing here?"

Affecting her customary pout, the gancanaugh replied, "Laying the foundation of our plan, my love. Playing with Silverlance's mind. His suite is warded against magic, so all we can use once he returns is my poison. I want to play a little." Slipping her arms around the prince's waist, she cuddled against him and smiled. "I've been so bored in that boorish castle, watching you flirt with that stupid tart." Thoughts of Nuala had Dierdre's pointed teeth flashing in a vicious parody of a smile. Running her fingers up and down Bres's chest, she added, "What am I supposed to do with myself, Your Highness?"

"And just what exactly is this little ploy of yours supposed to do?"

She shrugged. Resting her forehead against the Fomorian prince's shoulder, she said with a chilling smile, "Oh, you know. Shake his certainty. Push him closer to madness. Give him those violent and violating nightmares that you were so clever in coming up with. Exhaust him. If he's tired and unsure of himself, he'll be more likely to make mistakes. And," she added, edging her voice with just a hint of whine, "I'm so _bored_, Bres. He's sleeping right now, since his little whore left a few hours ago and it seems our prince didn't sleep well last night; I cannot possibly imagine why." Her sarcasm was unmistakeable. "So please let me play with him, please?"

Bres arched an eyebrow. Dierdre should have been content to play with _him._ Was she beginning to prefer the Tuathan prince over the Elf prince of Ciocal? Or was it simply that her lover was dangling the Silver Lance on a string in front of her and keeping him out of reach, making Dierdre want Nuada more and more?

"Use this one as well," the Fomorian ordered instead of playing along with her childishness. He pulled a tiny vial on a chain from around his neck and handed it to her. The contents glittered with smears of ruby and emerald against shining obsidian black. "You wish to push Silverlance to the breaking point? Pour this onto the snow on the threshold of the garden and then make your way back to Findias. The spell will soak into the ground and last much longer than our little knot-spells. It will take a while to manifest, but as it does... well. Perhaps I shall leave it as a surprise for you. And we will talk about your disobedience when you return."

"Disobedience?" The gancanaugh demanded. "What do you-"

The prince's fingers fisting in her hair, wrenching her head back, silenced her protests. He leaned in until his lips were only a whisper away from hers. "You make no moves that I do not approve first," Bres snarled. Dierdre went pale. "You're privileged to share my bed, but _I_ am in charge of this campaign. _Not you._" He gave her hair a brutal yank that had tears of pain gathering at the corners of her eyes. "Do you understand?"

"Y-y-yes, Your Highness. Forgive m-me."

He brushed a kiss across her trembling mouth. "Forgiven. And we shall... discuss your punishment when you return."

_Your punishment..._ Dierdre whimpered.

**.**

Night had fallen on the world, gnawing with teeth of ice and darkness, when Nuada bolted awake. His hand trembled when he shoved at the sweat-dampened hair hanging in his face. Every shuddering breath seared his throat and chest. Nightmares again. Fates, he hated them. Hated to seek rest, knowing that when he finally fell asleep he would be thrust back into a hell where he was forced to bear witness once more to bloodshed, to slaughter, to treachery and butchery and grief. Or worse... nightmares of his mother, of his last memory of her. Dark visions of Cethlenn, sometimes dreams of Nuala, or worst of all, Dylan.

He was unsure which was worse - those dreams where Eamonn or some other tortured her, hurt her, and he was forced to watch... or when he was the one to shed that mortal blood or break those fragile bones. When _he_ was the one to put that betrayed look in his truelove's eyes before being forced to watch her die.

After the nightmare during that first week in the cottage, where he'd drawn his knife and spilled just a few trickles of Dylan's blood upon waking, he'd managed to get enough control over himself that he never accidentally attacked her again. That did not mean he no longer suffered such nightmares. The peaceful dreams of Dylan were rare and precious. The ones of rape and butchery, the ones that ended in her death, were far more common.

Nuada sighed and swiped at the moisture on his cheeks. It wasn't that hot in the cottage; why, when she haunted him in slumber this way, did he always wake up in an icy sweat?

He sighed again and pushed the question from his mind. He had things to do tonight before Dylan came home from work. When he'd been drifting off to sleep again after she left, an idea had taken root in his brain. Something he could do for her, something special, before they returned to the dangerous games in Faerie. But he had to make arrangements first. Focusing on those arrangements would help him shove the nightmare far, far away.

He hoped.

Out in the kitchen, he found Becan sipping from a floating wooden spoon that held a taste of whatever simmered in the pot on the stove. The brownie glanced over and smiled. "Milady has not returned from work yet, Sire. And Lady Peri came by this morning and picked up the children. She'll bring them back at seven-thirty, unless my mistress asks for them back sooner."

"That is well, then. Becan, I need you to run a message for me to Annwn." Nuada held out a slip of paper. "To King Arawn Death-Lord. And another to my father. Can you do that?"

"Absolutely, Your Highness. Give me but a few minutes to finish up and I'll deliver it at once."

**.**

Becan had gone and returned with an answer by the time Dylan came home from work, limping a little from the cold and the late hour. But she had only leaned on her cane a little, and what pain there was eased once she took medicine.

Her brownie floated a cup of warm cider to her as she gratefully sank into one of the living room armchairs and stretched out her leg. Nuada lounged near the hearth, sharpening the edge of his sword, thoroughly enjoying both the heat from the hearthstones and the sight of Dylan relaxing after a day at the office.

She wore a button-down white shirt. He'd never seen her in something like that before, and he'd been too tired this morning to really notice. Besides, it looked entirely different now that she was relaxed. Unlike this morning, when she'd kept it buttoned almost to the collar, now the top four buttons were undone. The silky ivory material framed pale, scarred flesh and the top few inches of her blue undershirt. A single lock of dark hair whispered against her cheek before falling to brush over the delicate collarbones. The firelight danced over her skin, mellowing some of the harsher scars. Shadows gathered at the hollow of her throat.

For a brief moment Nuada thought of the way Dylan's breath had caught in her throat when he'd brushed his lips against the side of her neck. Remembered the fleeting taste of her skin, the way her heart had raced when he'd touched her. Remembered that sweet, sweet sound at the first touch of his mouth to her vulnerable throat.

The Elven warrior wrenched his gaze away before his thoughts ran away from him. How was he supposed to keep his thoughts (and thus his actions) chaste if he kept staring at her this way? Letting his eyes devour her, as if he'd been starving and was finally allowed the taste of food?

Instead he stared at the Christmas tree. He hadn't noticed it until this evening, which told him just how tired he'd been. It was, impossibly, beautiful. He loathed the human concept of decorated holiday trees usually; mortals seemed to gravitate between cutting down a healthy tree for no viable reason whatsoever and then throwing it away after only a couple weeks, or purchasing noxious ones of metal and plastic. Nuada knew of no one else who had a living tree growing through their floor. Of course the Elven prince realized such a thing would only work if supported by magic, but it was still a brilliant idea. And the bright green fir did look lovely with its faerie lights and its glass and ivory ornaments.

Movement caught his eye, pulling his attention away from the Christmas tree - Dylan tucking her hair behind her ear. Then her fingers went to the medallion around her neck. Fiddling with it. Dragging his eyes back to her slender neck and the scarred expanse above the neckline of her undershirt. Was it possible she was doing this to him on purpose? He immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous; not his lady, who still blushed whenever she caught sight of the feral-eyed Elven warrior training shirtless. Besides, she seemed completely oblivious to his scrutiny at the moment. So why was he having such a difficult time keeping his thoughts away from what had happened the night before, and everything it meant?

She was in love with him. By the stars, he'd never have dared hope for that. But that knowledge made him yearn even more for things he could never have. Sitting before the fire, letting his eyes linger on Dylan's face and form, it was so easy to imagine this was more than just temporary.

"Did Peri come by and pick up the children?" Dylan asked after a while, gently breaking the silence. "I texted her this morning and asked her to come by."

"I was asleep, but Becan said that she had."

"Good," she said, smiling. "It sucks that I missed her - she's one of my few sort-of close friends from Faerie. And her son, Bean, is adorable. He and A'du will get along very well, I think." Then Dylan made a face. "Or they'll fight like a pair of wet cats over Kate. Hopefully not." Dylan's smile returned as she sipped her cider. "And through some fluke in my scheduling, I don't have any appointments tomorrow. I don't have the day off, per se - if there's an emergency, I'd get called in - but I've got another day off. I think Ariel had a hand in that, though. My secretary," she added at Nuada's inquiring look. "Sometimes when Ariel gets worried about me for whatever reason, she'll surreptitiously clear my schedule for a day. I hate it when she does that. I get bored at home doing nothing."

Nuada gave her an affronted look. "I beg your pardon? I happen to be at home, my lady. You most certainly would not be bored with me."

Dylan grinned. "True. You're very stimulating, Your Highness."

"So, then, my fair lady, you are free from any engagements tomorrow?" The prince asked, a thought sudden blooming in his mind. "You have no responsibilities, no work, nothing?"

His lady looked startled for a moment. "Wouldn't it be easier to leave for Findias right at the start of the weekend instead of tonight?"

"Leave for... mo duinne, that was not what I meant. I want to take you somewhere else."

"Somewhere else? Like... out?" She blinked when he nodded. "You mean, like... like a-"

"A date," Nuada said, pausing for a moment in stroking the whetstone along the keen edge of his sword. He arched a brow. "If my lady is willing, that is."

"You're asking me out on a date?"

Did she have to sound so utterly incredulous? Had he not made his intentions clear the night before, and this morning? Unless the king so ordered, their relationship would not progress beyond courtship, but he _did_ mean to do Dylan honor by courting her as she deserved. "I am. I want to take you somewhere, to see something very special. If that is all right," he added when she didn't respond right away. Her eyes looked more than a little wet. "Dylan?"

"Yeah," she whispered. Then, more firmly, "Yeah. I'd love to go on a date with you. Absolutely." Dylan laughed a little, as if surprised at herself. "It'll be fun."

The prince frowned. "Are you crying?"

She scoffed, though without scorn. "No. That would be silly, which even you must agree I'm not. I've just never been asked out on a date before." She shrugged, but Nuada noticed her surreptitiously brush at her cheek with one hand. "So where are we going? Or is it a surprise?"

He got to his feet. "A surprise."

"Okay, _when_ are we going?"

"Well, after you finish packing, we'll leave."

Dylan blinked at him. "Packing? Why... wait, right now?"

Nuada sheathed his sword and offered his lady his hand. When she took it, he drew her smoothly to her feet. "Yes, right now. It will take a while to get there. King Arawn has loaned me the Chariot of Annwn for the trip, but he means to take it back Friday or Saturday evening, after we have returned to Findias." She opened her mouth to ask how he'd managed to get the otherworldly Welsh king to agree to such a thing _again_, friend or not, but he beat her to it. "I have my ways. You'll want to pack two full changes of clothing."

Still Dylan hesitated. The prince wondered suddenly if it was because, by telling her to bring spare clothes, it was obvious that this would be an overnight trip. Just the two of them. Alone together, in a way different from how they were now. Was that what gave her pause? Did it entice her, the thought of being alone with him out in some imagined darkness? Or did it simply frighten her?

And now he was thinking of terrified eyes staring up at him as the light faded from their depths, as hot blood smeared his hands and Elven ears caught the sound of Dylan's heart struggling to keep beating. Eamonn, somehow crawled out of his grave and laughing as Nuada begged the light of his heart not to leave him. Nightmare. Only a stupid nightmare. He would never hurt Dylan, never. Gods, not _ever._ He would rather drive a blade into his own heart than use it on her.

"Nuada. Hey." A mere thread of sound that pushed back the memory of death and purged the sour taste of half-remembered dread from his mouth. Nuada looked into Dylan's concerned face. She reached up and lightly touched his cheek. "Are you okay? Suddenly you went far away. What's the matter?"

"You know you are safe with me, Dylan," he said, forcing himself to ignore the echoes of tenebrous dream. "Don't you? If you do not wish to go with me, I'll not force you. I can only ask you to trust me."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I _do_ trust you. Didn't I say that the next time you asked me that, I'd beat you with your own lance? I'm pretty sure I said that. Anyway, I'm just wondering why I need a change of clothes and whether they should be nice clothes or-"

"Rough clothes. Jeans, perhaps."

One dark brow quirked. "You're advocating me wearing jeans? I thought you hated jeans."

Against his will, an image of Dylan doing the dishes in her favorite pair of worn black jeans came to mind. He disliked the modern clothes humans seemed to prefer, but it was different with his lady when she wore certain things. One of them was jeans. Especially _that_ pair. Which should have disturbed him, but it wasn't his fault when the sable denim showed off her hips and her incredibly long legs, and suddenly he could imagine the feel of the denim under his hands as he rested them on her legs, and underneath of _that_...

Nuada's fingers twitched. "They would work best for what I have in mind." Which was something completely innocent, though if his twin had taken a look into his thoughts at that moment, Nuala certainly would not have agreed with that assessment.

Dylan cocked her head and gave him a concerned look. "Are you okay? You sound funny all of a sudden."

"I'm fine. Go on."

In her room, Dylan found a bag already packed sitting on her bed. A brownie was catching his breath slumped down next to it. His human mistress folded her arms and smiled down at him. "Becan. I can pack my own bags, you know. And carry them."

"But, milady, your arm," the wee fae protested. He gestured to the bandage that covered her half-healed arm, which made her right shirtsleeve a few shades darker than the other. Whatever curative brew Nuada had poured on those ragged tears that day at the Troll Market had sped up the healing, but not enough that it didn't still hurt a bit. "You shouldn't strain it."

She didn't bother biting back a sigh. "Oh, Becan. I adore you."

Her brownie smiled.

**.**

It was as they went through the little garden gate that Nuada felt it - a sticky sort of cobwebby feeling, as if he'd passed through a thin sheet of tar. Dylan felt it too; he could tell from the way she looked around as if searching for something, brow furrowed, running her free hand up and down her arm as if to wipe something away. Dylan stepped closer to him, frowning. Her grip on the strap of her overnight bag tightened perceptibly.

"What was that?"

"I do not know," Nuada said softly enough that only she would be able to hear him. "It felt like magic. Perhaps Becan has reinforced the wards around the cottage?" But somehow the prince knew that wasn't it. The enchantment, whatever it was, had felt malevolent but unfocused. Not directed at specific people. _He_ certainly felt no ill effects from the brief contact. Firegold eyes cut to the mortal at his side, who offered him a smile. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she said, shrugging. "Just felt weird. I don't think it's Becan. Maybe it's an angry dryad or something."

"Or something," the prince muttered. He took Dylan's free hand in his, suddenly very eager to be in the safety of the Chariot and out of the open. Inexplicably, he felt eyes needling at his back, as if someone were spying on him. On them. "Come on."

Although she didn't really _need_ help getting into the carriage waiting at the entrance to the Park, she let Nuada help her anyway. The warm pressure of his hand lightly grasping hers as he took just a bit of her weight sent a tingle up her arm. And once it came time to withdraw her hand from his grip, he was slow to release her, letting his fingertips glide over her skin and sending her pulse racing. That brief moment of contact dispelled the last lingering unease. When Nuada followed her into the carriage, she gave him a look that she sincerely hoped was exasperated and not starry-eyed.

The mortal asked, "Were you doing that on purpose?"

Dark lips curved into a smile that just skirted the edge of self-satisfaction. "Doing what?"

Silver-washed blue eyes narrowed at the prince looking far too pleased with himself. Well that was a huge, resounding _yes._ Dylan debated kicking him - all right, it would just be a little bitty nudge with her toe - in the ankle, since no one should be able to look that smug and that attractive at the same time, but decided against it in favor of leaning her head on Nuada's shoulder when he took a seat beside her.

Adult she might have been, but it took a lot of self-restraint not to squiggle with happiness like a teenager that she was allowed to snuggle Nuada this way. Then, just as the carriage slid into butter-smooth motion, she realized something.

"You know... I should've brought a book," Dylan muttered. "You said this was going to take a while, and I didn't think to bring a book. Now I'm gonna be bored. Rats."

"I beg your pardon?" One knife-thin brow winged upward. "What is with this sudden idea that I am boring? Many women find me quite arresting, I'll have you know." His lady's mouth twitched before she smoothed her face to blankness. He shifted away from her. "Are you laughing at me? Believe me, darling, I can be _quite_ entertaining. You thought so yourself two nights past."

"Okay, then," she replied, folding her arms. "Entertain me."

Oh, she was playing with fire. Did she not know better? Instead of giving into the desire to seriously play back, he reached up and gently tugged a stray curl. "Or _you_ could entertain me."

"I could, actually, you're right," Dylan admitted, scootching just a bit closer. "That might be fun." She took his hand in hers. Lightly traced along the length of each of his fingers. Her touch was as light as a whisper. "I'm trying to think of something entertaining to do."

"You know, simply because I kissed you does not mean you're allowed to manhandle me."

"Are you complaining?" She actually sounded concerned at the idea. "I can stop if you want me to."

She started to pull away, but he caught her wrist in a gentle grip. "No. No, I simply wondered why do you do it."

Dylan bit nervously at her lip. This was one of those subtle relationship-rules establishing things, she was fairly sure. "I guess I just... like touching you. I guess. And the way I see it - though correct me if I'm wrong - we're basically dating. Right?"

Nuada inclined his head.

"If you want me to ask permission to touch you, I will, but you haven't asked it of me yet, and we touch all the time. I mean, I'm not going to try and jump on you or anything without asking, but for something simple, I would presume this is okay unless you tell me otherwise. So... is this okay?"

Wondering if he would regret it, Nuada said, "It is."

He returned his hand to her keeping, and she continued stroking his fingers and tracing the lines of his palm. Dylan had never really had a moment simply to study the prince in any sort of depth. Now she took her time memorizing the texture of his skin, mapping out the paths of golden blood flowing beneath the surface.

No foppish nobleman's hand, this. The years of training and war had roughened it with calluses and marked it with a few small, death-white scars. The fingers were long, like an artist's or craftsman's. His knuckles were marked with their own sprinkling of tiny scars. A very light dusting of blond hair covered the back of his hand.

She could feel his pulse as steady as a drum at the center of his palm. Could feel the inherent strength in his hand. Could imagine - could remember - the feel of his hand against her skin, cradling with that same gentle strength.

"Are you still thinking of something entertaining?" Nuada asked, his senses zeroing in on each feather-light stroke of Dylan's finger. Her touch seemed to draw along every nerve, sending tiny sparks shimmering through his blood. She was drawing him in despite himself, inch by slow and torturous inch. Oh, he could pretend that each caress did not torment him. He could pretend that this mortal did not seduce him with her every breath.

But pretense was all it was. Maybe this trip had been a bad idea after all. Could he truly resist the temptation to kiss her as he had the night before?

"Actually," she said, "I am. I've already thought of something."

The kiss of her fingertip against his palm, following the rough-etched groove of his heart-line, sent fresh shivers of heat darting beneath the skin. Her other hand cradled his, leaving his own hand open and vulnerable to her slow inspection. The slender fingers of Dylan's other hand curled against the sides of his wrist. His blood hummed through his veins, pulsing against the almost-intangible grasp. It took him a moment to ensure he wouldn't stutter when he asked, "Reading my palm?"

"No. Something much, _much_ better." Moonlit blue eyes met gold-kissed ivory, and scarred lips curved into a slow smile as her fingers grazed the sensitive flesh at his inner wrist. A tremor went through him at the brief contact.

Nuada struggled to keep his breathing even and managed to echo, "Better?" What could possibly be better - or worse - than this torture? She was doing this to him on purpose. She had to be. A silken lock of her hair slid against his outstretched fingers. They twitched just a little, reflecting the sudden urge he felt to tug the ribbon out of Dylan's hair and tangle his fingers in those shadow-soft curls.

"Oh, yes." She very carefully curled his fingers into a fist. That mishievous smile widened into a grin. "Rock-Paper-Scissors, let's go."

He blinked, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "What?"

"Oh, you heard me right," she said, still grinning, shifting back a little. "Don't even pretend you didn't. What's the matter, my love? Scared you'll lose?"

_Little imp. I cannot believe she did that to me._ Firegold eyes narrowed dangerously. "As I have told you many times, Dylan - you should never challenge an Elf."

"And as I've told you, my prince, you don't scare me." She shifted into the proper stance for the upcoming battle and raised her fist. "Ready?"

A challenging lift of one dark brow forced the Elven warrior into a similar position. At least no one would find out about this. Except perhaps Nuala. Which he could deal with, since he and his twin had often played this game as children - though they'd called it something else. Oh, but she would pay for toying with him this way. Yes, she would.

He inclined his head, and his lady grinned. "Okay, then. Rock, paper, scissors."

**.**

How many times had he lost? Nuada realized with some shock that not only did he not know, since he hadn't kept track, but he didn't care, either. Sometimes Dylan had won. Sometimes the prince had. It was better than playing against Nuala; almost invariably, such contests had ended in a stalemate. Instead of truly viewing it as a challenge, he'd simply enjoyed the experience. Somehow Dylan made it so easy to simply enjoy things.

Now Nuada brushed back a few stray curls as his lady sighed and shifted in sleep. Though a cushion kept Dylan from laying her head directly in his lap, her hand half-curled against his knee was oddly comforting. The dim interior lights of the carriage cast intriguing shadows across her skin. Every so often her fingers flexed, like a kitten kneading the air in her sleep. The feel of her skin warmed him, even through the silk of his black trews. Her other hand was held lightly trapped between his thigh and the cushion. Her fingers just peeked out from under the pillow. The tips rested against the palm of his free hand. Though that little bit of torment had been a few hours ago, the Elven warrior could still feel the echoes of her fingertips skimming over his flesh like phantom fire.

He drew his fingers through her hair, a bit surprised that the tangle of curls parted easily for him. Sleep smoothed her features. Left her looking as peaceful as a sweetly-dreaming child. Using Elven skill, keeping his touch as soft as a whisper of moonlight, Nuada let his fingers drift along the scars that covered so much of her face. They weren't like his, rough and rigid and pale. Instead they were exotic stripes of silver, coral, and pearl. Dylan seemed to think that, underneath the scars, she was pretty. Somehow she had yet to realize that the scars only made her more beautiful.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me, mo duinne?" Nuada whispered so softly only the wind might hear him. "Can you possibly understand what it is, to love and hate in equal measure? I loathe your entire race... and need you almost past enduring. Somehow you are inside my thoughts, under my skin, a part of me. How have I fallen so far?"

His eyes and his fingertips followed the rose-pale scar that started just at the corner of Dylan's eye and ran beneath her ear. He'd heard some nobles at Bethmoora whispering about how that particular scar dragged at her features, pulling at her left eye more than a little. He'd heard the word _unsightly_ bandied about. Heard the courtiers snickering over their little joke. Yet when he looked at this razor-thin mark, how it affected her looks was not the first thing - or even one of the first things - that came to mind. What came to mind was how close the initial wound had come to the delicate veins and arteries just beneath the scar. A little more pressure on the knife, a little more force, and she would have bled out before he'd arrived that night. He would never have known her. Never have tasted this delirious pain that hurt so sweetly.

What would his life have been like without her? Bleak. Joyless. The same empty grayness of preparing for the coming war that so few believed in, day after day after day. No hot chocolate or bedtime stories with the children or snowball fights. No faerie tales before a fire or conversations about faith and life and hope or comfort after vicious nightmares. No torturous caresses or impossibly sweet kisses. Would he have to return to that when the courtship charade ended? Because as long as the king didn't command them to marry, eventually the charade would end. Could he bear that? Could he bear to say goodbye to the woman he loved, who loved him?

Perhaps... just perhaps... they could have a part of their dream. Just perhaps, they could wed without the king's order. They could be together for those few years granted to mortals before she was out of his reach forever. There could be no children for them; the vitality of his kingdom ordained it thus. And she had said she would never wed a man who did not follow the Star Kindler. But she loved him. He felt it in her. Maybe, just maybe, they could...

"Marry me, a ghrá mo chroí," he whispered. Each word seemed to etch itself into his heart. Weighed on him like a stone. If only he could speak such words to her when she was awake. When she could answer him. If only he had the courage to tell her he loved her as she loved him. But a time would come when they would be wrenched apart, either by time and death or by the cruel fate awaiting her people when he finally raised the Golden Army. Could he bear to lose her after making her such an integral part of his life? Or would it shatter the Elven warrior as nothing else had? "Would you ever consider marrying me? Could you marry a monster like me?"

She didn't reply. Only slept on, curled against him as trustingly as a small child, oblivious to the questions that weighed on him so heavily and to which he possessed no answers.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Oh, my gosh, I did it again. Sigh. I took what was supposed to be a short little 4000-word scene and turned it into two 10,000-word chapters. But at least this way the update happens sooner. Otherwise it wouldn't have been until Friday. =) And I know I'm way, way late guys. I'm so sorry. I rarely use this excuse because I'm usually really good at forcing words out but for some reason the words just wouldn't come. I've seriously been struggling with this chapter since January (I was taking January off, posting-wise, to give everyone a chance to catch up, but the break expanded to mid-Feb, it seems, blargh). But now I've got it and it's good and flowing just like it used to. Yay! So onto our review prompt._

_1) Dierdre. What do we think of her? Her relationship to Bres? Her obsession with Nuada? Her potential to cause trouble? Etc._

_2) The conversation about the Law of Chastity between Dylan and Nuada. What did we think of that? Her reaction, and his, and her reasoning, and all of that? How do you think it will impact their relationship?_

_3) The sexual tension. The touching and the goodbye kiss and the awareness and all of it. How am I doing?_

_4) 14 favorite things! Why 14? Because this was supposed to go up on Valentine's Day but my life kind of tanked into the toilet for a while and it would make me happy and totally perk up my day._

_5) Where do you think Nuada's taking Dylan on their date? What are they gonna do? Who's excited? I am! Are you excited? Well, look for our lovebirds' second date in chapter 52_. =D _Bye everyone! I love you!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the_ _song "Take Me Out Tonight" is from the musical_ Rent. _I first heard it in high school when my show choir class did this thing called a cabaret (just like the movie with Liza Minelli) where we did a group dance number with a chair and then each of us sang 2 solos - a ballad and a jazzy upbeat number. Well, mine wasn't upbeat. It was more angry ("Aldonza" from_ the Man of La Mancha) _but still not slow. Anyway, so yeah. "Take Me Out Tonight" is the song sung by Mimi in_ Rent. _In the movie I believe she sings it at her job but I don't remember._

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Yes, I wanted Dierdre to be kind of this sinister Red Riding Hood figure, with Iolo as the Huntsman and Bres as the Wolf. Just some archetypal imagery.

- White oak, elder trees, and rosemary (separately, not necessarily combined) are said to protect against evil fae and their magic.

- I recently discovered that the safer, doctor-recommended method of showering if you have a bad leg and walk with a cane is a shower-chair. Yep.

- Yes, necking is against the Law of Chastity. The way the Law of Chastity works is, it's supposed to help prevent you from getting too comfortable with someone physically, because the less comfortable you are with that person in that way, the less likely you are to screw up and fall into bed with them. I know from experience that this is actually sound advice.

- Why is Dylan so nervous? Remember, she's only ever had one boyfriend before, whom she'd never kissed, and who dumped her. Her love life is still in its infancy, basically. Or maybe toddlerhood.

- "Teeth, tongues, and drool" is a phrase from _Queen of the Darkness_ by Anne Bishop.

- A long-term side-effect of thorazine is random muscle tremors, especially during moments of heightened emotion.

- I forgot in the original version of this chapter to mention that the line "Can you possibly understand what it is, to love and hate in equal measure?" is a paraphrase from one of WhenNightmaresWalked's amazing word-prompts for _Once Upon a Time_. I'm sorry I forgot to mention that, Nightmare! Everyone should know, Nightmare is amazing and comes up with great stuff. =D


	52. A Whisper and a Warning

**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**

_Author's Note  
List of Challenge Entries You Guys Should Read  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I knew it. All my chapters end up 20k or longer and have to be split in half. Or in thirds. This one is in thirds! Gah! This is part 2! Dylan and Nuada were supposed to be BACK TO FAERIE by now._

_Sigh. Whatever. They need a bit of happiness before all heck breaks lose. And I have to set the stage for trials and tribulations. So yeah. Here's the day that Nuada has planned for the lady he secretly loves. Hopefully we get back to Bethmoora by the end! *angry-at-self-face* __And things aren't all perky in Love Land, just so you know._ _Dangers loom - of course they do. Don't worry, Serbia, there's conflict! *hug*_

_Oh, and Nuada actually_ does _have freckles. Well, sort of. To quote Rhiononon's author's note, "Some continuity notes... I have now seen a very gloriously horrendously accurate and detailed copy of_ Hellboy II. _Nuada? He's not white. He's speckled. Like an egg, while Nuala's smooth-toned. And also - yes, Luke Goss? He's hairy. We're talkin' hair on the tops of his hands, and fur on the forearms, and I'm fairly sure he manscapes that chest so that there's only a bit of hair rather than a pelt. Now, in most copies of the movie (big screen, DVD, whatever) it always looked as though it'd been smoothed down. Well, thank you... BlueRay for showing me that 1 - Nuada's got a yellow complexion like sulfur-y granite and marble had a baby in secret that was then sprayed down with moist potting soil, 2 - that his irises are red shot not black shot and also the 'whites' are red too!, 3 - that he's hairy, and no, I don't mean some 'blond/white' fuzz - it's nearly brown (much like his natural and un-spray-painted body hair!" And this past Saturday my beta and I were watching the movie and even_ she _noticed Nuada was speckly._

_Of course, none of that sounds very sexy/appetizing to me, so I'm compromising. I gave him the standard amount of man-hair and the aforementioned discoloration is only in certain places and is attributed to freckles (as it is in one of Rhiononon's fics; the idea made sense to me). So yeah._ =)

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**Chapter Fifty-Two**

**A Whisper and a Warning**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Spying, the Jewels of the Forest, Tickling, Wonders, Lessons, Memories, Questions, Stories, and an Attempt at Biting**

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There he was.

Silver eyes followed the Elven warrior's movements as Nuada stepped out of the black carriage and looked around. He was easy to see from the branches of the oak tree where the dark Elf crouched, silent and still. Foolishly trusting, Silverlance and his lady, thinking this place safe simply because the king's decree forbade anyone from entering the borders without royal leave. Did they think Balor was the only power at work in Bethmoora?

Well, whatever. It mattered little _why_ they thought themselves safe. It only mattered that they did. It only mattered that they were wrong.

"You know what to do?" The Zwezda Elf turned to the handful of dipsa arrayed among the branches of the oak tree. Ten slitted snake eyes blinked slowly at the Elf. A few scaled heads cocked to the side. "He is _not_ the target, unless things go badly," the Elf reminded the lethal serpent-shifters. "The mortal is. All it takes is a single scratch of your fangs and she's dead. You'll likely only have one chance. Make it count."

All five snake fae nodded, already turning their attention to the enchanted carriage that currently housed the prince's mortal toy. "Are we sso certain sshe iss with him?" One of the dipsa asked.

Pale lips curved into a bleak and bitter smile. "Oh, yes, she's with him. My master has it on good authority. From the One-Armed King himself, in fact."

"I ssee," the leader of the dipsa hissed. "Well, then... let uss prepare."

As the serpents faded into the forest, the Elf of Zwezda thought, _You've brought this on yourself, Nuada. I'm sorry._

**.**

Dylan opened her eyes to silence and stillness. Aloneness. She was sprawled out across the soft bench seat of the carriage and Nuada was nowhere to be seen. The little window on the carriage door allowed tendrils of bright sunlight to dapple the interior. She sat up slowly, surprised that her bad leg offered little protest. A note on the seat near her head showed Nuada's elegant handwriting.

_If you want to explore the carriage, go through the left-hand door. I will be waiting outside._

Puzzled, she did as directed and went through the left-hand door, the one whose window showcased only shadows that shifted as the sunlight filtering in from outside did. The door swung open, and the mortal gaped at the long hallway that ran from the doorway to what felt like infinity. Nuada had said she could explore; that meant it had to be safe. She stepped across the threshold. As soon as her foot touched the stone floor, a door about four feet away swung open from the right side of the strange corridor. Dylan peeked in and grinned when she found a bathroom tiled in all the colors of the sea. It came complete with a shower stall and a very large blue-marble bathtub studded with tiny silver and gold things that she realized were seashells. When it was full, it would feel like being underwater.

_Wow. That is_ so _cool. And absolutely gorgeous. I love these things._ Darting back to the main room of the carriage, she grabbed her bag and went into the bathroom to change clothes, drag a brush through her hair, and brush her teeth. Then she went looking for Nuada.

She opened the door to the outside world and froze, stunned into absolute stillness.

Trees towered overhead, their leaves filtering the brilliant morning sunshine into shades of pale amber and jade and beryl and malachite, turning the sunlight to jewels on the dark-honey floor of the forest, which rustled with pine needles. Birdsong and the croon of the wind replaced the sounds she was used to - traffic, noise pollution from radios, the chatter of people. She could smell the richness of spring and the first warming breath of summer on the air. Everything seemed to shimmer with potential, with energy. With magic. It set her heart pounding. She just wanted to drink up the life brimming all around her.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" Nuada's voice was a murmur in her ear that made her start slightly. She turned to see him gazing up at the canopy of trees. The sunlight glanced off his hair, giving it a luster she'd never seen in the City or the Park or in her cottage. In his gray-green tunic and brown trews he reminded her of the wood Elves she'd read about in stories as a teenager, even though she'd known even then that there was little resemblance to the real thing. And there was a smile on his face that she'd never seen before.

"Yes," Dylan said softly, arrested by the expression of absolute peace on Nuada's face. Warmth bloomed in her chest and she took his hand. That physical connection shot a tingle of awareness down Dylan's arm. She remembered with sudden vivid clarity the way his hand had felt under her fingertips the night before, warm and solid. Remembered the way his fingers had curled a little when she'd touched his palm. "It's wonderful." She stifled a yawn. Sheepishly, she added, "What time is it?"

"A quarter to ten. I thought it best to let you sleep."

"Thank you. So, is this where you wanted to take me?"

He nodded. "This is the royal forest in Bethmoora. No one comes here without the king's permission. Yes," the prince added, "my father knows we're here. He gave me permission to bring you here."

Dylan frowned. A whisper of unease ghosted down her spine. "Why's he being so nice to us all of a sudden?"

"He is cautiously happy that I seem to be courting you in earnest and wants to reward my good behavior, I would imagine."

"Is that what this is?" She came down from the carriage step and was surprised when her boots sank a little into the lush carpet of pine needles. "Courting me?"

Dark lips curved into a smile. "Actually, darling, _this_ is me taking you out to get breakfast. Grab your bag and come with me."

The Elf prince led her through the woods, through trees packed so tightly together there was no hope of the carriage following them to their destination. Beams of sunlight caressed the occasional rainbow of wildflowers peeping through golden needles and lush grasses. Finally, after about twenty-odd minutes through the woods, he brought her to a meadow.

This wasn't the meadow he'd shown her in shared dreams - not that she would remember that place, which was now long gone. But it was a pretty, quiet place. Oak and spruce and cherry trees ringed the clearing. Snowy white veiled the cherry trees like gossamer-shrouded bridal dryads. Goldfinches, bright as sunlight on dragon treasure, nested in the dark green of the ringing trees. A wide stream, its grassy banks lined with boulders and stones of various sizes, ribboned across the greensward sprinkled with wildflowers perfuming the warm spring air. Some of the river stones glistened green and slick beneath the gently rushing water of the stream. The larger boulders made wonderful natural seats, with cushions of soft dry moss. Some of the rocks bore sharply jutting edges, but Nuada intended to set up camp a little ways away from those. Although the weather was a bit warm, delicate snowdrops bloomed near the great stones, lacy white against green grass and gray stone. Thornless wild Irish roses twined over some of the sharper rocks near the edge of the clearing. Butterflies in various bright hues fluttered amidst the vibrant blooms.

This was the world as it had once been, before humans' destructive ways had spoiled the wildlands. There was nowhere outside of Faerie that he could take her to that was as pure and unsullied. And no other accessible forest had what he wanted to show her. But _that_ surprise would have to wait until nightfall.

"It's so warm," she murmured as he took her toward the stream. "Isn't it winter in Bethmoora? Why is it so warm here?"

"It is always spring in the royal forest," Nuada said. At the stream, he drew off his tunic and shirt and dropped them to one of the larger boulders by the river to keep them dry. Yanked off his boots and socks and left them by his shirt. "Shoes off, mo duinne."

The idea was so startling she laughed. "What? Why?"

"I am going to teach you how to fish for your breakfast."

Knee-deep in the stream, his trews and her jeans rolled up to keep them dry, Nuada showed her how to tickle trout. She sat on a stone jutting out over the little creek, careful to keep her feet from disturbing the water. The feral-eyed warrior crouched over the smooth surface of the stream's shallows. One hand lay palm-up on the clean white sand at the bottom. Keeping almost completely still, firegold eyes watched a fish slowly fin its way out of the shadows of the water toward the prince. The only movement from the preternaturally still Elf was the almost-agonizingly slow wave of his fingers, which almost seemed to hypnotize the trout.

Dylan held her breath as the slick silver fish drifted until it hovered just above Nuada's pale fingers. The prince slanted her a glance from the corner of his eye. Smiled at the avid look on her face. Then, with a lightning-strike move and a splash, something silver jacknifed out of the water and hit the rocks with a wet _slap_. Dylan squeaked and scootched back a ways from the trout before realizing it wasn't about to splash its way back into the water.

"Whoa." Her eyes were shining when she looked from the fish to Nuada. "That was amazing. Where did you learn to do that?"

"The army," he said, forcing himself not to preen under her praise. "Now hop off that rock, roll up your sleeves, and come over here so I can teach you how to do this."

Cool eddies swirled around her bare ankles and the sun warmed her back through her green tunic. Warmer than the sun, more tantalizing than the currents of the brook they currently stood in, were Nuada's hands on her body, gently and carefully positioning her over the water. He kept one hand at her waist in case she lost her balance. The other slid along the smooth flesh of her arm, guiding her hand beneath the calm surface of the stream and laying it on the soft sand.

"Do not tense up," he murmured in her ear. His breath was hot against her skin and she had to fight to stay relaxed. "Do not move too swiftly or you will scare the fish. You must be patient." His thumb brushed against the pulse at her wrist. Her heart rate jumped a mile. As if he didn't notice, Nuada said, "Now wait."

In the end, Dylan actually managed to catch a fish. Nuada caught four others, which made her feel rather pathetic, but he informed her that he'd been just as unskilled when first learning the trick of it. That little tidbit and a fleeting brush of lips against her temple helped a lot. Nuada cleaned the fish and Dylan surprised him by knowing how to build a fire. As the fish cooked, the mortal asked, "So, why go to all this trouble? What's going on?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, why take me out to this place that seems to be a bit exclusive, get me something awesome for breakfast instead of just buying something, and doing whatever other awesome and exciting things you've got planned today? This is amazing. Why do this for me?"

_Because I want to spend a day with you, without anyone to interfere. Just one day where things can be simple between us. Because there is something I want to give you before we go back to Faerie, something to make up for everything you have suffered and will suffer for me. Because I love you._

But all he said was, "If not for you, then who?"

"Cheater," she cried in mock-outrage. "That's not an answer."

"Well, my fair lady, it's all the answer you are going to get right now," he replied, grinning. "The food's ready."

She dazzled him with her smile.

**.**

"Now?" Minute dapples of sunlight slithered over iridescent scales as the group of dipsa watched the Elf prince and mortal woman from the forest undergrowth. A black tongue flicked out to taste the air. Along with all the scents of the royal forest, there was the taste of happiness and contentment wafting on the air from the oblivious pair camped out on the banks of the stream. The assembled snake fayre were revolted. "Can we attack _now?_"

"Not yet," the leader of the lethal snakes hissed in the sub-audible language of the serpentine fae. "He iss sstill on the alert. Do you not ssee how he occassionally sscanss the meadow and the woodss, ssearching for enemiess? If he sseess uss before we are closse enough, we will not have time to get to the human."

The others slunk down deeper into the bracken. They did not dare risk shifting into their snake-form yet, and hiding out amidst the ferns and pine needles of the forest floor was uncomfortable in their more humanoid shape. But once in serpent form, they would only be able to focus on their goal - sinking swiftly lethal fangs into the human's body (and if threatened, the prince's). Deep into a vein where the poison would spread with the pumping of the human's empty heart. She would be dead before her pathetic mortal mind even registered that she'd been bitten.

"Well, when then?" Another fae-serpent demanded. This was one of the new ones that had arrived after the silver-eyed Elf, the liason between the assassins and their employer, had left the woods. Five dipsa were dangerous, but it wasn't a guaranteed success against Nuada Silverlance. Several other snakes had slithered into the woods to join their cold-blooded fellows throughout the day. "Just ssitting here iss boring. And the otherss have probably already sstaked out their targetss and disspatched them!"

Their leader bared delicate, pearlescent fangs in warning, and the mutinous dipsa subsided. "Ssoon enough," he hissed when his fellows had finally gotten quiet. "We will sstrike ssoon enough. When the prince iss no longer paying ssuch sstrick attention. Now be ssilent."

**.**

Over the course of the day, Nuada showed Dylan many of the wonders of a wild forest: a tiny flock of demi-fey sipping nectar from trumpeting morning glory, their gently-fanning gossamer wings a blur of iridescent colors; the mother fox and her kits that crept through the tall grass of the meadow; tiny schools of silver minnows darting through the water. He pointed out wild Irish roses and showed her a wild cherry tree veiled in ivory bloom. Taught her to recognize the beautiful whistling cry of a bird called a plover. Allowed her to meet a band of otters playing in a nearby pool - otters who turned out to be water fae in disguise, who were quite happy to splash around with a mortal two-legger. He even showed her how to coax a bluejay from its nest, though she wisely didn't try to touch the bright blue feathers. Birds didn't mind Elven smells, but human smells were something else entirely.

The midday meal consisted of a lot of different fruit that grew in the woods. She loved pretty much all of it, even though she didn't know what most of it was. Her favorite part, however, was when Nuada cracked open a pomegranate and tossed her half. Her favorite fruit of all time was a pomegranate seed.

She was only on the sixth seed when she noticed feral eyes watching her. "What?"

"You remind me of her," he said suddenly. His voice was soft, almost far away, and there was an odd look in his eyes.

Dylan blinked. "Who?"

"Persephone," he murmured. "Goddess of spring. You're in blue jeans in the middle of a fey forest - wearing one of my shirts, I might add - and you sit there, looking so regal even though your feet are covered in dirt, and you just... remind me. Why can't all of your people be as you are?"

"There are better people out there than me, Nuada. You just haven't found them yet. And the ones who are worse serve an important purpose - to teach the rest of the world compassion and help us find strength." Then she grinned. "Besides, just think how boring the world would be if everyone was the same," she said, and popped in another seed.

**.**

After the meal, the Elven warrior took most of the rest of the day to teach her the basics of self-defense, both in hand-to-hand and with her dirk. His twin-dagger against her knife made them theoretically equal in a fight. In truth, every strike of silver on silver sent painful shockwaves up her arm. Nuada was even being gentle. Her hand was still half numb by the end of the lesson on blocking attacks. Offensive manuevers were easier. A knowledge of humanoid anatomy helped a lot.

"The blade goes here, right here, in between the ribs." His hands covered hers gently as he brought the dirk to his chest. "Move your hand, just a little, a flick of the wrist, and sever the aorta. Or push, a little harder through the visceral pericardium. Withdraw the blade and they will bleed out in-"

"Seconds," Dylan finished, voice barely above a whisper, hands steady where once they trembled. What Nuada wasn't saying, but what they both knew, was that if she were to have a chance to actually use her blade, it would have to be with the element of surprise. She was quick for a human, yes. But Elves were faster than she could ever hope to be. It was more luck than anything that had enabled her to get in a few good slashes at the _rougarou_ intent on hurting 'Sa'ti. Dylan had a feeling that the inherent fragility to her mortal state worried Nuada more than he let on to her.

"Be careful to avoid the sternum," the Elven warrior added. If he'd heard or guessed his lady's thoughts, he didn't let on. "The cartilage at the tip is tricky. Get your blade caught there, you will not have it long, and it won't drop your enemy or even seriously wound him. Since you're a bit smaller than those you'd be fighting against, always strike underhanded."

Then he plucked the dirk from her hand and tested the balance and weight for a moment before slipping it into the sheath at her waist. "Remind me when we return to Findias to make you a twin-dagger, like mine. There will be times you will not be able to go openly armed. You'll want something small and easily hidden." He showed her the more slender blade. "There is no crossguard, so you must be careful not to cut yourself."

Nuada slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close. Dylan found herself momentarily distracted by the sun-warmed bare skin of his chest, since he hadn't put his shirt back on yet. Up close, in the bright spring sunshine, she saw that the smooth moony color she'd always taken for granted was speckled in places by what looked like tiny spots of soft tawny and pale gray, almost like...

"Are those freckles on your shoulders?" A delighted grin unfurled across her face. "How did I not notice those before? You have freckles."

"I-" He broke off when Dylan reached up to touch one of the marks on his shoulder. The pad of her finger alighted on Nuada's skin, delicate as the touch of a butterfly wing, warm as a kiss of sunlight. He wanted to follow the path of her fingertip with his eyes, but that would mean looking away from the entranced and entrancing gaze that currently held him captive. The prince felt himself falling into that impossibly beautiful blue while Dylan's touch sent tiny sparks humming under his skin.

"That is just... so neat," she murmured, oblivious to the effect she was having on him. A gentle flick of her finger across his skin had him sucking in a sharp breath. Dylan was so absorbed in her perusal that she didn't even notice. She was entranced by the warmth of his skin under her fingertip. "I'd never noticed before. You have freckles; that's so cute."

_Cute._ Did she have any idea what a blow that was to his ego? The Elven warrior cleared his throat and ordered in what he hoped was a stern voice, "Pay attention."

"Oh!" She jerked her fingers back. "Sorry. Focusing now."

"Thank you. _Anyway_... what you did the night Eamonn came to the cottage was very clever, Dylan." He pretended not to see the shadows flicker behind her eyes. "If such a thing ever happens again, you have to make sure you can get to your knife or your enemy's. At this angle, drive the blade upwards," and he pressed two fingers up into a point to the left of her spine, right over her kidney. It didn't hurt, but she knew if he pushed much harder it would start to. "Drive the knife in, right here, and he'll drop without a sound. The shock will bring him down instantly."

There were also a few tricks to be learned with the pommel of the dirk, how to break an opponent's nose or breastbone with the cairngorm storm and drive the bone fragments into either brain or heart. Nuada briefly entertained the notion of teaching her a few hilt-taps to knock unconscious rather than to kill. Dismissed it. Giving her that option at this point would have been unwise. So he merely focused on the easiest means of defending herself with both blades.

When they moved onto hand-to-hand, he taught her a few basic joint-locks and several ways to break a man's grip. "Best place to aim for when breaking a man's grip is a _hyeol_, a pressure-point." He took her hand and pressed her thumb just beneath his Adam's apple. "Push down and force someone to the ground. Push in, and collapse the windpipe."

After that the Elven warrior showed the mortal how to deaden a man's arm by digging her fingers into the pressure-point between the biceps, and how to numb a hand and force open a tight grip using the weak spot in the wrist and on the hand where thumb and forefinger bones joined. Dylan was already a mistress of scratching and biting, but he made sure she knew the best ways to use those skills. Human defense classes had taught her palm-strikes to the face and other vulnerable spots. Finally, he taught her how to land a decent kick.

"You have long legs," the warrior informed her. "You should use them."

"Kicking things makes my knee hurt," Dylan told him flatly. "Whenever I kick stuff I usually fall down." And she realized suddenly that she'd forgotten to take her medicine that morning, though Becan had been kind enough to pack it. Ah, well. As long as she didn't push herself too hard, her leg would be fine.

Nuada sighed and put his hands on her hips. "Put your bad leg forward," he commanded. As she slid her foot toward him, he felt the way her muscles flexed under his palms. He laid a hand lightly on the outside of her thigh. Slight pressure stopped her from putting the foot too far forward. "Leave your weight on your good leg. You are less likely to fall." Dylan obediently shifted her weight. "How high can you kick comfortably?"

Nuada's hands were heavy and warm, even through the fabric of her jeans. Firm and gentle as he helped position her body. "How high do you want me to kick?"

They locked eyes, mischievous blue and firegold. "Do _not_ kick me there." She grinned. His own mouth twitched a little. "Show me your range; move slowly."

Carefully, she pivoted and brought up her foot so her heel connected with his hip. He immediately grabbed her ankle. She squeaked and tried to jerk her foot out of his grip, and nearly fell. He shifted her foot up so that her heel pressed against his lower ribs. She windmilled, struggling not to fall. "Nuada!"

"Balance," he ordered without pity. "Stop flailing and balance. Straighten out your leg." When she finally managed to stand there, precariously balanced in front of the prince, Nuada said, "You made mistakes. You projected the blow. I could have dodged it easily. When you kick someone, connect with this part of your foot." He ran the tip of his finger from her scarred heel, along the delicate arch, to the ball of her foot. A shiver ghosted down her spine. "The whole thing. You can hurt yourself the other way, especially against an Elf or another strong fae."

The Elven warrior released her ankle and she finally regained true balance. "Okay. So how do I kick so I don't fall down or hurt myself? And what am I aiming for?"

**.**

Nuada made her practice everything for the next few hours until she actually managed to escape his grip thrice. The first time was sheer luck. The second, she surprised him by slamming her heel viciously into his thigh before digging it in deep. A ball of white-hot fire ripped bone deep. Nauseating waves of pain raked through Nuada's leg from knee to hip and he let her go mostly out of sheer surprise. She promptly planted her elbow in his solar plexus twice, driving the wind out of him.

Dylan blushed when the Elf prince snarled something uncomplimentary in savage undertones, but she knew he wasn't talking to her. It took him a moment to get his breath back. Finally he managed to wheeze, "What did you do?"

"Traumatized your saphenous nerve," she explained, crouching in front of him. She laid a gentle hand on his thigh. Probed the pain-tightened thigh muscles with deft fingers. Nuada's breath hissed between his teeth. "Learned about it in med school. It's right..." She probed his thigh. "_There_." Dylan pressed the ball of her thumb into the spot and the Elf prince grunted at the sudden stab of pain. "Hurts like blue fire, huh? Hit it in just the right spot and you can take down a full-grown man. Well, a full-grown human. I'm surprised you haven't heard that. It's hard to do, though. That was a lucky shot for me. The last time I tried that, I did it wrong and it didn't work."

"You've tried this on someone else?" He demanded, wondering if he ought to feel proud that she'd incapacitated an attacker or sympathetic that she'd brutalized a sparring partner.

"Once," she said softly, pressing to loosen the muscles.

"Who was the lucky victim?"

After a long moment, she replied in a too-casual voice, "My ex-boyfriend." Her smile was a bit forced when she added, "Only that time I did it with my toes since we were face to face. I missed the nerve. Got his balls, though." Dylan flicked her eyes to Nuada's face for a moment before returning her gaze to what she was doing. "He wasn't as understanding as you are of the whole Law of Chastity thing."

Fury coiled like a vicious snake in his belly as he realized exactly what she meant. It took him a moment to calm himself enough that he could speak without snarling at her. "Did he... did he hurt you?"

"He tried," she said. "But I'm scary and fierce, remember? Always have been. So," she added with false cheer. "Ready for more practice?"

The third and final time she managed to escape Nuada's grip, her blow actually caught him in the mouth.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked as the Elf prince spat a mouthful of amber blood on the grass. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Dylan reached up and tentatively touched the cut on his bottom lip. "Sorry."

He smiled at her, wincing a little when his lip stung. "Don't be. It was well-done." He swiped at the tiny trickle of blood running down his chin. "And, as you sometimes say, third time's the charm. You broke my hold three times; _very_ well done. I'm proud of you. Are you tired?"

"My leg's threatening to give out, actually," she mumbled, feeling her weak knee trembling a little. Nuada helped her sit down on the grass against one of the large upright stones and offered her a drink from the waterskin, which she gratefully accepted. "You know I'm not going to be able to remember all of this," she said when her throat no longer felt like it was coated in grit. "Are all my self-defense lessons going to be this difficult?"

"That's what practice is for. And this was not difficult, my lady," Nuada informed her. "Life in the army was worse, I assure you. Even for a prince." At her inquiring look, he added, "Blistering heat in summer, frigid cold in winter. Carrying gear that weighs nearly as much as you do. Military drills when all you want to do is sleep. Day after day on horseback." His voice grew soft and strangely empty when he added almost in a whisper, "Trying to run ahead of pain and misery and loss, but always two steps behind. A life of endless marching to battles that choked the world with blood and grief, battles that never saved anything, but only wasted lives."

He trailed off and did not speak for a long moment. Dylan hesitantly reached out and brushed her fingertips over his wrist. "Nuada. Hey. Come back to me."

Nuada shook himself, shoving down the memories of the final war against the children of men. "Forgive me. Sometimes the memories... well. It matters little." The smile he offered her did not reach his eyes. "Forgive me for neglecting you, mo mhuire. Lean back and I'll see to your leg."

"You don't have to-" She broke off when he leveled a look at her. "Never mind."

While she reclined against one of the large moss-covered boulders on the river's bank, Nuada massaged away the pain in her bad knee. As his fingers kneaded and pressed and soothing magic eased the pain, Dylan leaned her head back to let the sun warm her face. The Elf prince's fingers were firm but gentle as they massaged the pain away. Every so often the heel of his palm would brush against her knee, sending pinpricks of electric warmth dancing beneath the skin. She could feel the shadows moving over her skin when Nuada shifted position, his broad shoulders blocking the sun and allowing a coolness to slide along her legs.

"So," she murmured after a few moments of silence. "If you want to tell me... when were you in the army?"

"A very long time ago," he said softly. Memories of bloodshed and battle tried to take him, but he focused instead on the smells of the forest and the warmth of Dylan's skin under his hands, the worn roughness of the rolled-up denim when his fingers brushed against the cuffed jeans. "Before my exile."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"In a moment. Bend your knee." She did as he ordered, and Nuada asked, "How does that feel?"

"Lovely," she replied, smiling. "Doesn't hurt at all. Thank you."

He moved to sit beside her. The smooth expanse of stone was pleasantly warm against his back. The stream gurgled happily on the other side of the rock. Dylan laid her cheek against his shoulder, and without thinking Nuada laid his own cheek against the top of her head. She melted against him, as limp and cuddly as a sleepy kitten. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair for a moment. Inhaled the scent of her shampoo, honeysuckle and primroses.

Everything was so simple just then. The warmth of her pressed to him, the silken slide of her shirtsleeve along his arm, her hair tumbling against his shoulder and lightly tickling his neck. So simple. So easy. Why could it not stay this way?

"You had a question, milady?" He asked to shove away the insidious yearning trying to take root in his chest.

She scootched a little closer. "Why did your father send you into exile?"

Dylan knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that asking them had been a mistake. Nuada stiffened, tensing so much she wondered that he didn't snap. He stopped nuzzling her hair and pulled back without saying anything. After a long and tense silence, she said tentatively, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I was just wondering. And you always talk about 'before my exile' and 'after my exile' so I just... just wondered..." There was something awful in his eyes now, and a cold fist squeezed her heart when she realized she'd been the one to put it there. "Nuada, I'm sorry."

The prince looked away. "Do not be sorry. It is a logical question." He did not mean to answer it, but then she laid her fingers across his. A subtle touch that demanded nothing. A silent apology. It amazed him, how much she could convey with a single touch of her hand. He could feel her heartbeat through her fingers. Feel the hum of her blood beneath her skin. Nuada focused on that, instead of the sudden gnawing biting pain in his chest. No. No, not here. That grief had no place here.

"My father did not send me into exile," he confessed. To Dylan's eyes, the words almost seemed to strike him like blows. "I chose to go."

Gentle fingers touched his jaw, and a soft inexorable pressure turned his face toward her so that he had no choice but to look into her eyes. "He didn't try to stop you," she murmured. "Something happened, and it broke your heart. You would never leave your people and your family for something that wasn't extremely important. It broke your heart and he didn't even try..." The look in those firegold eyes, bleak as endless winter, made her own eyes sting. She brushed a caress across his cheek. What could she do? What could she say, to get that terrible look out of his eyes? Gently, she asked, "What happened?"

He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her everything. How the Master of the Sigri, the Bethmooran clan of goblin blacksmiths, had come to Balor with the idea of an unstoppable weapon. An army of golden clockwork soldiers without mercy or weakness. Seventy-times-seventy soldiers. Seventy-times-seventy still-bleeding scars on his heart, seventy-times-seventy unforgiveable sins on his soul. But desperation had driven him to urge his father to accept the burden of commanding the Golden Army. Would Dylan understand that he'd had no choice? Would she understand that he had no choice now? Not if his people were to survive much longer. Or would his lady, his love, withdraw from him when she learned just why his father and sister called him a monster?

"Let it be, Dylan," he whispered, unable to meet her eyes any longer. "It doesn't matter now."

She took his hand and brought it to her lips. He was always kissing her hand; it was about time, she decided, to return the favor. Then she pressed his palm against her cheek and forced Nuada to meet her eyes once more.

"When something hurts you, Nuada, it will always matter to me. Always." Dylan turned her face into his hand, lightly nuzzling her cheek against the callused palm. "If you ever need... anything, I'm here. But you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. We'll do something else." Smiling a little, she asked, "Want to go swimming?"

"I'd like that, actually," he said, grateful to and for her. "Shall we?"

**.**

_Those idiots_, the lead dipsa grumbled silently, glaring at the assembled serpents. The afternoon heat had put them into a drowsy stupor. There weren't even anymore complaints about the reconnaissance taking too long. Just sleepy appreciation of the sun's warmth. At their core, the lethal snake fae were still cold-blooded reptiles. But had any of them _seen_ what the Silver Lance was trying to show the human? Not that the mortal was in any way a threat, but... maybe there was more to her than the serpents had originally thought. Or else why would the Elven warrior bother attempting to train her?

Well, it didn't matter. Or it mattered little enough. They had a mission - to rip out the mighty Silverlance's heart in every way possible. It seemed, from what their employer had told them, that the prince's heart held just enough space for a few very special people. The princess, of course. But killing her wouldn't hurt the prince. It would simply kill him.

But there were a few others that the prince loved. His mortal toy and her twin brother. The cave troll who served him as royal guard and vassal. And apparently, three ewah who now served the prince as well. A youth, a young boy, and a little girl. It seemed the prince had a whole new little family.

And it seemed as if, by dawn tomorrow, he was going to lose it.

**.**

Stretched out on a large flat-topped stone by the stream, trying to dry her sopping wet clothes in the sun, Dylan lazily kicked her feet in the water and ran her fingers over the soft blades of grass where Nuada sprawled with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. Dylan watched the even rise and fall of his chest with each breath. Watched the way the sun glinted on the drops of water still clinging to his skin. Smiled when a butterfly dropped down to the prince's nose for a moment, fanned its brilliantly amber wings, and then took off when it realized its perch was not a tasty flower.

Swimming had involved Nuada cutting through the water with all the grace of a swan and her watching him from a safe perch on one of the boulders until he'd yanked her into the water. Both adults had promptly shucked the bonds of being grown-up and engaged in a splashing war. She'd even gotten him to play a couple of games of Marco Polo with her. Of course the human lost to superior Elven senses. He had even taught her how to float, which she'd never learned to do.

Now Dylan smiled at the memory and watched Nuada lounging, his trousers still rolled up to his knees. It seemed like all traces of the conversation about his father had vanished like night mist in the morning sun. She certainly wasn't going to bring the subject up again. At least not while they were supposed to be enjoying themselves. Instead she focused on studying a part of Nuada's body that she had never really paid attention to before - his calves.

She'd seen him naked before - though she could never think of those rare times in the underground sanctuary without blushing furiously, and so tried not to think of them at all if she could help it - but his most common mode of dress around her seemed to be in pants, minus a shirt. She'd never really gotten a chance to look at him in any other way, so she took the opportunity now.

He was so handsome, but not in the way people thought of the word now. Strong features, long limbs, with the well-defined muscles of a warrior. Scars. So many of them. Not as many as she had, of course. But then, Nuada was a warrior. Dylan was not. The things that attacked her had an easier time ripping her to pieces. Her scars were ugly, thick and thin, crisscrossing over each other in places, marring what would be somewhat decent skin if not for the rough marks. Nuada's scars were different - most of them long and slender as a knife blade, pale as rigid moonstone silk across his skin. Handsome. The marks of a warrior.

The Elven warrior bore a thick, somewhat ragged white scar that she'd never seen before, slicing across the calf muscle of his right leg. Dylan longed to trace it with her fingers as she had some of his other battle scars, but she wasn't sure the attention would be welcome at the moment. Wasn't sure it would be a good idea, even if Nuada _did_ welcome the touch. But she imagined it would feel just the way the one on his shoulder had - slightly raised, a path into his memory, into what had made him who he was now, and warm to her touch.

"What are you thinking about?" Nuada asked suddenly, breaking her thoughts like water on stone. The prince didn't open his eyes. "You're so quiet over there."

She smiled somewhat shyly, a little embarrassed when she confessed, "You."

Dark lips quirked into a smile. One honey-gold eye opened to regard her with affection. "You do wonders for my ego, mo duinne."

Dylan laughed. "As if your ego needs any help from me," she retorted, sliding off the large stone to sit in the grass so she could be a bit closer to him. The golden light of late afternoon glinted off the Elf's tawny eyelashes and the light dusting of hair on his chest. She realized she'd never paid much attention to Nuada's eyelashes before. Like on most men, they were much longer than hers, thick and golden against the darkness that stained the skin around his eyes. His brows were the same pale gold, arching over the deep-set eyes.

_Why am I suddenly so hyper-aware of him?_ Dylan wondered when she found herself wishing she could reach out and trace his features. _It's almost like... like I've never seen him before. What is it about this place that makes him look so different?_

Trying to distract herself from the prince's looks, she asked, "Nuada, would you... would you tell me a story?"

Now both eyes opened to regard her for a moment. "A story?" He echoed. She nodded. "Any one in particular?" When Dylan shook her head, Nuada pursed his lips in thought. "Hmm. Do you know the tale of the _each uisge_ of Loch Garve?"

"Nope," she said, stretching out on her stomach on the grass and propping her chin on both fists. "Tell me that one. Please?"

He smiled at her, and Dylan was reminded that most of Nuada's smiles didn't quite reach his eyes or dispel the sorrow and anger that always seemed to smolder there. This one did, though. It filled her veins with warmth like liquid gold and made something soft fizz in her stomach. "All right, then," he said. "Nuair a bhí..."

_Once there was..._

Nuada tried not to look at Dylan as he spun a tale his mother had often read to him and his sister. A tale of the _each uisge_, or water-horse, of Loch Garve and how he had taken a beautiful mortal maiden as his wife. As a child, he'd thought the tale ridiculous. It had been a love story, after all. After his mother's death, he'd found it revolting. A fae and a human? Yet here he was, relaying the old Scottish myth to his own mortal lady. So he told her of how the water-horse's lady had grown sad and wan in the cold underwater home of the faerie lord and longed for just a bit of warmth. Because he loved her, the _each uisge_ found a fayre mason who built him a chimney beneath the water to keep his house warm.

"And that is why," Nuada said, smiling at Dylan's obvious delight in the simple story, "the waters of Loch Garve never freeze completely, even in the deepest and coldest winter, for to this day the water-horse's chimney keeps the waters of the loch warm for his truelove."

"I like that," she said, rolling onto her back and pillowing her head on her arms. The drowsy warmth of the late afternoon and the exertions of the day, combined with the rich timbre of Nuada's voice, were making her a little sleepy. "That's sweet. I like love stories. Please tell me another one."

"Greedy," Nuada teased her.

She shrugged. "I like hearing you talk," his lady confessed. "And you tell wonderful stories, and you tell them so well. Please?"

"Very well," he said. "Do you know the story of the maiden and the selkie?"

Her smile bloomed. "Nope."

"Well, then, once there was..."

The Elf prince told her the story of the human maiden who wed a selkie lord and became a seal maiden so they could be together in the underwater kingdom of the seal-fae; of the golden-furred zlatarog, a faerie stag, and his mortal sister who married an Elf prince after defeating an evil witch; of Hans the grovelhog and the magic of his prickles, which hurt everyone but the woman he loved (this had always been Nuala's favorite story); and even a tale about a beautiful mortal woman in a rabbit-skin dress who fell in love and married a faerie prince after proving she was the maiden he had seen in his dreams.

"You tell wonderful stories," Dylan murmured at the end of the last tale. Her voice slurred with tiredness, but there was a smile beneath her words. "I bet you could be a bard or something."

"I'm not so good as all that, sweetheart," he said, trying not to preen. How was it that the simplest praise from her could make him feel as if he'd accomplished something spectacular? "The tales are from the book I gave you; I memorized them long ago. But you're falling asleep. We should get back to the carriage."

"Not yet," she mumbled. "It's so nice here..." She trailed off as a strange, suddenly icy feeling slipped down her spine, wrenching her back to complete awareness. Her eyes had been closed, but she snapped them open now. Blinked at the light of the sun balancing atop the trees surrounding the meadow. Why did she suddenly feel so cold? A shiver traipsed along her backbone and she sat up.

Nuada propped himself up on his elbow. "Dylan? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," the mortal whispered, shoving at her hair with one hand. "I... I'm not sure. I've just suddenly got this... this..." She paused. Tried to process exactly what she was feeling. A chill whisper of warning coiled in her chest. "Something's wrong. I don't know what, but something's wrong." Frowning, she met Nuada's eyes. Her tone held a wealth of apology when she said, "I'm sorry, I think... I think maybe we _should_ leave."

The prince began to sit up. "Of course, if that's what you- _Dylan, don't move!_"

She'd already frozen at the first touch of something cool and smooth and dust-dry against her foot. Swallowing against the sudden lump of screaming terror in her throat that threatened to strangle her, Dylan looked down into the emotionless slitted eyes of the opalescent snake slithering along her ankle. The triangular head slid along her skin, the scales smooth as polished bone. A whip-thin black tongue flicked out to taste the air. The tongue just brushed her calf, leaving a stinging cold burning along one of her scars. Her heart slammed against her ribs hard enough to bruise. Struggling to breathe evenly, she whispered, "Nuada."

"Do not move," he whispered. Slowly, so slowly that at first she wasn't even sure he was moving, his fingers went to the lance in the grass at his side. "Hold very still." The Elven warrior tasted acrid terror on the back of his tongue as he watched the dipsa serpent slowly sliding along Dylan's leg. If it bit her... if its fangs so much as nicked her skin, that close to the long vein in her leg... she would die before she even realized she'd been bitten. Ice-cold sweat dampened Nuada's palms as he slowly wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his lance.

A flicker of movement caught Dylan's eye. Her breathing hitched. The snake hissed at her with its frigid tongue again. She whispered, "Nuada, I think... I think there are more." She swallowed, nearly choking on her heart pounding in her throat. "Something's moving in the grass."

"Just hold still," he commanded through gritted teeth. The haft of the lance slowly extended a few inches with a whisper of leather sliding against Nuada's skin. "No sudden moves."

The snake's head seemed to almost split in two as the dark seam of its mouth cracked open, widening and widening as its fangs extended from the gums, glistening with venom. A drop hit the grass. A wisp of smoke puffed up from the ground. Dylan whispered, "_Nuada._"

"Hold perfectly still," the Elven warrior said, and lunged.

The snake darted forward, fangs fully extended.

A _shunk_ as Elven silver sliced through the sinewy body and spine made Dylan jerk back despite Nuada's command to be still. A deft flick of the prince's wrist turned the lance-blade, so that the flat of the blade caught the severed snake head and flicked it away from the mortal's exposed flesh. She gasped as another ribbon of iridescent scales lunged out of the grass in a lightning-strike. Mid-leap, the creature shifted into humanoid form and bared poisonous claws. A second, third, and fourth human-shaped dipsa serpent both lunged for the prince as well. Sunlight glanced off the venom-slicked claws.

Dylan tried to cry out a warning, but only managed a squeak as she choked on the thundering of her heart in her throat. She scrambled to her feet and drew her dirk as another dipsa lunged for her. One thought crystallized in her mind as the snake-fae bared its fangs. _If it bites me, I'm dead._ Then she ducked to the side the way Nuada had shown her. Stumbled when she put her weight on her bad leg, still shaky from the self-defense lesson.

That stumble saved Dylan's life. As the dipsa lurched past her, she struck out wildly with the dirk. The blade slashed a deep gouge in the dipsa's scaled torso. Pain caused it to stumble a few feet past her. Gritting her teeth against her own pain, she lashed out and kicked the diminutive poisonous fae, planting her foot high on its body where the spine met the base of the skull. It jerked forward and fell to the grass while the mortal staggered backwards, darts of fire biting into her bad leg and racing through her thigh from the abused hamstring.

_Oh, that hurts,_ she thought as her legs threatened to buckle. _Don't fall,_ she ordered herself, even as she sank to one knee. Dizziness from the sudden pain in her already-abused leg made her head swim. The grip on her dirk made her fingers ache. _Get up, get up, get up._

A spike of ice through her chest had her lunging to her feet and swallowing a scream as black waves of pain raced through her leg when it twisted awkwardly under her. She narrowly missed another serpent faerie snaking forward to sink fang into her shoulder. She flinched and whipped the dirk up without thinking in a completely graceless maneuver. The reptilian fae's own weight drove the point of the blade into its throat. Its open mouth barely missed closing around her arm. Icy, milky-white blood gushed over her hand, leaving her grip on the dirk slippery. Dylan barely managed to hold onto it when the snake fell, almost dragging the knife out of her hand.

Nuada blocked and then beheaded the first pair of the four dipsa serpents trying for him. The third darted in low. The prince leapt over the short fae, planting a foot square in the center of the spine and driving the serpent into the ground. A quick thrust of his lance pierced between the ribs to find the heart. Just before the fourth one could sink its teeth into the Elven warrior's calf - where the other dipsa serpent had bitten him more than a year ago - Nuada whipped down with the lance shaft, smashing the haft down hard on the snake's spine, breaking its neck. He finished it off by severing its head.

Dylan stumbled back from the snapping jaws of another dipsa and landed hard on the ground. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nuada's head jerk around to catch sight of her half-sprawled on the grass. He started toward her. More than half a dozen bone-white scaled fae lunged between the Elf and the mortal and then all of Dylan's attention was taken up by the dipsa snake scrambling toward her. She instinctively lashed out with her foot and caught the reptilian faerie in the chest. It staggered back, but the force of the blow sent waves of numbness crashing through her leg. The sickening pins-and-needles feeling stabbed deep, warring with the pain already smoldering under her skin.

She hauled herself up on the large boulders lining the stream. Tried to force trembling limbs to hold her weight as her hand shook so hard she nearly dropped her dirk. _Heavenly Father, help me,_ she prayed desperately as the pale faerie advanced on her again. _Help us._

Dodging a potentially lethal swipe of filthy claws aimed at his jugular, the Elven warrior ducked under the outstretched arm of his enemy and drove the briefly-shortened half-spear up into the exposed torso and into the cold heart. On the backswing he lengthened the spear, jamming the haft into the next enemy's sternum. Bone shattered, driving into the heart. A third fell under a decapitating lance stroke.

He didn't think about why there were so many of the reptilian assassins, or how they had found him. Didn't think about anything except dispatching one after the other until none remained standing, and the fact that Wink's presence would have been a _very_ big help just then.

And he thought of Dylan. Her name pounded through his skull in time with the blood and adrenaline pounding through his veins. Fear for her, acrid and chill and almost paralyzing, spread through his blood like poison. He couldn't get to her. Couldn't reach her. Didn't have time to try and catch a glimpse as another serpent leapt for him. But he'd seen her fall. Seen one of the enemy advancing on her. What if... what if...

_No,_ he snarled silently, lance-point driving deep into another dipsa's throat and ripping sideways. _No. Not her. No._ A pair of serpents went down in two splashy gouts of icy blood. _No. I'll not lose her. I will __**not**_. Another opponent separating him from Dylan went down with a shattered skull. _No!_

Her own fear kept Dylan's screams trapped in her throat. Pain pulsed through her body, and exhaustion. The air seared her lungs as she struggled to breathe and think and keep moving. Her hands were sticky with cold, white blood. Her fingers ached and her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Yet somehow, through the throttling terror and the breathless panic clawing at her insides, Dylan managed to find an odd stillness inside herself, a place beyond fatigue. Beyond any emotion except the sudden, burning anger smoldering in her chest. This was supposed to have been something special, something just for her and Nuada before things went to heck in a handbasket again. This was supposed to be something good. A time when Nuada could just relax and be safe and happy and not have to worry about anything. Especially someone trying to hurt him. This should have been something precious. And these snakes had _ruined_ it.

Was Nuada hurt? Had they hurt him? Bitten him? She remembered how very sick he had been, obvious to her even though he'd been trying to hide it, those first weeks in his underground sanctuary. Metal-poisoning had had a hand in it, but he'd also been bitten by a dipsa a few months before. If one of the serpents managed to sink their fangs into him, what would happen? Would it slow him down enough that he'd lose this battle?

Dylan didn't dare take her attention away from the fight long enough to look, but the sudden surge of fear and dark anger had her tightening her grip on the dirk's hilt. If they hurt him... if they even _scratched_ him...

The snake she'd kicked in the chest hissed and lunged forward. It tried to rake her with its claws, tried to grab her legs with its ice-cold hands. She felt its grip on her ankle. Felt the claws pressing against her skin, pressing and pressing, as if the thing were moving in slow-motion. Another second and those poisonous claws would break the skin. The venom was already burning her. Dylan twisted and slammed her fist, preceded by the pommel of her dirk, into the space between the dipsa's eyes. It made a strangled hissing noise as white blood suddenly gushed from its slitted nostrils. Its hands spasmed once before releasing her, and the snake fell to the ground.

Another - the one she'd kicked in the back of the head - rushed her, clearly furious that a mere human had managed to knock it unconscious even for a few brief moments.

_Thought I killed that stupid thing,_ Dylan surprised herself by thinking before instinct and panic took over and she was scrambling to scoot back from the enraged serpent fae. The line of boulders were sharp and slick with water the further along the bank she backed up. Her hands kept slipping, cutting small gouges in her palms. Tiny sparks of pain tingled up her arms in soft counterpoint to the heat smoldering over the skin on her calves and the fire searing her bad leg.

Dylan put her empty hand down wrong, slicing a deep cut from just under the pinkie to the ball of her thumb. The sudden sharp burning surprised her. Knocked her off-balance enough that she fell from her perch on the boulders to the grassy river bank in a flailing of limbs. The tip of the dirk sliced a long, shallow cut along the top of her thigh. Her face landed on several tiny stones. A handful of little cuts peppered her cheek with drops of blood.

The enraged serpent was on her in an instant, its weight crushing her chest and one hand pinning her left arm while its fangs darted toward her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut. Braced to feel frigid teeth ripping into her carotid. And in a last-ditch effort, she whipped her right hand up and tried to drive the dirk into the side of the dipsa's throat.

She missed, and the blade skittered across its cheekbone and slashed its face. The creature screeched and jerked away from her. It clapped a hand to its face, keening, and struggled through the pain to get back on its feet. Dylan took what was supposed to be a deep breath but felt more like a terrified gasp. Tightened her grip on the knife. Lunged forward. The weight of her body drove her knife between the ribs, and her fear and fury jerked it sideways, into the visceral pericardium. Into the reptilian heart. A short twisting motion pierced the aorta.

The dipsa jerked once. Arterial spray splashed Dylan's hands and shirt. The snake's hand shuddered and dropped from its bleeding face. The slitted eyes stared at her uncomprehendingly for a long moment. Then the faerie slumped to the ground, again almost taking her knife with it.

The final snake lunged for the prince, swiping with claws that could've ripped the Elven warrior open to the bone. The prince brought his lance slicing downward. Silver arced across the snake's neck. Milky blood flooded from the slice across the serpent's jugular and the poisonous serpent fell to its knees before dropping sideways into the grass.

It took Dylan several moments to realize there were no more dipsa in the meadow. No more enemies trying to kill her and Nuada. Gulping strangely frigid air that burned her throat, she slowly crawled backwards onto the river stone she'd fallen from moments before. Drew her knees up to her chest despite the nauseating pain in her bad knee and the burning fire ripping through her right arm and left hand. Stared at the dead dipsa serpents. Smears of ivory blood stained the lush green grass. Gleamed wetly on lance- and dirk-blade. Her own blood stained her cut jeans, the bandage on her arm, her face.

Nuada stood, breathing heavily, a few feet away. Sweat plastered strands of silvery-blond hair to his neck and back. Milky blood spattered his bare chest. He held his lance in a grip so tight Dylan was vaguely surprised she didn't hear the haft creaking under the pressure. Firegold eyes scanned the meadow for anymore telltale movements, but there were none.

With a _shhhink_ing sound, the Silver Lance retracted to a half-spear again. Nuada carefully wiped the blade on his pants-leg before finally meeting her eyes. Dylan's mouth went bone-dry at the strange fire burning in the depths of his feral bronze gaze. He stared at her for a very long moment. The meadow was unnaturally quiet, save for the harsh sound of the Elven warrior's breathing and the hammering of Dylan's own heart, thunderously loud in her ears.

"Are you hurt?" Nuada finally bit out, his voice almost a growl.

"I... I j-j-just cut myself. I'm okay."

"Did any of them bite you?" He demanded. She shook her head. "You are certain? You're certain none of them bit or scratched you?" She nodded, unable to speak. Nuada's eyes slid closed and he drew a shuddering breath before nodding. "Good. Put your shoes on and grab your bag. We're leaving." Bitterly, he added, "Someone sent those serpents, which means it is not safe here anymore."

Sudden warmth flooded Dylan's chest, pushing back slightly at the trembling shock that tried to wrap her in its icy grip. "Actually... I think it is." At his look, she added, "That cold warning feeling I had is completely gone. I don't think whoever sent the snakes is going to try anything else today."

He cocked his head, studying her. She was right that the assassins' employer would most likely not send anyone else for a while. To be certain, Nuada cast out with his senses (as he should have done regularly the entire time they were there, he silently berated himself), searching for sentience in the woods. There was nothing that shouldn't have been there. Firegold eyes went back to Dylan's far-too-pale face. Noted the tiny cuts on one cheek. "You are awfully calm."

"It's just a few snakes," she muttered, pushing at her hair with a hand that shook. Both hands were still slicked with blood - her own, and the dipsas'. "I mean, they were obviously poisonous - I know a dipsa when I see one - so one bite could've killed me flatter than dead in a few seconds but, I mean, they're just snakes, right?" Her voice shook as well, and shivers suddenly began racking her body. "Never mind that your dad probably sent them. Did anyone else know we were going to be here? Because only people who knew we were gonna be here can go on our suspect list, which makes it pretty short, so I'm thinking the king might have wanted to... I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway. I can handle snakes, I mean... I just... I..."

She looked down almost helplessly at the blood-smeared blade of her dirk. At her bloodied hands and the spatter so stark white and red against the green of her shirt. Then she burst into tears.

Nuada went to her, gently prying her white-knuckled fingers from the knife's hilt. First he took her bloody hands and dipped them in the stream, cleaning away the blood and inspecting the wounds she'd incurred. She'd been right - no scratches or bites from the dipsa. Her hands were sliced and scraped badly, though. Condemning his discarded shirt to the rag-bag, he tore off a strip of the dark linen and used it to bind the deep wound across Dylan's palm. Another set of ragged strips bound the wound on her thigh.

Then he cleaned her dirk, giving Dylan time to try and regain her composure, before returning it to her. She sheathed it with a trembling hand and sniffled.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, scrubbing at her cheek with a fist. The tears fell freely down her cheeks to stain the collar of her shirt. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me. I was just so scared one of them would h-hurt you or... I don't know, _something._ I felt so stupid and useless. I couldn't h-help you. And darn it," she growled at herself through her tears, the words wobbling, "I will _not_ be hysterical about this. I'm going to stop _right now_." She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and willed herself to stop crying. Which did absolutely no good at all. The salt got into the scrapes on her palms and stung. She looked at her hands as if they'd betrayed her. "Ow." Then fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, and she covered her face again. "I'm sorry, this is pathetic, I'm sorry."

Nuada tugged her hands away from her face and forced her to look at him. "It is merely the let-down of adrenaline. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

Dylan looked away. "I don't see _you_ crying. You weren't even scared."

He gripped her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted her face up so she was forced to look at him. To her surprise, he looked almost angry.

"You think I was not?" Nuada demanded in a low, fierce whisper. "With those fangs so close to your skin, you think I was not afraid I was going to have to watch you die right before my eyes? Is that what you think? I was almost sick with fear," the Elven warrior confessed. "Even now I can still taste it, like cold iron on my tongue. For just a moment I thought you were going to die. I was... I..." To her surprise, Nuada had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. He rasped, "When I saw you fall, I... I did not think I would reach you in time. I thought you were going to die."

The prince wasn't sure what he expected as a result of his uplanned and unwilling confession. What he received was Dylan sliding her arms around his waist and burrowing against him, oblivious to the gore on her shirt and his skin, her face pressing into his shoulder and her own frail shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

"M'okay," she mumbled through the fresh tears. "M'okay. I'm sorry. We're okay. I'm sorry. That was really scary, I'm sorry." Her voice trembled when she whispered, "Nuada, someone sent them to kill us. Who would do that? Why would they do that? Someone tried to kill us."

Then, so softly he barely heard her, she whispered, voice nearly breaking, "Ní féidir liom stad chroitheadh. Tá mé chomh fuar. Nuada... Nuada, coinnigh dom, tabhair."

_I can't stop shaking. I'm so cold. Nuada... Nuada, hold me, please._

He hadn't been aware of waiting for permission, of being afraid to put his arms around her. Afraid she might shatter at his lightest touch. But her words unlocked something in him that allowed him to gather Dylan up in his arms and drag her onto his lap so he could hold her as close and as tightly as he dared. She pressed her face against the crook of his neck. Her tears coursed hotly down his back. Nuada tangled his fingers in her hair and held her against him.

"Tá sé ceart go leor," he murmured tenderly. He stroked her hair and kept repeating, "Tá sé ceart go leor. Ciúin, anois. Ciúin. Tá tú sábháilte. Tá tú sábháilte anois. Ná bíodh scanraithe. Tá dhéanamh ceart go léir, a ghrá. Tá dhéanamh sábháilte anois. Tá sé ceart go leor. Ann, anois. Tá gach rud ceart go léir." He pressed her ice-cold hands to the heat of his chest, cupping them in his own hand to warm them. She shivered uncontrollably in his arms. "Tá tú chomh fuar, mo cridh. Tá do lámha mar oighear. Anseo, ceadaigh dom an te tú. Tá sé ceart go leor. Tá sé ceart go leor, a ghrá. Tá mé anseo. Tá sé ceart go leor."

The soothing words murmured in her ear helped to push back the icy numbness that had taken hold of her, the almost hysterical terror. _It's all right,_ Nuada crooned so gently in Gaelic. _It's all right. Hush, now. Hush. You're safe. You're safe now. Don't be afraid._ Words and the soft stroke of his palm against her hair. She barely noticed his hand was shaking. _We're all right, my love. We're safe now. It's all right. There, now. Everything is all right._ It wasn't, she knew it wasn't, someone had tried to kill them, but the lullaby-timbre of his voice and the strength of his arms around her pushed back the mind-numbing fear and shock and helped her to slowly grow calmer. The heat of his body eased the bone-chilling cold locked inside of her. _You're so cold, my heart. Your hands are like ice. Here, let me warm you. It's all right. It's all right, my love. I'm here. It's all right._

It was a mistake to hold her this way when his blood was up and still pumping hard from the near-brush with death. A mistake to let his lips brush the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered soothing nonsense and forced down his own reaction to what had almost happened. He ached to hold her closer, tighter. To let the instinct of life against death take possession of him. To coax her to give into that same instinct. But Dylan was shaking in reaction to the fight, clinging to him as if she thought he would vanish on the wind. How could he do anything but simply comfort her?

"They ruined it," she whispered once, her words slightly muffled against his throat. "I'm sorry. They messed up everything. I'm sorry."

And Nuada realized that it wasn't just the ebbing adrenaline that had her so upset. It was that they had been alone in this place, far from the world and everything and everyone who meant them harm. This was supposed to be a brief haven, a safe place. They'd thought they _were_ safe.

And then this haven had been violated by the very things they'd come here to try and get away from for a while. Just another violation in a long line plaguing Dylan's life. The thought of that infuriated him. But he merely continued to murmur, "Ciúin, anois. Ciúin. Tá sé ceart go leor. Tá tú sábháilte. Ann, anois." _Hush, now. Hush. It's all right. You're safe. There, now._

Once he slipped his arms around her, the weeping didn't last long. Perhaps that had been all she'd needed. Merely his embrace. He pressed his lips to her temple and she grew quiet after a time. Finally she drew a shaking breath. "I'm okay. Really." She drew back and swiped at the tear-tracks on her face with one hand. "Sorry about that, I just-"

Nuada laid a finger against her lips before she could apologize again. "I would have been concerned if you had not reacted this way."

"I've never killed anyone before," she confessed. "I mean... I've seen people die, but I've never killed anyone or anything myself. Not anything. Well, a spider or something. But nothing like that. There was all this blood and I just... I don't know. It's different from just fighting."

"Yes, it is," he said gently. The first man he'd ever killed, Nuada had been a youth of maybe fifteen centuries, just barely enlisted in the army. He'd been sick after. Some of the veterans had made fun of him. Aso, who'd been in his company, had not. She'd known that taking a life _meant_ something. That killing nearly always left a scar on the soul, even when justified. So did Dylan, it seemed. It was no wonder she was shaking still. He'd have been surprised if she'd reacted any other way after slaying three opponents in the space of less than ten minutes. "It _is_ different."

"You're okay, though," Dylan murmured after a moment. "Right?" The mortal gazed up at him, scanning his features. "You're not hurt, right?"

"No, sweetheart. I am not hurt. I'm fine."

She nodded slowly and sniffled a final time. "Okay, then. I'm okay. Everything's okay." She drew a deep breath. Let it out slowly. "Okay. Let's go."

Before they could leave the meadow, however, the Elf prince had to soothe the pain in Dylan's knee enough that she could walk. Once they reached the carriage, he could do something for the actual source of the pain.

Another set of shakes hit Dylan hard once they made it back to the carriage. Instead of staying in the main room with the bench seats, Nuada led her down the ensorcelled corridor into what looked like a small private dining room. Amber faerie lights warmed the room like candlelight. A cozy little table and pair of chairs looked inviting, but not as inviting as the little loveseat near a white stone fireplace. A fire crackled in the small hearth. Dylan found herself entranced by the dancing flames.

Magic could do so many impossible things, she thought dazedly, then blinked, realizing she was still in shock. Her mental status seemed to be ping-ponging between a dreamy haze and hideous nausea every time she caught sight of the smears of blood caked on her shirt and jeans. Reminded of the fight, Dylan swallowed hard.

"I..." Dylan trailed off as a swift chill sent dizziness spiraling through her brain. "I'm gonna go change real quick. Okay?"

The Elf prince inclined his head. "As you wish."

In the bathroom, she set her overnight bag down on the counter and took a moment to splash cold water on her face. The shocking iciness of the water helped clear away the dreamy fog. Drawing a deep breath, Dylan took stock of the situation.

Someone had sent lethal serpent assassins to kill her and Nuada. Someone who knew they'd be in the royal forest today. That meant their list of suspects was fairly short. Though Nuada had dispatched most of the snakes - it still stunned her that she'd accounted for three of them - it didn't change the fact that _someone had tried to kill them._

Dylan forced herself to ignore that horrifying fact in order to assess the damage to her own body from the toes up.

Because she'd kicked two of the dipsa with her bare foot, she had some scrapes from the scales and more scrapes and some bruises from the river rocks. Different places on her lower legs were slightly red and tender to the touch from the dipsas' poison, but nothing worse than that. She'd been lucky. Any more exposure to the venom could've resulted in first- or second-degree burns. There were also some scratches from thorns, incurred during the hasty walk back to the carriage. Her knee ached. It was also no doubt swollen. Her thigh bore a long, irregular - but thankfully not very deep - cut from her own clumsiness. The back of her right leg ached from the strain of kicking the first dipsa so high, but that would fade in a few hours.

Dozens of tiny cuts covered her palms and the sides of her hands, which had only just recovered - with a little help from Wink's troll potions - from the ice-scrapes from her midnight run through the Park a few nights ago. A deep cut on her left palm throbbed. When she unwrapped Nuada's makeshift bandage and cleaned the wound under the water, it began to bleed afresh. She sincerely hoped it wouldn't need stitches. A small slice on the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand would likely scar as well; she'd cut herself on the dirk blade again, and that bled beneath the running water. The half-healed tears in her right forearm throbbed beneath the bandage.

What looked the worst, she was fairly sure, besides the wide cut on her palm, was the sprinkling of tiny gouges dusting the flesh over her left cheekbone like a spritzing of obscene freckles. Blooming bruises painted various parts of her body in pastel blues that would soon darken. Every muscle ached dully from fighting practice and the battle itself. Most of the lacerations wouldn't scar, thankfully, but the two on her hand and the one on her thigh might. Ah, well. It could've been much worse. She knew that.

But her hands still shook as she unwrapped the bandage around her forearm to make sure she hadn't pulled any stitches. The shakes didn't dissipate until she filled the deep marble sink with cold water and dunked her head in it. Then she felt better.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So holy crow! Someone tried to kill them! And it's_ NOT _a new person. It's someone who's been introduced already. I promise I'm not bringing in any new villains. We've got enough. But yeah, someone tried to kill Dylan (and since Nuada got in the way, him too). And ruined their lovely date! Grrrrr... Anyway, chapter 53 will be up on Saint Patrick's Day (this chapter is the chapter for March 1st, a little early because I wanted to reward everyone who's been so great with a little action and conflict and eekie-ness). So now, on to our review prompt!_

_1) Who do you think sent the dipsa after Nuada and Dylan?_

_2) What do you think is going to happen to John, Wink, and the kids?_

_3) 14 favorite things, funny or cute or sad or serious or interesting or romantic or dark, from the chapter, please?_

_4) How did I do on the fight? I've never written a scene where Dylan fought with a weapon before (other than pepper spray). I knew she wouldn't be all "Hi-ya! Take that!" but I'm hoping she didn't come across as either too gung-ho or too wimpy. As for Nuada... it's hard to write Nuada fighting, because I have to walk a fine line between not epic enough and too epic to be believed. So how did I do?_

_5) And how did I do on the aftermath of the fight? Is Dylan too hysterical? Not hysterical enough? Should Nuada have reacted differently after the fight was over? Or did I do okay?_

_Okay, everybody, I love you, bye-bye!_

_._

_**List of Challenge Entries So Far:**_

All Good Fairy Tales - WhenNightmaresWalked  
And Twice Beneath a Space - OceanFire9  
Caves and Rivers - OceanFire9  
Chapter 21 Alternate Ending - WhenNightmaresWalked*  
Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams - WhenNightmaresWalked  
I Do, I Promise I Do - WhenNightmaresWalked  
In the Dark - xxyangxx2006  
Night Hunter - JasperIsAManlyMan  
On Death and Dante - Captain Zombie  
Seven Words - Captain Zombie*  
Word Prompts - JasperIsAManlyMan*  
Word Prompts - WhenNightmaresWalked*

* not online  
canon

_._

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Who remembers the dipsa serpents, who are mentioned in the early chapters of Dylan and Nuada in the underground sanctuary and in chapter 32?

- I got the idea of the carriage's bazillion rooms from the magical "coaches" in the _Dark Jewels Series_ by Anne Bishop. They have bedrooms and dining rooms and healing rooms and all kinds of neat things in there!

- For those who don't remember, demi-fey are miniature fey (like a demi-merrow is a merrow - human-sized water fae - that's about the size of a pencil). When someone says just "demi-fey," though, it means the typical fairy most people think of - tiny Barbie-doll-sized fae with gossamer wings (and really sharp teeth).

- The part of the self-defense lesson where Nuada teaches Dylan to sever the aorta/visceral pericardium was written by WhenNightmaresWalked for a word-prompt thingie. =D

- The pericardium is a double-walled sac that contains the heart and the roots of the great blood vessels. Puncture that and you'll probably die.

- The aorta is the major artery next to your heart.

- I learned in a few self-defense seminars when I was little that kicking for girls is optimal (unless you've got midget legs). The leg is one of the strongest parts of the body and you can do a lot of damage with it.

- The Sigri is the Bethmooran clan of goblic blacksmiths, according to the Nuada Trivia Page on Hidden Realms Entertainment's website.

- I might have read something about "seventy-times-seventy scars on his heart/sins on his soul," but if I did, I don't remember where! =( I hope I came up with that on my own. *nervous*

- The story of the water-horse of Loch Garve, I first read in the novel _Outlander_ by Diana Gabaldon.

- "The Maiden and the Selkie" is actually a song by Heather Dale (recommended to me by Lorelei, one of my awesome readers).

- "... of the golden-furred zlatarog, a faerie stag, and his sister who married an Elf prince after defeating an evil witch..." is an LA-modified, Fae-version of the faerie tale "the Golden Stag," found in Andrew Lang's _the Blue Fairy Book_.

- "... of Hans the grovelhog and the magic of his prickles, which hurt everyone but the woman he loved..." is actually a reference to the story "Hans My Hedgehog," which is found in _the Green Fairy Book_. The best version of this story is "Hans My Hedgehog," an episode of _Jim Henson's the Storyteller_.

- "... a tale about a beautiful mortal woman in a rabbit-skin dress who fell in love and married a faerie prince after proving she was the maiden he had seen in his dreams..." Vaguely inspired by the fairy-tale "The Princess That Wore a Rabbit Skin Dress," also found in _the Green Fairy Book_.


	53. A Glory of Unicorns

**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _This is the final third of this little mini date-arc. Because of everything going on, I_ had _to break it into thirds. So I hope you don't hate me. I love you all. So enjoy! Oh, and I was informed that Dylan seems to be somewhat... madonna-like (referring to the virginal sense, not the pop star) in her reactions to Nuada, whereas Nuada's in a state of constant sexual frustration? Well, that is definitely not what I want, so... yeah. Just keep that in mind._

_So this is for Saint Patrick's Day, even though it's 6 days early. Hope you enjoy. =)_

_**IMPORTANT:**_ _This chapter references events in chapter 4 of OceanFire9's HB fic, "Caves and Rivers."_

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**Chapter Fifty-Three**

**A Glory of Unicorns**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Tail, an Argument, a Tale, Starlit Wonders, Jealousies and Retributions, What Happened at the Cottage, and Scarlet on Snow**

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John glanced up at the rearview of his Mustang again. Okay, this time there was no mistake. The same black Porsche had been following him for the last ten or so blocks. He hadn't pulled any random U-turns or signaled left before wrenching the car right, because he didn't want the car tailing him to know he'd spotted them. But there was no mistaking the black sports car with the fuzzy red dice hanging in the windshield.

_Why the heck are they following me?_ The federal agent wondered as a cool whisper of unease slithered down his spine like a poisonous snake. Well, whatever the reason, he knew where to go to get away from them - Central Park. Dylan's cottage had a bunch of enchantments around it that kept away freaks of both supernatural and natural origin. He'd go to his twin's place and lay low for a few hours until the tail gave up and went off to harass someone else.

Turning from Eight Avenue to Central Park West, John aimed for one of the main entrances to the Park; the one near the little stone bridge where the redheaded flower-troll (or whatever it was) lived. The Porsche cut through the night behind him. Another shiver of unease, this one stronger and colder than the first, made his palms sweat.

Whatever. He'd be safe at Dylan's. And if things got too crazy, they were both armed - her with her pepper spray (and her homicidal, pointy-eared Prince Prissy Pants) and him with his on-duty weapon and clutch piece. And she had her smartphone, with 911 on speed-dial. They could handle whatever might happen, if whoever was tailing him proved to be something dangerous and not some creep following him for stupid kicks.

**.**

Nuada sat at the table in the little dining room of the ensorcelled carriage, staring into the sullen embers of the fire, toying idly with a glass of the Old World liquor known as Irish mist. The smooth burn of the alcohol did nothing to sear away the darkness of his thoughts.

Assassins. Someone had sent assassins into the royal forest to dispatch him and Dylan. His lady suspected his father. That hurt, but also had merit, if he looked at the idea with chillingly cold clarity. Who else had known he would be here? Only his father and sister. He hadn't even told Arawn what he needed the Chariot for, other than as a means to get to Faerie. There was only Balor and Nuala.

Nuala wouldn't send someone to kill him, nor even to hurt him. Not only because she wasn't capable of such treachery, but because hurting him would hurt her, too. He would have sensed such a decision from her, as well.

But his father... was his father willing to risk - or even sacrifice - his beloved daughter in order to eradicate the son who shamed him? Or did Nuada have some other enemy that he didn't yet know of, one powerful enough that this enemy had spies not just in Bethmoora's court, but in Balor's very household?

That, too, had merit. After all, allowing Nuada to enter the royal forest and then sending assassins after him a mere couple of days after calling off the Guards searching for the prince? His father was not a coward or a snake, for all his faults. Why would Balor do such a thing? Why go through such extraneous ploys, use such deceit? Waste so much effort? Why not simply send the Butcher Guards for him as the king had originally planned? Well, Dylan's cottage was protected against all but the most powerful fae, but surely there was a way to catch Nuada out. Or even simply blackmail him into returning.

There were enough possibilities (and enough flaws in them all) to send pain spiking through Nuada's temples. He chased it away with a swallow of Irish mist that burned in his belly. Unfortunately, it didn't burn away the thoughts chasing themselves in circles in his brain.

In truth, it all boiled down to two questions: who could have known that Nuada would be _here_, of all places? And why had the assassins gone for _Dylan_ first?

A chilling thought crystallized in his brain like a shard of ice. With it came just a whisper of murderous fury, the same battle-rage that had nearly taken him earlier when he'd seen his truelove fall. Had _Dylan_ been the assassins' true target?

"I'm half-tempted to ask for some of that," the mortal said from the doorway.

The Elven prince cast an eye toward her and frowned. The mortal didn't look half so pale now, but her hair hung in wet tendrils around her shoulders. Her right forearm sported a fresh bandage to protect the nearly-week-old stitches. Another bandage wrapped her left hand. The bruise dusting her cheek centered around a sprinkling of tiny wounds. She gripped her cane with white-knuckled fingers and her limp was much more pronounced than usual. This battle had taken its toll on her.

Then he noticed the dress - soft-as-a-whisper blue that settled around her like a dream, leaving him glimpses of slender ankles and elegant wrists and delicate collarbones. Her medallion, miraculously undamaged, glimmered at her throat. She was absolutely beautiful, with her hair curling damply around her shoulders. But why was her hair wet? And where had that dress come from?

Somehow sensing the direction of his thoughts, Dylan said, "I filled the sink with water and stuck my head in it about halfway through checking myself out. It helped a lot with the jitters; it's hard to wrap a bandage when your hands are shaking. Becan packed the dress. Not sure why, but whatever." She shrugged and limped over to sit beside him at the table. "We haven't left yet. We're not moving. How come?"

He took a sip and let the alcohol burn for a moment, giving himself time to think before answering her. "We're safe enough in the carriage itself. Besides, I brought you here to show you something. I do not intend to let my enemies chase me off unless remaining puts you in danger. That innate warning system of yours is not alerting you to anything, is it?" His smile was humorless when Dylan shook her head. "Well enough." Then he glanced at the glass in his hand. "You truly want some of this? Do you even know what it is?"

"Good old Irish whiskey, I'd imagine." At his raised eyebrow, she added, "You _are_ Irish, and I know you drink recreationally. And I sort of remember what whiskey looks like. But I had to take pain meds for my leg, so I don't _really_ want any of that. Alcohol and Vicodin don't mix."

"That is well, since a delicate creature like yourself probably would not survive the burn."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know, I _have_ had hard liquor before, when I was younger. I'm not as delicate as you think."

He frowned. "I thought you converted when you were fifteen."

"I did."

Now he narrowed his eyes at her, momentarily distracted from the seriousness of his previous thoughts. "How young is 'younger,' exactly?"

Dylan looked away, into the dying fire. Her eyes were distant and shadowed. For a moment she didn't say anything. Then, "When I was twelve. I used to drink a lot back then, actually. Beer, mostly, but harder stuff, too. It was easy to get because the adults drank it after lights-out and it... helped. Like mind-poison," she added softly. "It made my soul numb to everything and it helped so much. But then I realized it was just lulling me into this mindset where I thought that nothing mattered... so I stopped."

At his look, she added in a stronger voice, "I had a lot of crutches when I was young, before I learned to deal with my problems. Pain, alcohol. Drugs, even." Dylan laughed without humor. "Is it any wonder my sisters think I'm the world's biggest screw-up?" She met Nuada's eyes and saw the carefully shuttered blankness in their depths. Something cold coiled in her stomach and she lashed out before she could even register the need to do so. "What? You thought I was an angel just because I try to be one? I'm just as human and messed-up and awful as the next person. I'm selfish and lazy and cruel and jealous and hateful and stupid and useless..." She trailed off as her mouth began to tremble. She hugged herself as if cold, rubbing her arms as if to ward off some chill. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me. I'm sorry."

Nuada got to his feet and went to pour a drink. When he set it down in front of her, Dylan gave him an exhausted look. "It's _schorle_," he said softly. "Not alcohol. Drink it; you need the sweet. You're still a little in shock."

The first startlingly crisp, sweet taste of the cool, fizzy apple-drink mellowed some of the tightness still twisting her up. The second swallow melted the chill in her belly. "Thank you," Dylan whispered. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, I... I'm sorry. Nuada, someone tried to kill you. I mean... _again_. Someone who isn't Eamonn. I'm just..." Her hand began to shake again, so hard that she hastily set the glass down with an audible _thunk._ "Shaky. Scared. Panicking a little, I think. Do you have any idea who might be behind this?"

"My guess is as good as yours, I imagine," he said, dropping back into his chair. "In fact, we are probably thinking along the exact same lines."

"You think... your father." Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Dylan grasped for calm. Nodded slowly. "Okay, then. Okay. So what do we do? We have to go back to Findias tomorrow, but if the king is trying to kill you-"

"It may be him," the prince interrupted. "Then again, it may not be. This is not his usual way of doing things, so I'm not certain. I must look into it. I am sorry, Dylan," Nuada murmured. He met her eyes for a brief moment, then looked away. "I didn't realize that bringing you to Faerie, to court, would be this dangerous for you. If I could leave you in the mortal realm and know you were safe, I would, but I do not dare. I know you're frightened, but-"

"You think I'm scared for _me?"_ She demanded, grabbing his hand. For a minute she thought he would pull away from the contact. Then he shifted his hand so that he could grasp her fingers in his own. "_That's_ what you think I'm worried about? My safety? Forget me for a second; what about _you?_ Your father is possibly trying to _kill_ you! Or someone is! No offense, but my bets are on him. What am I supposed to do with that? I'm not a warrior. I don't have any magic or skills or money or power. In your world, I'm nobody. I'm nothing. How am I supposed to protect you?"

He blinked in utter shock. "Protect _me?"_

"_Yes_," she insisted. "I mean, I know you have Wink and you're this great warrior, but if just one of those dipsa serpents had bitten you, really bitten you, you could've died and I couldn't do anything to help you! What am I supposed to do? How can I keep you safe when your father is... or someone is... when everything is... how can I..."

She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and squeezed her eyes shut. It took her a long moment before she could speak again.

"I've just had it driven home that I am absolutely and utterly useless to you. What do I do now?" Pleading blue eyes met his. "What can I do to help you? To protect you? Tell me what I can do and I'll do it."

"You are worried about me? Dylan, I can protect myself. I'm concerned for _you_. You're mortal; fragile. Vulnerable to-"

"I am _not_ fragile," she snapped, startling him. She yanked her hand out of his. "Just because I'm mortal doesn't mean I'm made out of glass. I'm not gonna break if you pull me off the shelf."

"Have you looked in the mirror since we returned?" Nuada demanded, shoving to his feet. He glowered down at her. Why was she suddenly being so stubborn? It wasn't as if there was no proof of her vulnerability. She'd incurred several new injuries just in the last hour! Cuts, bruises. He knew her leg pained her badly, and would until whatever she'd done for it took effect. The scars covering her entire body bespoke a frailty he as an Elven warrior did not suffer from. And she was worried about protecting _him?_ "You joke about being resilient, but you are hardly that. Must I remind you that you're mortal? Human? Your blood is a liability. And therefore it is my task to protect _you,_ not yours to protect me!"

_Your blood is a liability._ How well she knew that. With difficulty she managed to get to her feet. Even then, she had to look up a ways in order to stare him in the eye. "I've told you this before, Your Highness," she said, her words clipped and her tone cool and even, giving away none of the hurt pricking in her chest. "I'm common. You're the crown prince. You're more important than I am. My life is worth spit compared to yours-"

"Do not _dare_ say such things to me," he snapped. "I am _not_ merely a crown or a throne, a royal puppet bound by duty and honor. I am a man as well. And _you_ are _not_ common. My life is no more valuable than yours. Do not dare say such a thing-"

Pain throbbed through her hand as she gripped her cane tightly to keep her balance. "It's the truth and you know it. Your people need you. The kingdom, the land and its people, are tied to the royal line. You may be Nuada, but you are also Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. If you die, there's no guarantee the kingdom continues through Nuala, even if she _does_ get married and have kids. You're the heir for a reason. I'm not an idiot - I know how this kind of thing works. Your people need you to survive, Nuada. Their lives all rest on _your_ shoulders. Me? I'm really not that important in the grand scheme of things, so really no one would care overmuch if I died or-"

"Don't say that," he growled, "do not _ever_ say that," and he saw again that moment in the fight when she'd gone down and he'd struggled so desperately to get to her. Felt once again the icy fear tearing at his guts. Fear as he'd never felt in battle before. Fury and desperation and terror. What if she hadn't been able to fend off the serpent? What if those fangs had found her flesh and venom had mingled with iron-laced blood? What if, what if, what if... "Do not _ever_. I _never_ want to hear you say that again. You are important _to me._"

"It doesn't _matter_ if I'm important to you or not!" She cried, exasperated. "What about your people? They need you! You can't tell me I am more important to you than all of the hundreds of thousands of them because it isn't true and you know it."

"Do not tell me what I know or don't know," Nuada snapped. "Merely because I care for you does not give you the right to dictate to me! I do not need _you,_ of all people, to remind me of my duty to my kingdom." Not when that duty strangled the confession of love that always tried to escape him in her presence. Not when obedience to that duty stripped him of nearly everything he held dear. "But need I remind you that I also have a duty to _you?_ To _anyone_ who swears their fealty to me!"

"Nuada, that doesn't matter! It doesn't matter what happens to me, or to Wink, or to anyone else who's in service to you because we're not the ones who keep the land and the people of Bethmoora alive. You _know_ that! You have a responsibility to your kingdom and I-"

"You think I need to be reminded of my responsibilities? Is that what you think? I know where my duty lies, Dylan! Better than you, it seems."

Her fingers spasmed around the grip of her cane and her eyes narrowed. "And just what does that mean?"

"It means that if you are so loyal, you should obey the commands of the prince you are sworn to!" He yelled, anger pulsing under his skin like poison. "Not argue with me needlessly that your life has no value! I have said that it does; you should need no other assurance! Your concern for me is pointless-"

"Pointless?" Dylan echoed incredulously. "Look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong to be concerned! Someone tried to _kill_ you! What happens if you die, Your Highness? What happens if your father dies and you die and Nuala doesn't have the tie to the kingdom necessary to keep it strong? Tell me what happens then."

"You think you are so damned clever," the Elven prince growled, fingers curling into white-knuckled fists, "you tell me, human."

He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to call her that. He saw the change in her immediately - the blink of surprise, the sudden hurt glistening like tears in her eyes before she dropped her gaze to the floor. Her shoulders, squared for the argument, slumped a fraction. Words, old and half-buried but still sharp enough to cut, drifted through the room like a poisonous wisp of smoke. _Disgusting human whore._ Shame clawed at Nuada's belly.

"Dylan," he said softly. "Dylan, I... I did not mean... forgive me."

She shrugged. "It's fine. I mean," with a brittle laugh, "I _am_ human. It would be silly to pretend I'm not. To ask you to pretend I'm not. Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal, Your Highness, it's fine."

"No," he murmured. "No, it is not. I'm sorry. I spoke in anger; I did not mean it. And please," he added softly, "must you call me that when you're upset with me?"

His lady frowned and cocked her head. "Call you what?"

"Call me 'Your Highness.' Sometimes you do it in jest, and that is well enough, but... it is a rare and special thing, to simply be Nuada when I am with you. So please, my lady," he added, catching her gaze with his. "If you would be so kind as to call me by my name when we are alone, and not my title... that would please me greatly. As would your forgiveness."

She sighed and gave him a fond look. "You're a real Prince Charming, you know that?"

"I may have heard it mentioned once or twice," he said, smiling a little. "So, do I have your pardon, Dylan?"

After a moment of studying his face, the mortal nodded. "Okay. Pardon granted. But," she added, "you _know_ I'm right about the royal ties to the kingdom. You _know_ I am. Admit it. You die, your kingdom is more than likely screwed, isn't it? The land begins to die and the people begin to fade. Admit it. Tell me that if the royal line fails, your people won't start dying."

Nuada opened his mouth. Closed it again. He could not lie to her, so he said nothing. Several vicious Gaelic invectives raced through his mind. Finally he said, "If the royal line ever fails, it must be rejuvenated or a new bond forged. Sometimes that's not difficult, Dylan."

"And other times it involves the current monarch being killed," she said flatly. "And if that happens, the bond of the royal line rests on you, with no guarantee that the bond can be forged with anyone else. It's a heavy burden, I know, but you can't deny that it's there. Your honor tells you that you can't sacrifice the good of thousands for the sake of one. Even if that one is someone you care about. You can't risk your life for me. It's one thing to fight for me in a battle where you're obviously going to win, but to square off against your father or anyone else who could honest-to-goodness have you _killed_... no, Nuada. You can't do that for me. My single life is not worth hundreds of thousands of lives, and you know it."

He let his forehead touch hers, and took a moment simply to savor being with her while his heart cringed at the words she struck him with. She wasn't wrong. Shades of Annwn, she wasn't wrong. In his mind, looking at things coldly and objectively, he knew that her life mattered little next to his because he _did_ carry the vitality of his kingdom on his shoulders. And yet... and yet in his heart, he...

Nuada hesitated just a moment, then lightly touched Dylan's cheek, just under the pale blush of violet bruising. She drew a trembling breath. Her lashes drifted down to make dark crescents against her cheeks. He'd nearly lost her. For the second time in less than a moon, he had nearly lost her. And now, for the second time, he had hurt her. Gained her forgiveness, but hurt her nonetheless. And all because of a truth that sought to shred him. Gently Nuada asked, "But Dylan... what would I do without you?"

A tired smile flirted at the corner of the scarred mouth. "Be just as boring and work-obsessed as you were before," she replied, and her own smile coaxed an answering - albeit just as tired - one from him. Her fingertips swept lightly over his jaw in a lingering caress. "You'd be all right without me," she added, more serious now. "You don't need me, Nuada. And who knows? You might even be glad to get me out of your hair."

"I happen to enjoy you touching my hair," he informed her sharply.

In answer, she gave a lock of it a gentle tug and smiled at him. Caressed his jaw again, tracing the strong line of it. "Well, that's good to know. At least you don't think I'm annoying."

"Most of the time," he replied.

"Don't make me hit you, Your Highness." Her smile widened when he laughed a little. "Nuada," she added, seriously now. "You know I'm not trying to hurt you with what I'm saying, don't you? I'm not trying to make things difficult. I'm not trying to hurt you."

"I know, mo duinne. It is simply that I care for you. Perhaps more than I should. Far, far more than I should, I think. It is... difficult. If someone threatens you, my instinct and my honor demand that I protect you. I cannot allow fear for my personal safety to prevent me from protecting someone I-"

"It's not fear that would do it; it's the responsible thing," she interrupted. "I know it bothers you, but you have to-"

"I can't!" He snapped, gripping her shoulders. He gave her the tiniest shake. "I can _not_. I cannot stand by and let you be hurt. I cannot do it, Dylan. Do not ask it of me, because I cannot do it! When we walk back into that trap, do not ask me to do anything other than protect you because I will not. I..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "For some reason," he growled, though the undercurrent to his voice sounded more like pain than anger, "for some reason that I _still_ cannot fathom, you have become important... have become vital to me. Some of my enemies know this. My father is beginning to suspect it. You are in danger, mo duinne. I must protect you. I can do nothing else. My honor is not what demands this. _Everything_ in me does. Everything. Dylan, I would _not_ be all right without you. You must know that."

_Vital to me._ Her heart sped up. Dylan touched his cheek with such gentleness he almost flinched. "Nuada. Do you... are you telling me... I mean, maybe I'm being ridiculous, but are you telling me that you..." _That you love me?_

The look in his eyes pleaded with her not to push him. Not to ask any questions. So she didn't, though her heart thumped hard in her chest and a frisson of awareness ghosted up her spine. It couldn't be. Couldn't possibly. And yet the look in his eyes, and his words... He was _still_ looking at her, still silently pleading with her not to push. So she simply sighed and murmured, "Never mind. It's okay. I understand."

"Do you?" He leaned into her once more, taking comfort in her warmth, and breathed her in. His eyes were not ivory, but amber, a rich golden honey shade glinting with flecks of sunfire and carnelian in their depths, colors she'd never seen in his gaze before. She had the strangest idea that he was trembling. But of course that would have been ridiculous. "Do you really? Can you possibly?"

_Oh, my gosh. Oh. My. Gosh. It can't be_. She swallowed hard at the sudden earnest expression on his face, at his nearness. Couldn't be... but was it? Was it possible? "I think I do," she whispered. Her blood hummed beneath her skin as she met his gaze with her own wide eyes. His closeness left her suddenly almost dizzy. Heart in her throat, she murmured, "Yes. I think... yes."

_Oh, my gosh,_ she thought as she closed her eyes. _He loves me. He's in love with me. That's impossible. He loves me. He's in love with me, he..._ Dylan understood why he couldn't say it, why he was silently asking her not to force the words from his lips.

But she also knew, in a way that she couldn't quite understand or explain, that Nuada was telling her that he loved her. The confession shimmered just beneath the surface of his silence but Dylan could see it, she could taste it, feel it, like the scent of spring on the wind or the warmth of the sun on the back of her neck, like the beautiful new colors in Nuada's eyes.

Shimmers of joy and whispers of fear and sorrow and pangs of dread mingled in her stomach until she could scarcely breathe.

Joy in the knowledge that he loved her and she loved him so much and she'd never thought it possible, not when he hated the children of Adam with such fire.

Fear, because she didn't know this kind of love, didn't know how to be _in_ love or how to let someone be in love with her, didn't know how such things were supposed to work or what to do or how to act or how not to make a complete idiot out of herself around him.

Sorrow, because Nuada loved her but couldn't bring himself to admit it aloud and she knew it had to do with her mortality, knew that she _still_ wasn't good enough in his eyes and there was nothing she or anyone could ever do to change that. She tried not to think about it. Tried to focus only on how his prejudices had weakened and wavered and, in some cases, fallen into dust. But there was still sadness and pain.

And the dread whispered beneath everything because there was no chance for them, with her mortal blood and his chains of loyalty and honor and duty, and if they tried for anything more than the meager moment they had now it would break them both. And Dylan suddenly remembered him telling her, _You don't know what you're asking,_ the night he'd kissed her and she'd asked him to ignore shoulds and shouldn'ts. Now she wanted to beg his forgiveness, wanted to hold him if he was hurting anywhere near as much as she was, and this would cause so many problems, and they were in far too much danger already without this added complication and how had she not seen this?

She wanted to ask how long, wanted to ask when it had happened, where it had begun, was he sure? Was he absolutely certain? What did it mean for them? Was this realy what he wanted, or did he want to run from her, run from what he felt? Was he glad of it or did he despise what was in his heart? Did he hate her and love her both? But all she could force out of her mouth was, "Cad é atá muid ag dul a dhéanamh, Nuada?" _What are we going to do?_

He gave her a soft look, one that stretched into an eternity measured by his heartbeat under her hand and his breath soft against her mouth, defined by his lashes tickling her cheek. He'd never looked at her quite that way before. Then Nuada blew out a pent-up, shaking breath and answered her question in a different way.

"We do not dare challenge my father any further. Not until we know if he is responsible for this, and to what lengths he is willing to go to get at us. Which means we _must_ return tomorrow night."

With gentle fingers the Elven warrior brushed back the curls falling into Dylan's eyes. The touch meant something more now; the touch was precious. She fought against the sound trapped in her throat because she didn't want him to think there was anything wrong, even though _everything_ was. Then Nuada carefully took both her hands in his. The warmth and strength of his grip loosened the tension clutching at her. "We must protect each other," he murmured, "as we have done since we met. As we will always do. Is that acceptable, mo dathúil mhuire?"

"Tá," she murmured on a sigh, letting her forehead rest against his shoulder. _Yes._ "If you wish it, my prince." She pressed her cheek against his chest, the softness of his new shirt. This one was as soft as crushed velvet and so very warm. Dylan could feel his heartbeat beneath the material. The steady percussion made her eyes sting, though she didn't know why. "If you wish it."

"Good. Now sit down before you fall down and we shall eat." Noting her pallor and her sudden quiet, he added, "If you can."

Dylan realized with some surprise that she was positively starving, though her stomach twisted a little at the thought of eating. "Food sounds good, actually." She sank down into the chair and forced herself to relax a little more. They were safe in the carriage. Nothing would happen to them here. And he... and he loved... "So we have dinner," Dylan said, twisting her lips into a smile that felt like it would crack her face in half, for all it was so small, "and then what?"

He studied her for a moment, and she suspected that she wasn't really fooling him. He knew her too well. But he didn't ask if she was all right, for which she was grateful. She hated when he asked her questions she didn't want to answer because she would never lie to him. All he said was, "Would you like me to tell you another story?"

"Sure," she murmured, feeling suddenly inexplicably tired. "Sure. I'd like that."

**.**

The massive silver cave troll pushed through the crowd of fae youngsters writhing in a poor imitation of dancing and made his way down the stairs into the main tavern room where older, more sedate forms of entertainment were to be had. But even beneath the main room of Fafner's Cave, he could still hear the scratchy human music through the floor.

_"She's beautiful as usual,  
With bruises on her ego and  
Her killer instinct tells her to  
Be aware of evil men."_

Wink saw that the frenzy of the dance floor upstairs was not reflected in the tavern room of the Cave. Only three patrons sat at the bar and all the tables were empty. One of the drinkers at the bar was a taltos Wink vaguely recognized as a friend of Lorelei's. Another woman at the end of the sleek bar possessed the crimson-slitted, sclera-less black eyes and tumbling black curls of a gancanaugh. Surprisingly, she bore a necklace of violet and blue bruises, and held herself as if she were in pain. Even as Wink came in, she finished off her drink, tossed on a red velvet cloak, and walked out of the tavern.

The last patron was the copper-eyed fenris who always glared at the troll when he came for a drink at the rhinemaiden's establishment. The prince's valet ignored the flesh-eating shifter and took a seat at a table. Much to the fenris's ire, the rhinemaiden behind the bar went to take the troll's order herself.

"_Was mögest du trinken?_" She asked, her siren voice turning the sharp German language into something smooth and flowing as water over stone.

"Nothing tonight," he said. Then, lowering his voice a little so as not to be overheard by the fenris, he added, "There is Midnight Fest tonight, in the East Village. I wondered if you would do me the great honor of accompanying me," and here his voice dropped to a soft rumble, "dearest Lorelei."

She tilted her head to one side, allowing the soft light of the tavern to slide across her face and slender swan-white neck. The delicate point of one ear peeked through the thick midnight darkness of her hair. The rhinemaiden smiled. "I would love to." She looked around at the tavern room and her smile held the faintest edge of exasperation. "It seems all but my dance floor is pretty much dead tonight. Give me a few moments, and I'll meet you by the front door."

Wink's tender smile melted into a half-challenging smirk when he noticed the fenris glaring at the troll again. Lacking a drink to salute the irate furball with, Wink offered him a mocking one-fingered salute. Copper eyes glinted dangerously and razored incisors bared in an acknowledging parody of a smile before the wolf-shifter got up, dropped a tip on the bar, and left.

_When will you learn, boyo?_ Wink wondered idly. _Being the jealous type will get you nowhere with her._

**.**

Cat-slitted mercurial eyes peered through a crack in the blinds of the little apartment's front window, watching with disgust as seven fae and three humans mingled together in a twisted parody of friendship. The red-haired sidhe woman with the upswept silver eyes sat cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, reading a book aloud to the four children surrounding her - a silver-eyed boy who was obviously the woman's son; a wild-haired human girl who snuggled against him and had her bare feet in the lap of a young ewah boy; and another ewah child, a girl this time. A green-skinned, gossamer-winged, black-eyed pixie woman with blond hair was busy making what looked like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the open kitchen off to one side. Helping her was an ewah youth in perhaps his seventh or eighth decade and a dryad with slanted viridian eyes. A pair of freckled, brown-haired human youths browsed the bookshelves against one wall.

The Zwezda Elf could just hear the words of the story the red-haired woman was reading. "_Do you see her there, her staff in hand, calling the deer behind her? They come like sheep to the shepherd's pipe, running on their toes to find her..._"

One of the old poems of the cailleach bheur. How dare this sidhe woman share a story of one of the Shining Ones with a human child? As for the sidhe boy with the tufts of wild red hair and silver eyes, _that_ one was an abomination, as well. The Elf recognized a changeling when she saw one. The brat should've been in some human hovel wreaking havoc. Not nestled up all snug and cozy with his birth mother and the other children.

Swallowing back her disgust - a changeling being kept by its parent; that was simply _not_ right - the Elf turned to the quartet of Irish dullahan standing behind her. Their whips hung coiled on their belts. Their fleshless hands rested either on the whips or on the bone-hilt knives at their hips. She didn't meet their eyes; the deathly fae kept their gazes - and their severed heads - covered with the folds of their cloaks, tucked under their right arms. Good. The Child of the Stars had no wish to gaze into the wide, fiery eyes of the dullahan, or see their impossibly wide corpse grins.

"You know what to do, of course," the Elf said softly. The leader of the dullahan lifted her shoulders, as she couldn't nod in agreement. The other three followed suit. "Good. I don't care what you do with the sidhe or the pixie. It is the cubs who require your full attention. And if you like, you may kill the humans. I know how much your kind enjoys playing with mortals."

The silver-eyed Elf swept down the concrete walkway leading away from the little New York apartment, as if she could outrun the guilt gnawing at her guts like icy worms. This was what had to happen. There was simply no other way to destroy the Silver Lance. Her master's plan was their best chance.

Behind her, the red-haired sidhe woman's voice emanated softly from the other side of the apartment door. "_She is the winter; the wind, the snow, her breath both warm and chilling. A single word from her icy lips, a single kiss is killing_."

Setting her severed head on her shoulders and donning a wide-brimmed hat, pulling it low over her red-flamed eyes, the leader of the quartet of dullahan let her corpse grin stretch rictus-wide and knocked on the door.

**.**

It surprised Nuada that Dylan didn't ask him if he was certain this was safe. Her trust in him, it seemed, remained wholly unshaken. But he was careful as he led her through the night-darkened forest, constantly scanning their surroundings, every sense on alert for enemies, for more danger. Never again, the Elven warrior swore to himself. Never again would he let anyone catch him unawares this way. Never again would he let Dylan be hurt through his own inattention.

Because Nuada had used soothing magic to ease the pain in Dylan's bad leg and she had taken medicine as well, she was able to make the easy ten-minute hike to the glen he'd planned all day to take her to. Once they drew close to the glen, the power in the forest began to light their way. Tiny blossoming moonflower and night-jasmine glowed with the soft light of the moon and stars as the Elf and mortal passed. Some of the stones littering the forest floor shimmered with a flickering light, just like Dylan's _rai_ flowers. And the light of the waxing moon lit up the woods with a surprising brightness.

"Where are we going?" Dylan asked softly as Nuada led her through the last line of trees to the faerie glen. A fallen rose tree reclined at the edge of the clearing. The Elven prince helped his lady to sit on the fallen but still-sturdy trunk. A bed of moss made the downed tree into quite a comfortable little seat.

Nuada took a seat beside her, maintaining a small but careful distance after his confession. Did she truly understand what he'd been saying to her? And more importantly, did she believe him?

_Dylan, I would_ not _be all right without you. You must know that._

_It's okay. I understand._

_Do you?_

"A faerie glen. We're a bit early," he remarked nonchalantly, studying the stars glittering overhead to gauge the time and keeping his thoughts to himself. "But if you do not mind, I do not."

Dylan shook her head wonderingly, staring at the glen. "I don't mind," she murmured.

Even in the dark of the night, the glen was absolutely breathtaking. The shadows of trees blocked out some of the midnight-blue velvet of the sky, but the diamond stars burned cold and clear and bright in spite of them. The moon was a soft white, waxing almost to half-full in the sky overhead. A tiny pool near the middle of the clearing reflected each and every star in all their frosted perfection. Nary a ripple marred the image.

Gossamer-winged creatures, their tiny bodies a blur of soft silvery light, darted to and fro among the trees on the far side of the glen like tiny shooting stars. The air was pleasantly cool on Dylan's skin and she could hear the music of crickets chirping in the grass that spread out around them like a shady carpet.

"Was this the big surprise?" She asked, trying and failing to keep her eyes from flicking to him every few moments. He wasn't looking at her. Was that on purpose? Or was the sky truly so interesting? "Because it's awesome if it was."

"No, not yet," he said softly. "We've a few minutes yet."

After an interminable silence, Dylan finally said, "I feel really awkward for some reason. Do you feel awkward?"

"Would it make you feel better if I said yes?"

"Depends," she replied, arching one elegant brow. "Would you be lying?"

His look was fond and held some of the relaxation of earlier that day. "I am an Elf, darling. If I ever admitted to such a thing, of course I would be lying."

Dylan laughed and jabbed him lightly in the side with her elbow, ignoring how her heart tripped in her chest when he said _darling_. "You had to have been awkward _some_ time. Maybe when you were a kid or a teenager. All teenage boys go through that awkward, gangly stage. You had to have gone through it, too."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Nuada said, "but no." He took Dylan's mostly-uninjured hand in his and lightly brushed his thumb across her knuckles. She leaned into him without hesitation, awkwardness somehow miraculously eased, though not entirely gone. Now he could focus on the task at hand. He _would_ do this for her. He would not let this outing be ruined.

It was something Dylan very much wanted, what he had to show her; when she'd spoken of it to him once, that day in the Troll Market, he had not missed the undertone of wistful yearning beneath her words. He would surprise her with this gift before they went back to the dangerous game of Faerie politics. And he would pretend, just for now, that no shadows threatened and no dangers loomed, so that she could enjoy the beauty of what he meant to show her.

"Oh, Nuada, look," Dylan cried, pointing up at the sky. A brilliant streak of ivory fire lit up the night. "A shooting star! How lovely."

"Yes," he said, watching the way the starlight kissed her features and lit up her eyes, the way her smile shone brighter than the moon above them. "Lovely."

"Make a wish," she ordered, trying to pretend oblivion to his study.

He blinked, startled. "I beg your pardon?"

Dylan shrugged, snuggling against him in an effort to fight back the awkwardness. "It's a human thing," she said. Nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel the hard muscles of his shoulder beneath the thin layer of Elven silk, pressed to her cheek. Feel the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Dylan wanted to reach up and lay her hand flat to Nuada's chest, right over his heart, so she could feel it drumming against her palm. Maybe trail her fingers above his heart, over the silk of his new tunic, feeling it slide beneath her fingertips.

But just the idea sent flutters winging through her stomach and tickling down her spine. She wasn't brave enough to try that. Not after... So instead she added, "When you see a shooting star, you make a wish. I used to do it all the time when I was little. Especially," she added in a soft voice, "when I was in the institution. When I could get to a window, anyway. I'd wish on the first star of the evening, and on shooting stars if I saw them, and on fireworks in the summer and on New Year's Eve. If I heard a nightingale sing, or a baby laughing. I'd wish all the time."

"Did your wishes ever come true?" He asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

Her smile was as bright as the shooting star overhead. "They did, actually. Most of them. I always wished that one day I would escape and find a handsome prince who knew me, who cared about me, who loved me for me, and not what everyone thought I was supposed to be. Someone who respected and protected me, who I could respect and wanted to protect too."

Then she grinned. "And I wished for a cat. A lot."

Nuada couldn't help it - he laughed. "I do not know if I'd consider your little beastling to be the answer to a wish." She pulled back to elbow him in the side. "Merely an observation," he defended, still chuckling. "He has an unholy penchant for using his claws."

"Only on men, I've noticed," she replied. "He's never scratched me. Now make a wish."

"All right," the Elven warrior said. "I wish that all the humans on earth, present company excluded, would disappear and never bother any fae ever again."

She slanted him an exasperated look. "No, you don't. Not all humans. What about John?"

Now it was Nuada's turn to look exasperated. "Dylan, I do not know how to break this to you gently, but I loathe your brother."

"I've noticed," she muttered. "But you don't really wish that. You said we were friends, and friends don't want each other to be unhappy, right?" Nuada eyed her and nodded cautiously, wondering if perhaps he were about to step blithely into a trap of some sort. "I'd be miserable without John. I already lost him once. Nearly lost him twice more after that. I can't handle losing him again. I'd be devastated. So you don't _really_ want him gone, even though you don't like him. Right?"

"Well," the Elven prince muttered sourly, "when put that way..." He ground his teeth for a moment and clenched his fist before admitting, "No, I do not wish the whelp gone, if it distresses you so much."

"Yeah, I didn't think so. And don't call him a whelp, please." When he scowled at her, she offered him a bright smile. "Hey, I said 'please.' Now are you going to make a real wish?"

"_You_ make one; show me how it is done."

She laughed. "Okay. I wish... for..." She trailed off and looked up at him, studying him for a moment. "I wish for you to be happy. Truly happy. For you to have all the joy in life that you possibly can. For you to be able to become what you must and do what you must in order to find a fullness of joy. That's my wish."

For a long moment Nuada couldn't speak. He could only stare at her with wonder in his eyes. "Out of everything you could wish for, you wish for that? You would waste your wishes on me?"

"It's not a waste," she said softly. Her lips curved into a smile. "Now shush up and enjoy being out here with me."

After a moment, the Elven warrior said, "Before... before my mother died, my father taught Nuala and me about the stars. How to navigate by their positions, how to gauge the passage of time. The myths and legends behind each constellation. How to find the pictures of them in the sky."

"These stars are so different from the ones I'm used to," she replied. "Some of them look sort of familiar, but just when I think they're the same, I see something that makes them different."

The Elven prince glanced up at the velvet night. Coming to a decision, he pointed. "That constellation there is the Stag," he said in a voice as soft as the shadows around them, and as warm as a summer night. He leaned in so that his breath was a warm whisper against her ear. "In winter and summer, the Boar will be in the sky as well. They come closest together on the Winter and Summer Solstices, where they fight for dominion over the sky for half the year. The Stag wins at Yule, and stays in the sky until Lethe. The Boar conquers then, and remains aloft until Yule."

He gestured to another constellation. "That is Cù Chulainn, the Hound of Ulster." Nuada cupped her hand and guided her in tracing the bright pinpoints of silver-white light in the sky. His touch was warm against her skin as his palm slid smoothly against the back of her hand. His fingers curled around her hand, cradling it with gentle strength. "He guards the fair Lady Moon when she rises and journeys through the heavens. He is always at her side, loyal and watchful. He is one of the few fixed constellations; no matter the season, he always remains on guard, protecting her."

Dylan scrunched closer to him. Sliding her arm around his, she laid her head on his shoulder, tucking it under his jaw. He turned to her, letting his chin rest atop her hair for a moment. The Elven warrior sighed. Dylan made a small sound and threaded her fingers through his, feeling his heartbeat through his palm pressed against hers. She nudged a few blades of grass with her toe and drops of dew landed on her star-frosted blue silk sock. Each tiny drop sparkled like a jewel.

"Show me another one," his lady requested softly. Anything, so long as he continued to hold her hand in that way, guiding it in its tracing of pathways between the stars, his voice a soft rumble in her ear that she could feel in his chest as he gave her yet another piece of his world. "Please, Nuada?"

"As you wish." So he showed her the Yeth Hound, the headless beast locked in constant celestial battle with the Lambton Wyrm; the five-horned Quinotaur and the constellation of the rampant Alicorn; the cluster of little stars known as the Trow; the stellar image of Macha, the warrior goddess, and the seven stars that were her ravens; Finn Bheara, King of the Dead Under the Hill and his half-Fomori queen, Oonagh.

Finally he pointed to a pair of pale blue stars hanging in otherwise empty space, so close together as to seem like one great star. Only by squinting hard could Dylan see that they were actually separate.

"The Lovers," Nuada murmured, his breath delightfully warm as it shushed against her cheek. His thumb moved in slow circles over the back of her hand. Each stroke seemed to warm the blood beneath her skin, sending whispers of golden heat shivering up her arm. They were so close, yet only that simple touch held them joined. In the darkness of the forest-night the link of their touch, skin to skin, heat to heat, kept them anchored to each other as the Elven warrior added, "The Lovers touch that way, joining in the sky into one brilliant star, only at the spring equinox. When the light and dark of the world are held in balance. As the year turns and the stars move in their courses, they grow further apart. Only here, in the royal forest where spring reigns, can they be together always."

"Together always," she echoed in a whisper that breathed against Nuada's ears, over his skin, ghosting along all his senses.

He turned to see her no longer looking at the pair of stars, but at him. Her eyes were soft and sad. The moon lit her face so that she was nearly as clear as day to him. With fingers that suddenly trembled he lightly stroked her impossibly soft cheek, careful of the bruise. His heart stumbled when she leaned into the touch. The soft stroke of calussed knuckle against the satin of her cheek sent shivers of awareness whispering up and down his spine.

"Nuada," she whispered. "Can I... can I ask you for something?"

The prince swallowed hard. Would she demand he give voice to the secret he had given her a brief glimpse of earlier? If she did, what could he say? What words would satisfy her that wouldn't undo him completely?

"Anything, mo mhuire."

She shifted just a little closer. "Would you... I mean..." She licked her lip, and he had to bite back the strangled sound trying to escape him. In a voice as soft as the night around them, Dylan asked, "Kiss me again?"

He had been kind to her; more than kind, he'd been gentle and understanding and, in her words, perfect. So why, he wondered a little desperately, was she tormenting him this way? But he didn't voice the question. Nuada merely leaned in. His hair swept forward to brush against Dylan's shoulders and the warmth of her reached out to enfold him like an embrace. His mouth hovered over hers. He felt her breath against his lips, quick and shallow. Felt, because of her torturous nearness, the beating of her heart. Did she have any idea what it did to him, knowing he made her heart pound?

Dylan let her eyes drift closed. Her lashes brushed his cheeks, he was so close. A scant half-inch separated his mouth from hers. She could almost taste him, wild and feral and fey. The moon, barely cresting the tops of the trees, lit his eyes to shadowed gold. Then there was only a whisper between them. What was he waiting for? Why did he hover just out of her reach, leaving her heart racing and her breath stuttering? His nearness almost left her skin glowing to be so close to him. Every nerve waited, on edge, for the brush of his lips.

A mere breath separated them. So close, she was oh so very close. Tendrils of her silken hair wisped against Nuada's cheek on the slightest of breezes, caressing and teasing. The scent of her, the rich perfume of summer roses and the natural fragrance of her skin and the faintest phantom echo of sunlight weaving into her hair, was almost dizzying.

Then... oh, and then... hearts thundering in unison, his mouth found hers.

Kissing the woman who held him so easily in thrall was like a drug - once tasted, he could never get enough. He'd known it would be so. It was one of the reasons he had resisted the temptation for so long. But no more. He did not possess that kind of restraint. No man did.

A tentative hand came up to rest against the back of his neck. Her fingertips ghosted over his pulse, butterfly-caresses that sent heat washing through him. Her other hand lay against his drumming heart. He wanted so much to deepen the kiss, to truly taste the sweetness of her mouth, to show her the heat burning inside him. But he'd promised her, and she was still so innocent. Instead he let his mouth linger, whispering over Dylan's soft scarred lips, breathing her breath when she sighed into the kiss.

How did he do this to her? Dylan wondered absently as she felt herself falling into every touch of Nuada's lips to hers. How did he make her feel so safe and cherished with just a simple kiss? He was so gentle, so patient with her. He didn't demand - only offered, invited, requested. Teased her with a soft nip before soothing any possibility of fear or nerves with another soft press of his mouth to hers. She could hear him breathe, feel him fighting to do it evenly even when the air refused to come in anything but shallow, shuddering breaths. It was only a kiss but it seemed to be such a struggle for him. As if he were straining against something, fighting to stay anchored instead of drifting along, swept up by the magic being woven between them. Didn't he know she fought the same battle? Fought, and lost continuously.

"Mo mhuire," Nuada breathed against her mouth. Sent delicious shivers up and down Dylan's spine. His hand came up and his fingers trailed along the delicate line of her jaw, making her gasp. Fingertips trailed lower, along the swan-like neck and the line of her collarbone, dipping into the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. Drawing patterns of golden light along her skin.

If he couldn't touch her as he wished to, the prince thought a little desperately, this would have to be enough. So he stroked back over the porcelain of her collarbone again. A whispering touch as soft as light and breath over her fluttering pulse. She made a sound that was almost a whimper, and he nearly came undone. On a ragged exhale Nuada murmured, "My lady," and there was such longing in his voice. Such tenderness. Dylan closed her eyes as he repeated the words once more in Gaelic and English, almost pleading against her velvet-soft mouth. "Mo mhuire, my lady."

She opened her mouth to say, "I love you," but thought better of it. She'd said it enough. Shouldn't say it again, not after that intangible moment between them in the carriage. It was all right that he hadn't said the words aloud. She understood what he'd meant, what sentiment had been hovering just beneath _I would not be all right without you. You must know that._ She knew. She knew now.

So Dylan didn't remind Nuada that she loved him more than breath, more than water and food and air, more than her own life. She didn't want him to think she was trying to pressure him into something he wasn't ready for. If - when - he was ready to say the words aloud, he would say them.

Instead, meeting his beautiful ivory-and-amber gaze, Dylan whispered his name. Felt the way he shuddered as the syllables brushed against his senses, a shudder born of something softer than lust and sweeter than yearning.

"Again," he whispered, pulling back for just a moment. Palest ivory touched with kisses of gold drifted over her features. Took in the blush darkening the scarred cheeks and the slightly parted lips. "Say it again." To hear his name falling from her lips like a sigh and a promise...

And she whispered, "Nuada." Her heart hammered in her breast and her blood hummed. Almost against her will, she added, "My love..."

And softly, so softly he knew she did not hear him, he whispered, "Yes," just before he lost himself in kissing her again. She tasted of moonlight and sweetness and promises, of dreams just out of reach. To her, he tasted of sunlight and magic. They were drowning in the kiss, in each other, lost to the night around them. There was only the next touch of lips, the next caressing sigh, the next evanescent stroke of fingertips over sensitized skin.

Then Dylan brushed back a lock of his hair. Brushed her fingertips ever so lightly against the delicate Elven point of his ear. Hunger seared him at the innocent touch. Nuada groaned against her mouth and pulled her tight against him, enfolding her in his arms, needing her close. She was killing him; didn't she _care?_

Need nearly had him trembling as she kissed him back. The urge to touch, to move beyond the boundaries she'd asked him to adhere to, had Nuada pulling back from her. He had to stop. Stop, or be lost, and he knew he possessed the skills to take her with him. Breathing hard, he whispered, "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

A little wide-eyed, more than a little breathless, Dylan replied softly, "I think I'm starting to get a clear picture." She touched her fingers to her lips, which always tingled pleasantly after Nuada had been kissing her. She met his gaze again. Saw the longing there and wasn't sure if it made her happy or nervous or some delirious combination of both. "But you could tell me... if you wanted."

If he wanted. Oh, there was so much he wanted. Again he thought of the way she'd whispered his name, the way she'd said, "My love," as if the words were being torn from her. But he shoved the thoughts away before they could take hold of him, though it took him several long moments. Now was not the time or the place to become distracted, to let his mind wander down paths he could not take. Not when she knew, now, how he felt. Not when he wanted nothing more than to lay her down on the soft grass of the faerie glen, with the stars burning above them, and offer her everything...

"Nuada?" Dylan's voice was hesitant, uncertain, her expression even moreso. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she asked softly, "Did I... did I do something wrong? You've got the oddest expression on your face."

He swallowed down the words searing his tongue. He would not beg her to give him what he had no right to ask for in the first place. Not even when his lady was looking at him as if he were the center of her world. So the Elven prince drew a long deep breath, then brushed a tender kiss across her forehead and said, "I am... thinking how right I was before when I said that the rules you live by would make our courtship interesting."

More like torturous. Was she not affected by him as well? But no, he knew she was. He could see it in her wide eyes and charmingly flushed cheeks. Hear it in her slighty breathless words and pounding heart. In fact, he realized she held herself taut and still, as if trying to keep herself from doing something she was certain she would regret. Considering, Nuada slowly leaned in. Dylan's breath caught in her throat. The prince asked, "And you, my lovely one? What are you thinking in this moment?"

"I..." She trailed off when he nuzzled her temple. His breath ruffled her hair and warmed her already-heated skin. Tingles of electric awareness sparked and danced up and down Dylan's spine when Nuada laid his hand against the small of her back. The heat of his palm penetrated the silk-velvet of the blue dress easily. "I'm thinking that..." Star-gold strands of hair tickled her shoulders and cheek as he continued to nuzzle her. "That I want you to kiss me again," she managed to gasp.

"I cannot," he confessed in a velvet whisper that sent her pulse racing harder. Could not, though he wanted to, badly. Though this could not last, he wanted to give her all the sweet kisses that could be had in what time was available to them, like softly glowing fireflies lighting the way through the dark, caught for a brief space in a jar and cherished for their beauty before having to give them up again.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, he added in a voice meant to tease, "Though you do wonders for my ego, mo duinne."

"I try," Dylan replied breathlessly as Nuada drew a barely-there line along her throat with the very tip of his finger, making her shiver anew.

His voice still held the faintest velvet purr when he said, "I know." Then he pulled back as several presences made themselves known to his psychic senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, getting a hard hold of himself. Nuada swallowed back the adoration simmering like golden heat beneath his skin and said, "But for now, I think it's time for something else."

That distracted her, like dangling a string in front of a kitten. "Time for what?"

"My surprise," he replied, and gestured to the glen.

Dylan turned to see what he was pointing at. Her mouth dropped open and she made a soft, slow exhalation of a sound, a whisper of shock and awe and disbelief and joy. Hands clasped against her chest, almost trembling at the sight, she watched the unicorns appear with wide eyes.

They came in silence to drink from the pool that reflected the stars so beautifully. Their pure white coats shone softly with an inner light. A few were dappled with palest clouds and shadows of soft dove gray. Moonlight illuminated the crystalline luster of shining hoof and delicate, spiraling horn. They seemed almost to glide across the glen, their hooves hardly touching the grass save for a gentle chime with each step. Far more slender and elegant than a horse, with long necks and angular, almost feral-looking faces, their fathomless cobalt eyes reflected the stars overhead more perfectly than the pool. Their silky moonbeam tails and manes unfurled behind them on the faint breeze like banners to catch the shine of those same stars.

They moved with the sort of grace Dylan had never seen from any living creature. Power, the kind that clung to the oldest fae beings like a second skin, breathed along their alabaster hides, giving them an ambient glow like a ring of hoarfrost around the full moon. And when they had finished drinking from the pool, almost as one the entire glory turned to regard the Elven prince and the mortal watching them.

She gasped and tensed, but Nuada squeezed her hand and murmured, "Do not be afraid. If they did not want us here, they would have let us know."

So she held very still and waited as one of the unicorns slowly came forward. Its eyes were the most beautiful shade of sapphire Dylan had ever seen, soft as the spring sky and clear as crystal. They held an ancient wisdom and nobility that made her suddenly feel very, very small, and yet a part of everything all at once. Looking into those eyes erased all of the dread and anger and sorrow she'd been carrying since the attack that afternoon. In its place was peace, and a flickering hope that everything - everything, including her relationship with Nuada - would be all right.

The unicorn stopped so close that if she had wanted to - if she had _dared_ - she could have reached out and touched the pearlescent velvet of its nose. It carried the scent of moonflowers and fresh spring water, sunlit meadows and fresh-tilled earth, and a strange and otherworldly fragrance she didn't quite recognize that teased at her nose a little. It vaguely reminded her of her mother's perfume, when she'd been a little girl and her mother had given her a world's worth of cuddles and hugs. The unicorn's breath puffing against her skin was pleasantly warm.

*Welcome, mortal child,* a rich voice, like the ringing of a bronze bell, echoed in her skull. The unicorn stallion inclined his head a little. Dylan's eyes widened even further and her mouth dropped open again. The stallion added, *Welcome, Silverlance.*

"I thank you, my lord, for allowing me this privilege," Nuada murmured in a tone she'd never heard from him before - one of abject respect and just a faint undercurrent of awe. The normal undercurrent of princely arrogance had all but disappeared. Pressing a fist to his heart, he bowed his head and added, "You have my deepest gratitude."

*You are most welcome, fae child.* The unicorn focused on something at Dylan's throat - her golden medallion. *Star Kindler's daughter, child of the High King of the World, follower of the Holy One of the Lost Tribes.* The impossibly wise, ancient eyes shifted to Dylan's face. *You are injured. Be still.* Very gently, the stallion laid the very tip of his impossibly long, spiraling ivory horn against the mortal woman's bruised cheek.

Dylan held her breath. There was a sudden sting, followed by a pleasant coolness, and then a soft warmth.

*Hold out your hand,* the unicorn added. She obeyed, though her hand trembled. A brush of the horn-tip to the bandaged cut on her left palm gave her the same stinging-coolness-warming sensation. The unicorn stepped back. *It is done. You have other hurts, but these are small and you will survive them without scars. You are always welcome in this glen, mortal maiden. Be well.*

The unicorn turned away and went back to the others. Swiftly thereafter, they withdrew to the darkness of the woods beyond the faerie glen, leaving Dylan speechless with Nuada's arm around her.

"Well," the prince said softly after a long silence. "I must admit I had not expected _that_ part of it_._ Are you all right?"

She nodded very slowly, as if in a daze. "I've only felt this wonderful once in my entire life," she murmured. "I feel incredible." She touched her cheek with hesitant fingers and found no cuts, no dull throb from her bruise. Dylan hastily undid the bandage on her left hand and stared in amazement at the unblemished skin of her palm. "I don't believe it." She flexed her fingers to test for stiffness or pain; there was none. "Wow." Then she looked up into Nuada's eyes. "You... this was what you'd been planning all day. You wanted to show me the unicorns. That's why we didn't leave."

"Yes," he said softly. "You said you wished to see one, and you sounded... so sad then. I thought this would bring you joy." He brushed back her hair where it had fallen into her face and murmured, "You deserve so much that I cannot give you. I hoped that this... would make up for it a little." Calussed fingertips smoothed over the curve of her cheek where a bruise had ached only moments before. His touch was rough velvet against her skin, a barely-there caress. "Are you happy?"

"Yes, Nuada. I'm very happy." She cocked her head to study him in the brilliant light of the moon. "Are you?"

He let his forehead rest against hers. Her lashes fluttered against his skin and her breath was warm, mingling with his. "Yes, Dylan." He could forget, just for a moment, the world and the danger that hounded them. The curse that hung over them in the form of her human blood and his immortality and the grief that would come of it. In this moment in the aftermath of magic, he could whisper to her, "I am happy."

"I love you," she said.

He closed his eyes. How he wanted to say it back to her. Breathe it softly in her ear like a spell in his own tongue, the words interwoven with the twilight mists of Faerie and the lilting magic of Ireland. Instead, he smiled wistfully and said, "I know, amhain a chara, my dear one. I know."

**.**

"Jealous, Captain?"

Oisin glared through the slitted visor of his iron helmet at Padraig, his lieutenant. The only member of his company who would dare jab at him that way, as they'd been friends since their first days after acceptance into the royal guards. He, Captain Oisin mac Conán of the King's Butcher Guards, jealous of that hideous hulking brute the royal whelp dared to call his vassal?

Ridiculous. It merely boggled his mind that someone as scarred and barbaric as Wink Ironfist could possibly manage to snare the woman he now watched dancing with his one good eye.

The rhinemaiden swayed to the haunting melody of a _langeleik_ while the streetlights painted bronze and amber across her fair cheeks. Oisin clenched his fists, feeling the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure, when the siren faerie cast a glance over her shoulder at the troll and smiled. How was it that the traitorous pup and his brutish beast managed to ensnare so many beautiful women while the Butchers were shunned by fae women for the iron in their blood? Even dwarf and redcap females avoided the king's elite.

And _how_ did the troll get someone as beautiful as the snow-fair, golden-eyed daughter of the Rhine who danced through the crowd to where the silver cave troll stood sipping from a tankard? Slender arms slid around Wink's waist and the siren said something to him with another enticing smile.

"You're going to enjoy this, aren't you?" Padraig murmured, watching the revolting pair, oblivious to the crowd and the music and everything else except each other. How sweet; the beast taking his beauty to Midnight Fest. "You're going to enjoy killing him."

"We have our orders," Oisin muttered, watching the rhinemaiden press darkly red lips just behind the broken spur of the troll's tusk. Revulsion pulsed through the Butcher's veins at the sight. "The king's command was very clear. Others are taking care of the mortal and the other little vipers the so-called prince has in his nest."

"But you'll enjoy obeying this particular command, won't you?" Padraig asked, his voice almost a hiss. "You hate him. Both of them - Silverlance _and_ Ironfist. Don't you?" The other Butcher shrugged. "Can't say as I blame you, Captain. I'd personally love to get my hands around that mortal whore's throat and squeeze the life out of her - or maybe just snap her fragile little neck - for embarrassing the Butchers the way she did last month."

Oisin ground his teeth. He'd wanted to kill the little witch himself, for that. For disdaining him, dismissing him. _Him!_ Captain of the royal guard! Did she think her precious Silverlance could ever best him in a battle? Did she truly think he was nothing, for her to ignore him the way she had? Nuada's plaything had dared, and he _ached_ to be the one to show her better.

Yet when they'd received their orders, that hadn't been the plan. He'd asked to see the king, requested to have his orders changed so he could punish the trollop for overstepping her bounds. She was mortal; she had to learn respect for the Tylwyth Teg. Had to learn that the prince's infatuation with her did not protect her from the consequences of disrespecting someone as powerful as Oisin mac Conán.

But the guard captain had been turned away. The king's word was final. So Oisin had been informed by one of the many high-ranking servants that stood between the king and his people. That had been the end of it, as far as the king and the chamberlain and the servant were concerned. Oisin envied whoever had been given the task of killing the tart.

"She'll be taken care of," Oisin reminded his lieutenant. "And yes, Padraig, when it comes time to drive my sword through that beast's chest, I will enjoy killing him."

The other Butcher chuckled a little and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Best you and I take a few men and put an end to his lover first, Captain. She might try to use her voice on us, and then where would we be?"

**.**

Dylan's head was an easy weight on Nuada's shoulder as the carriage pulled up in front of the cottage's gate. She wasn't asleep; merely basking in the warmth of him, the solidness of his body against hers. It surprised her, sometimes, that he was so solidly built and yet his arm around her was so gentle.

_He loves me,_ Dylan reminded herself, and couldn't stop the thrill that shivered through her. _Nuada loves me and I love him and we love each other. How did that happen?_ She was too tired to kick her feet the way she did sometimes when happiness and excitement fizzed in her stomach and fluttered through her like butterfly wings, but she nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder anyway. _He loves me. I can't believe it. He loves me._

"Tired yet?" Nuada asked.

"Mmm," she mumbled. "A little bit. Kind of cold, though." Dylan frowned then, and straightened up. "Are we at the house?"

The Elven warrior studied her. There was a faint shadow behind her eyes. His brows drew down as he watched her face closely. "Dylan? What is it?"

She pressed a hand to her temple and glanced out the window at her brightly-lit cottage. "I was warm a moment ago."

Nuada smiled. "Is that all?" He drew her close to him and brushed his lips against her temple. Her hair smelled of the magic that had clung to everything in the faerie glen. "You're cold? Let me warm you, then."

"No," she said slowly, and the prince's smile slipped away. "No, not... not that kind of cold. Shoot," Dylan added, pressing the heel of her palm to her eye. "I'm tired and kind of loopy from my medicine, so it's hard to focus. I've got a bad feeling suddenly. Like the one in the meadow before the dipsa attacked us. Something... something isn't right." She got up and moved to the carriage door. "We need to get into the house. Something feels off."

The warrior inserted himself between her and the door and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I go first, Dylan."

He waited for her to argue, but she only nodded and followed him out of the Chariot. At the threshold of the garden they felt it again - the sticky, clinging cobweb feeling of dark magic sliding over their skin. The mortal shot him a suddenly-nervous glance. Nuada pursed his lips and ignored the unease pricking along his spine. This time the spell seemed more focused. More malevolent in its intent. But the cool spill of warning sliding down her back told Dylan that the odd sense of magic was _not_ what they needed to worry about right then.

"The door," Dylan said suddenly. Nuada didn't understand the undertone of fear in her words until she added, "The door should have opened the moment we stepped across the threshold. Becan should've opened the door. Something's wrong." Then, each word like a spike of ice driving into Nuada's heart, Dylan whispered in horror, "Nuada, the _children_."

She started forward. He yanked her back. "Never rush into what is probably a trap, especially if you _know_ it is probably a trap."

"But the children-"

"Give me a moment," he bit out from between clenched teeth. Stars curse it, this was bad. Not the situation, no. Not that. He could handle a trap or anything else that might try to come at them in the next few minutes. It was the dread churning in his stomach at the thought of the children in danger. _His_ children. His and Dylan's, their little family. If anyone had hurt those children...

The Elven warrior clenched his teeth and cast out with his senses. The house felt wrong - shadowed, tar-sticky, hollow as a crypt full of old bones. There was nothing, however, in the cottage except the faintest flickers of life near what Nuada was certain was Dylan's bedroom. That was Becan and Bat. But there were no ewah children inside. No enemies lying in wait. Nothing but that tiny sparks that indicated the house sprite and the cat.

"The house is empty," Nuada muttered as they moved toward the door. "There's only Becan and your beast."

Dylan's eyes went wide. Her hand shook as she pulled out her keys. "It's after midnight, Nuada. We saw the unicorns at midnight. It's almost two in the morning. The children should be home from Peri's by now."

Brass hinges squeaked a little as the door swung open and the Elf and the mortal stepped inside. Dylan called for Becan as Nuada scanned the entryway and the corridor that led to the back of the cottage. Movement towards the end of the hall caught his attention. "Dylan!"

She jerked her head around to see Becan coming toward them, looking almost frantic. "Sire, milady!"

"Becan, what is it?" Dylan levered herself to her knees on the floor to bring herself closer to the brownie's level. "Where are the children?"

"I do not know, milady! Lady Peri said she would bring them back at seven-thirty. They never arrived. I thought they would call, at least, but nothing. Mallory Grace came by at eight-thirty to see if the children had returned, because Simon and Jared were at Peri's too. I sent her to the apartment, and Mallory came back an hour later and said the place was wrecked. I sent out a call to some of the local puckles, asked them to take a look. They confirmed what Mallory said. Told me they smelled death in the apartment."

The world tilted alarmingly and for a moment Dylan thought she might actually faint as the blood drained from her head. _The place was a wreck... smelled death..._ "Were... were there any... any bodies or..." She trailed off, unable to finish. She held her breath and waited for the brownie to shatter her composure.

"No, my lady," Becan said gently, and the trapped air escaped her in a dizzying rush. "Only blood - dark green, amber, red, silver, and black. That would account for Lady Kaye, the ewah children, the Grace boys and Mistress Kate, Lady Peri and her son. I do not know where the black blood could have come from."

"Butcher Guards bleed black," Nuada muttered savagely. "Although so do many other fae. Hell's teeth..."

"My lady," Becan added, laying a tiny hand on her good knee. "My lady, there wasn't a lot of the other colors but... there was a lot of amber. The ewah bleed amber. I think... I think one or more of the children might be hurt."

She nodded almost numbly and slowly got to her feet. She drew a deep breath. "What do we do now, Nuada?"

Firegold eyes held hers for a long moment. Dylan understood then that he didn't know what to do. Neither did she. How to find the children? Find Peri and Kaye and the others? Had they been captured by one of Nuada's enemies? Were they being held prisoner? What could either the prince or his lady do without more information? And how to get that information?

_Heavenly Father,_ Dylan prayed, hugging herself and trying to bite back the panic clawing at her throat. _The children... they're missing. Help me, please, they're missing and I don't know what to do. We don't know what to do. The children..._

Becan and Nuada exchanged a glance. The brownie moved to the kitchen and Nuada took Dylan's arm and led her to the leather armchair in the living room. She sank into the chair and stared dully into the newly-built fire. The Elven prince knelt in front of her. Took her hands in his, squeezing gently. "Dylan?"

"This is my fault," she whispered, not looking at him. Her hands were cold as ice. The fire flickered in her eyes as she murmured, "I should have been here. Everything falls apart when I'm not here. I should have known better than to just go off and leave them. They're only children." Dylan bit her lip and finally met his eyes. All the quiet peace and the joy and the glow of their time together had disappeared like smoke in the wind. "They could be hurt. They could be-"

"Stop," he commanded. "We will find them, mo duinne. Alive," he added when she lanced him with a stricken look. A tear rolled down her cheek. "Gods, Dylan, I swear it, we _will_ find them."

"Your father did this," she said.

He shook his head. "We do not know that for certain-"

"He did, Nuada, he _did_," she insisted, voice quavering. She drew her hands out of his grasp and hugged herself against the icy cold gripping her. "He took them or had them taken or something, he's responsible. You said it yourself, Butchers bleed black. And who else but your father knew we would be in the forest today?"

"But why go to the trouble of letting us be there only to attack us?" He countered. "Why go for the children, of all things?"

"Because you care about them," Dylan whispered. "You love them. I can see it in you. Or maybe just to make you look bad in some way. 'The mighty Prince Nuada can't protect his servants' or something. I don't know! He's done other things to embarrass you before the court! He _tortured_ you-"

"A flogging is hardly torture-"

"He had a hand in this," she snapped, and for the first time lost the shellshocked look she'd carried since realizing the children were in trouble. "I know he's your father and I know you love him, but the king. Did. This. It's the only explanation that fits. He took them!" Then the fire in her eyes died down. She dropped her face in her hands. "What if he h-hurts them? He was willing to hurt _you_. What are we going to do?"

He opened his mouth to say something - though he had no idea what - when Becan came in with a steaming mug of cider. "Milady," he murmured, and floated the mug to her. She took a sip. Closed her eyes. Becan hesitated for a moment. "My lady... if I may speak freely?" Dylan waved her hand in a gesture of weary permission. "I am not a noble," the brownie said. "Nor have I ever been in the employ of one. I am a simple common house-sprite. But I trust His Highness's judgment. You always have. Trust him now. If he doubts the king's complicity, perhaps His Majesty is not the one responsible."

Nuada laid his hand on Dylan's knee. His look was excruciatingly gentle. "I do not discount the possibility my father is our enemy in this," he said, and the words burned his throat like salt and noon-forged steel. "But it is a tactical error to focus on one enemy while others circle round about, intent on our blood." He stroked her knee. "We will get them back, mo duinne. We will."

A frantic knock hammered at the front door. Heat bloomed in Dylan's chest. "Who is that?" At her gesture, Becan went to the door, and in seconds a disheveled dryad stumbled into the living room and fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Dylan cried, "Lena!"

The hamadryad's cargo pants and t-shirt were ripped. Spatters of black and dark green stained her shirt. Browning amber blood soaked the sleeve of her hoodie. Scrapes across her high cheekbone and one arm oozed dark green blood. Bruises stained the skin around one eye and the corner of her mouth. A cut split her bottom lip. Viridian eyes were wide and more than a little shocky. "Dylan! Dylan, Tsu's'di... Tsu's'di and... they..."

Somehow they managed to get the wood sprite into a chair. The mortal pressed a cup of something clear and sparkling with silver glints, provided by her brownie, into Lena's trembling hand. Dylan noticed the girl's knuckles were scraped and bleeding. "Here, honey, drink this. It'll help."

After a few quick swallows the dryad's shakes subsided.

"Now, slowly," Dylan murmured. "From the beginning. What happened?"

"We were at Peri's," Lena whispered. Her voice threatened to crack, but never quite did. "I wanted to see Tsu's'di, but he said he had to watch his brother and sister. I was cool with that. It's cool. He's a nice guy. So we were all chilling at Peri's and there was a knock at the door. Peri asked one of these human kids to get it. We were all in the room, so what was the big deal, right? Even if it was a robber or something. But it wasn't a robber," she added, and her hands began to shake again so hard that the liquid in the cup sloshed against the sides. "I don't know what those things were."

"Were they fae?" Nuada demanded. It was the first time he'd spoken since Lena's arrival. "Or human?"

"Fae," she mumbled. "No human could handle Tsu's'di like that. They were all in black, like wool or something. I couldn't tell. Their eyes... crimson faerie fire. Looking in their eyes, I felt like I was surrounded by trees blackening in a wildfire. I couldn't move. Then one of them attacked me. And Tsu's'di, he... he saved me. He p-pushed me out of the way. He saved me, he got hurt," she added, tears thickening her voice. "They hit him with something and there was so much blood and he hit the floor and..."

"Lena, listen to me," Dylan said. Her no-nonsense doctor's voice helped push back the girl's fear and shock. It also helped Dylan to shove down the sudden panic. _So much blood..._ "Do you know where Tsu's'di and the others are? Were you all together?"

She nodded and took a sip of the water. "Kaye said we had to get to the Unseelie Court. We'd be safe there. She said her guy, Roiben, his healers could take care of Tsu's'di and the kids. But those things ch-chased us and Tsu's'di was bleeding and everyone was hurt, we weren't going to make it, so I stayed behind to buy some time. The forest..."

She met Dylan's eyes and for a moment there was a feral satisfaction in the depths of her leaf-green eyes, underneath the fear and shock.

"The forest was pissed. Those things stank of death and blood and rotting flesh. The Park woods were furious. The trees... they did what they could. The others got away - Kaye hailed a cab - then I hid out in the woods and waited for you to come back so I could tell you. When the trees told me you were back, I started for your house and those things tried to catch me so I ran here. They couldn't get past the gate."

"The wards around the cottage are still strong, my lady. Whatever chased Lena is gone now," Becan said when Dylan glanced at the brownie. "But I sensed something dark and cold at the edge of the property for a minute."

Dylan shoved her hands through her hair and nodded. "Okay. It's a bit of a drive from here to Jersey," she said. "I need to go to Roiben's court. We have to get the children, make sure they're all right. Bring them home." Blue eyes flicked to Nuada's face. "Can we take the carriage?"

Nuada inclined his head. "Of course, my lady."

"Dylan," Lena added when the mortal turned back to her. "There was something else in the woods. It's still there. I don't know what it is. It's not bad, exactly... more damaged or... or something. I'm not sure. It's past the boundaries of my territory. But you should be careful when you're out in the Park for a while, okay?"

"Okay."

"Dark and cold," Dylan murmured as the brownie took Lena to change clothes in Dylan's room. "Eyes of crimson faerie fire. Stank of death. Not Butchers, then. A corpse-drinker of some kind, maybe?" She sighed. Passed a hand over her face. "I'm sorry, Nuada. For accusing your father so vehemently. You were right; it wasn't the Butcher Guards."

"It is well enough, mo cridh," the prince said softly, skimming his fingers over the curve of her cheek. She started a little at the endearment _my heart,_ then relaxed into the touch. The burning cold along her spine was beginning to dissipate. "You are worried for the children. It's understandable. I am worried as well. But we will be with them soon."

She nodded. Sighed again. "And that second thing... whatever Lena sensed on the fringes... I don't know. It worries me. A lot. It means something bad, I can feel it." She rubbed her temple. "I've had this weird sense of foreboding for the last few hours, but I thought it was just that our date was over and someone had tried to kill us. But I don't think that's it. I think it has something to do with whatever's in the Park."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, no. I just... just... lemme try and see if I can get a feeling or something." Dylan closed her eyes and pushed down everything, trying to focus on that weird uneasiness she'd been feeling off and on for the last couple of hours. _Why?_ She asked silently. _Why do I feel so uneasy? What's going on?_

Suddenly she swayed, stumbled a step. Something bright and electric hot exploded behind her eyes. She cried out hoarsely. Her face went stark white and she started to sink. Nuada's arms came around her immediately. Dylan clung to him, shaking, panting for breath and pressing herself against him as if she were attempting to fold them into one person, attempting to hide inside his solid strength.

"What is it?" He demanded, tightening his grip when he felt her begin to slip. "Dylan? What's wrong?"

"I can't breathe," she gasped. Groped blindly for the arm of the chair. "I can't... can't breathe. I can't..." He helped her sink back into the chair. She pressed her hands to her chest, struggling to breathe. "No," she whispered. "No, it's happening again, no, don't leave me..."

He gripped her hand and lightly touched her throat with his free hand, above where the pulse fluttered weakly. Was this a flashback? Was one of the mental blocks Nuala had placed in Dylan's mind allowing a psychic-memory to resurface? "I'm here, Dylan. It's all right."

"Not you," she whimpered, shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Not you. Something's wrong, I can feel it, it's happening again."

"What is?" Nuada asked calmly. "What's happening again? What is it?"

A yawning abyss threatened to stretch open beneath her feet. Ice-cold rivulets of sweat chilled her blood, left her trembling violently. She could feel a part of her, a soft golden warmth always in the back of her mind, slowly fading, slowly slipping away. Dylan grasped for it but she wasn't psychic, couldn't hold onto that piece of her soul that was separate and yet so integral to her.

"John, it's John," she breathed, feeling him fading, feeling the light going dim in the back of her skull. Twice before she'd nearly lost that light. She couldn't lose it now, not _now_... "Nuada, something's wrong with John, he's in trouble, he's hurt, I don't know, I..."

Firm pressure on her hands kept her anchored, kept the world from falling away into nothingness and void. A firm, gentle voice pierced the frigid panic choking her. "Your brother? You can feel him?"

"Yes," she whispered. "No... it's slipping. He's always there in the back of my mind but he's fading now, I think he's hurt but I didn't feel it because I took something for the pain earlier tonight. It left me a little loose and I couldn't feel him, but now he's fading, Nuada, he's in trouble! I think... I think..." She swallowed salt and jagged glass and managed to choke out, "I think he's dying."

Firegold eyes widened. "You are certain?"

She shook her head. "No, but... the last time this happened, he'd been shot, he was in surgery and his heart stopped and it felt like everything inside me was breaking apart and I thought I would die, too, I can't lose him, I _can't_, Nuada, please, you have to find him, you have to help him!" Dylan blinked and a vague look overspread her face. "He's in the Park," she whispered. "The thing Lena sensed... Nuada, it's him, I know it's him, you have to go get him, please! Before he..."

Dark lips pursed as tears coursed unheeded down Dylan's cheeks. It was impossible that this was merely a coincidence - he and Dylan attacked the same day as the children, and then Dylan's brother. Who next? Wink? Lorelei? Aso? Erik? Surely those four could take care of themselves, as could his other allies, but... should he not go to Wink and warn him? And the same with the others? John Myers was a waste of air, so should not the prince focus on his vassal and some of his oldest and most loyal friends?

"Please, Nuada," she begged. Her grip on his hand tightened until her knuckles turned white. White spots stood out where her fingers pressed hard against his skin. Those beautiful blue eyes were wide with desperation as she pleaded, "Nuada, I'm begging you, please... I have to get to the children, but John... he's my brother. I need him. I love him. Please, please, _please_..."

The Elven prince growled something savage under his breath as he got to his feet. For that soulless, gutless whelp? Truly? She would ask him this? After all the human had said to him, all the insults and the vicious verbal barbs?

Each of her tears cut him like a blade of razor-edged diamonds.

"Becan," Nuada snapped, and the brownie came racing into the living room. "See to it that Lady Dylan and the dryad, Lena, make it into the carriage in front of the gates safely. If anything happens to them," he added, "I shall take it out of your hide."

Wide-eyed, the brownie nodded quickly. "Y-yes, Sire. But where will you be?"

Getting to his feet, Nuada spat out through gritted teeth, "Saving my lady's brother... wherever the cur might be." He hated even the idea of it - his attempt to rescue a human getting in the way of joining Dylan in reaching the children as swiftly as possible - but the naked relief and gratitude and love in Dylan's eyes had him biting back an oath. She was making him soft. Ah, well. "I will meet you at Roiben's court."

"Okay." Dylan caught his hand as he started for the door. "Thank you, Nuada. Thank you."

_Her idiot brother had better appreciate this as well_, the Elven warrior grumbled silently as he stepped back out into the darkness of the Park.

**.**

Pressing a feebly shaking hand to the wound at his side, John Myers let his head fall back against the trunk of a dogwood tree.

Where was he, anyway? Somewhere in Central Park, but he'd lost track of his whereabouts long ago. How long had he been staggering through the woods? How long had he been bleeding? Scarlet drenched the lower left side of his shirt. Seeped through his cold-numbed fingers. Every breath sent fresh pain burning through the wound.

_Oh, D, I'm in deep trouble this time,_ he thought, trying to fight the cold- and blood-loss-induced sleepiness with a weak shake of his head that set the world to spinning in circles and tangles and blurs of white and black and crimson. _Come find me, D._

He'd underestimated those guys tailing him. Hadn't realized they were Other Kin. Shandymen, Dylan called them. They looked like people until you got close; then they looked like scarecrows with demon eyes. Hadn't known fae could drive cars; the iron should have repelled them, shouldn't it? Even Dylan's friend Kaye had a problem with cars. But there'd been no problem for those shambling freaks.

_I need help._

His gun had had no effect. Bullets didn't bother straw-stuffed, dead-fleshed monsters, after all. Iron didn't bother them. White oak didn't, either. Rosemary, elder leaves, holey stones, four-leaf clover... nothing. All of Dylan's old remedies and protective charms nullified somehow. But how?

_Dylan, I need help._ The world was slipping away from him as cold seeped into his legs, from his hands up his arms, across his face. So cold now. Snow swirling everywhere. He'd been in a coat. Only thing that had kept the twenty-one-year-old from freezing to death so far. _Please. Come find me._ Wouldn't last much longer, though. Not bleeding buckets like he was.

Too much blood. He could see tiny scarlet rivulets trickling along the white-as-bones snow. _Don't let me die here, Sis, please._ John closed his eyes and tried to remember his twin sister's so scarred and so beautiful face. The world kept on slipping by as he thought sluggishly, _Please, come find me, Dylan. Please..._

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So I'm rushing because my dinner is getting cold and my microwave is broken. I hope you guys liked the chapter_. =D _Here's the review prompts. Oh, and everyone should watch ABC's_ Once Upon a Time _series, which is amazing. Cyprith is THE author to read in that fandom. Her and TriplePirouette._

_1) Nuada and Dylan's argument (sigh). Thoughts? Who thinks who is right? Who thinks they're both being stupid?_

_2) The pseudo-confession! What do we think of Nuada's pseudo-confession of love? Who's excited? Who's unhappy? Was it realistic? Was Dylan's reaction realistic? Was it too angsty or just angsty enough?_

_3) Who thinks the king sent the snakes, the Butchers, the shandymen, and/or the dullahan? If not him, then who?_

_4) The scene in the glen! What do we think of it? Is it romantic? Sappy? Lame? Cute? How was the kiss?_

_5__) The unicorns! Unicorns are hard, because they can come across as ridiculous or stupid or saccharine. How did I do?_

_Loves to you all! Hope you liked the chapter!_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _a group of unicorns is actually called "a glory." Like how you have a pod of dolphins, a herd of cows, and pack of wolves. It's a glory of unicorns. It's also an anthology by Bruce Coville._

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Irish mist is an actual alcohol, based on a 1000-yr-old recipe, but the name is actually fairly new (from the early 1900s).

- If you want to see what happens to Wink and Lorelei, go read the HB fic, "Caves and Rivers," by OceanFire9, looking for the word-prompt "Midnight" in chapter 4.

- The song playing in Fafner's Cave is "Pretty Girl" by Sugarcult.

- Dullahan are Irish fae. The Irish dullahan (also Gan Ceann, meaning "without a head" in Gaelige) is a type of unseelie fairie. It is headless, usually seen riding a black horse and carrying his head under one arm. The head's eyes are massive and constantly dart about like flies, while the mouth is constantly in a hideous grin that touches both sides of the head. The flesh of the head is said to have the color and consistency of moldy cheese. The dullahan's whip is actually a human corpse's spine, and the wagons they sometimes use are made of similarly funereal objects (e.g. candles in skulls to light the way, the spokes of the wheels made from thigh bones, the wagon's covering made from a worm-chewn pall). When the dullahan stops riding, it is where a person is due to die. The dullahan calls out their name, at which point they immediately perish. There is no way to bar the road against a dullahanall locks and gates open on their own when it approaches. Also, they do not appreciate being watched while on their errands, throwing a basin of blood on those who dare to do so (often a mark that they are among the next to die), or even lashing out the watchers' eyes with their whips. Nonetheless, they are frightened of gold, and even a single gold pin can drive a dullahan away. The myth may have inspired the Headless Horseman in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

- The poem Peri is reading to the kids is called "The Cailleach Bheur" by Jane Yolen, featured in the anthology _the Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest._

- Shandymen are inventions of either HP Lovecraft of Caitlin Kittredge, author of the Lovecraft-inspired novels _the Iron Thorn_ and _the Nightmare Garden_. The only way to kill a shandyman is with fire. They look like stitched-together scarecrows whose mouths are stitched on, who suck the souls out of young girls. In this fic they suck the life out of young girls because it's impossible to take someone's actual soul.

- There's more but I'm out of time!


	54. A Father's Love

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So_ _I've got some bad news. "Once Upon a Time" is going on a brief - I repeat, __**BRIEF**_ _- hiatus (aka, for 2/3 of April) because of two things._

_One, my brother is getting married and he lives in another state, so I'm going to be gone for like a week, with no internet access (what will I do?) and no time to do anything but wedding stuff._

_Two, my grandmother passed away a few days ago, and her memorial service is going to be a week before my brother's wedding, so I'm going to be gone for another week, in the same situation, basically (except I might have some brief internet access)._

_I'll still be able to PM people and possibly leave reviews for anyone that I owe, but I can't take my files for "Once Upon a Time" with me to where I'm going, and so I'm probably not going to have a chance to update past chapter 55 (yes, I'm going to try and post chapter 55 before I leave). And then when I get back, I'm gonna need a week to recover from jetlag and traveling, since we're returning by car and it's a 4-day trip._

_So... between April, like, 10 and 30th, there won't be any updates. I just wanted to let you guys know because I'm not going to be dead or anything. Okay?_

_Oh, and if anyone cares, my birthday is April 8th. =) So I'll try - though I make no promises - that if I can get chapter 55 up by the 1st, that I will do my bestest to get chapter 56 up on my birthday. Okay? But I can't make any promises._

_Loves! Enjoy the chapter._

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**Chapter Fifty-Four**

**A Father's Love**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Ravens, Idiots, Scarecrows, Stewards, a Brief Sanctuary, Comfort, Promises, War Talk, Bad News, and a Blade Held in Trust**

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She didn't want to leave Nuada. Not for a moment. Not after seeing him swarmed by lethal white vipers that could kill with a single bite. Not after the attack that had nearly killed them both. Not after finding out that the children, _their_ children, had been attacked. And especially not after the Elven warrior prince had agreed to track down her twin brother, who was slowly dying somewhere in the snow-shrouded blackness of the Park.

But Dylan had to go with Lena to the Night Court of King Roiben Darktithe, had to bring 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di and Tsu's'di - Tsu's'di, whose golden blood had soaked Lena's now-discarded hoodie and who had fallen and not gotten back up - home again. So she watched Nuada disappear like a shadow against the black bones of the wintry trees and the cold whiteness of the snowy woods before she and the hamadryad known as Lena got into the ensorcelled carriage and it took off for New Jersey and Roiben's Unseelie court.

The mortal psychiatrist prayed, the whisper of her lips moving nearly soundlessly the only thing to break the tense silence. She prayed for her young bodyguard, who might have died once separated from the dryad who seemed sweet on him. She prayed for Tsu's'di's little brother and sister, who must have been so scared. For Kaye and Kate, Peri and Bean, for the Grace twins who had been visiting the sidhe woman's apartment when it had been attacked by whoever and whatever had decided to attempt killing innocent fae and human children.

Yet her most fervent prayers were for her twin. She could sense John against the back of her skull, like light and warmth. The light was dimming slowly, like a candleflame when the wax had nearly burnt down to nothing but a spreading puddle. His warmth had already begun to fade, leaving his sister shivering with a cold that nothing could dispel. The comforting heat of the Holy Ghost alone managed to stave off her panic as the chill increased. And the feel of John, that sense that he was there at the very back of her mind, once as strong as the thundering beat of her heart after running through the New Jersey woods as children... it had been reduced to the faintest flutter against Dylan's brain, like butterfly wings.

Lena prayed, too. Star Kindler, many of the Elves called the High King of the World. Rain Bringer, the wood sprites called Him. Known by many names, He was the one the mortal woman and the fae girl turned to now as icy fear threatened to snuff out even a glimmer of hope.

"What were those things, Dylan?" Lena asked softly as the carriage rolled through the winter night, fleet as a shadow. "The things that attacked us?"

"I'm not sure," the older woman murmured. "Do you remember anything else about them?'

Slender, dark brows drew down as the dryad tried to think past the paralyzing fear of the attack. "Bean... Bean threw a book at one of them. They'd grabbed Kate, I don't know what they were going to do to her. Mumbling stuff about humans and iron and how the iron in her blood would taste sweet, which didn't make any sense. And Bean went nuts, started throwing stuff. Books and dishes and just whatever he could grab. Knocked one of their heads off."

Dylan jerked upright. "He's still a little boy, even if he _is_ sidhe. He shouldn't have the strength to do that!"

"Well, he did," Lena mumbled. "But there wasn't any blood. It was like the thing's head had already been cut off and was just sitting on its neck and Bean just knocked it down. It had this huge, freaky smile. They all did, bigger than a noc's in human form-"

"Dullahan," the mortal muttered, fists clenching. "Irish bogles. They usually carry their severed heads under their arms except in battle, they have huge grins like corpse-drinkers, they wear all black, they _bleed_ black, and they're not allergic to iron. And," she added with a snarl that had Lena staring at her wide-eyed, "most importantly," and now she was so cold, the fury was like shards of ice in her stomach, ice water down her back, "they can only be commanded by a fae royal."

Viridian eyes nearly popped out of the dryad's head. "A fae royal? But who? All the fae kingdoms are in alliance since the final war with the humans-"

The carriage jerking to a bone-jarring halt cut off Lena's words. Ice spilled down Dylan's spine and she and Lena locked eyes. The girl's held a question. Dylan nodded slowly and laid a hand to the dirk at her waist. A slender bronze knife appeared in the dryad's grip as they peered out the window in the carriage's right-hand door.

In the time they'd been praying and talking, the carriage had made it into the woods of Jersey. Now a ring of dark shapes held the Chariot from moving forward any further. One of the dark shapes stepped forward. Dylan saw porcelain-fine skin lit to death-whiteness by the nearly-full moon, webbed with tiny cracks. Dark eyes lacking discernible sclera stared at the carriage. Spiked hair gleaming midnight-purple jutted up from the narrow skull. The creature was missing an arm. When it smiled, moonlight glinted off of its jagged teeth.

"Nocs," Dylan whispered, frowning. "Purple. Never seen purple nocs before. That's not Pinfeathers," she added, referring to one of the princes of the nocs' "murders," as a group of the raven-like fae were called. "Or Scrimshaw. I don't know any of the other noc princes, but I know them. They wouldn't attack me. Pinfeathers can't and Scrimshaw's too old to want to."

"Why are so many Unseelie fae coming after you today? Dipsa, dullahan, whatever got your brother. Now nocs. Don't nocs normally go after poets and artists and stuff? Like the leanashe do. Or they go after dead people for food."

The mortal lifted a shoulder. "Normally. Don't know what they want, but I can guess. Three attacks in one day - that's no coincidence. They're probably here to finish the job. Although I'm surprised any of the nocs would dare." At Lena's look, Dylan added, "Their queen, Ligeia, is married to Moundshroud. They don't like each other much, but she should know better than to provoke him by coming after me. She knows he and I are friends. Unless they're enemies of Arawn Death-Lord and don't know I'm the one in here, but Ligeia wouldn't be stupid enough to tick _him_ off, either. Not the Master of the Fell Crochan. _Her_ kingdom, what she controls separate from Moundshroud, is too small to have a hope of taking anyone on, unless she's got an alliance with someone else. Moundshroud's so powerful, and Arawn's no pushover. Ligeia's ally would have to be a fae monarch of some kind."

_They're keeping me from Tsu's'di,_ Dylan thought, and was almost startled by the sudden surge of dark anger twining around her heart like thorns. _From 'Sa'ti and A'du. I am_ not _happy about that. Not one. Little. Bit._

So far today, her date had been ruined by poisonous snakes, she'd ended up bruised, sliced by rocks and her own knife, she and Nuada had had a fight for the first time since that winter night when he'd left her, her friends and her children had been attacked, someone had tried to kill the man she loved more than her own life, and her twin brother was out there in the killingly cold night, possibly - probably - dying. And now her carriage was being held up by carrion-eating bird fae who had no business bothering _her_, of all people, today of all days.

Dylan twisted in her seat and banged on the dark carriage wall. A sliding panel opened up, letting in biting winter air from the cool shadows outside. A skeletal, pig-snouted face peeked down through the panel. "Eh? _Fy arglwyddes_? What is it?"

"Keep going," she ordered, feeling a whisper of reassuring warmth piercing the cold of warning and the icy anger. Lena jerked and stared at her. This was not the Dylan who sought to heal, sought to protect. This was Dylan with cobalt ice in her eyes and a grim set to her scarred mouth, a Dylan more angry than the dryad had ever seen her in the nearly six years mortal and fae had been acquainted. Dylan added, "If you hit them, they'll scatter like pigeons."

The panel slid closed again as the skeletal Welsh goblin grunted in satisfaction. The carriage lurched into motion once more. Something smashed hard against the door window. For a moment, Dylan thought she saw a raven, one black-marble eye fixed on her face, before the purple-gleaming feathery mess slid away. From outside came the sound of cracking porcelain.

"Do you feel bad at all about running them over?" Lena asked.

Dylan studied Lena, who still clutched her bronze knife. "No. They don't feel pain, for one. And they can put themselves back together again. Dismember one, cut off his head, and his brothers will put the pieces back together and he'll get up, walk around, and act like it never happened. I've seen them do that; it's how I met Scrimshaw. What happened to your gladius?" The human added.

A sheepish look crossed the dryad's face. "I left it at home."

The human's smile was wan, but it lightened both their hearts. The dryad wasn't used to that regal and more than a little ruthless woman where her usually warm, caring mortal friend had once been. Rubbing her left temple, Dylan teased tiredly, "Where it will do you much good, I'm sure."

Lena stuck out her tongue at the older woman, ignoring the crunching of what sounded like shattering china beneath carriage wheels.

**.**

Beyond the wards of Dylan's idyllic little cottage garden, beyond the clusters of oak and fir and other evergreens that Lena, daughter of Balanos, called her territory, Prince Nuada Silverlance followed the tiny dribbles of darkly frozen crimson so stark against the moonwashed snow. Human blood was one of the easiest means of tracking mortals; the coppery stench of it practically smeared the air, burning the Elven warrior's nostrils and stinging the back of his throat with the iron of it. And along with the blood, he followed a mind whose lightest touch enraged him. To track his lady's brother in order to rescue the feckless cur sickened him. To offer rescue to one who had accused him of... of...

_You just let it happen. You just watched them hurt her._ Mortal words that still, for some unfathomable reason, possessed the power to claw at him like dipsa talons, to gnaw at him like rabid wolves in the dark. As if he would ever, _ever_ allow Dylan to come to harm if he still retained a single breath in his chest or a drop of blood in his body. He would never just stand by while their enemies hurt her, tormented her. Raped her. He hadn't stood by, by the Fates, he hadn't! But that wretched boy had had the gall to accuse him of worse things. _You enjoy twisting her up and breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her._

He'd hurt Dylan, yes. Put more than one crack in her already-broken heart. But he hadn't enjoyed it. Had hated it. Hated seeing the pain in her eyes whenever he rebuffed her, when he'd said those damning words that had left a scar on Dylan's heart. And now Nuada would do anything - _anything_ - to erase those words forever.

Which was why he was doing this. For her. Because she'd asked him to. Begged him to, pleaded with him. Because he could deny her almost nothing when tears glimmered in those fey-like blue eyes like jewels and he could taste the anguish and desperation in her, the heartache looming like a thunderstorm. Stars curse the whelp for wrapping Dylan around his little finger that way.

Nuada smelled death before he saw the black shape slumped into the snow against the trunk of a dogwood. The sickly sweet carrion stench of rotting meat, the muggy stink of moldering wood, and the crackling dry scent of old straw warned him even as the prince sprinted toward John Myers, clinging to consciousness despite the shivers that wracked his body and the thin streams of crimson staining the crystalline snow.

Pale blue-gray eyes flickered as Nuada crouched beside the mortal and pressed his hand to the whelp's face. His skin was cool to the touch, slick with pain-sweat despite the frigid temperature. Those eyes - so similar, the Elf realized with a sudden lancing behind his breastbone, to Dylan's lovely eyes that saw so very much - blinked once before focusing on the moon-pale face above them.

"Oh, crap," John muttered when he recognized the corpse-faced ghoul his twin had fallen head over heels for. "D's gonna kill me. I'm dead. I'm dead and I'm in hell; that's why you're here. Crap."

"Shut up, mangy ingrate," Nuada growled, studying the wound above the human's left ear. The brown hair was dark and tacky with freezing blood. Licks of frozen scarlet held fast to John's cheek and jaw from his ear. Concussion, quite probably, then. Scrapes across the cheek and jaw as well. Bruises. Split left eyebrow. The Elven warrior turned his attention to the vicious wound in the human's side. "Believe me, I have better things to do than haunt your afterlife."

The mortal's eyes lost focus for a moment. The prince noticed one pupil had dilated wider than the other. Definitely a concussion. John blinked rapidly before peering at the Elf. "They wrecked my Mustang. Those freaking scarecrows wrecked my Mustang."

"And all the world laments your terrible misfortune," the prince muttered, speaking more to give the concussed and bleeding human something to focus on than out of any true need to respond to such complaints.

"I hate you. You know that, right?"

"The feeling is quite mutual," the Elven warrior snarled. He probed the injury with the brisk efficiency of one trained in dealing with battle-wounds. A deep thrust with a rough spike. Wood, perhaps. A few splinters had caught on John's blood-soaked shirt. Missed any major blood vessels, but belly wounds always bled profusely. And he couldn't gauge the trauma to the mortal's internal organs, not in the dark. "Now shut up so I can concentrate on keeping you from bleeding to death." Much as he would have liked to watch the irritating little pest bleed out on the snow.

John almost laughed - a chuckle got caught in his throat - but the tiny spasm of hilarity sent agony knifing through his side and deep into his stomach and chest. His breath hissed through his teeth. His hands spasmed at the sudden knifing pain. "Does that get you anywhere with Miss Stubborn? Telling her to shut up?"

Against Nuada's will, dark lips quirked a minute fraction at the corners. "I have never tried it. I'm not a fool." There was no help for it; he would have to sacrifice yet another tunic to preserving mortal blood. Quickly stripping it off, leaving only his shirt to protect him from the frigid winter cold, Nuada ripped the tunic into adequate pieces. Folding one into a cloth pad, he pressed it to the ragged wound in John's side before tying it in place.

The stench of the shandymen - straw and rotting flesh and moldy wood, it had to be the scarecrow-like corpse-drinkers - grew stronger with every passing second. Nuada couldn't hear them, couldn't detect them, even with sharp Elven senses, but that didn't mean a thing. They were as silent as ghosts when hunting, and adept at hiding almost in plain sight.

"Can't breathe," John gasped as Nuada tied the makeshift bandage tight. "Seriously..."

"Good," the prince muttered, reaching for the chain around his neck. It snapped with a sharp jerk. Nuada slid the golden ring onto the heart-finger of his right hand, slipping the broken chain into his trouser pocket. He could repair that later. Moonlight glinted off the blood-dark ruby of the golden ring. "Your breath is foul enough as is. I do not wish to smell it more than I have to."

Once the Elven warrior had hoisted the mortal to his feet, moving beneath John's arm to take most of the human's weight, John demanded in a mumbling wheeze, "What does she see in you, anyway? It's not your looks. You look like you're dead."

Firegold eyes scanned the surrounding woods. No shambling darkness against the white to tell him the shandymen were anywhere nearby. But the smell was getting stronger, strong enough now to choke on, and he could hear the _crunch-shuffle-rustle_ of their movements as they came closer and closer, hunting for fresh mortal blood and life-spark.

"You got her with chocolate, didn't you?" John mumbled. "Or was it flowers? She loved those flowers you gave her. And the socks... she's a sucker for silly socks. Gotta admit, I was surprised. Thought that would be beneath your princely dignity, Your Royal Assness. Where the heck are we going?" John tried to shift and something grated in his chest. Darkness flickered across his vision for a moment. "Oh, jeez, lets get out of here. Please. If you're gonna kill me, just do it so I can die already. I think my ribs are broken."

Every warrior's instinct prickled as the sound of shambling steps over ice-crusted snow suddenly stopped. A whisper of battle-lust threaded through Nuada's blood. _Shandymen_. They could not be slain with blades or arrows, with killing blows or poisonous iron. Only fire would destroy them. And they fed on the blood and lifeforce of humans and, if provoked, other fey creatures. "Broken ribs are the least of your problems, whelp."

The whelp in question spat a mouthful of crimson and grunted, "Shut up, douche bag."

Though not distracted by the human's crude language, Nuada slanted one topaz eye in his lady's twin's direction. The mortal was hideously pale. Fresh blood from his split eyebrow dripped onto his cheek beneath his half-focused eye. "I could leave you to die here, you stupid human boy."

John snorted, then winced at the way this made his temples throb and his chest scream. He didn't dare attempt shaking his head. "No you couldn't. She sent you out here, didn't she? Sent you to find me." When the prince said nothing, John's mouth stretched in a humorless smile. "Play fetch, like a good dog. For _once_," he added darkly. The fingers of Nuada's free hand twitched with the sudden longing to be wrapped around the mortal's scrawny neck. "You're just trying to get on her good side for some reason. Which means you can't just ditch me. I'm not an idiot."

Nuada shifted the infuriating human who was somehow inexplicably kin to the woman who'd become the light of the his heart and twisted the golden ring sinistral once. "_That_ is a point I am sorely tempted to debate," he growled at the idiot in question. "Be quiet, I need to listen." He turned the ring a second time.

"Dude, can we just-"

"Be quiet or I will break your jaw." If he returned the brat to Dylan a little more damaged than when he'd found him, at least the prince would have a valid excuse - _reason_, he grumbled to himself, _a warrior does not give excuses_ - to give her. But, somewhat to Nuada's disappointment, the imbecile took the threat seriously and finally grew quiet. Nuada turned the ring a third time just as the shandymen staggered into view.

Scarecrows of rough burlap given life looked nearly the same, except for the eyes and mouth. The mouths of shandymen looked like midnight without stars stitched into the cottage-cheese vileness of corpse flesh. Their eyes burned blue as hot aether, as if some mazarine hellfire smoldered there. That fire only flared to an inferno when those stitched mouths touched the lips of a victim and tasted pure life flowing hot as blood and freely as wine. He had never fought one before - never _seen_ one so close - but the warrior in him pushed to fight now.

"Thhhe kiiing's seeervaaant waaas riiight aaabout thiiis ooone," the lead shandyman groaned, shambling forward. "Frieeends iiin hiiigh plaaaces, yeees."

Nuada froze. His breath stilled in his chest. His heart hammered so loudly he could scarcely hear his own thoughts. The king's servant. The king. The _king?_ Surely not... surely not his father. Not Balor. His father would not have sent such beings after a human, knowing what the corpse-drinkers did to the children of Adam. But then... what king?

Could Dylan have been right? Could his father be responsible?

John moaned and slumped against the prince as the last of his strength failed, and Nuada fought against the urge to blister the air with vicious invectives. Instead, the Elven warrior glanced at the ring and, in soft Gaelic, murmured, "So that we might always find each other." He closed his eyes as the shandymen screamed in fury and the spell laid into the rings dragged at him, dragged at the mortal touching him, and wrenched them both through the darkness of the between places toward the small, bright object that held the spell firmly anchored.

**.**

"Get out of my way, Ruddles," Dylan snapped at the fang-toothed sprite blocking the entryway to the sithen that belonged to Roiben's Night Court. The way itself was open, yawning like a golden gate leading beneath the earth, but the king's diminutive majordomo refused her and the dryad at her side admittance. The Chariot of Annwn was parked at the edge of the park housing the faerie mounds, so the Welsh goblins would be of no help. Besides, they were from another kingdom entirely, and were only coachmen besides. Nothing compared to a king's chamberlain.

But she was a prince's lady. Surely _that_ was something to stand up to the authority wielded by the king's highest ranking servant. Especially when this prince's lady was the particular friend of the Unseelie king's consort.

"Humans have no business in the court of King Roiben Darktithe," the faerie hissed, baring his wicked little teeth in a mocking smile.

Dylan wasn't fooled. She knew that Ruddles didn't particularly care for his king, even after everything Roiben had done to protect the Unseelie fae from their enemies. In fact, the former Elf knight would have probably said his steward hated him. He certainly hated Roiben "slumming," as Kaye put it, since Kaye was one of the solitary common-born fae (and a changeling raised by humans at that), one who held employment as a shopkeeper, whereas Roiben was a former Elf knight from a noble Seelie family who'd won both the faerie crowns of New Jersey. And since Ruddles didn't like Roiben and detested Kaye, he loathed Kaye's human friends as well.

"If Prince Nuada Silverlance arrives to find his lady left out on the doorstep," Lena began, her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets to protect them from the nocturnal bite of winter, "he's going to be royally pissed, if you'll pardon the pun."

"The Exiled One is not welcome in this court," Ruddles hissed. Dylan stiffened.

"Since when?" The mortal demanded. "I spoke to Kaye not even a week ago and was reminded that the Night Court of King Roiben is open to any who can get the stupid gate open. We opened the gate. Sithen's open. I'm here at the invitation of the Unseelie king's consort. Now get out of my way before I whack you with something. Or need I remind you I outweigh you by more than a hundred pounds and I'm three times your size?"

Glittering black eyes narrowed almost to slits. "You would threaten a member of the king's household in his own court, human?"

_Oh, crud,_ she thought, fighting against the throbbing that had been building against her left temple for the last hour while they'd been driving to Jersey. _I really don't have the capacity to concentrate on this without killing someone. Or giving Ruddle's tail a good hard yank._ The Unseelie chamberlain's tufted, lion-like tail was a wicked temptation just then.

Instead, sucking in a deep breath, letting her exhaustion and fury and fear swell into a scream building in her throat, she yelled at the top of her lungs, "_Kaye! Your guard dog won't let me in!_"

The wee fae acting as majordomo stared at the mortal for several long seconds as if she had completely lost her mind. When Dylan yelled for Kaye again, loudly enough that the woods echoed with her shout, the steward yelped, "How dare you-"

"Ruddles!" A green-skinned pixie with eyes as black as insect shells and dirty-blond hair limped up the slanted path leading inside the faerie mound. Gossamer wings caught and reflected the light of the winter stars. Dylan didn't have to see the dark green fishnets or black biker jacket with the silver spikes to recognize her former employer and good friend. A second woman, mortal this time, with a short cap of dark auburn hair and dark eyes, a glass sword sheathed at her hip and a staff at her side, stood guard on the pixie's left. "I told you to let these two in when they got here!"

Grumbling savagely under his breath, the wee fae stepped aside for the dryad and the human. Dylan forced herself not to limp as the four women made their way down the sloping earthen path beneath the earth. Only when they'd turned the corner, leaving Ruddles behind, did she lean on Lena a bit. Normally the pain wouldn't have been _so_ bad, with Nuada's soothing magic and her painkillers. Not even after all the abuse her knee had taken today. But a snowstorm was coming - not tonight, but by sunset the next day the world would be shrouded by whirling white flakes. The barometric pressure was playing havoc with her already-exhausted leg.

"Here, Doc," the girl with the sword said, handing Dylan the staff. "Brought this with me in case you needed it."

"Thanks, Val." Dylan leaned her weight on the thick stick of oiled mistletoe wood. "Gift from Ravus?" The other woman nodded. "Cool. Okay, gimme the damage report. How are the children? How's everyone? You look like crap, Kaye."

"Thanks much, girlfriend," the pixie replied sarcastically, but her smile was quick, although it held a faint edge of pain. Kaye certainly looked bad. A welt bruised her cheek nearly midnight green. One large, pointed ear was torn and bloodied at the tip. Scrapes and bruises covered her arms and hands. The little finger of her left hand was in a splint. Part of one wing sported a thin tear crusted with blood the color of palest jade. "I'm mostly fine. Peri's mostly fine. Bean got a knock upside the head that rattled his little brains, and Kate got the crap scared out of her and broke her arm when someone kicked her, but that's all. Jared and Simon are fine; Ravus took them home a little bit ago. Thimbletack will look after them. It's your kids that got the worst of it."

Lena leapt forward to grab Kaye's sleeve. "Tsu's'di! Is he okay?"

"He's the worst off," Val said before Kaye could even attempt to soften the blow. Lena made a sound that was almost a whimper. Dylan took her hand and squeezed it gently. "The healers aren't sure if he'll make it," the other human woman added. Dylan focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not letting go of Lena, who fairly vibrated with the need to rush down the corridor to wherever the healers were keeping the ewah youth that had fallen saving her life. "He's got more than a dozen broken ribs. Fractured skull. His arm's broken in more than four places. Some of the bones in his tail are cracked, too. Got a collapsed lung or something. There's internal bleeding, Roiben's healers said. They're still with him.

"Your little ones are hurt, too. The girl's got a few broken fingers and a busted lip. She's cut up a bit from the dullahans' whips. The little boy's got some bruises, a broken arm, and some cracked ribs. Peri said the things that attacked seemed to be focused mostly on your three kids. They're both asking for you and His Highness, Prince Nuada."

Dylan had to fight down the urge to take off running. For one thing, she didn't know where the children _were._ She'd never actually been inside Roiben's sithen before. And for another, her leg wasn't up to much in the way of racing off in whatever direction at the moment.

But in that moment every nerve sparked to life and she became increasingly aware of every little thing in the corridor - the drip of water from the roots in the earthen walls, the soft thud of everyone's feet and her walking stick, the barely perceptible swirl of air against her skin. As if every part of her had come alive, searching in its own way to discover where her children could be.

"I need to see them, Kaye," Dylan said softly, though her voice held the quiet unyielding strength of mountains. "Immediately."

**.**

The human was growing heavy.

Nuada muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath as he half-dragged John into the underground sanctuary. He had not been back here, save twice, since the cold winter night nearly a year ago when he'd laid Dylan on a gurney in front of a mortal hospital. Now the Elf prince laid the human male on the narrow bed for a brief moment to deal with what needed to happen next.

The three rings he had made held transportation spells, old magic that took serious concentration to instill in any object, though metal and stone were far easier than something more changeable, like wood or water or flame. These particular spells were often anchored to a central object - in this case, one of Nuada's most prized possessions, which he had stored in the healing sanctuary because it, unlike his many havens and lairs, couldn't be accessed except through this spell or through the golem-guarded entryway.

"Am I dead yet?" John mumbled.

_If only,_ Nuada grumbled silently as he checked the human's condition once more. Pupils still unevenly dilated; skin clammy from loss of blood; breathing labored, though lacking the glottal rasp of a punctured lung. Although the wretch _did_ seem to be more alert. The Elven warrior supposed, since he was trying to keep the mortal alive, that this was a good thing.

"Not yet," the Elf muttered, going to the table where the spell-anchor nestled in its little ebony box. "I could fix that for you if you wish."

Gently pressing the catch on the box, Nuada flipped up the lid and looked down at the small object resting on blue velvet. Magic hummed against the ensorcelled wards placed around the box. Glittered faintly in translucent golden smears along the item's edges.

A perfect and perfectly preserved roseate Japanese peony. A symbol, in mortal Japan and the Elven kingdom of Onibi, of honor and bravery. Dylan's first gift to him.

"I know how you got her," the mortal wheezed. Firegold eyes slanted toward John's recumbent form. The human's mouth twitched into a pained but mocking half-smile. "It was your sense of humor, wasn't it? A woman needs a man who can make her laugh."

"Why," the Elven warrior demanded with a flash of fire, "do you harangue me, human?"

John studied the pointy-eared hobgoblin that had somehow won his sister's heart. Through the slipping sliding haze of blood loss and concussion, the federal agent wondered why the prince was asking. It wasn't like he actually cared about John's opinion of him. Still, if he was going to die tonight, the mortal decided he better remind the fae royal that he, at least, knew exactly what Nuada was capable of when provoked.

"You ripped out my sister's heart," he mumbled, struggling to stay afloat above the sticky sleepiness that beckoned him. "She's done everything for you and you ripped out her heart and left her bleeding to death that night. So you got her some nifty stuff to make her happy again. So what? You expect me to be okay with it just because you tried to buy her off?"

Nuada said nothing to this. Only activated the spell with a simple word in the Old Tongue - in simple English, "_find"_ - and redirected the glittering threads of magic so that when he used the ring to find Dylan, it would take him not to her directly, but close. He had no idea where exactly she might be: still in the racing Chariot, asleep in a guest room in Roiben's sithen, dealing with hysterical children. If the carriage, aiming directly for her could kill him and John both. And if she were safe within the sithen, Nuada did not wish to cause a scene, especially since he would have John with him. Dylan did _not_ need to see her twin, bruised and battered and nearly white from the loss of blood. Not after everything else that had happened.

"Why do you keep bothering her?" John demanded. "Just tell me that, Your Royal Assness. Why are you still playing games with her?"

The Elf prince refused to let Dylan's brother's words penetrate beyond the shield of his honor and determination to get this finished with as quickly as possible so he could get back to his lady and not have to deal with the slandering idiot again.

The brother in question didn't press the prince again. He was busy focusing on something else. He found the pain in his side... not fading, exactly. Easing a bit. He felt less likely to slip off into dark sleep that would then drown him. Felt stronger, and breathing didn't send darts of red-hot pain lancing deep into his chest and side. Focusing became a little easier, too. And this bed was really comfortable...

Which was why he groaned, "Cripes, I hate you," when Nuada pulled him none-too-gently upright and slid under his arm again, forcing him to attain his feet. "Why are you doing this to me? You're just going to kill me anyway." John mumbled, words still slurring a bit. "I know you want me dead."

"I do _not_ wish you dead," the prince growled, twisting the ring on his finger again. A soft warmth shivered across his palm and along each finger before settling around the golden band. "Much as your continued breathing-status irks me." He turned it round a second time.

"What can I say? I'm irksome," John replied. "And you so want me dead. Don't be shy - admit it."

Nuada turned the ring the final time. Then he looked at John for a moment before saying softly, "If you die, it will break her heart. I have broken her heart before, though I did not wish to do it. I will make amends to her as long as I must. But if I let you die, you who are her world, she would never forgive me your life. And I would never forgive myself her heartbreak. So no, you stupid, worthless, spineless, heartless human fool, I do _not_ wish you dead." And then, in Old Gaelic, he spoke the words that would bring him to wherever Dylan happened to be.

**.**

It took everything she had not to burst into tears when A'du'ladi, bruised and tired and with his poor little arm in a sling tight to his narrow chest, looked up from watching his little sister sleep and met her eyes with his own wide, hopeful gaze. Without a word the ewah child got up from the chair in the waiting chamber outside the healing rooms and ran to Dylan, throwing his good arm around her waist and pressing his face against her stomach.

"_A'ge'lv_," he whispered. His hand fisted in the skirt of her dress. He pressed closer, voice trembling as he whispered over and over, "_A'ge'lv, A'ge'lv._"

"I'm here," she crooned, sliding her free arm around his narrow shoulders. Those shoulders shook as he began to cry quietly into her skirt. A soft rumbling purr emanated from the cougar child - not the purr of a happy cat, but the frightened purr of a kit trying to comfort itself. "I'm here now, it's all right, everything will be all right." She stroked her fingers through the wild tufty mane that served the boy for hair. "My brave boy, it's all right now."

They sat together in the chair that had been too big for one little cougar boy all alone, but was just the right size for a human woman and a little boy. Despite the servants of Roiben's sithen giving her sidewise glances, she let A'du curl up on her lap and lay his head on her shoulder, his head tucked beneath her chin as she lightly rubbed his back in soothing circles and studied 'Sa'ti, who was asleep on a chaise lounge beside the chair. A'du's tears were silent as they dampened his fur. Only his arm wrapped tightly around her neck told Dylan exactly how frightened he'd been without her and Nuada there. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and held him to her, careful of his bruises and only half-healed ribs.

After a long while and a lot of exhausted weeping, the boy seemed to drift off, and the mortal did too, floating in that exhausted haze between sleeping and waking. Lena fell asleep in the chair opposite and a few feet away from theirs. Her green-streaked dark hair tumbled around her face, hiding the tear-stains on her cheeks and her tear-spiked lashes. Every so often, she would whisper Tsu's'di's name in her sleep. Somehow, Dylan was certain the dryad was reliving the attack in her dreams.

Dylan woke at the lightest touch against her shoulder. Bright turquoise eyes found hers, and 'Sa'ti climbed into Dylan's lap as well and laid her head against her mistress's other shoulder. Dylan kissed 'Sa'ti's forehead and asked her quietly if she was okay.

"I guess so," she mumbled, scrubbing at her tear-spiked facial fur. Dylan saw that three of the fingers on the hand she didn't use had been splinted. A sizzle of anger simmered beneath her skin. She forced it down when 'Sa'ti's whiskers drooped and the cougar cub asked timidly, "Where's the prince?"

"He'll be here soon," Dylan murmured, rubbing the child's back. "Don't worry."

"What's going to happen to Tsu's'di?" The little girl's eyes were saucer-wide when she asked in a tremulous voice, "Is he going to die?"

Dylan opened her mouth as her heart constricted in her chest. Closed her mouth again. What to say? How did one comfort a scared little girl without lying to her? Saying the youth would definitely be fine, when last she'd heard he'd been in critical condition, was out of the question. Because what if Tsu's'di _did_ die? After Dylan had told his baby sister that he would be all right?

Finally the mortal said in a voice as gentle as a lullaby, "The healers are with him now. They'll do everything they can to make sure he survives."

"Tsu's'di can't die," 'Sa'ti whispered. She sniffled back a few tears. "We just had his birthday last month. And Lena really likes him. If he dies, she'll be sad. And A'du'la'di will be sad. You and the prince will be sad. And _I'll_ be sad..."

Then the cougar cub began to cry in earnest, the soft heartwrenching tears of a despairing child. Dylan wrapped her arms around the girl and did her best to comfort her, wishing all the time for her prince.

**.**

In another healing room, Nuada helped the Unseelie fae lay Dylan's brother on a bed to get a better look at the injured mortal. Just as Nuada was moving away, John grabbed his sleeve and tugged. The Elf prince shot the human a withering look. "What?"

"If... I... if..." John swallowed hard as one of the healers probed his more-than-likely broken ribs. When he could speak, he gasped out, "Tell her I love her. Please."

Nuada was tempted to refuse. Tempted, in fact, to twitch out of the whelp's grasp and walk away without a word so he could find a place to scrub off the caked-on human blood making the Elf's skin itch. But the mortal was gazing up at him beseechingly with slightly cloudy eyes. The fae warrior narrowed his own eyes and half-snarled, "I will tell her. But if you die, you feckless idiot, I will find someone to raise your corpse from the dead so I may thrash you."

John snorted, winced. "Awww. Didn't know you cared."

If the prince ground his teeth any harder, he was certain to crack a molar. "Shut up."

The Elven warrior left the human to Roiben's healers and stepped back out into the waiting room attached to this particular healing chamber. A tall, broad-shouldered, silver-haired Elf in fine gray silks and black leather looked up from where he'd been sitting near the door. Mercurial eyes found Nuada's. Both men inclined their heads to each other. Since they were old acquaintances, and since this was not yet a formal meeting, certain formalities could be ignored. The gray-eyed Elf rose to his feet and approached the prince.

"Silverlance," he said with warmth, extending an arm.

Nuada clasped it and allowed his mouth to quirk in a bit of a smile as he replied, "Darktithe."

Roiben had not changed much at all since becoming king. He was still taller than the prince by a good two inches. He still retained what Bethmooran coloring he'd possessed during the war, even after centuries in the Scottish Seelie and Unseelie courts, where the magic of the courts could often change a fae. His eyes were still as silver as the blade of Nuada's lance; he and his sister Ethine both got their eyes from their father, a Seelie sidhe. Their mother, a noblewoman of Bethmoora, had been a friend and lady-in-waiting to Cethlenn. Roiben, however, had been born after Cethlenn's death. He and Nuada had not known each other except by name until the wars against the humans.

No, Roiben had not changed much at all, save in his court status. Only two things struck the prince as different about the former Elf knight: the faint, shallow lines at the corners of his eyes, a signature of the burden of kingship; and a bracelet around his left wrist, a thin green braid wrapped and cradled by elegant silver wire. The craftsmanship was not poor, but clearly amateurish. Why would a king wear such an object?

The Unseelie Elf noticed the direction of Nuada's gaze and glanced down at his wrist. His expression softened for a moment. "Ah. A token from my lady for my coronation some winters ago. My most prized possession. Kaye made it herself." Then the king's expression hardened and he found Nuada's eyes again. "Speaking of my consort, you and I need have words, Silverlance. Come with me."

In a guest chamber, Nuada stripped off his blood-soaked shirt and weapons to scrub the drying crimson from his skin. Roiben gazed impassively out a window that showcased an ensorcelled view of the park above the sithen. After a long silence the king finally spoke.

"An attack was made by four dullahan on Our consort and her kinswoman this night." Every word could have been carved from ice. The prince continued to clean off the human blood, but each and every nerve was on full alert. Roiben would not attack him... at the moment. His honor - and the driving need to act a better sovereign than Nicnevin, the previous Unseelie monarch - would prevent it. But the Elf prince knew that the king's continued goodwill hinged on this conversation. "Included in the attack was a sidhe noblewoman of Our court and her young son, as well as the young kinsmen of one of Our royal guards. We are curious as to your thoughts on the subject."

Nuada did not speak until the last of the bloodstains had been cleaned away. Then, as he reached for the ice-blue silk shirt one of the servants had laid out for him, the prince said in a carefully measured tone, "We believe the attack was meant for the ewah children in service to Us specifically, and that any others harmed were merely collateral damage."

Cool silver eyes locked with feral gold. "Why do you believe this?"

The Elven warrior blew out an exasperated breath and dragged on a silvery-gray tunic before tying the blue sash. "You'll hear about this soon enough anyway, I suppose. Earlier this afternoon, a band of dipsa serpents attempted to assassinate my lady and I. We returned home to find that our servants had been attacked as well. The mortal I arrived with is my lady's twin brother; he, too, was attacked by fae. I find it highly unlikely that all three attacks are merely coincidence."

"A sound presumption, and one I would agree with," Roiben muttered, turning back to the glamored view out the window. His fingers pressed into his folded arms hard enough to whiten his knuckles. "But I would ask you this, Silverlance, if your vows of honor and loyalty do not prevent you from answering - is Bethmoora planning on making a move against either of my courts?"

"Absolutely not," Nuada replied without hesitation. He began rearming himself. "My father has no reason to attack one of our allies, especially one ruled by a friend of mine and a kinsman of one of my mother's dearest friends." When Roiben turned to speak, the prince added, "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that if any in Bethmoora plan to move against the Night or Bright courts of New Jersey, I do not know of it. If I did, I would tell you."

Roiben's eyes narrowed to icy slits. "Would you?"

"We fought in the wars together. We were friends and brothers-in-arms once. You have saved my life in battle many times, as I have saved yours. I once paid court to Ethine, your sister. I am not like those traitors from the Bright Court, who turned against you when you took the Unseelie crown. I know what it is to be betrayed by some of your oldest friends. So I say again, if I knew of any such plotting from my kingdom, I would tell you, Roiben."

"And if King Balor One-Arm ordered you not to speak of such a thing?"

"Then I would refrain from speaking of it. I would not lie to you." Nuada pulled back his hair in a horsetail and folded his arms. "Do you think this was a two-pronged attack? An attempt on both your lady and mine? To perhaps set our kingdoms against each other?"

"Perhaps," the king muttered. "We'll have to look into it. Until then, I would assume you wish to see your lady. I _know_ I want to see mine again. And the children have been asking for you."

So Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance and King Roiben Darktithe went to find their ladies.

**.**

Roiben found Kaye sitting in a chair, young Kate curled up in her lap fast asleep. The pixie's black eyes lifted to the king's. Roiben went to her and knelt, taking one of her slender, green hands in his. His other hand came to rest upon the sleeping child's head.

Nuada ignored the king and his consort in exchange for finding Dylan leaning back against a chaise lounge, 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di in her lap. The cougar boy slept fitfully, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the collar of the mortal's dress. 'Sa'ti sniffled and kept her face against Dylan's shoulder. Some of the blistering anger and unease since discovering the children were missing began to dissipate as Nuada looked them over. They were both alive. Exhausted, to be sure, and the worse for wear, but alive.

Dylan, the Elf prince realized with weary surprise, looked exhausted as well. Her face was pale, dark circles shadowed beneath her eyes, and her eyes were dull with fatigue. A'du'la'di looked as if he had ended up on the crueler end of a beating. 'Sa'ti looked little better. Nuada's hands clenched as fury pounded through his veins in time with his heart. Two children hurt and emotionally fragile, another practically knocking on death's door, and his lady so tired and worn from it all...

If his father _was_ responsible, then Balor would pay for this. For all of it. He loved his father. Respected what he had once been. Was loyal and would remain loyal to him until death. Would obey any command the king gave him. But _not_ if the cost was the lives of his lady and the innocent children who had sworn their loyalty to him and Dylan.

He forced the rage away. Now was not the time for anger. Now was the time for comfort and gentility. His truelove and the children who had become so dear to her didn't need to feel the bite of his fury. So Nuada forced himself to be calm, then went and knelt in front of Dylan's chair.

How he wanted to draw her to her feet and hold her close, to offer her comfort when she needed it so much. How he wanted to take her and the children far away from the danger that had sprung up around them in the last day. If he'd had the courage to be a coward, he'd have done it. Taken her and her little family and run. Instead, he laid his hands on Dylan's knees. Let the weight and warmth of his touch rouse her to his presence.

Nuada's chest tightened until it ached when her weary eyes slowly focused on him and then so many emotions flashed across her face - relief and love, flickering hope, a silent plea for help, and sudden terror when she managed to drag out the memory of what she'd asked the Elven warrior to do. Her lips formed the single syllable of her brother's name. Her eyes pled with him for something other than news that would shatter her completely. She wanted to reach for him, throw her arms around him, and yet in that instant was afraid that if she did, somehow the truth about her brother would fly from his mind to hers with a touch and she would break.

'Sa'ti had no such conflicts. She merely sniffled, stared at him for a moment, then threw her arms around his neck and began to cry in earnest. Nuada stiffened, then forced himself to relax and gently patted her back. The little girl's grip tightened to the point of almost strangling him. He managed to loosen her hold a little, so that his breath came in more than a wheeze.

The Elf prince glanced at Dylan. The mortal blinked slowly, clearly struggling to focus, and then her gaze dropped to the sobbing little girl before meeting Nuada's eyes. _Can you handle her?_ His lady seemed to ask. The answer was, most assuredly, _No._ What did he know to do with a weeping girl-child? But Dylan looked so tired...

'Sa'ti's sobs soon woke A'du and Lena. The ewah boy looked at Nuada and his lower lip began to quiver ominously. Nuada bit back a sigh and simply extended the arm not currently enfolding 'Sa'ti toward the other cougar child. A'du scootched across Dylan's lap until he could lay his head on the Elf prince's shoulder and slide his unbroken arm around Nuada's neck. Dylan reached out and grasped Nuada's hand, gripping his fingers as the last vestiges of tension drained from her exhausted body. That simple touch was enough to soothe away the last of the Elven warrior's unease, and enough to rekindle his anger.

They - these attackers, these pawns of his unknown enemies - had dared to hurt his lady's little girl. Dared to frighten her. Had hurt the boy that had sworn himself to Nuada's lady, as well, and shattered what sense of safety the two children had possessed. Terrified Dylan, who had feared for the children. And as for Tsu's'di, so close to death that the healers were _still_ with him, Nuada did not want to think what that loss would do to his lady.

But everything was all right now. Or would be. He had to believe that; had to hold onto that. Both the younger cubs would heal swiftly. He _must_ focus on that, and not the fact that Tsu's'di fought for his life in the healing chamber. Nuada closed his eyes and let the children hug him tightly as 'Sa'ti's sobs dwindled away. If they had been seriously hurt like their brother... or worse, if their attackers had succeeded and they'd been _killed_... they were only children...

For the briefest instant, memory rose up like a ravenous monster out of the dark, and Nuada remembered -

- _ransacked villages and decimated towns,  
corpses strewn about  
like so much garbage  
the stench of slaughter choking the air  
a haze of ash drifting down like black snow  
survivors lamenting the dead  
tears and blood soaking the earth  
too late, always a moment too late  
and some of the dead were so small  
infants, children..._ -

A press of fingers against his ripped him from the brutal memories of long-ago war. Nuada opened his eyes to see Dylan, see the tired concern on her face and something in her eyes that smoothed down the jagged edges of his flashback. He gripped her hand and fought to ground himself in the present. Fought to focus on the matter at hand, and the problem it represented.

How _could_ it possibly be his father? It made no sense; his father would never harm children! Yet the shandymen had said "the king's servant." And it would be too much of a coincidence that the corpse-drinkers had attacked John, at someone else's bidding, the same day the children had been attacked and someone had tried to kill him and Dylan. Odds dictated all three of the attacks were orchestrated by the same person. Which meant odds dictated the king who'd sent the shandymen had also sent the dipsa after the Elf prince and his lady in the royal forest of Bethmoora. What king, other than Balor, had known they would be there?

He couldn't be certain that his father was behind this, but he could not be certain the One-Armed King was not the orchestrator, either. Though Roiben suspected that Lady Kaye was a possible motive for the attack, the Elf prince doubted it. And he had to take Dylan and her household into this dark tangle of politics and danger? They were already weak, already hurt, already off-balance from the attacks. And 'Sa'ti and A'du were only children. Tsu's'di was a boy, yet. And Dylan... how to keep her safe?

_A second guard dog for my lady,_ Nuada thought tiredly. His exhaustion faded a bit when he caught a glimpse of the soft look on Dylan's face, one that sent warmth caressing his heart and slipping whispers of golden heat down his spine. _And a hound each for the children. Another pair of bodyguards to work with Tsu's'di when he recovers. And thank the stars Wink will be with us when we return to Faerie. I do not know what I would do otherwise._

Apprehension shivered through him at the thought. He banished both feeling and thought ruthlessly and focused on the woman and children holding to him. A'du was still shaking, though his tears had turned to quiet sniffles. It was easier, as well, now that 'Sa'ti no longer wept. Dylan held herself as if braced for a killing blow, but did not withdraw from him. In fact, she finally leaned forward and extricated Nuada's tunic and shirt from the cubs' tenacious grips.

Nuada looked first into teary turquoise eyes, then into a sleepy and scared gray gaze. "Better, then?" He asked softly. Both children nodded slowly, then more surely when dark lips curved into an encouraging smile. "Good." Lastly, the Elf prince looked into Dylan's haggard, frightened eyes. "John is with the healers."

Dylan nodded, then braced herself. "How bad was it?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second and saw the flash of heartbreaking terror in her eyes. Nuada hastened to say, "He was still alive when I left him. He even spoke to me a little. The healers will know better than I how he fares." An answer that neatly sidestepped the question. "Now," the Elf prince said to the two children as footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, "Ravus and his lady are here to take you two to get something to eat. I want you both to go with them. You will be safe with them, but do _not_ leave their sides, do you understand? I need to speak with Lady Dylan alone."

"No!" A'du cried, clutching spasmodically at Nuada's shirt again. The tremors wracking his small frame intensified. "No, don't send us away! Please!"

Nuada opened his mouth to say something to comfort the suddenly frantic boy, but the cougar girl grabbed him next and shoved her face into his chest, shaking her head and whimpering, "We don't wanna go, we don't wanna go. Don't make us."

With Dylan's help, he managed to pry their hands open so he could put just a bit of distance between himself and the hysterical children. Their little claws had left snags in the silk of his shirt, they'd clutched at him so tightly. His mortal lady managed to calm the children from terrified whimpering to exhausted sniffling again. Firegold eyes met weary blue. Dylan's scarred mouth quirked into a half-exasperated smile. The prince wasn't quite sure how to reassure the cubs, but his lady seemed to know what she was doing. It was one thing to deal with A'du'la'di as a young warrior. Firm footing, there. But Nuada was fairly certain that approach wouldn't work this time.

"Nothing is going to happen," Dylan murmured to the children. She cast a glance toward the entryway as Val and a young ice troll with shaggy black hair stepped into the waiting room with a familiar red-haired sidhe boy at their heels. "Ravus and Val are warriors, too. They'll protect you. No one can hurt you in Roiben's sithen; we have his protection, and you're friends with Kate. It's okay, you guys. And Bean's here, look." At the mention of the sidhe child's name, both 'Sa'ti and Kate, who'd been dozing until that point, perked up. "Why don't you three and Kate go get something to eat, okay?"

"_A'ge'lv_," A'du protested, snagging his claws in her sleeve. His fur bristled in agitation. "What if the monsters come back and you can't find us?"

"Relax, midgets," the mortal at Ravus's side called to the cubs. She held a tray heaped with sandwiches balanced on one upraised hand and the mistletoe staff she'd loaned to Dylan in the other. "We brought the snacks to you. Now go sit in a corner with your buddies and stuff your adorable faces so Mommy and Daddy can talk."

The Elf prince arched a brow at the human girl's callous insolence. _Mommy and Daddy?_

"Val," Dylan muttered, not bothering to hide her tired smile as she shoved at her hair with one hand. "Shut up."

"Shut up's a bad word," 'Sa'ti mumbled, scrubbed at her eyes with a loose fist. Bean, A'du'la'di, and Kate all nodded in earnest agreement. The human, Val, smirked and added, "Yeah, Dylan, shut up's a bad word."

"Shut up, Val," the other human retorted defiantly. The human girl laughed, and the mortal woman smiled again. Then, to the ewah children, Dylan said, "His Highness and I will be right here, but we have some grownup stuff to talk about right now, okay? So you guys go over to the chairs with Kate and Bean where Lena and Val are and eat something. You need to eat, since you've had a healing."

Nuada settled beside Dylan on the chaise lounge so recently vacated by the cubs. He simply needed to be near her, after everything. To recapture, even just in some small part, the closeness of their time in the faerie glen. Yearned for it to erase the memories that had resurfaced as the children wept against his shirt.

Instead of dwelling on those memories, the Elven warrior thought of the kiss he and Dylan had shared - the many kisses. Sweet and treacherously tempting and full of fire. Thought of her touch at the back of his neck like its own soft kiss and her small hand in his, she had such small hands compared to his own, and the way she had whispered his name in the darkness. Life was not made entirely or even mostly of moments such as those, but when they came only an imbecile would have been foolish enough not to hold onto them with all his might.

Dylan didn't expect her prince to enfold her in his arms and lay his cheek against her hair. Didn't expect his breath to shudder just a little when he breathed against the dark curls that she could never seem to completely tame. The room was big enough that Val and Ravus the troll could sit with the children and with Lena and still believably offer the prince and his lady some privacy by keeping their backs turned. Dylan was just surprised to think they would need it. She hadn't expected Nuada to seem so... fragile. He was worried, she knew, and angry. So angry. She could somehow feel that rage pulsing like the pain of a wound just under his skin. But there was more to it than that. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

Nuada's fingers played idly with the ends of her hair, as if he didn't quite realize or care what he was doing. As if his only aim were to touch her. His other arm was wrapped snug around her waist. His hand was warm against her hip, a gentle and reassuring weight. His pulse beat strong at the base of his throat and she just wanted to sit here in his arms, she was so tired, and so was he, they were both so tired already, and Tsu's'di... Tsu's'di...

"He will be all right, mo duinne," Nuada breathed against her ear, so softly only his lady and the living sithen itself might hear. "Your young guard is strong and stubborn. He will not leave his brother and sister, nor the lady he has sworn himself to, without a fight." His lips brushed her temple, a touch of velvet heat against the residual chill in her body. "Both Tsu's'di and John will be well."

"It's bad, Nuada." Her words were so soft as to almost not be there at all. The ache of her fear left her voice raw. "They're both hurt so badly, I... I don't think... I can feel John slipping still and Tsu's'di..."

"Shhhh," he crooned, stroking a hand slowly along her back. Soothing, so soothing. His arm tightened fractionally about her waist. "Do not give up hope, mo mhuire." He pressed his face against the silk of her hair and murmured, "Have you prayed for them?"

He had never heard her sound so defeated as when she whispered, "Yes. It's all I can do."

"That is more than most are willing to do," the prince replied, and kissed the top of her head. "If the gods deem it their time, no amount of self-recrimination or worry will ease that grief or put it off. We can only pray that the Star Kindler will not take your boy - or your brother - from us yet."

_And if He does?_ That was the unspoken question beneath Dylan's shakily indrawn breath. Nuada held her tighter, closer. Wished they were alone, so that he might comfort her properly. Instead, he grasped her fingers and breathed into her mind, sweet as spring breezes and soft as spring sunshine, _And if He does, I will comfort you. I will do all in my power to ease your sorrows, mo cridh, my heart. This pain you feel now is my doing already. I can only beg your forgiveness._

_You've done nothing that needs forgiveness. Don't be silly. You're upset; unsettled. What's wrong?_ She asked, brushing her fingertips against Nuada's palm as soft as the flicker of butterfly wings. _Is it Tsu's'di, the children... or something else? Was there more trouble? What happened?_

He replayed for her what he'd heard from the shandymen. She in turn showed the prince the failed noc attack. Something icy went through the prince, something so cold she literally felt it, frosty enough to give her just a touch of chill where her other hand was laid against his broad chest.

_There is too much here that points at my father. He alone knew we would be in the royal forest today. It is too unlikely that all of us would be attacked on the same day by different enemies. Whoever is responsible for the dipsa attack is more than likely responsible for the others. And are there any kings with cause to move against you who know of your brother and know of your connection to me?_

_No,_ Dylan murmured silently. _Only Roiben knows I have a twin. He'd never hurt me, unless I went absolutely crazy and hurt Kaye or Kate. He'd probably have lots of fun killing me then. But it can't be him; he'd never put either of them in danger. Kaye said the dullahan were focused on our kids, but dullahan hate mortals. Kate's mortal. That's too much of a risk, even if Roiben were desperate. And he would never hurt children. Not after what Nicnevin and Silariel did to him._

_Of course, it wouldn't be too hard to find out I have siblings, or about John specifically... but I don't know any king who would feel the need to bother. And dullahan can only be controlled by a fae royal, and I don't know any who are after me. None who would be willing to risk war not only against Bethmoora, but Roiben's two courts as well._

_All four attacks point in some way, no matter how round-about, to my father,_ Nuada muttered. Dylan could feel the tension humming through him as he allowed her to cuddle against him. _It makes no sense. If my father were to try and have me killed, he would not do it this way._

_Unless he's not trying to have_ you _killed,_ his lady suggested after a long moment of silence. _Unless he's trying to do something else._

Nuada went very, very still. _Such as?_

_Such as break your heart,_ she said, laying her fingertips along his cheek. A tremor went through him - in reaction to her touch or her words, she wasn't sure. _Break you of your defiance. Kill the children, kill me. Kill John just for good measure, I guess. Rip your heart out and leave you weak, maybe. Shatter you._

Nuada shook his head, though her words resonated with something within him. An old fear and a new one. A pain he only felt in her presence when he thought of Balor. _If he wanted to cripple me that way, he wouldn't have gone after your brother. You and the children, yes. That would be the most effective method. But he would have attacked Wink, as well, though. Why has Wink not been attacked if this is my father's plan? Or Lorelei? I've known her since she was but a small child. Or Aso? She has been a friend since I was a youth. And Erik? Even Laigdech or Yang._

_Are you..._ Dylan trailed off, not wanting to voice the sudden worry in her head. But Nuada's eyes latched onto hers and she knew she had to speak. _Are you so certain Wink hasn't been attacked? Have you seen him since we got back? Talked to him? Are you sure he's okay?_

The stricken look he gave her pierced her to the quick. No, she realized. No, he hadn't seen or spoken to the silver cave troll since returning from the royal forest. Nuada hadn't really entertained the idea that someone could have attacked Wink, because if such a thing had occurred, wouldn't Wink be here now to tell him of it? Unless Wink couldn't get to his prince for some reason. And there were only two reasons Dylan could think of: either he was too badly hurt to come, or he was dead.

_My father,_ Nuada began, but had to stop for a moment as some emotion - horror? hope? fear? - choked him and stuttered his thoughts. _My father would_ never _kill Wink. Hurt him, maybe. Imprison him, certainly. But for this plan you're imagining to work, Wink would have to be slain and my father would_ never _do that to the warrior that avenged my mother's death. For that matter, my father would never harm children, or humans. Those closest to me are the ones safest from him. It could not have been him. He would never..._

_I trust your judgment,_ his lady said softly. She brushed her fingers along the line of his jaw, the underside of his chin. Her touch was like silk against his skin, soothing the rawness that had plagued him most of the night. _If you doubt the truth of my suggestion, then I'm wrong. Becan was right - I trust you, Nuada. I will always trust you. Now,_ she said, smoothly changing tack, _can you tell me a little more about John? About what happened?_

And he did, telling her what he'd gleaned of the feckless boy's injuries from the brief moments with her brother. But he knew, though she tried to hide it, that his lady still feared that Balor had been the one behind all of this.

If she was wrong, then who could it have been? He had no enemies that he knew of with this kind of reach and power.

And if she was right... what would become of them when they returned to Findias?

"Kaye!" At the sound of the pixie's name, Dylan's head whipped around and her eyes widened. Rushing through the entryway, Ruddles at their heels, came a youth and a mortal man who might have been a few years older than John. The youth had shaggy brown hair that fell into his bespectacled eyes and the most startlingly pale skin Nuada had ever seen on a mortal. A strange mark, hidden by his hair, marred his brow. He looked to be about sixteen years old. At his side, the mortal adult scanned the assembled fae and focused on the pixie woman sitting with Roiben. "Kaye, I gotta talk to you."

"Humans are not allowed in-" Ruddles began, but was interrupted by Kaye.

"Neil!" The pixie got to her feet and moved to greet the older human. "What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

Nuada paid no attention to the man speaking with the pixie, however. His attention was diverted to the youth, who fidgeted and shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants to avoid meeting anyone's eye. There was something about him... a scent that was off. An odor that should not cling to mortals. The Elf focused on trying to pick it out. Something coppery, hot and metallic, with a touch of salt tang. And that pale skin seemed off as well. The thin veins were a little too dark against all that paleness...

Feral eyes widened. Not a human at all. A vampire. A _vampire?_ In a faerie sithen?

"Simon! Neil!" Dylan pushed to her feet and went to the vampire. Nuada was at her side in an instant. Did she not know the boy wasn't human? But no, perhaps she _did_ know. For instead of embracing the youth as Nuada had expected - as she moved to do - Dylan pulled back almost at the last moment and studied him. "You haven't been eating, have you?"

The boy shrugged. "Don't worry about it, Doc. Look, Neil and I came to tell you something. Well, to tell Kaye, because we knew she was here, but we weren't sure when you'd get here or not. You're hooked up with some Elf prince, right?"

Dylan jerked a thumb at Nuada. "Aforesaid Elf prince. Prince Nuada, this is Simon Lewis. Simon, this is my esteemed lord, His Highness Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance."

The vampire's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the Elf prince at Dylan's side. "Oh. Um... nice to meet you, Your Highness." He started to stretch out his hand, as if to offer it for the fae to shake, but seemed to think better of it and merely tucked it back into his pocket. Instead he offered a short bow from the waist.

"And that gentleman over there," Dylan added, pointing, "is one of Kaye's particular friends and one of Roiben's closest allies, as well as a friend of my brother's and Ravus the Apothecary, Master Cornelius Stone. Neil," she called, and the mortal broke off in his rapid whispered dialogue with the green-skinned faerie woman. "What's going on? What's the trouble?"

"Not to sound like a high school sitcom or anything," the human male replied, "but Simon said that Clary said that Luis said that there was an attack in the East Village at this thing called Midnight Fest, and that the faerie rumor mill said that the target of this attack was a silver cave troll with a bronze arm. Luis said that he'd heard from Ravus that the Elf prince that you were hooked up with had a friend by that description and that someone needed to get word to you. I figured the best way to do that quickly was to get word to Kaye and then Ruddles said you were here but he wouldn't let us in so Simon said that if he didn't get out of the way, our little vampire would sink some fang into him."

Dylan had taken in everything the other human had said, but Nuada had only focused on one thing. _The target of this attack was a silver cave troll with a bronze arm._ Wink. Shades of Annwn, _Wink_. Why had the troll not come to report the attack himself? Unless...

"Was the attack successful? What did the attackers look like?" Nuada bit out from between clenched teeth. The mortal, Cornelius, shrugged his shoulders and gestured helplessly. Idiot human. Thrice-cursed empty-hearted idiot mortal _vermin_. These were the only vital pieces of information the Elf prince lacked, and the human did not have them? What sort of ally could this creature have possibly made for Roiben?

Curse it, curse it, curse it! First Dylan, then the children, and now Wink. Unbidden, his own words and Dylan's came back to him. _If he wanted to cripple me that way... he would have attacked Wink, as well._

_Are you so certain Wink hasn't been attacked? Are you sure he's okay?_

"Luis also said there was a girl with the troll," Simon added, watching Dylan watch her prince. Something like puzzlement flickered across the Elf's face before being replaced by horrified realization. "A pale faerie woman with long black hair. She was attacked too."

"Lorelei," Nuada murmured absently. His fingers curled into a fist. "Shades..."

_Lorelei._ Dylan watched her prince surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. Why would someone attack Lorelei to get to Nuada? She was only... an old friend, he'd said. From his exile. A former lover? A current lover (or rather, one he had only recently parted ways with, once he realized he loved a human woman instead)? Dylan pushed away the twinge that pricked her at the thought and focused on the sudden burning fury in Nuada's eyes.

"I think," the mortal woman murmured, and firegold eyes slashed to her, "that we should send messages to whomever you think could be a target. Aso, you mentioned, and Erik. Laigdech. Yang. Anyone else?"

"Only one off the top of my head," he replied, flicking a glance at Roiben. "_Ledi_ Polunochnaya _iz_ Lysaya Gora. She is lady-in-waiting to my sister, and an old friend." He didn't see Dylan's barely perceptible flinch. Another old friend? "Can you handle it, mo duinne? I am certain His Majesty would be so kind as to provide us messengers. I must go and see what exactly has happened at Midnight Fest. If Wink is hurt, he may need my help."

"I will send two of my knights with you," Roiben said. "Wink Ironfist is known to me, even beyond his service to you, Prince Nuada. The world would be poorer for the loss of such an honorable and savage fighter."

"I'll come," the vampire offered, surprising Nuada. "I need to hit the East Village anyway. I might as well go be useful to somebody." Nuada opened his mouth to protest - the boy was a vampire, yes, but all vampires had once been human - and Simon added, "And this way I can scout it for the local Shadowhunter enclave." The Elf prince inclined his head the slightest fraction. A vampire with connections, then, if he dared claim to represent the supernatural demon hunters that Dylan herself knew so well.

After Roiben sent for his pair of knights and the Elf prince penned the note to Polunochnaya and gave Dylan instructions on what to do with the other messages, 'Sa'ti and A'du slowly approached their lady's prince.

"Your Highness," the cougar boy murmured. Nuada glanced over and canted his head. A'du swallowed and came a step nearer. "Are you leaving?" The Elven warrior nodded. The boy's mouth trembled for a moment. Then he flattened his ears and took a swipe at his face with one hand. His tail fluffed out to twice its size. "Okay. We were talking, and um..."

"We?" Nuada echoed, arching a brow. "Who is 'we?'"

"Um... Bean, 'Sa'ti, Kate and me. And we were thinking, sir, that maybe... um... maybe we could come with you."

The Elf prince remembered a moment later to close his mouth. "I... appreciate the offer, A'du'la'di. It is very brave of you. But that would not be a wise idea."

"But you can't go out there by yourself!" The boy burst out. 'Sa'ti shook her head emphatically. "What if those monsters come after you? Something bad might happen! You might get hurt! You might get killed dead! You might get kidnapped and held for ransom!"

A muffled snort had Nuada's gaze slanting toward Dylan and the other women. Lady Kaye's mouth twitched. Dylan was biting down hard on her lip to hold back any laughter. The mortal girl with the glass sword grinned openly. She said, "Kid, you have clearly never seen the legendary Silverlance in action, or you would _so_ not be worried."

"But what if-"

"Come with me, A'du'la'di," Nuada ordered, and moved to the corridor outside the waiting room. The boy followed at the Elven warrior's heels. The Elf prince took a moment to study the boy, who gazed back at him with equal parts beligerence and worry. Every so often the boy would swipe at the wild tufts of fur that stuck up all over his head - that _always_ stuck up that way, like porcupine quills, no matter how often Dylan attacked them with a wet comb. The Elf recognized the act as what Dylan called composure grooming. A sure sign the child was agitated. How to keep the boy from being so concerned? And how to ensure that he didn't attempt to follow the warriors to the East Village?

An idea blossomed in Nuada's brain. He raked his gaze over the child. Someone, Nuada saw, had given the cub some clean clothes. Firegold eyes took note of a black leather belt with an empty notch to hold a knife-sheath. Rarely did fae children in Roiben's court go unarmed. Good.

Kneeling to put himself at eye-level with the boy, Nuada drew out his sheathed twin-dagger from its spot inside the blue sash at his waist. He offered it to the boy hilt-first. Ears and whiskers pricked forward, A'du took hold of the slender knife. In Nuada's hand, the six-inch blade was relatively small. In A'du'la'di's grip it looked much larger. The Elven warrior grasped the boy by the shoulders and spoke softly but firmly.

"You have experienced a battle today, so I am going to speak to you not as a boy, but as a young warrior. Do you understand?" The child nodded solemnly. "Good. It is better, A'du'la'di, to break your own heart than to break your honor. I want to stay here with Lady Dylan and you and 'Sa'ti and Tsu's'di. I want it very much. But I cannot. Wink is my vassal, sworn to me as you are sworn to my lady. I owe it to him to discover if he needs my help. My honor demands this. Fear for my personal safety cannot stand in the way of the debt I owe to him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I... I guess so. But why can't I come with you? I won't be in the way! I promise. I'll be really, really good, I swear."

Nuada fought against the smile that wanted to overtake him. Had he been so single-minded as a child? "Because I need you here, to look after your sister and my lady. They're both still very upset about what happened, and worried for your brother. Just as your friend, Bean, cannot come with us because he must look after your friend Kate, you cannot follow because I need you to look after Lady Dylan and 'Sa'ti until I return. I do not dare leave my lady undefended. I need someone I can trust to protect and watch over her. Can I trust you with this?"

"Ooooohhhhh." The cougar boy nodded emphatically, grinning. "Yeah. I mean," he added, sobering, "yes, Your Highness. You can trust me." He looked down at the twin-dagger clutched in his good hand. "But what's this for?"

"It is a symbol of my trust," the prince replied. Extricating it from the child's grip, he fixed it in place at the notch on the boy's belt. "Do not lose it. Do not draw it from the sheath unless you absolutely must, and be careful if you do, for it has no crossguard and you might cut yourself. It is not to be flashed about and shown off to your friends. When I return, I will reclaim it. Now, I am trusting you to be brave and honorable in my absence, and to follow my orders. Do you swear to do so?"

"Yes, Your Highness. I swear."

Nuada gripped one of Adu's shoulders and favored him with a smile. "Good lad." Just at the threshold of the room, the prince looked down at the servant boy. "And A'du'la'di?" Bright gray eyes flicked up to him. "When a warrior disobeys orders, do you know what happens?" The ewah shook his head. "They're strapped for disobedience. Do you understand?"

Eyes wide, the boy nodded solemnly. "Yes, Your Highness. I won't disobey. I promise."

"Good. Now see to your sister."

Dylan looked up from talking to Kaye, who'd been helping her figure out who to send with what message, seeking Nuada's eyes as Simon and Roiben's two knights - one in armor that reminded her of tree bark; him she knew as Meliorn, a distant acquaintance of Clary's. She did not know the other, with his long waterfall of wine-red hair and cold gaze, so dismissive when it flicked over the mortal and the pixie - gathered at the entryway.

She managed to catch Nuada's eye. He inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Dylan nodded to him. It was one thing for him to hold her while only children were there to bear witness, when Val and Ravus kept their backs turned and Roiben was so caught up with his own truelove. It was another for him to act anything but the cold and deadly Silverlance in the presence of other mortals and strange fae who may or may not have been true allies. Roiben rarely trusted those of either of his courts; Nuada certainly did not. Yet he had to leave Dylan here...

Well, Roiben would be within the sithen walls. Lady Kaye and Ravus, young but deadly strong as all trolls were, would be with Dylan. She bore Darktithe's protection. She would be safe enough while Nuada sought out news of Wink's whereabouts.

The Elven warrior strode out of the healing room's antechamber, followed by Roiben's two knights and the vampire boy. The simple exchange of nods would be all the farewell he could take from his lady. So he kept his eyes straight ahead and did not speak as Ruddles guided the quartet to the sithen's entryway once more. Yet somehow Nuada could feel Dylan's eyes on his back long after he'd turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So here we are, on the eve of their return, and everything going to heck in a handbasket. Of course I couldn't just have it be, "Oh, let's go back to Findias, lalalalala." They're going back, yes, but it's under incredibly stressful circumstances. Because I'm a sadist. Really, most writers are closet sadists. That's my personal philosophy. So let's see where this goes, eh? Let's see how Nuada handles everything coming his way._

_And now for our lovely review prompt!_

_1) Who thinks the whole Ligeia/Moundshroud/attack on the carriage is going to come back at some point and bite Dylan on the butt? Who thinks it's possible the nocs are working for someone other than their queen? And who thinks it's possible that the queen's ally is Balor? Or perhaps Elatha, Bres's father?_

_2) Nuada and John. Who thinks those two are ever going to pull their heads out of their butts? Maybe even get along? What do we think of their interactions in this chapter and what they mean for the guys' relationships with Dylan and with each other?_

_3) What do you guys think of the children and their interactions with both Dylan and Nuada in the aftermath of the attack?_

_4) Do we have theories about who's behind these attacks?_

_5) Seventeen favorite things, in honor of the recently-passed Saint Patrick's Day, pwease! Favorite thingies from the chapter, I mean. Or even just seventeen things you thought were sad or funny or scary or silly or romantic or whatever. I'm curious to see what you guys like, always am, because then I can do more of it._

_6) Who thinks this_ Ledi _Polunochnaya is more than just an old friend to Nuada?_

_Toodle-loo everyone! Loves to you all!_

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_**References Made In This Chapter:**_

- The Night Court is another name for the Unseelie Court in Holly Black's modern faerie world.

- A hamadryad is a dryad specifically attuned to oak trees. Although Lena has control of the firs and other evergreens in her territory of Central Park, she is an oak-sprite.

- Nocs are bird-creatures (they're more monster than fae, but they're pretty fey-like, so I decided to use them). They look like larger-than-normal ravens, but the gloss of their feathers is usually blood-red. They transform into teenage-boy-shaped humanoids, but they have jagged teeth, blood-red eyes without pupil or sclera, a melding of hair and feathers on their heads, and their skin looks as if it's made of fine porcelain. They often have body parts missing. From Kelly Creagh's trilogy about Edgar Allen Poe, the nocs first appear in her novel _Nevermore_. There you see both red ones (led by a noc named Pinfeathers) and one blue one (named Scrimshaw). You don't actually know what a group of nocs are called, but a group of crows/ravens is called a "murder."

- Dullahan actually are immunte to iron and salt and other faerie repellents. The only thing that stops them is, ironically, gold.

- Ligeia is a literary character invented by Edgar Allen Poe, a woman who dies and comes back to life by possessing a living woman in order to be with someone she loves. In _Nevermore_, she is the main villain, queen of the otherworldly kingdom of Weir, and mistress of the nocs.

- _Gladius_ is a Latin word for "sword." Early ancient Roman swords were similar to those used by the Greeks (hence why Lena would have one). Gladii were two-edged for cutting and had a tapered point for stabbing during thrusting. A solid grip was provided by a knobbed hilt added on, possibly with ridges for the fingers. Blade strength was achieved by welding together strips, in which case the sword had a channel down the center, or by fashioning a single piece of high-carbon steel, rhomboidal in cross-section. The owner's name was often engraved or punched on the blade. To see a gladius, watch _Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief_ (although there's some silliness in that film that's just sad, sigh).

- Ruddles is Roiben's chamberlain in Hollyblack's _Ironside_. Although by the end of the book he has a grudging respect for his king, he's not fond of Kaye, because she is a commoner. He smiles at her once, for all of 2 seconds, when she is instrumental in saving the Unseelie Court from the Seelie Queen, Silariel. I sort of imagine Ruddles as like, this little hobgoblin with lion features.

- "Sithen" is another word for a faerie mound. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts in Holly Black's trilogy are underground.

- The glass sword Val carries is featured on the cover of the original release of Holly Black's _Valiant_. It's pretty, go look at it.

- Thimbletack is the brownie in charge of the Spiderwicke mansion in _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_.

- My beta informed me the way the rings worked originally didn't make much sense, so we sat down and hashed out that they kind of work like cell phone towers. On a cell phone, the radiowaves or whatever that carry the sound emanate from your cell phone, bounce of the cellular tower, and then travel to the phone of the person you're talking to. It's kind of like that.

- The whole "Am I dead?"/"Not yet, but I could fix that for you" might be vaguely inspired by a conversation between the main guy, the main girl, and the character played by Robin Williams in the movie _FernGully: the Last Rainforest_.

- "A woman needs a man who can make her laugh" is a quote from the Genie in Disney's _Aladdin_.

- When cats are frightened, they will purr to themselves or be purred at by other cats as a comforting mechanism. Not sure why exactly (we're still not even sure _how_ cats purr in the first place) but I've read that in several books about cats.

- The bracelet Roiben is wearing is from _Ironside_. Kaye does make it in honor of his coronation as Unseelie king, but doesn't get a chance to give it to him until the end of the book. It is made of silver wire and a slender braid of Kaye's hair, in its natural color of pixie green.

- "...as well as the young kinsmen of one of Our royal guards" refers to Simon and Jared Grace, as Mallory Grace, their older sister, is in training as bodyguard to Kaye.

- Ravus is in fact an ice troll. Although he had a human father, his mother was a troll who, in her true unglamored form, had frost on her skin and ice in her hair.

- Cornelius "Neil" Stone (formerly known as Corny) is Kaye's friend and ally in both _Tithe_ and _Ironside_, and the first human to find out she's a changeling. He also killed Roiben's rival/main enemy in _Tithe_, an Elf named Nephamael. In _Ironside_, he kills one of the enemy queen's knights, Adair, after Adair curses him to kill whatever he touches with his bare hands. The curse is broken in _Ironside_. He is one of Dylan's patients.

- Simon Lewis is a bespectacled vampire from _the Mortal Instruments_ series, an ally of the demon-hunting Shadowhunters, and best friend to the main character, Clary Fray (who has appeared twice in this fic). Simon has the ability to walk in sunlight, and bears what is referred to by the cast of the original series as the Mark of Cain, though Dylan has told him on multiple occassions that the Shadowhunter Mark he bears on his forehead is in fact _not_ the Biblical Mark placed on Cain by God (because it's not, Cassandra Clare had no idea what she was talking about in this particular instance). Simon was counseled at one time by Dylan after he was kicked out of his house by his mother, who thinks he's some kind of demon.

- Luis is the male human lead from Holly Black's _Valiant_, and Val's trusted right-hand guy in _Ironside_. He has the Sight, but is blind in one eye due to an attack by a faerie as a little boy. He has multiple facial piercings of pure iron to keep the fae from attacking him. He also possesses Roiben's protection, granted at the end of _Ironside_. He works with Neil to solve faerie problems for faeries and humans, working out of Kaye's coffee shop, Persephone's.

- In chapter 43, there is this line: "Nuala had found solace in two of her handmaidens - a _wakį́yą_ girl and a young Elven noblewoman from Zwezda." The _wakį́yą_ girl is named Na'ko'ma, and the Elven noblewoman is _Ledi_ Polunochnaya _iz_ Lysaya Gora (Lady Polunochnaya of Bald Mountain).

- Meliorn is an Elf knight of the Seelie Court (which Roiben now rules) who serves as an envoy between the Fae and the Shadowhunters in Cassandra Clare's _City of Glass_. In _City of Ashes_, the book before _City of Glass_, you find out he was romantically involved with the Shadowhunter Isabelle Lightwood, who dumped him for Simon.

- The other Elf knight, the one with the wine-red hair, is Ellebere, Roiben's guard captain from _Ironside_. Dismissive of humans and commoners, he is still unfailingly loyal to Roiben, though he does not approve of Roiben's choices in allies or women.


	55. A Long, Cold Night

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note_

_Concerning the Chapter Title_

_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**IMPORTANT:**_ okay, everyone, my 2 books are coming out soon! Yes, my original fiction works (one young adult urban fantasy and one inspirational romance) will be available on Amazon for the Kindle/Nook/eReader thingies for $3.99 (who remembers when books were that cheap on paper? I do! I remember when a standard RL Stine's _Fear Street_ paperback book was four bucks. Ahhh, inflation. Anyways...).

And just so you know how much bang for your buck we're talking here, my YA novel is 92,000 words (a little bit thicker than _Twilight_). My romance is a typical category romance, around 70,000 words. And I'm going to try and get a few original short stories available for the eReader things soon as well, for $0.99.

And for those of you who don't have that sort of electronic bookie thing, both books will be available in paperback in like... a week or two. I hope. I wanna get them up and ready before I leave on the 13th. Eeek. I don't know how much they'll cost, though. About $12 I think. Please buy them! I don't want to get evicted from my apartment and they upped my rent by like... a lot. (T.T)

My books are called _Glass_ and _Their Forever Family_, and both will be under my penname, LA Knight. =) If you check out my new profile pic, it's the front cover for _Glass_! I've got 2 other books coming out some time this year, as well. One is one of those classics-mash-ups, _Anne of Zombie Gables,_ and the other is a high fantasy novel, _The Shepherd's Daughter._ So keep an eye out, yeah? Yay!

_**Author's Note:**_ _so here we have ANOTHER one of those chapters that was only going to be one chapter, and ended up being two because a couple things had to happen and it took too long to fit into one chap. I hate it when that happens. However, it is guaranteed that they're going back to Findias in chapter 56. They get there near the end, I swear!_

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**Chapter Fifty-Five**

**A Long, Cold Night**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Messages, a Young Guard, Echoes of Battlefields, a Brother Lost, Betrayal, a Brother Half-Convinced, Harsh Words, and Forgiveness**

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In the Troll Market, four pairs of bleary eyes snapped awake at the insistent pounding on four different front doors.

In her white canvas tent-shop, Aso the Weaver growled like a rabid hyena at the messenger, but accepted the missive with grumbled thanks before yanking the tent flaps closed again.

At the house attached to his forge, Erik Ashkeson was polite to the letter-bearer. His wife offered the young messenger a bite to eat and something to drink while her husband and her son Jarl studied the hastily-penned warning with shadowed garnet eyes and somber faces.

Laigdech's blood ran cold at the thought that anyone would move against the king's son in such a way, and resolved to go about armed for the foreseeable future.

Yang simply snapped her fingers to summon several low-level spook-fires to guard her little house on the outskirts of the Market and sent the fourth young messenger away with a bag of honeyed rice-balls for his trouble.

And in Findias, in a lavishly decorated bedchamber situated near Princess Nuala's own suite, _Ledi_ Polunochnaya _iz_ Lysaya Gora studied the simple message from the crown prince with cat-slitted silver eyes and a smile curving her pale lips. How funny, she thought, that the Silver Lance should be concerned for _her_ safety, of all people's. And how sweet that he still referred to her as "Naya." Apparently the prince had not forgotten just what she had been to him, once upon a time. Maybe she could use that to her advantage when he returned with his... _mortal_.

Reclining back against the velvet pillows on her bed, the Elven noblewoman couldn't help but laugh that Nuada would send her this message, out of all the people who were put at possible risk by his regard. He had always underestimated her. Well, he would soon see, wouldn't he?

**.**

Dylan was grateful - more than grateful - that all four children had fallen asleep in a big pile on the floor and that Lena also slept again when one of Roiben's green-clad healers stepped out of the ensorcelled chamber and approached Dylan. The mortal's face must have registered her foremost concern, because the healer smiled faintly and held up a hand.

"The youth still lives," he said, running a hand smeared with drying traces of amber blood through the porcupine quills that served him for hair. "He is strong, and stubborn," the faerie added, echoing Nuada's earlier words. "He is not out of danger yet, though. The damage done by the dullahans' whips was extensive; the fractured skull certainly did not help, either. If he survives till dawn, his chances will increase exponentially. He is, however, awake, and asking for you."

Her heart smashed hard against her sternum as she cast a swift look at the sleeping children, then at Val. "Keep an eye on them?" The younger human nodded, and Dylan limped into the healing chamber.

Tsu's'di lay on the bed, covered decently by a sheet, his face tight with pain. Lashes from a whip had cut open his lip, right eyebrow, right cheek, and ripped open several lacerations along his right arm. They were closing slowly. His left arm was splinted and strapped to keep it immobilized long enough for the healing magic to settle into the bones. The healers had strapped his broken ribs, as well. Something long and stiff and wrapped 'round in white bandages was more than likely the boy's tail. What alarmed Dylan the most was the sickly gray cast to the ewah youth's skin underneath the tawny pelt of cougar fur that covered his body. He was sweating hard.

"Oh, Tsu's'di," she murmured, and went to his side. The youth swallowed hard and smoky turquoise eyes found hers. He made a brave attempt at a smile, but found out quickly enough that shifting expression would make his face hurt.

"Hello, _A'ge'lv_," the boy said. The fingers of his right hand flexed, tightening into a fist before relaxing again. Without conscious thought, Dylan reached out and smoothed back some of the sweat-dampened wisps of long fur clinging to his forehead. The youth didn't protest the mortal's attempt at mothering. Only asked, "A'du and 'Sa'ti, are they-"

"They're fine," she hastened to assure him. Felt him relax almost completely, the tension draining out of him like water. Dylan added, "They are just fine. They're out there, asleep. The healers saw to them, too. By tomorrow afternoon they'll be right as rain, all right? Don't worry about them. How are _you?_ Have they given you anything for the pain?"

He shook his head slowly. "Too dangerous to give me poppy juice, they said. My skull's broken, apparently. Would explain the hammers smashing around in my head. Have to wake me up every so often, make sure I'm not dead. Apparently they've never heard of that stuff you use - willow bark tea or whatever. Lena," he said suddenly, and there was an odd note in his voice. He tensed again. "They tried to hurt her, too. She was so scared. Is she all right? I tried to protect her, but-"

"Lena's fine, too," Dylan said, and the youth relaxed perceptibly. "She's been worried sick about you all night. What happened with you two, anyway?"

Despite the pain from his broken bones, despite the fact that it hurt to do so, Tsu's'di grinned. "Got to go on that date," he said. "Saw some movie. _The Secret World of_ something. Anime, she said it was called. I liked it. Never been on a date, before," he added. "She just... made me feel... different. Looser, I guess. I had fun. Haven't had any fun by myself in a while. She gave me this maple-sugar candy at the movie. Then we walked in the Park for a bit before the sun went down. It was great."

Now Dylan was the one to grin. "Doesn't hurt that she's pretty, does it?"

Tsu's'di's grin widened, then he winced. "Ow. That hurt. Yeah, she's really pretty." His expression softened. "And she's nice, under all that swagger. And she likes A'du and 'Sa'ti. She played with them while I helped Lady Peri with chores. It was nice. Not a lot of fae girls like kids."

"So I've noticed," his mistress muttered, thinking of Kaye's biological mother, who'd dumped her off in a human dwelling without a thought to her offspring. Peri, as far as Dylan knew, was the _only_ changeling-bearing faerie who'd fought to keep her child. "Tsu's'di, I'm going to talk to the healers about giving you a willow- or cherry-bark tisane to help with your pain, because you need to get at least some real sleep, but before I go is there anything you want to ask me? Or tell me?"

The boy was silent for a very long time before he finally asked in a mere whisper, "Is the prince angry with me?" At her incredulous look, he added, "For getting hurt. I know you have to go back to Findias tomorrow and I'm supposed to guard you and now I might not be able to. I'm sorry. Is he angry?"

Dylan shook her head. Though surprised the cougar shifter would think Nuada could be mad at him over something so ridiculous, she was secretly pleased that Tsu's'di hadn't assumed _she_ was angry. "No. No, of course not. He was simply worried. So was I. We're _still_ worried; you're not quite out of the woods yet. He would be here right now, but we received news and he needed to see things for himself." As quickly as possible, she related everything that had happened - the dipsa attack in the forest, the noc attack, John being ambushed by shandymen, and the rumored assault on Wink.

To the human's surprise, Tsu's'di sat quietly and thought about all of this for a long moment before speaking. "My father... I barely remember him. He died a few decades ago, a few months before 'Sa'ti was born. But I was never scared of him. I never thought he'd hurt me or A'du. Fathers aren't supposed to do that. Do you _really_ think this King Balor is trying to hurt His Highness? Doesn't he love him?"

Suddenly oddly chilled, Dylan lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I don't know if Balor's the one we have to worry about or not. I just don't know. I think... I think he loves his son, but I don't think he considers Prince Nuada to actually _be_ his son anymore. I don't know, though. I don't know what's going on in Balor's head. All I know is that he's capable of hurting or even killing His Highness if pressed." If this had been any other youngster - 'Sa'ti or A'du'la'di, or anyone else - she wouldn't have been so candid. But Tsu's'di's response told her she was right to treat him as an adult.

"Then we'll have to be extra on guard," the cougar youth muttered. "If we have to worry about the prince's other enemies on top of worrying about the king of the castle we're gonna be stuck in. Anyone could be an enemy. _A'ge'lv_... I don't think I can protect you by myself. I think I'm gonna need some help."

"I'll speak to His Highness. I'm sure we've got other allies. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Because she couldn't help herself, Dylan smoothed back Tsu's'di's sweat-dampened hair again. The youth's mouth quirked up a little. "In the meantime, rest. Focus on healing."

"Yes, milady-mother," Tsu's'di replied. Dylan laughed and withdrew from the healing room.

**.**

The place was a shambles.

When it was deemed safe to hold Midnight Fest, glamor and warding spells were set in place by the strongest local fey of the Merchants' Guild to keep out any who did not belong to the Hidden Realms. That made it possible, if the Other Kin so desired, to hold the nocturnal festivities right out on the mortal streets. But usually the Guild hosted it in parks, abandoned parking garages, and other such out-of-the-way places where mundane human interference was least likely.

The East Village was a neighborhood of New York mostly populated by fae, less magical Other Kin like vampires, and Sight-blessed humans. It boasted enchanted establishments such as the pixie-owned Persephone's, the demon-run Pandemonium Club, and Lorelei's tavern, Fafner's Cave. This little place was normally flooded with people, even in the darkest parts of the night.

Now it all lay in ruins; little impromptu stages splintered and smoldering, market stalls and merchant carts in pieces no bigger than a forearm, canvas tents slashed to ribbons. And then there were the injured: tiny psychai, rainbow butterfly wings shredded or singed or crumpled; several _wakį́yą_ with bandaged limbs; a taltos with a broken arm in a sling to her chest; a sallow Bethmooran goblin being stitched up by another, less damaged goblin. After that, there were the dead. Bone-boys, a pack of young ghouls, dullahan, night-jars and the smaller nightgaunts, dactyls, tree spirits. Mostly the more diminutive fae, save a few. The corpse of a troll sent ice cold fear shrieking through Nuada's blood until he realized the troll male was older and smaller than Wink.

Nuada stared around at the decimation for a moment in complete and utter shock. The damage was not _so_ bad. Not compared to what he'd seen in countless wars. But it was still hideous, and he realized, suddenly and with an odd coldness in his chest, that he had grown a bit soft in the later years of his self-imposed exile. Because although he remembered the atrocities committed by the humans against the fae - oh, how he remembered them - he had not _truly_ remembered what it was like to walk into a place that should have been peaceful and joyous only to see it invaded, violated.

But now he remembered, and it fired something inside him that his time with Dylan had slowly been lulling into sleep. Anger. Black fury. Hatred. And something else, something hard and cold and biting. Resignation. This was what the fae had been reduced to? Fighting amongst themselves? Killing each other? He knew no humans had done this. The desolation would have been far worse. But he also knew why it had happened.

Someone wanted to break him to pieces. Rip out his heart and grind it into the dust beneath their feet. And to do it they would murder the woman he loved, slaughter helpless children, attack a mortal who had no real connection to him at all, and steal from him the one on whom he had nearly always relied. Because, he knew - though he wasn't certain _how_ it was that he knew - he had made the greatest mistake he had ever made in his life.

Dylan. This had happened because he was in love with Dylan.

So in a way, he thought a little vaguely, as the world seemed to tilt in strange ways around him and various Other Kin attempted to set things to rights, this was the fault of humans. Just one more sin against his people on the heads of that accursed race. One more atrocity to be blamed on the children of Adam. The thought boiled like molten iron in his blood.

And there was one more thing. One vicious, aching grief that threatened to strangle him. Threatened to shatter him into so many pieces he would never be able to put himself back together again.

Lying around them, scattered like carrion, being fed on by ravenous nocs and other flesh-eating fae, were more than two dozen Butcher Guards. More than two _dozen_. He couldn't tell what had killed them - the damage from the carrion-devouring Pobel Vean was too extensive at this point. Only the empty helms and blood-smeared swords of the Bethmooran royal guards even identified them as such. So Nuada could not be certain if the Butchers had been there to attack Wink, or to help him.

But cold suspicion began to freeze into an icy knot in the very pit of his stomach. How would his father have known to send the Butchers to Midnight Fest to aid the silver cave troll? He couldn't have known. Why would the king have sent them, then? To attack Wink. To capture or to kill him. But capturing the troll would gain the king nothing...

_Athair,_ Nuada thought, desperately, _Father,_ and that savage grief ripped at him. The prince stared in nauseous disbelief at the ruined Butcher corpses. He hadn't believed it, hadn't thought it possible, not really. It hadn't made any sense; still made no sense at all. His father would never hurt children, hurt humans. Attack innocent fae. Would never behave the coward like this. But the dead guards were the proof, were they not?

Nuada thought he might choke on the emotion thickening in his throat. His leather gloves creaked and his fingers ached as they knotted into fists. He bit his lip until he tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood. _Gods, Athair, why? Why would you do this? What have I done to make you do this? I have only ever tried to serve my people. So why... why?_

He wanted Dylan. He wanted her _now._ How he kept on his feet without her there in that moment of sick realization, he had no idea. Were his legs shaking? Gods, he hoped not. She'd been right. Shades of Annwn, she'd been right. His father had been behind it all. His father had tried to destroy him.

_How could you do this, Father?_

It was the vampire boy that found where the fight had begun. He had a keen nose for blood, of course. When he caught the scent of deep earthen places and limestone and caverns, of molten rock and hoarfrost, mixed with just the faintest hint of leather and metals, the youth quickly sniffed out the freshest spatter of slate-gray troll blood on the pavement, and followed it back through the East Village. The trail went less than a block. Along it, the vampire smelled the freshness of deep water and the soft metallic perfume of gold, and found traces of drying amber blood. Nuada knew it belonged to Lorelei.

This understanding barely registered against a sudden strange fog that swallowed nearly all of the Elven warrior's thoughts and left him hollow. He hardly reacted when the vampire pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number. He waited in silence for a moment. From within the walls of Fafner's Cave, Nuada thought he heard a phone ringing. After several moments the ringing died. Simon's fangs flashed, needle-thin slivers of bone-white in the moonlight, as he grimaced and shoved his phone back in the pocket of his cargo pants.

"No answer from Lorelei's place," he muttered, staring at the glamored tavern-front with shadowed eyes. "She always answers, even if it's the middle of the night. In case it's an emergency. I'm a message-runner for the Clave," the vampire added at Ellebere's raised brows. "I've had to make deliveries here before. Fafner's Cave is like a neutral zone so a lot of Other Kin do business there. She _always_ has her phone on her. Always answers it." He glanced down at the smears of golden blood. "This is bad."

The words sent a jolt through the Elf prince. Bad? He almost wanted to laugh, but thought he might choke on it. Humans and their penchant for understatement. "Bad" was so insignificant compared to all the words running through the Elf's mind at that moment along with the slashing dread and the cold knotting in his guts. It was pathetic, Nuada tried to snarl at himself, to fall apart this way. Was he a warrior or a sheltered child? Was he the legendary Silverlance or not?

But there was _so much_ blood. He could smell it. Almost taste it clotting on the back of his tongue. Splashes drying to tacky gray on the ground. Smears on some of the brick and concrete walls of the stores and drinking establishments. How had Wink survived such wounds long enough to escape?

He hadn't. There was simply no way that Nuada could see. The silver cave troll had not simply walked away from this fight. Not with this much blood loss and that many enemies all focused on killing him. But... but it simply couldn't _be_...

Nuada looked around, chilled to his bones. Anger had been subsumed by a strange sort of fear that threatened to smother him like a blanket of tar. Wink should have _been_ here. Should have been lying wounded where Nuada could find him. Or one of the fae that Ellebere, Roiben's wine-haired knight, spoke to should have known where the troll was. Should have seen something. But there was no trace, no sign. Even when Nuada cast out with his senses, he could not catch even a flicker of Wink or Lorelei, and Lorelei's rooms above Fafner's Cave were less than two dozen yards away. There was only the aftertaste of death. There was only the all too familiar reek of blood. So much blood.

And his father... his father was responsible. His father had tried to slay the troll warrior that had saved Balor's children and avenged Balor's wife when the king had merely drowned himself in the grief that was shared by his son and daughter. His father, his oh so _honorable_ father, who called Nuada monster and betrayer and coward and rapist and murderer, had attempted to butcher innocent children. Risked war with two other courts to do so. Tried to kill Dylan. Had murdered...

Wink's face swam behind Nuada's eyelids as he squeezed them shut against the cruel pricking that meant nothing but shame for him right then. He didn't _know_ that his father was behind all of this. Did not _know_ that his vassal was dead. Not for certain.

But if not, if he dared to hope not, then where in hellfire _was_ Wink? Where could he have possibly gone so terribly wounded? Not the healing sanctuary, or any of the lairs throughout the subway tunnels. He would not have been able to make it so far alone, and the lairs were warded. Nuada would have felt it the moment Wink crossed the threshold. So where could the troll be? _Where_, stars curse it?

A dark thought sent revulsion and horror roiling in his belly and bile rising into his throat. Had the nocs already picked Wink's bones clean? Was that why he couldn't find the troll? He knuckled his eyes to press down the sudden pain sparking there.

Gods, but he was tired. Everything that had happened, everything that it meant or could possibly mean, weighed down on him like iron shackles. His eyes burned. The night air threatened to freeze him to the marrow. His skull felt thick with cobwebs. He could not think clearly when he was this tired. Not at his age. Maybe if he'd been a handful of centuries younger...

Then Meliorn, the other Elf knight of Roiben's courts, found the Royal Seal.

It lay like a tiny silvery moon on the blackness of the asphalt. Street lamps and faerie lights lit up the etched crest of the Eildon Tree. The symbol of Bethmoora in peacetime. A spatter of gray blood marred the Seal. It gleamed dully in the dim glow of the City lights.

Nuada knelt, though it felt almost as if he were falling. His bones rattled when his knee impacted the ground. With trembling hands he lifted the Seal that Wink had worn against the leather of his thick troll armor. Turned it over to see that the rawhide ties that usually held the Seal in place had been raggedly cut. An enemy had cut or ripped it away, most likely. His loyal vassal would have never left the mark of his service behind willingly. Nuada drew a shuddering breath and turned the silver device over again to stare at the royal hawthorne tree etched across its surface.

_Wink is dead, then,_ Nuada thought numbly. His mind tried to rebel at the thought. His stomach twisted viciously and his heart knifed sideways in his chest. Yet the prince could not fight the sudden despair that seemed to cling to him like a black sticky web. The father of his heart was more than likely dead at the hands of the father of his blood. It made no sense and yet... A sudden shard of agony knifed him in the back, sliding home to his heart, as the truth crystallized in his mind. Nuada fought to keep from being sick.

_Dylan, please, I need you now,_ he thought, fighting not to shake apart as shame and grief and blistering regret and the throttling pain of loss threatened to drown him. _Oh, gods... gods, my love, I need you._ But she could not hear him and he knew it. There was no one to hear the strange, almost childlike cry of denial in the back of his mind. Wink. Father, brother, truest friend.

The Elven warrior rose stiffly to his feet and stared down at the disc of etched silver as if he had never seen it before. He thought of the Elf who had done this, the one who was responsible. He thought of the troll who had been a father to him, who had saved his and Nuala's lives more than thirty centuries ago, who had avenged Nuada's mother, who had sat with a heartsick Elven princeling while he wept at the sight of amber blood still staining the ground and then taken him home again. The troll who was his brother in heart and soul, who had kept him sane and strong in exile, who had helped him in all he stood in need of - including wooing an impossible mortal woman after the Elf prince had made a right ass of himself, Nuada thought with a sudden twitch of his lips that was almost a hint of a smile.

Wink.

And Lorelei. Was she dead? There was not enough blood to say so. Yet if not dead, where was she? Hiding? Why had she not contacted him? Especially if Wink were with her? The Rhine daughter's connections throughout the city were legion. If she were all right - if she and Wink were alive - why had she not sent him a message?

Would he have to go to Sunna and tell the woman who was his friend that because of him her daughter was dead? Her daughter, whom Nuada had watched grow from a tiny child barely able to toddle into the beautiful faerie woman who had won Wink's heart.

Where was Lorelei? Could Wink possibly still be alive? Was there a chance that he had misread the signs, that he was wrong, that his father had not done this thing? Was there even the slightest chance? After all, not every member of the fey race that fed into the Butcher Guards became a royal guard. Perhaps this was merely an attempt to make Nuada blame his father in place of the true perpetrator.

But the fallen helms and blades, etched with the royal crest of Bethmoora, were slowly smothering that tiny ember of hope.

"Come, we should go. This place stinks of death," Ellebere muttered, glancing around. "The troll is obviously dead. The woman also, I would imagine. My condolences for the loss of your servant, Prince Nuada," he added belatedly.

Nuada did not even acknowledge the other Elf. He merely tightened his grip on the Seal until the edges bit into his fingers. Drops of blood slipped like liquid gold onto the silver and smeared there, glittering like a tribute. The pain throbbing through his fingers was barely noticeable. He was oddly numb to everything. Then he turned in a daze and began to walk back the way they'd come.

**.**

"Are you going to hit me?" John rasped when he caught sight of his twin hovering in the doorway to the healing chamber or wherever he was. Dylan looked bad, he thought. Pale, she trembled with nerves or cold or fatigue or all three. She moved like her feet hurt. Her hair hung in her face so that one blue eye peeked out through the curtain of limp, frizzy curls. In point of fact, she looked like crap. Obviously the gimlet-eyed brat prince wasn't taking very good care of John's twin. Of course, John knew _he_ didn't exactly look that great, either.

"Why would I hit you?"

"For getting stabbed like an idiot," he said. "For wrecking the Mustang you bought me. For cracking my head open again. How many brain cells do you think I've lost by now, anyway?"

"At this point, John-boy," his sister mumbled, approaching a bit gingerly to sit in the chair beside his bed, "I honestly don't think one more whack on the noggin is going to do you much harm." She reached out and gently slipped her index finger around his pinkie. "Don't worry about lost brain cells or whatever."

John snorted, then winced when his ribs protested. "Your hunk of burning Elf stuff or whatever probably thinks I'm already barely half a step up from being a moron." He flicked his gaze over Dylan's face. Man, she needed some sleep. She wasn't young anymore, which was so strange because even after he'd come back from the stupid Hell Dimension she'd seemed so youthful. Still his twin despite the new discrepency in their ages. When had she gotten older? Or had he just missed it? "You know," John muttered, "I just realized something. How old is that guy?"

"Nuada?" Dylan rubbed one eye with the heel of her palm. Pain was throbbing through her eyes and her chest felt oddly tight. She was so blasted tired. "Um... about forty, forty-one. Why?"

The twenty-one-year-old blinked at his twin for a second. His eye twitched. "Dude. D, that is weird. He's more than a decade older than you. He's a cradle-robbing creep."

Dylan rolled her eyes and found herself smiling a little. Hadn't she said the same thing that night Nuada had saved her from freezing to death? "Oh, shut up. You just woke up from having your entire body stuck back together again, you're not allowed to make comments about my boyfriend's age. And you think that's bad? That's how old he is physically. Chronologically, he's over four-thousand years old."

John's eyes blew wide and he just stared at her for a minute. Then he squeezed his eyes shut. "D, that... that's just... I mean... ew. Just... ew. Sis, I am absolutely begging you to please tell me that you are _not_ sleeping with someone who's older than dirt."

"I'm tempted to pull a Francesca and beg you to tell me you haven't turned into a sex-addicted man-whore, but I actually know better than to ask you that," his sister informed him dryly. Raising her eyebrow, she added, "Worried about my honor, Johnny?"

He glared at her. "No. That lipstick-wearing hobgoblin knows if he ever forces you to do anything, I'll rip his head off and play soccer with it."

"First of all, John, Nuada would never force me into anything, _ever_. Insinuating that he would is bad enough. Saying so outright... you're lucky you have broken ribs or I'd smack you with a rolled-up newspaper." Dylan watched with a twinge of satisfaction when her twin brother shrank back a little from the spark of anger in her eyes. "Secondly, you owe Nuada for saving your life. He could have refused when I asked him to rescue you, but he didn't.

"And third," she added, trying not to laugh, "he doesn't wear lipstick. His mouth just naturally looks that way. Although that's pretty rich coming from a guy who looks like he's always wearing mascara. And if I recall correctly, _you_ were wearing lipstick in that picture Francesca took of you in the dress."

He grimaced. "I was only six. She made me do it."

"You looked so cute, too."

"D, please shut up."

"No, I want to ask you something."

One gray-blue eye locked on her face. "Are you gonna stab me if I give the wrong answer?"

She leaned back and stretched her legs out. "I'm thinking about it, since you're being a twit. Why do you hate Nuada so much, John? You've never been like this with anyone ever. I've never seen you act this way with anybody. Not even bad guys. You insult him, yell at him, provoke him. The things you said to him... I don't understand you, John. For the first time ever I don't understand what's going on with you. Is it that you're still getting static from me or what? Can you not control the link anymore?"

"No. I haven't had that problem since I went through puberty," he muttered, pretending to be aggrieved. She didn't smile. Sobering, John said, "Okay. Okay, here's the deal. You love the guy, which means he's the luckiest idiot in the world. But he doesn't care. Even though you love him, he-"

"Loves me, too."

John blinked. Blinked again. His head was starting to ache something fierce. "Okay, you'll have to excuse me, because I _did_ crack my skull open tonight. Did you just say he loves you?"

"Yes, I did. Nuada loves me."

He stared at her. Swallowed. "Um..." Oh, crap, she'd gone off the deep end. She'd lost her mind. Or she was just desperate. John blamed that on Francesca. But Dylan could do better than that pasty-faced zombie prince! John had a buddy at Quantico who was looking for a nice girl to settle down with. Dylan was a nice girl.

A nice girl who saw faeries.

_Okay, that might not work,_ John thought, but aloud all he said was, "I really hate to say this, but... no, he doesn't. If he loved you, he wouldn't have called you a whore. I know how sensitive you are about that-"

"But _he_ didn't. He was speaking from anger; he didn't mean it. And he apologized. Profusely. Nuada just made a mistake, John," his sister said, defending the douche bag with her wide eyes and earnest voice. John just wanted to punch the guy in the nose again. This time preferably without getting socked into a wall. That had hurt. And left him with a loose molar.

"Dylan-"

"You've made mistakes too," she reminded him. "It's not fair, the way you treat him. You focus only on the one thing he's done wrong and you ignore everything that he's done right. He saved my life more than once. He kept me sane. He protected me, taught me how to protect myself. Taught me how to be stronger, braver. Helped me face things I never thought I'd ever have the courage to stand up against. He helped me heal - not just my body, but my heart. He has risked so much for me. He nearly died for me more than once. Why can't you keep that in mind when you deal with him?"

Wow. Her twin studied her for a minute, taken aback. She'd never really talked about why she liked Prince Prissy Pants so much. He knew the gist of what the royal ghoul had done for Dylan, but he'd never heard her talk about Nuada like this before. She'd never _really_ explained everything to him. Still, John had a few more points to make. "He tried to break my arm-"

"You told him I hated him," she snapped back. "What if someone that _you_ hated, someone who had reason to know, told you the same thing? How would you feel if you thought for even a second that I could honestly truly hate you, John? For years we've always truly relied solely on each other, so be honest - what would you do?"

"Like the zombie prince gives a flying rat's buttered carcass about... okay, Dylan, stop laughing," he grumbled when his twin covered her mouth with one hand and giggled. He'd forgotten that the "buttered carcass" thing always made her laugh when she was really tired. Darn it, he was being _serious._ Or trying, anyway. "Dylan, you've got to stop defending him. He's no good. He doesn't care about you."

"You don't get to say that, John." All the giggles were gone now. Nuada's words reverberated through her skull. _I cannot stand by and let you be hurt. I cannot do it, Dylan. Do not ask it of me, because I cannot do it!_ He'd sounded so desperate. Almost frightened. "You didn't see him. You don't know what it's like for him. You have no idea how hard it is for him to... he's had a hard life. A horrible life. He's been betrayed countless times and when we had that fight, he thought I'd betrayed him, too. I explained all this to you."

Okay, yeah, she had. And she'd forgiven the guy and John had been out of line, he knew that, saying all those things to the Elf prince just because he was upset. Dylan and the prince had worked everything out, and it was cool. Supposedly. But the Legolas-wannabe didn't love Dylan. She had to realize that.

Except...

_If you die, it will break her heart. I have broken her heart before, though I did not wish to do it. I will make amends to her as long as I must. But if I let you die, you who are her world, she would never forgive me your life. And I would never forgive myself her heartbreak._

There had been scarlet threads of anger woven through those words, and dark hatred. But underneath of that, so faint John might have imagined it, he'd heard regret and envy. Remorse when the Elven warrior had talked of breaking Dylan's heart, and more than a little jealousy when he'd said "you who are her world."

_I would never forgive myself her heartbreak._ Then why had Nuada hit her with the sharpest, ugliest words he could muster? The ones that would break her down to nothing? Why had he just left her there? And why had it taken him so blasted long to come back?

"Dylan," John said, trying to rally his flagging strength, "the creep _abandoned_ you-"

"So did you," Dylan said softly, shredding him in the time it took to utter three short simple words, and his mouth snapped shut with an audible _click_ of teeth. His eyes stung as he stared up at her in shock. _So did you._ Cripes, he'd thought they were past that. He hadn't meant to; didn't she know he hadn't meant to? She couldn't think he'd do that on purpose?

Dylan reached out and brushed something from his cheek. When she pulled her fingers back, John saw the tips of them glistened wetly. "Everyone makes mistakes, John-boy. Everyone has hurt someone they love."

"I never wanted to hurt you," he whispered. "D, I swear, I-"

"I know," she said gently. "He didn't want to hurt me, either. Not really. You didn't see him when he came back. Please, Johnny, just give him a chance. Please?"

"It won't help if I do; he hates me," her brother mumbled. Remembering the butt of a lance hitting him in the face, a sword blade at his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth when Nuada punched him, and everything else, he added, "A lot. He threatened to cut my throat during that fight in your cottage."

Her eyebrows slid up toward her hairline. The government agent experienced a brief flash of triumph, which was promptly squashed when his twin replied, "Can you blame him? When you were in the same situation, you nearly killed someone once. With your bare hands, I might add. Three things really tick Nuada off, and you attacked him with all three of them when he was already upset. You used his mother, me, and rape against him."

"I didn't mention his mother," John protested, frowning. Dylan opened her mouth, then hesitated, wondering how she could explain without breaking Nuada's confidences. Her twin blinked and realization spread across his face. "Oh." A soft exhalation heavy with remorse. "I... oh. That's why he... oh. Dylan, I didn't know. I wouldn't have said what I said if I'd known, I swear."

She offered him a small smile. "I know. But you see now why he got so upset about what you said? He would never just stand by and let me get hurt that way. Not ever. He wouldn't let that happen to any woman, but there is no possible way he would ever let it happen to _me_ of all people. Do you see?"

"Yeah." Then the federal agent's face hardened. "But even before that, he was a jerk."

"That's just..." She sighed, raking a hand through her tangled hair. "I know he was a bit of a jerk to you. Although you have to remember the first thing he ever saw you do was grab me and shake me like a maraca while yelling in my face. What would you do if you saw some guy you didn't know doing that to me?" Her mouth twitched when she saw John wince in response. "Exactly. And then there's the fact that he hates humans. A whole, whole lot. Big whole lot. Humans were responsible for a lot of the grief he's experienced."

"But he loves _you_, you said." He didn't have to point out to his quite observant sister that _she_ was human.

She shrugged tiredly. "I'm different, apparently. He says the rest of the world should be like me. I've informed him that the world would be quite boring that way, and he sort of just humors me. Never mind that if everyone were like me, they'd all be female, and our species would die out. But I don't think that argument would sway him much." Dylan rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes for a moment. "I need to sleep," she muttered, "but I can't. Not yet. I'm so glad tomorrow is Saturday. Or today is. Whatever. Anyway, John, please... just, please, try to give him a chance. Please? I hate that you two don't like each other. It's like I'm being torn in half."

"Okay, okay, jeez," he mumbled, trying not to show how much her distress affected him. He hadn't realized it upset her _this much,_ his hostility with the prissy fairy prince. Other than the time they'd tried to beat the tar out of each other. He would have to think about everything that Dylan had said. Think about it, and figure out what he wanted to do with it.

But not tonight. Not when his brains felt like they were melting out of his ears thanks to the jackhammers drilling away inside his fractured skull. And not after getting into a car wreck that had nearly killed him and had completely totaled the sweet Mustang his twin sister had bought for him when he'd graduated college.

_Man, my Mustang. And that creep didn't even care. Not that he knows how completely priceless a 'Stang is, being a prancing little faerie boy and everything... wait. I'm supposed to be trying to give him a chance. Crud. That's going to be hard..._

Dylan stayed with him for another hour. The rest of the conversation shifted to things like unicorns, which John had to admit was a pretty cool date idea, and potential assassination attempts (which John had to admit showcased exactly what his sister had been talking about regarding Nuada's concern for Dylan's personal safety). Eventually, however, he started to drift off. Dylan said that was normal since he'd been pieced back together with magic. Apparently he needed to sleep now.

She bent over and kissed his forehead before she left, and he was reminded of her doing that same thing ever since they were little kids. It eased some of the frustrated unease that had been simmering inside him since the car accident.

"I'll come see you when you wake up, okay?"

He nodded, already slipping into sleepiness. His twin brushed a hand across his forehead and walked out of the room as he fell asleep.

**.**

A servant led Nuada to the room he was supposed to share with Dylan, and left him at the door. For a long moment he simply stared at the doorhandle. Did he want to go in? Did he want to walk into that room and see the pity in his mortal lady's eyes? Or worse, have to face her questions about what had happened at Midnight Fest?

Nuada had no idea what had occurred at the fae event. All he knew was that the Fates were cruel. Proof that Wink was dead, enough proof to send heartache and dread lancing through him, but not quite enough proof to cement the icy fear in the prince's chest. Not enough proof to confirm that his father had somehow become his enemy in earnest, yet too much for him to dismiss the ache of grief and confusion. He did not want to tell Dylan his suspicions. He did not want to see the cold anger and heartbreaking certainty in her eyes.

Humming slipped sweetly from beneath the door. Nuada leaned his forehead against the cool stone. Tried to force the tension from his body. Was she putting the children to bed? He'd missed the bedtime story again, then. For some reason the thought sent a pang through his chest.

"Nuada, I know you're out there," Dylan called from inside the room, and he jolted. "I can see your shadow from under the door. You're blocking the light from the torches in the hallway."

The door swung open without a creak to reveal his mortal lady seated at a vanity table, running a brush through her damp hair. She'd changed in his absence into modest sleeping attire, obviously borrowed from Kaye or another noblewoman - rich velvet pajama pants of dark hunter green and a thin tunic of palest green silk. For a split second Nuada wished fiercely that this was their room for true, that she was his wife, that the sumptuous bed was theirs to share so that he could climb into it beside her and hold her against his chest, trying to find some semblance of comfort.

Dylan took one look at his face and her welcoming smile slipped away. "You didn't find him." It was not a question, and for that he was thankful. She started to get up. He motioned her to sit down again. She obeyed, but didn't resume brushing her hair. "What do you need from me?"

From anyone else that question would have been an impatient demand, a not-so-subtle hint to go away. From Dylan, those words were an offer to ask for or take whatever he required from her. So he went to her and slid his arms about her shoulders. She leaned into him, sighed. She could feel the tension, tight as wires, in his body.

"Take what you need, Nuada."

"Just this," he murmured, pressing his face against her damp hair. She'd washed it. The fragrance of honeysuckle was a soothing balm. Dylan tucked an arm around his neck. It was a bit awkward, but the embrace eased the shards of pain in his chest. "For now, just this. Just you." She didn't ask him to tell her what had happened. Didn't ask anything. She simply held him as he held her and let him try to find the words. Eventually, he whispered, "I did not find him and yet..."

"You think he might have fallen in battle," Dylan said softly. A tremor went through Nuada at her words. His grip tightened. "I've never seen Wink fight, but silver cave trolls aren't exactly pushovers. And if he's with you, he must be an incredibly skilled warrior. There's still hope."

"You cannot know that-"

She turned to him and caught his face gently between her hands. "'Faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things,'" she quoted softly, forcing him to look her in the eye. "'Therefore, if ye have faith, ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true.' Have faith, my love. There is still a chance we might find him, or that he might come back to us."

"And if he does not?"

Tenderly, Dylan brushed back his hair and let her fingertips drift over his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. That simple act, something he had never done before, told her more plainly than anything else just how exhausted and worn down Nuada was. Her heart twisted hard in her chest.

"Then I will do all I can to ease your sorrow."

She released his face to take his hand, then started in surprise at the rough lines that scraped her fingertips. Dylan turned up his hands to study the cuts slashed across his palms. Nuada blinked, vaguely startled. He'd barely felt those wounds. All he remembered of receiving them was a dull pain as his grip on the Seal tightened and tightened to help him reign in the sudden furious desire to smash the cursed thing and everything it represented. The wounds were already knitting slowly back together. A few smears of amber blood marred his pale skin.

"Oh, Nuada," she murmured. Caressed the unmarked flesh of his palm. "Come on." And she led him to the bathroom. Forcing him with a gentle push to perch on the counter, she poured some of the still-steaming water from the pitcher one of the fey servants had brought her into the porcelain basin on the counter. She dipped in a dark gray cloth, wrung it out, and took Nuada's hand in hers.

Her touch was soft as moonglow on his skin as she carefully cleaned away the blood. The cuts were long but shallow, and didn't begin to bleed again when she wiped them clean. There was only silence in the moonstone-and-obsidian-tiled bathroom as Dylan tended to her prince. That silence held the weight of Nuada's grief and Dylan's fear for him. But when her task as a healer was complete, and she reached up to lay her palm against Nuada's cheek, he covered her slender hand with his own and turned his face into the softness of her palm. They stood that way for a long moment. His breath was warm on her skin.

Then he pressed his mouth to her palm, his lips like a brush of velvet. His fingers slid along the backs of hers, over the sensitive skin at the back of her hand. He lightly traced over her knuckles, feeling the delicate press of bone under flesh, to her wrist. Sparks tingled up her arm. He whispered against her palm, "Dylan... Dylan, I..."

"Inis dom - tell me," she whispered. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

_My father wants to kill you,_ he thought before he could stop himself. No, that wasn't true, he did not know that, could not be certain. But someone had tried to murder Dylan and the children and Wink and all the signs pointed to King Balor. _My father will try to take you from me._

The Elven warrior felt a minute trembling go through him. He had to reign in his emotions. Take his self-control and his courage in hand and cease acting like a weepy child in need of comfort. If his father had turned so fully against him, well, what of it? As a warrior, he should have considered the possibility of such a thing long ago and prepared for it. It was his own fault that he'd let weakness leave him ill-prepared for this.

Nuada could afford no weaknesses now. He ruthlessly reminded himself of this before releasing Dylan's hand and meeting her gaze. "Let it be," he said, pulling away from her. He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes. Ignored it as he forced himself to ignore the tightening in his chest. He _could_ tell her his suspicions, tell her that she was right to suspect Balor. But he couldn't be certain his father... that the king had... and she was _so_ sure, she would insist and he didn't want to hear Dylan accuse his father just then. He was too tired to debate with her.

"Nuada-" She began, reaching out for him again. Gods, she couldn't touch him, not now. He was so tired, so heartsick, he would break into a thousand pieces, she couldn't touch him... "Nuada, you can tell me-"

"Let it be!" He snarled, and Dylan jerked her hand back, her eyes wide. "How often must I say it?" The feral-eyed warrior demanded. Sudden anger slipped down his spine and oozed through his veins like some sort of black poison. "Must you know my every thought? Am I allowed no secrets?"

She stared at him for a long moment, clearly stunned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you. You just looked... I just wanted to make you feel better."

"I do not need to be cossetted like some prized poodle-"

"Oh, stop it," Dylan snapped. "For crying out loud, just because someone tries to comfort you doesn't mean you're weak. You... you are _so_... you know what? Fine. Forget it. I'm tired, you're tired, we're both acting stupid, so I'm going to bed. We'll finish this in the morning. Good night."

And he watched her, slightly open-mouthed, as she turned on her heel and marched back into the bedroom. How dare she walk away from him? Simply because he cared for her, because they had been somewhat intimate, she decided it was acceptable to ignore the fact that he was the crown prince of a proud and noble fayre kingdom? And she'd called him stupid. He would _not_ stand for this.

"I am not finished," he growled the minute he was back in the bedroom. Dylan turned to glare up at him, arms folded across her chest. "You think because I have some feelings for you that you may give me orders? Dictate to me? Insult me?"

Outrage flashed across her face. "Insult you? I did _not_ insult you-"

"After everything I've done for you," he snarled, ignoring her protests, "including rescuing that gutless piece of vermin you call a brother-"

And the outrage morphed to steely anger. "Don't you _dare_ talk about John that way-"

"After everything, every _stars-cursed thing_ that has happened tonight-"

"Which you _still_ haven't told me exactly what that _is_-"

"And as if I did not have enough to concern myself with, now you go and make everything _worse_ by insulting my intelligence-"

"I did _not_ insult you! Cripes, why are you so defensive all of a sudden? What is going _on?_ Is it Wink? Is it something about your father?" She must have seen something in his face, because her eyes widened and she said softly, "It _is_. It's your father. You found something at Midnight Fest, didn't you? Something that implicates him. He's the one," she added, suddenly chilled. "He tried to kill us."

Through gritted teeth Nuada said coldly, "You have no idea what you're talking about."

The look she slapped him with was equal parts exasperation and exhaustion. "Don't give me that. I'm not an idiot. That's why you're so upset - you found something that told you he was the one responsible. Didn't you?"

"Let it be, Dylan."

"Nuada-" The mortal began, and the fraying leash on the Elven warrior's temper snapped.

"Be _quiet!_" He roared. Dylan jerked back from him, eyes wide and face pale. "_Yes_, if you _must_ know, I found something! Does that make you happy, to know the man I have admired all my life is trying to murder those most dear to me? Does it vindicate you that the man who helped give me life may be our enemy? Does it please you to know you are probably right about my father? Is that what you wanted to hear, human?"

Something cold and jagged seemed to be lodged in her throat. For a long moment Dylan couldn't even speak. Was that really what he thought? That she would be happy about something that would bring him so much pain? "No," she whispered. "No, that's not what I wanted to hear. I just want the truth. I want to know what's going on so I can help you. That's all. I just want-"

"I do not give a damn what you want right now," he snapped, and she fell silent. Her face, Nuada saw, was suddenly white as milk. That sent guilt ripping through him, which only fueled his fury. "I don't want you here right now. Go away and rejoice in your victory. I can't bear the sight of you! Go somewhere where I am spared having to look at you." Where he didn't have to see the hurt in her gaze. Didn't she know she could shred him with a look?

Now she staggered back from him. The look in her eyes sent him spiraling into memories of his worst nightmares. Mouth trembling, she whispered, "_What?_"

Nuada blinked, suddenly realizing just how his final words had _sounded_. And he remembered her words that night in the cottage. _You don't want me. Look, I'm pretty enough for a human, but that's underneath the scars_. And in the dream that night, when he'd seen more of her scars. _You shouldn't have to see this when you look at me_. What had he told her? _I think you are beautiful._ He had just inadvertently turned those words into a lie.

_I can't bear the sight of you! __Go somewhere where I am spared having to look at you._ Her hands trembled; she knew they did. It was the only reason she didn't reach up to touch her fingers to the thick slashing scar Nuada often caressed that marred her cheek. The only reason why she didn't cover her face with her hands to try and calm her suddenly ragged breathing. _Spared having to look at you. Spared._ Was it so bad, then? Dylan had thought Nuada actually liked her face. Her scars. Hadn't he called them beautiful? She'd thought they had moved past the point where he found her so revolting. He'd only been being nice, apparently. She hadn't realized...

But why was he so angry with her? And what did he mean, rejoice in her victory? As if she would _ever_ be happy about something that hurt him. He should have known that! Part of her wanted to give him a good punch in the arm, the way she'd done a couple times before. Or shout at him that he was being a complete jerk. But mostly, she simply wanted to run away. Never have to look in his eyes again and know that although she couldn't see it in his expression, he was disgusted to be looking at her. Disgusted by her humanity, by her too-human imperfections.

_I don't want you here. __I can't bear the sight of__ you._ The words reverberated through her skull, crashing against her like crystal, to shatter into a thousand jagged pieces and cut her bloody.

To Nuada's horror, tears welled up and flowed down Dylan's cheeks. She didn't react to the hot spill of them. Didn't even seem to realize she was crying. She simply stared at him. The anguish in her eyes left him hollow. Her breath hitched in her throat. The air was suddenly saturated with pain. It choked back the words cramming into Nuada's throat. He hadn't meant... gods, he hadn't been thinking, he hadn't meant to say such a thing to her.

Dylan dropped her gaze to the floor. Her eyes scanned the cool stone as if desperately searching for something she'd lost. "I didn't... I thought... you... I wouldn't..." She swallowed hard. The tears still streamed unchecked down her cheeks. "Okay," she murmured, and the Elf prince's heart dropped into his belly. "Okay," she said again. Her voice was empty. He thought absently that she might have been in mild shock. "Okay, I'll just... I... good night, Your Highness."

She turned and took a single step to the door. Nuada reached out and grasped her wrist. He couldn't let her leave him, not like this. But she recoiled from him.

"Don't touch me!" He couldn't touch her. She'd shatter. She'd break down sobbing because for some reason everything had turned around, everything was all wrong. Earlier that night they'd been kissing in a faerie glen, the stars shining down on them, and she'd _known_ he loved her. Now he didn't even want to look at her anymore.

Dylan wanted to be angry about that. Wanted to get good and mad so she didn't feel like laying her head down and crying her eyes out like a wimp. But there was no anger. Just hurt. She could feel the jagged pieces of it trying to push against her skin and slice through her, but it was a distant sort of pain. Right now there was only the shock, the confusion. She was too tired for anything else. Too tired to guard against anything else. If Nuada touched her, Dylan knew the pain wouldn't stay distant, and she wouldn't be able to handle it along with everything else that had happened that day.

_Don't touch me._ It was as if she'd plunged an icicle into his chest. Cold, such numbing cold, slid through his veins. Worse than the cold that had taken him when he'd first begun to suspect that Wink might be dead. Worse than that vicious cold when he'd recognized the corpses of the Bethmooran royal guard. Because she'd never done that before. Not consciously, not while her mind was fully in the present. She'd never recoiled from _him_ before. As if he were a monster. As if she hated him.

And she was still crying silently. He was almost certain she did not notice the tears, and that made it so much worse.

"I am sorry," he whispered. Pleaded. "Dylan, I am so sorry, I did not mean it how it sounded. Stay, please. Please. Allow me to beg your forgiveness. I'm sorry. Please, I beg you, do not cry. I cannot bear it when you cry, especially when I am the cause," Nuada confessed. Could not bear it when she looked at him that way. "Please, mo cridh, my heart, I'm sorry."

Gathering his courage, Nuada reached out again. Took her hand. She stiffened, but did not pull away this time. He closed his eyes. Knelt before her. Even a few moons ago, if anyone had even hinted that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance would kneel before a mortal, the prince would have been infuriated. But now he clasped Dylan's trembling fingers and brought her hand to his lips.

"Forgive me, my lady, I beg of you."

"Why... why did you say that?" And underneath the question were the words, _How could you say something so cruel... to_ me?

"I did not mean it as it sounded," he murmured. "When I snapped at you, you looked so hurt, and I could not stand to see you look at me that way. I just wanted to get away from the pain in your eyes. That was what I meant, my lady, I swear to you. I would never... I did not mean..." After a moment, he asked, "Do you know what I thought tonight, when I went to Midnight Fest and saw the decimation, the death? When I saw the Royal Seal that Wink once wore splashed with his blood, with no troll warrior to bear it?"

He looked up in time to see her shake her head, before he bowed his again.

"All I could think was how much I wanted to be with you. Away from war and politics and pain." He pressed his mouth to the back of her hand, tenderly. Barely suppressed a tremor when she gently laid her free hand upon his head. "I only wanted you. You are the only one left who knows me truly," Nuada whispered, "who did not think me soulless. I can only pray your opinion has not changed."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be an idiot," she sighed, and pulled him to his feet. "Of course it hasn't. But why did you get so angry with me? Why did you yell at me? I'm right, aren't I? It was your father, wasn't it? Or there's at least more evidence saying it is." Nuada inclined his head. "Then if I was right why did you shout at me?"

"Because he is my father!" Squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his fists, he struggled to strangle the grief in his chest. Whispered brokenly, "Because he is _my father_. Because I _love_ him. When I was a boy, he was _everything_ I wanted to become, and now he could very well be... what am I supposed to _do_, Dylan?"

With a sigh he dropped back against the wall. The stone was icy at his back.

"I am sorry, mo duinne, for speaking as I did. I'm so very sorry. I did not think. I'm just so stars-cursed tired. Everything is becoming so tangled and I have not the slightest idea what to do. I can scarcely think straight, I am so weary. The stench of death is still with me, the reek of blood from this night. I... I am not fit to be around just now and I desperately need a drink. I will... leave you to your rest." But he didn't move. Could not. Could not even open his eyes. He was suddenly so achingly weary.

Her touch against his cheek had him drawing in a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced. The softness of her fingertips whispered over his skin. Caressed along the edge of his jaw and skimmed along his throat. Her hand finally came to rest right above his heart.

"I love you," Dylan said, voice as soft as the moonlight filtering through their window. Nuada drew a shuddering breath. "So much. And I forgive you. Always." He covered her hand with his own. Pressed it to his heart. She added, "It's all right, Nuada. Everything will be all right."

"You cannot know-"

"As long as we're together," Dylan interrupted gently, pressing close enough that he could feel the warmth of her even through the silk of their shirts, "as long as we face whatever comes together, everything will be all right. I have faith in us. We can handle this. Okay? We're just tired, and worried, so we're not acting rationally. It's okay, though." She laid her head against his chest. "We'll be all right. I'm sorry for snapping at you."

Nuada sighed and pressed his cheek to her hair. "I am sorry for losing my temper. For hurting you that way. I am... shameful as it is, Dylan, I am afraid to go back to Findias without Wink to help protect you. To protect the children. I don't know what to do."

"Well, you're too tired to figure it out right now," she replied pragmatically. "For now, we should go to bed."

"Do you think Wink is alive, Dylan?" He asked, ignoring the suggestion. "There was so much blood... just like..." In that split second he saw pavement spattered with gray and his hands slick with crimson. Nuada swallowed hard. The latter was only the memory of a dream. It wasn't real. "He must have been badly wounded," the prince added softly. "I do not see how he could still live. That sixth sense of yours, is it telling you anything?"

She bit her lip and tried to push down the tiredness enough to figure out if she was feeling anything but exhaustion. Finally, she gestured helplessly. "It's not telling me he's dead, and that's something. All I feel is that we have to keep hoping. As for your father... we don't _know_ that he's responsible, it's true. And you were right when you said that it would be a bad idea to focus on one potential enemy to the exclusion of everything else."

"I think the royal guard attacked Wink," Nuada whispered. Dylan stiffened in his arms. "I'm not sure - it may have been a civilian band of the fey that feed into the Butchers. Many of those who don't make it into the Guard become mercenaries. It may even simply be a ploy to make me believe my father is our enemy. Few there are who do not know of our many conflicts. But every instinct is telling me the Butcher Guards were the ones to attack Wink this night."

Dylan shifted to look up at him. He expected her to question him. To latch onto this confession and remind him that she'd suspected Balor from the first. Instead, there was such sadness in those rainswept blue eyes of hers. Such understanding and grief. She didn't _want_ it to be Balor, Nuada realized. Didn't want it to be his father whom he loved so much. Didn't want anything to hurt him as this suspicion surely must, as the confirmation of it surely would. Her mouth trembled for a moment and she so very gently touched his face, and Nuada realized she felt his pain as keenly as if it were her own. He'd been a fool to think otherwise.

"Okay," Dylan murmured. "It'll be okay. We'll figure it out. We'll keep on guard. We'll do whatever it takes." Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she rose up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth ever so lightly to his. His breath caught at the soft slide of her lips against his, the silk and warmth of her mouth. She tasted so sweet. It always surprised him, the sweetness of her. How she made him crave that sweetness. But now he tasted salt on Dylan's soft lips as well. A remnant of tears. The salt stung his mouth, but he deserved the pain. She pulled back to look into his eyes. "It _will_ work out, my love. We'll protect each other, like we promised. It will be all right."

"How can you be so certain?" He asked brokenly. "Ní dhéanfaidh aon ní áirithe níos mó."

_Nothing is certain anymore._

"Some things _are_ certain," Dylan murmured. She pressed her mouth to his again, gently. Kissed a little more of his sorrow away. There was no heat, no demand. Only a tender sort of giving. No one had ever kissed him like that before. "You. Me. Us. Some things are as certain as the sunrise. I trust your judgment. I always have, I always will. We will do whatever you think is best. I'll always follow you, Nuada. Always." She offered him a small smile. "Even when you're being a jerk."

He smiled - a real smile, for all it was exhausted. "You humble me. What would I ever do without you?"

Dylan slid an arm around him and laid her cheek to his chest. "You always ask that, and I always tell you the same thing - you'd be very, _very_ boring. I know this is a painful truth, Your Highness, but you must come to accept it and move on."

Nuada hugged her, hard enough to make her squeak. Breathed her in. Held her to his heart. "Insolent chit. I am _not_ boring. I am very interesting, I'll have you know."

"Mm-hm," she mumbled. "Riiiight."

For a moment the Elven warrior merely allowed himself to find peace here, in Dylan's embrace. She was soft and warm and welcoming, and he could feel how much she cared for him. It had been so long since he'd had this. He stroked a hand along her hair and sighed. Things looked fairly bleak, and Wink... and his father... all the possibilities circled in his mind like sharks. But Dylan forgave him, loved him. Her presence made things seem far brighter.

Nuada kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So... here's our chapter for April. I would've posted on the first, but it was the Sabbath. And I'll try and get a chapter up for my birthday on the 8th, but I can't guarantee anything. I'll do my best, though. I love you guys. I enjoy writing for its own sake, but you guys make it even better. =) Thank you so much for being such great fans. I hope you guys enjoy my original fiction novels, and enjoyed this chapter. And now, on to our review prompt! Loves to you all!_

_1) So, we finally get a glimpse of 'Naya (aka Ledi Polunochnaya, pronounced Poh-Loo-Knock-Nai-Yuh). What do we think of her? What do we think of the fact that Nuada still thinks of her as 'Naya?_

_2) Wink. Oh, Wink. Am I going to kill off Wink? I could, you know. I really could. Do you think I should? Would that completely break Nuada to pieces? Or would it push him over the edge into deciding to use the Golden Army? Where could Wink be? Moldering in a grave somewhere? Bleeding out in the sewers?_

_3) Our prince - he is in character? I was more concerned with the fight between him and Dylan, but also a bit concerned with his reaction to the possibility of Wink being dead and Balor truly being his enemy. Of course, there's a secret in that scene (anyone who notices it will get a muffin!) in regards to his reactions, but still... anyway, so Nuada is in character?_

_4) John and Dylan. And John's second thoughts about Nuada. And Dylan and John's conversation about the prince. And just the twins' relationship in general. What do we think of that?_

_5) Ooooh! It's my birthday in 6 days! I'll be 23. So... no, I'm not gonna ask for 23 favorite things. That's just ridiculous. I'll keep it at 17 favorite things from the chapter, because I made a vow when I was 17 that I would always stay this young so I could always remember what it feels like to be young so I don't fall into the trap that so many adults do of dismissing people younger than they are. So can I have 17 favorite things from this chapter?_

_6) Oh, the fight. They're both under a lot of stress, both exhausted, and the Balor thing is becoming a bone of contention between them. What do you guys think of this fight?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the title is taken from a line in the song "I'm With You" by Avril Lavigne. The line is actually, "It's a damn cold night, trying to figure out this life. Won't you take me by the hand? Take me somewhere new." But I changed it to "long" because I'm a little twitchy about having a cuss-word in the chapter title. Sue me, I guess. =)_

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Spook-fires are supernatural flames (usually blue) that appear in Japanese myth. Usually not harmful, but they can be.

- The movie Tsu's'di and Lena went to see is Hiyao Miyazaki's _the Secret World of Arriety_ (I think that's how it's spelled), based on the book _the Borrowers_.

- A _wakį́yą_ is a Native American spirit known in English as a thunderbird. The thunderbird's name comes from the common belief that the beating of its enormous wings causes thunder and stirs the wind. It is described as a large bird, capable of creating storms and thundering while it flies. Clouds are pulled together by its wingbeats, the sound of thunder made by its wings clapping, sheet lightning the light flashing from its eyes when it blinks, and individual lightning bolts made by the glowing snakes that it carries around with it.

The thunderbirds could shapeshift into human form by tilting back their beaks like a mask, and by removing their feathers as if it were a feather-covered blanket. There are stories of thunderbirds in human form marrying into human families; some families may trace their lineage to such an event. Families of thunderbirds who kept to themselves but wore human form were said to have lived along the northern tip of Vancouver Island. The story goes that other tribes soon forgot the nature of one of these thunderbird families, and when one tribe tried to take them as slaves the thunderbirds put on their feather blankets and transformed to take vengeance upon their foolish captors.

One of Nuala's two most trusted ladies-in-waiting, _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma, is a _wakį́yą._

- The taltos is a friend of Lorelei's, a girl named Vica. This character belongs to OceanFire9.

- Bone-boys, also known as the Boys of Bones Hill, are faerie youths who look fairly normal except for delicately pointed ears, feral eyes, and instead of regular torsos, they have exposed ribcages without any internal organs. They often weave ribbons, whippy branches, bells, and other things through their rib bones during celebrations. You see one in _City of Ashes_ by Cassandra Clare, though they're not given a name.

- A night-jar is an HP Lovecraft inspired creature that devours a human's insides before taking the empty skin to lure in more victim. They are afraid of iron and fire. Found in _the Iron Thorn_ by Caitlin Kittredge.

- Nightgaunts are a Lovecraftian creature. Beginning in his early life, Lovecraft is believed to have suffered from night terrors, a rare parasomnia disorder; he believed himself to be assaulted at night by horrific "night gaunts." Much of his later work is thought to have been directly inspired by these terrors. (Indeed, Night Gaunts became the subject of a poem he wrote of the same name, in which they were personified as devil-like creatures without faces.) I think night-jars are inspired by these gaunts.

- The Clave is the official name of the organization of demon-hunters known as Shadowhunters in the Mortal Instruments/Infernal Devices series by Cassandra Clare.

- Sunna von der Strom is Lorelei's mother.

- Supposedly every time you receive a mild impact to the head, you lose 8 brain cells.


	56. Black Swan, White Raven

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**IMPORTANT:**_ okay, everyone, _**my 2 books are out!**_ Yes, my original fiction works are available on Amazon for the Kindle/Nook/eReader thingies for $4.99 each. Please buy them! _**I don't want to get evicted from my apartment**_. (T.T) Because if that happens I have to abandon "Once Upon a Time" (and all my other fics) and I don't wanna! And I'll have to get rid of my cats! Not to mention I'll be homeless. Which would sincerely suck, since I live in the desert and summer is coming.

My books are called _Glass_ and _Their Forever Family_, and both are under my penname, LA Knight. =)

PS - the paperbacks will be out by Monday! They're $12.99 and $8.99. They're the same price on Amazon as they are at my eStore, but if you order them on Amazon, Amazon takes a huge cut and I get, like... fifty cents (yeah, out of 13 bucks - it's ridiculous). If that. Whereas my eStore does not do that. So buy them on my eStore. Links are/will be available on my profile!

_**Author's Note:**_ _this chapter sort of grew organically. It just sort of... poured out. It didn't go where I planned in any way, really, because I originally planned for hilarity and hijinks and... well, that's not important, what I planned. It's not what happened. However, everything that happens in this chapter is important and will tie into things that have happened and/or things that will happen. So this isn't just random LA-ness. I promise._

_**Warning:**_ _So this is sort of LA's "Let's Torment Nuada" week. At least in the second scene. Just so we're prepared. What can I say? I'm a closet sadist... without the closet. OceanFire9 stole my closet when she asked me a question about Nuada. Blame her, lol. I just wanted to give our prince some nightmares. He's under so much stress and he's got so many dark fears that he won't let himself deal with and now on top of everything else, Wink is MIA... oh, the opportunities for torment and angst are almost endless. I'm so excited. Like I said, closet sadist without the closet._

_And do I like kissing? Yeah. I'm pitiful, I know. And this is another one of those chapters that got cut in half because it was too long. However! This time I wrote the entire chapter first, then cut it in half, so I can honestly say that in chapter 57, Dylan and Nuada go back to Findias. Yes, yes, yes. It finally happened. Sorry it took so long. But because one of my reviewers (bearaveo, you're so awesome) said she could only take so much angst, I decided to be extra nice and post both chapters today. Or hopefully today. This might actually go up Friday, posted by my wonderful husband while I'm on an airplane! We'll see. Because my beta has to go over chapter 57 as I write this author's note._

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**Chapter Fifty-Six**

**Black Swan, White Raven**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Discussing How to Beat the Silverlance, Blame, Loss, Patricide, a Possible Alliance, Memories of Blood, What Is Needed, and Lullabies**

.

.

"Brother, will you _please_ stop brooding and go to bed?"

Prince Zhenjin of Dilong ignored his two younger brothers and continued to sharpen the long, straight edge of his _chokutō_. Ironically, sharpening his favored weapons when nervous was a habit he'd picked up from Prince Nuada during the wars. When edgy or when he simply wanted to relax, the Bethmooran prince always honed the edge of his sword or his lance by a warm fire.

Thoughts of his friend Silverlance made Zhenjin grit his teeth. He and the rest of the Dilong envoy had been in Findias for more than a week. The crown prince knew his father was growing impatient, waiting for Nuada to return. Where was the prince? King Balor had offered no explanation on that particular subject, or on the subject of the mortal the Tuathan prince supposedly paid court to. Yin Mei, Zhenjin's aunt - the emperor's youngest sister and Ming Xian's caretaker and "chaperone" while the Dilong royals were in Bethmoora - had heard plenty of rumors, however.

_They say the mortal is a witch who's cast a spell on the mighty Silverlance. They say she's a healer who saved his life. They say she is the favorite human pet of some powerful fae lord that has commanded the prince to wed her. They say that the Silver Lance endured a flogging for her sake, and she endured torture and nearly died for his. They say she challenged Balor One-Arm himself to protect the prince. They say, they say, they say..._

Zhenjin cared very little for what "they" said. Gossip-mongers annoyed him even on a good day. His two most trusted brothers, Gaozu and Hou Junji, tended to dislike them as well.

"Those measly gossips should all get eaten by trolls," had been Hou Junji's exact words. "Maybe it'll sweeten that foul cave-dweller breath."

"I sincerely doubt those sour old hags would sweeten _anyone's_ breath," Gaozu had muttered in reply.

Now both princes glowered at their oldest brother and waited for him to speak. To do _something_. But Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong merely ran the whetstone along the shining edge of his sword again and tried to ignore the two pairs of eyes boring into his back. It would have been easier if those eyes had not been joined by two more sets of staring eyes.

Zhenjin twisted around to glare at his aunt, a Dilong Elf a little less than a third his age, and his little - his _only_ - sister. Both princesses watched him with avid, slanted eyes the color of bright jade. Being stared at by a maiden in her fifteenth century and a toddler barely out of her third made the back of his neck itch.

When Yin Mei saw she had Zhenjin's attention, the second-rank princess asked, "You know that _shinking_ sound is going to keep us all awake, don't you? And I need my beauty sleep."

"I doubt it will help much, Aunt," Gaozu said. Yin Mei shot him a narrow look and then deliberately turned away from him.

"If you can't sleep, then go find a bed in the stables," the prince replied irritably. Yin Mei was his father's youngest (and favorite) sister, but the princes of Dilong considered her to be more of their own sister than an aunt. "It's quiet there, and I am trying to think."

"Worrying about trouncing Nuada will not make it any easier to do so," Gaozu said from where he stretched out on his bed in their guest suite. "Thinking about it too much will only make it more likely he will leave you bleeding in the dust of the dueling field and increase the odds of you embarrassing us all."

Zhenjin snorted. "Your concern for my potentially-spilled blood is touching, little brother."

Gaozu shrugged and rolled onto his stomach. "As if Silverlance would actually kill you. You two have been friends far too long for that to be a concern. He'll more than likely merely break one of your limbs to keep you on the ground."

The prince quirked one slender, black brow. "Merely a broken arm or leg? How considerate of him."

"He may simply attempt to crack your royal skull open," Yin Mei replied airily. "Not that he'd succeed, with that hard head."

The second-eldest Dilong prince grinned. "Or he'll injure that pretty face of yours, Brother, and give you a fine scar to impress the Bethmooran ladies."

"No!" Ming Xian cried. Her two eldest brothers and her aunt started in surprise. Although she'd been staring at Zhenjin for a while now, she'd been so quiet they'd assumed she wasn't really paying attention to the discussion. She was only a child, after all. But now she scurried to Zhenjin and grabbed his shirt. "No! Don't get a thcar, Zhen! Don't get hurt!" Every word was punctuated with a light tug on the mazarine silk.

"Do not be afraid, Ming," Gaozu said, sitting up and plucking his sister from the floor to plant her in his lap. "Zhenjin is a fierce warrior. He'll not let Prince Nuada hurt him so easily. Besides, it will be funny to watch them flit around each other. Like a pair of butterflies," he added, tickling Ming Xian with a lock of his jet black hair.

Zhenjin wondered if his eye was twitching yet. Would things be any easier when the other royals from the fae kingdoms who were friends with Nuada had arrived? The Dilong prince wished fiercely for Prince Dastan of Shahbaz, Prince Günther Wolfjarl of Álfheim, and Crown Princess Kamaria of Nyame, especially. With the Jade Emperor breathing down Bethmoora's neck over this mortal-courtship issue, Nuada needed as many allies in one place as possible. At least Prince Bres was in Findias already.

But aloud all Zhenjin said was, "I do _not_ flit. I merely do what I must to keep up with Nuada's acrobatics. I would like to see _you_ defeat him in combat, Gaozu."

"That would be simple enough to do. Grab this mortal woman he loves so much and hold her as a hostage. He couldn't fight back then."

"Not very chivalrous, Nephew," Yin Mei said dryly. "And His Highness might object. Strenuously."

Gaozu shrugged. "I do believe my little toe is quivering with dread." Yin Mei laughed. Gaozu added, "And how would _you_ beat him, Aunt?"

"With a very large stick," she said simply, smoothing down the cranberry silk of her _ruqun_. "While he slept. But on the dueling field? With an edged weapon? What do you think would happen if I challenged him? If any but Zhenjin challenged the legendary Silverlance?"

"Father would have us all measured for our coffins," Hou Junji, silent until now, interjected with a small smile. "And then Ming would have to fight him."

"How would you defeat him, Ming?" Zhenjin asked, finally cracking a smile.

Looking over at him very solemnly, the princess of Dilong scrunched up her face and thought for a very long time before finally saying, "I would athk him to pleathe hold thtill and then thmack him on the head with a thtick. Kerplooey!" When her brothers all laughed, she demanded, "What? I mean it! Thtop laughing! It'th not funny! That'th what Aunt Yeh-Thhen doth to _me!_ It'th not funny!" Seeing that her brothers weren't going to stop anytime soon, she slid off the bed and stuck her nose in the air. "Boyth," she lisped haughtily, with all the natural superiority of her three-hundred years. "I'm going to thleep. Good _night_."

**.**

Nuada knew he was dreaming, but that did not relieve the pain.

Nightmares. How he _loathed_ them. This one combined every dark fear that had ever lurked in his mind and twisted it together into tangled Morphean brambles full of vicious thorns. Fire and ruin, shattered lives and the wreck of the East Village. Everything smoldered, the last of the flame slowly smothered by thick black smoke.

The Elven prince moved slowly, a shadow amidst the hollow buildings and corpse-littered streets. In this dream he walked through the carnage of Midnight Fest, dazed. It had not been this bad in waking. This desolate. The aftermath of violence was a crimson haze smeared across the world. Every shard of stone, every chunk of pavement, every shred of canvas or splinter of wood vibrated with hatred and cruelty and pain.

In the looming shadow of a building, he found a woman with hair like a waterfall of jet. Her fair skin was dappled by golden blood and smudged with soot. Tears streaked through the grime. In her arms was the corpse of a young woman who might have been her sister. But when Nuada recognized Lorelei's body, he knew who this sobbing, wailing woman was. Sunna. Lorelei's mother.

"Sunna," he tried to call. Choked on ash. Throat aching, he went to her. "Sunna!"

When aurulent eyes, so like Lorelei's, slashed to the Elven warrior, he froze, stunned by the stark hatred in the rhinemaiden's gaze.

"_You,_" she snarled. "You did this. You _murdered_ my daughter!" Shards of grief splintered the ice of her hate and Sunna bowed her head, sobbing, "You killed my child! She was your friend and you..."

Scarcely breathing, Nuada reached out and touched her shoulder. "The Butcher Guards did this," he said softly. "I did not do it. I would never harm Lorelei-"

"Liar," Sunna hissed, baring her delicately pointed teeth. "_Liar!_ Murderer! This is _your_ fault! Your father may have given the order, his dogs might have wielded the blades that took my child's life, but her blood is on _your_ hands! This never would have happened if not for you!"

He staggered back from her. The smoke pressed in on him, choking him, throttling back any response he could have hoped to make.

_Liar. Murderer._ Memories mingled with the poisonous fume on the air. His father watching him the day he'd forged the truce with the humans, listening to his son caution against trusting the mortals, counseling the king to be on guard, to 'ware the forked tongues of the children of Adam. And his father looking into his eyes and demanding why Nuada hungered still for the blood of innocents. When, Balor had demanded, had Nuada become a beast intent only on slaughter?

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, and opened them again to find himself alone. Only an ivory waterlily remained where Sunna had cradled her dead child, its petals shredded and spattered with drops of golden blood.

_It is only a dream_, he told himself. Curling his hands into fists to prevent them from shaking, he repeated, _It is only a nightmare. It isn't real._

Delighted and sepulchral cackling dragged the Elven warrior's attention from the stained waterlily to further down the street. Sullen firelight gleamed dully, hints of emerald, violet, burgundy, and indigo against the dark feathers of feasting nocs in both bird- and boy-form. Piper-rats dined with them, their gaunt faces smeared with blood and their clawed hands gloved with the gore of their current meal. Something drew Nuada's feet towards the carrion-eating fae. An odd, vertigo-inducing dread that sent icy nausea clutching in the pit of his stomach.

Then he saw the Royal Seal. It lay in blood thick and cooling on the pavement, the metal smeared with clotted gray. Realization crystallized in Nuada's mind and he _knew_ what the butchered thing being devoured by the nocs and piper-rats had once been. He hit his knees on the pavement. The impact jarred his bones. His eyes burned and he scarcely felt it when a single tear slipped down his cheek, gouging a pale slice through the soot and grime on his skin.

The nocs laughed and the rats chittered as they faded into the smoke, leaving Nuada alone with what was left of his vassal. Shaking, the prince bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he whispered. _Dream_, part of his mind raged. _Only a gods' forsaken dream_. But the rest of him could only whisper, _Dead. I have failed him, and he is dead_. _Where was I when he needed me?_ Grief icing his blood, the Elven prince rasped, "Forgive me, my brother."

Pulled onward by the dreamscape, he recognized more of the dead - Roiben, fallen in defense of Lady Kaye and Ethine, the Unseelie king's twin sister; Yang and her _tanuki_ servant, Morinji; Erik and his wife, and their son Jarl, barely out of his seventeenth century; Aso the Weaver; Laigdech and his family. Countless other fae Nuada did not know. Adults, children, infants.

Another blow to his heart, another piece of his sanity fragmenting under the dreamscape, was his mother. He found her on a stretch of fire-seared grass, just as beautiful and broken as when last he'd seen her in life. Nuada's mother, dead still at the hands of human wolves. Every black bruise, every wound, every splash of blood had been burned into his memory that cruel day long ago. In his nightmares he still remembered. He could never hope to escape the memories of that day. And there Cethlenn lay, emerald eyes glassy in death.

"_Mathair!_" He tried to run to her, calling for her though he knew she could not hear him. But the dream shifted, snatching her away, throwing him into yet another desolate horror.

Nuala. His beautiful sister, lying almost as if asleep atop slimed trash. Her long, star-blond hair spread out almost like a halo. In that moment she looked so much like an angel in her pale blue gown with her hands folded over her heart. Then he saw the slashing wound of dark, dark gold across her white throat. Felt the air explode from his body as if he'd been struck. Pain burned across his own throat in cruel imitation of his sister's wound. Stumbling, he ran to her. Dropped down beside her and lifted her into his arms. She weighed so little. Was so terribly still.

"Nuala," he whispered, hands trembling as he touched that familiar face. "Nuala. My sister." Something hot and wet rolled down his cheek to splash his sister's. The fey-sweet drops fell into her mouth. He imagined he could taste them on his tongue. "Little sister. Little love. Open your eyes. Nuala, do not leave me. Do not leave me alone. Nuala, please, I need you. I am sorry. I am so sorry, for everything, come back, _please_..."

He should have been dead. He should have been dead, now that there was no echo of Nuala's heartbeat drumming in time with his own. The Elven warrior knew that, just as he knew because he wasn't dead that this was not real. But that did not ease the grief gnawing at his belly. Did not thaw the cold freezing through his blood.

After a time, moved again by the cruel bonds of dreaming, his heart still screaming for Nuala, aching to be so alone in his own mind, in his own body, he staggered on. Past the corpses of selkies and trolls, dryads and nymphs, Elves and scitalis and kelpies and so many others dead. So much death. And Nuala... his sister, his twin, his other half... a part of his own dear soul... gone.

At the edge of the East Village he found what he'd been unknowingly searching for all this time.

Balor stood so his son could see the king's profile limned by the hellish light of the fires raging all around. The king stood tall, shoulders strong and head high. Though the half of Balor's face nearest the prince was in shadow, Nuada thought he caught the glint of a tear on his father's cheek. Blood, red as winter berries, bright against the whiteness of his father's skin, trickled over the king's hand, dripped onto the ground. Iron burned in Nuada's nose, on the back of his tongue.

"I am sorry, child," Balor said gently. As if he truly _were_ sorry. But he was not speaking to his son. "This is the only way." And the One-Armed King of Elfland, Nuada's own father, viciously twisted the slender blade that he'd already plunged deep into Dylan's chest. Blood spilled like secrets from her lips. Balor wrenched the twin-dagger from her body, and Dylan fell.

"_No!_" In an instant Nuada was at her side, cradling her in his arms, holding her to his heart. "No, no, no," he pleaded, pressing his hand to the wound. Blood, so much blood, seeped between his fingers. Burned his skin. "Dylan, no. My love, no, please."

But the light in her eyes was already slowly dimming as the blood began to fill her lungs. She touched his face with trembling fingers. "Nuada..."

"Hold on. Please, mo duinne. Don't leave me. I cannot lose you as well." Not when Nuala and Wink... Dylan's feeble touch left a streak of scarlet along his cheekbone. He could feel it searing him, hot and salted and as poisonous as cold iron. "I beg you... I _beg_ you, please... _please_... beloved, you _cannot_." Trembling, aching, he whispered, "Do not leave me. I love you."

Tears spilled from her eyes. She tried to speak, but blood was in her mouth, choking her. She gripped his hand, and the fear in her eyes was a knife in his back. Her bloodstained lips silently shaped his name. Pleading with him. But what could he do?

Nothing, not with a wound like this, and the knowledge of that was agony.

"I'm here," he whispered brokenly as she trembled in his arms. Drowning in blood. Tears were rising in his throat as he held her tighter and whispered, "I'm here, love. Do not be afraid. It will all be over soon. I'm here." He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her hair. Her grip on his hand tightened. Tightened. His hand ached but he did not - could _never_ - pull away. "Soon, sweetheart. It will end soon. Do not be afraid, I am here."

He looked into those beautiful eyes of impossible blue. For the space of a heartbeat. For a bittersweet eternity. Then her grip relaxed. Her hand went limp. The shaking, the desperate struggle to breathe, stopped. The frantic flutter of her heart, which had slowly begun to weaken, stopped as well. Nuada nearly choked on the sob trapped in his throat.

"I love you," he whispered. The tears were coming now, hot and free, and he could not stop them. They fell, glittering like small stars, to mingle with the blood in her mouth. "I love you, Dylan. Please come back. I need you. I _need_ you. Beloved, I beg you, _please come back_..." He strained to hear just the faintest flicker of a heartbeat. Feel the shallowest lift of her chest with breath. There was only empty silence. Only cold stillness. Nuada looked into those fey-like eyes, empty and staring, their light extinguished. He tenderly stroked her cheek. "Oh, sweetheart. Mo duinne. I'm so sorry. Gods, I'm so sorry, my love. Forgive me."

Hollow, feeling cracked and brittle as glass, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers one last time, wanting one last taste of her sweetness. There was only the metallic acid of iron and the sharp tang of salt. Her blood burned his lips. So much blood. It slipped like tears from Nuada's lips into his mouth, scorching his tongue. He gently shut her eyes, laying her down as if she were made of porcelain. His hands shook when he touched her cheek again.

"I love you, Dylan," Nuada whispered. Repressed sobs thickened his voice as he said, "I am so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me, beloved."

"She is dead now," said a cold and cutting voice. "You may drop the pretense, Crown Prince."

Eyes the color of freshly-spilt mortal blood - the same color as the blood soaking Nuada's hands, his shirt, his hair - slashed to his father's ice-cold face. "You bastard," Nuada said softly, rising slowly to his feet. "You vicious, heartless _bastard_. Why? Why have you done this? How _could_ you do this? I love her, why did you-"

"Oh, enough, you didn't love her," the king said matter-of-factly. "She was nothing but a tool. To me, and to you. Did you think you had me fooled? As if you could ever love a human. As if a monster like you could ever love anyone."

Stunned, almost reeling, Nuada protested, "_I love her!_"

"Liar," said the king, verbally slapping his son into silence. "Deceitful, snake-tongued _liar_. Do you think, after all this time, that I do not see you? Do you think I do not see the darkness in your heart? The evil inside you?" Disgusted, Balor spat, "I curse the day I whelped you. Your mother would be ashamed to see what has become of her own blood."

"Damn you," the prince snarled. In his mind he heard Cethlenn's screams, echoing through his head until he thought his skull would shatter. "Do not dare talk about my mother-"

"As for your human whore," Balor added, and sneered when his son flinched at the word, "if you truly mourn her, which I sincerely doubt, it is only because you had not tired of playing with her yet. You could never truly love her. You do not know love, a soulless beast like you. I know what you wanted the human for - to torment her. To see her suffer. You enjoyed hurting her. Do not tell me otherwise, Crown Prince, because I _know_ you. I know what you are."

_I know what you are._ And worse, somehow, so much worse, _You enjoyed hurting her._ An echo of John's words. An echo of old fears. _You do not know love._ Dylan, he loved Dylan, and Nuala, and his father. Wink. Lorelei. And yet... _You do not know love._

His sword was suddenly in his hand, burning red as hellfire amidst the smoke and the ash raining down on them. In his mind he saw Dylan's blood, thin rivulets of crimson streaking down the blade of his father's knife. Saw once more the way Balor had twisted the blade. The shock of pain on his truelove's face. Mortal blood stung Nuada's mouth. The echo of a final kiss.

She'd died in his arms. Terrified, hurting, unable to do anything but clasp his hand and struggle to whisper his name, she had died in his arms. His father had murdered her before Nuada's own eyes. As if she were nothing, when she had been everything. As if she were _nothing._

And he had been able to _do_ nothing. Only hold her as she drowned in her own blood. Only whisper softly that the pain and the fear would soon end.

Nuada stared into his father's eyes, those familiar eyes now empty and cold and full of hatred. "Damn you, Father."

"You are the one who is damned, Crown Prince. The gods have turned their faces from you. Your kin have cast you out. Your vassal is dead for his treachery in serving a treasonous prince," Balor added. Nuada flinched and stepped back. "Your whore lies dead at your feet. You have betrayed your king, shamed your mother's memory, sacrificed your honor, murdered your sister with your willing blindness, and forsaken your kingdom and your people-"

"_Enough!_" Nuada roared, lunging forward. He tasted blood on his tongue. Nearly choked on the salt of it. Shadows gathering in fey-like blue eyes. A golden wound at Nuala's throat. His mother's corpse. Lorelei in her mother's arms. Wink.

Firelight flashed hot carnelian on the razor edge of Nuada's sword. Then the blade was buried in his father's chest, and aged amber eyes widened in shock. The strike drove the breath from his father's body. Firegold eyes went wide and Nuada reached for Balor as the king stumbled back and began to fall. The prince dropped his sword. It clattered to the ground as he caught his father.

"Forgive me," he whispered as his father's gaze began to darken. "Athair, I did not... I'm sorry. I did not want this. I _never_ wanted this. I am sorry, please, forgive me."

Flesh turned to pale stone as the life faded from his father's body. As amber blood spilled through Nuada's already-blood-smeared fingers, his father rasped, "You are nothing but a monster." And then Nuada held nothing but a lifeless statue.

_Athair. Dylan. Nuala. Wink._ All of them, gone. Dead. Wink fallen, Nuala slain. His love, dead at the hands of his father. His father, dead at Nuada's own hand. Eamonn's words, Eamonn's curse, pulsed through the Elven prince's skull as he stared in horror at what he'd done. _Your father will fall at your sword. Fall despising the son who shames him. As his blood stains your blade, he will look in your eyes and call you monster, and you will know it for the truth._

"No," he whispered. "No, I... Athair... forgive me..." Firegold eyes sought Dylan, who lay like a sleeping angel not far away. The peace of her was only disturbed by the crimson soaking her pale green pajama top, the blood smeared across her lips. _Forgive me, my love._

Dead. All of them. His father, his sister, his brother-in-soul, his friends, his lady. All of them dead. The pain of it threatened to drown him like blood, threatened to wash him away. Grief as hot and jagged as an iron dirk twisted in his chest. He stared down in stunned horror at his hands, sticky with both amber and scarlet.

Then for the first time he looked beyond the clearing in the smoke as the wind came, bringing the stench of slaughter and battle. A breeze thinned the smoke and Nuada saw the dead. Fae and human, adult and child. The world was choked in blood. Ash fell like black snow around him, blanketing the corpses, turning them to charnel-house shadows. The Golden Army lay in heaps of half-melted slag across the battlefield like the blood of the earth. The City lay in ruins. Charred rubble and shattered glass and war and death cloaked the world in shadow...

**.**

John blinked awake and stared up at the stone ceiling of the healing chamber. The killer migraine had faded while he slept, leaving him with only a dull ache in his chest as his broken ribs slowly knit back together. So now he only had his sister's words revolving hazily through his mind to keep him from... from what?

_Slipping slowly into madness out of sheer boredom,_ John mumbled silently to himself. Wide awake now, the human sighed. _I don't want to lie here with nothing to do but think about that pasty-faced pain in the butt. Hasn't that guy ever heard of a tanning salon? Seriously. If she wanted someone pale, why didn't she go pick up a vampire? Wait. I'm supposed to think good thoughts about him. I'm supposed to give him a chance._

_Even though he wants to shred me into little pieces and sprinkle me on his morning oatmeal. He doesn't like me, I don't like him... but we both have good reasons. Maybe they'll cancel each other out and we'll be buddies._ John's mouth surprised him by spreading into a half-smile. _That could be fun. We could have a tea party._

He should give the jerky Other Kin the benefit of the doubt - shouldn't he? He'd never heard his twin talk about a living person the way she talked about the prince. Like a kid talking about Santa Claus on Christmas morning. She didn't even talk about _him_ that way, John reflected with a twinge of envy. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was so antagonistic toward the Elven warrior because Dylan liked Nuada more than she liked her brother.

Not that the federal agent thought for even a second that his twin loved the prince more than him. But the fact that they were equals in Dylan's eyes kind of rubbed her twin the wrong way a bit. Had the prince really helped Dylan _that_ much? Was she _really_ in love with Prince Prissy Pants? Or did she feel like she needed him in order to keep functioning after everything that had happened to her? Or was it a little bit of both?

A short knock snagged John's attention. Sliding his eyes toward the entryway, he jolted. In the dim light, for just a second, he thought he saw the corpse-faced ghoul - _I mean,_ the human amended silently, _the Elf prince, not the prancing little dickless wonder... I'm supposed to be nice. I must be nice. I_ will _be nice_ - himself. Then John blinked and realized it was the king of the Seelie and Unseelie faerie courts of New York and New Jersey. _Okay, big improvement._

"Oh!" The federal agent struggled to get halfway upright, but Roiben motioned him back down. "Your Majesty."

"I merely wished to see how my mortal guest fared," the fae king replied with a shrug. Then he pinned John with eyes like cold steel and added, "And to look over a bit more closely the kinsman of the lady my friend has bound himself to."

"So... wait... you're here to-"

Roiben smiled. John wasn't sure if the expression was friendly or mocking. "To remind you that your sister is an intelligent woman. She has to be, in order to have survived this long with one foot in the mortal realm and one foot in the realm of Faerie. So I don't think I need to say that your concern for her in regards to Prince Nuada is wholly misplaced."

_Except you just said it,_ John grumbled silently. _And here's another person telling me to let my sister date the fairy prince. Why? What is so great about this guy? Is he the fae-version of Don Juan or what?_ He stared into Roiben's eyes, frowning, trying to understand. _Why are so many of Dylan's friends happy that she's with him? What am I missing, here?_

"He loves her, you know," the gray-eyed fae said. "Prince Nuada loves your sister."

"That's what _she_ said," he muttered. "Hard to imagine he could feel like that. The only times I've seen them together, he's done nothing but snarl at her or make her cry. What kind of guy does that to someone he supposedly loves? That gutless, spineless, cowardly-"

"A bit redundant, don't you think, John Myers?" Roiben interrupted, leaning against the wall. "Those three words all mean the same thing, you know. I would expect a bit more creativity from Dylan's twin. She once called me 'an overbearing, anaclitic, two-timing, Peter Pan-impersonating zombie-faced yutz.' For something that happened between my lady and I a few years ago," he explained when John shot him a questioning look. "Your sister did not say these things to me directly, but Kaye relayed them to me after the fact. Do you know what your sister says about Prince Nuada?"

"That he's the greatest thing since the invention of pixie-stick, peanut-butter and cheese puff sandwiches?" John hazarded a glance at Roiben and smiled at the revolted look on his face. "Okay, that's obviously not it. I have no idea, then."

"She says he's a lot like you," the king replied, then laughed at John's horrified expression. "I imagine if she ever said the same thing to Silverlance, his expression would be identical to yours. You're very much alike, the two of you. Strong, stubborn. You both love her very much. The two of you would do better as allies."

John tried to think of something to say. Anything. The only thing that came out sounded a lot like someone electrocuting a wet, rabid skunk.

Roiben shrugged. "Merely something to keep in mind, John Myers. Good night."

"Erm, good night, Your Majesty," John said, watching the Elf king walk out of the room. He had a lot to think about.

**.**

Nuada bolted awake, the breath clutching in his chest. Icy rivulets of sweat dripped into his face and down his spine like blood. _So much blood,_ he thought, shaking in reaction to the memory. _There was so much blood. Athair... Dylan... Nuala._ Horror and grief knotted in his belly. Clotted in his throat, choking him. _Everyone... everyone was dead. Oh, gods, Mathair... Wink..._

_Nuala_. He thought her name, conjured her face in his mind, and before he could stop himself, reached out to her. _Nuala? Sister? Please, are you there? Sister!_

Sleepy acknowledgment. Faint irritation. But she was too tired to wish to push him from her mind just yet. _Mmm? Brother?_ The haze of sleep still clung to her thoughts when she demanded in slumberous mock-horror, _What do you_ want? _I am trying to_ sleep, _you uncultured barbarian._

_Are you all right?_ He demanded, trying to read her emotions through their bond. She seemed all right, but... _Are you well?_

Silence. Stillness. So like the silent stillness after Dylan had taken her last breath. A hot pulse of grief ripped through him and he sucked in a breath sharply. She was fine, Dylan was perfectly fine, it had only been a dream. But he couldn't drive the sight of her from his mind. Could not banish the image of the blood spilling from her lips.

And his twin... the gaping wound at her throat, as mocking as a smile and as cruel as fate. They were all dead, weren't they? No, no, only a dream. Or perhaps... a premonition? No, a dream. A dream! But his sister, his beautiful twin, his heart... _Nuala!_

_Brother?_ Concern now, and a twinge of fear, and the soothing balm of her love, a wordless wash of comfort beneath the words she sent into his mind. _What on earth is the matter? I can feel your grief, what has happened?_

_Are you safe?_ Nuada snapped back. Desperation burned as hot as anger as he commanded, _Tell me you are safe!_

_Of course I am safe,_ Nuala replied. Confusion trembled through their bond. _What is the matter?_

On the edge of control, relief mingling with heartache into a heady poison that nearly sent him reeling, the feral-eyed warrior closed off his mind to his twin, shutting out the comfort of her, the rare warmth she had allowed him to feel. He could not let Nuala know or even catch a glimpse of what he suspected of their father, what he feared. Would not hurt her by allowing her a glimpse of that brutal dream.

But the absence of his twin, the other half of his heart, left him cold. And the nightmare surged up again in his mind, this time bringing with it memories of other dark dreams, Cethlenn's screams and his sister's tears, his father's hatred and Dylan's blood on his hands, so slick and scarlet.

Blood on his hands, blood smearing across his skin, blood soaking his shirt. Blood on his lips, in his mouth. Tears cutting his eyes and she... and Dylan... drowning, something dark as red wine glistening in her mouth, her fingers twisting in his shirt and those eyes pleading with him to save her, to make it stop, to just make the pain stop. Behind all of that, betrayal. Betrayal, because his father had plunged the knife into her chest and brutally twisted the blade. Had murdered her and Nuada had not been there to protect her, hadn't been there to keep her safe. And she'd been crying. The salt of her tears was enough to unmake him.

He must have made some sound, because the door between this room and the room where the children slept creaked open a small space and Dylan peeked into the room. The moonlight filtering through the glamoured windows bathed her face in luminous pearl. "Nuada? You awake? I thought I heard you call... out..."

Her voice died away when she saw his face in the moonlight. He didn't know what she saw. Did not care. Only cared that she came to him, climbing onto the huge bed to sit beside him and slide her arms around him. Remembering the way she'd trembled in his dream, the way the blood had bubbled between her lips, he clutched her to him and buried his face in the warm hollow where her neck met her shoulder. Warm, she was warm, not cold with death, she was warm and soft and alive.

"What is it?" She whispered. Her voice caressed him, reassured him a little. Yet Nuada could do nothing but slide his own arms about her, tangling his fingers in the cool fabric of her top, clutching the silk in his fists until his hands ached. If he listened, he could hear the steady drum of her heart. Dylan murmured against his ear, "What's wrong, Nuada? What happened?"

"I... I had a nightmare," he rasped, feeling pathetic and sick, almost dizzy. "I... you..."

_You died, you_ died, _you left me, you promised you would only go when I did, you_ promised _and my father killed you before my very eyes, there was nothing I could do, and my sister, oh gods, Nuala, my sister, she was... and Wink, he..._

The Elven warrior choked on the words. Choked on the near-hysterical despair that had tightened around his neck like a noose and still lingered like shadow poison in his veins, like ice in his guts. For a long time he could only hold onto Dylan, breathe in the scent of her, honeysuckle and soap that carried the fragrance of snowdrops, the natural perfume of her skin and the faint scent of mortality. That final scent reminded him of so much. Too much. Reminded him that he was Elf-kind and she... she was human, mortal, as inconstant as the moon and as temporary as a candle flame. One day he would lose her, just as he'd lost her in the nightmare.

"Hold me," Nuada pleaded against Dylan's throat. Shame clawed at him, shame at such pitiful weakness - he was a warrior, a soldier, a prince - but it was as nothing compared to the ache in his chest when he remembered the light fading from rainswept eyes, when he caught the phantom taste of Dylan's blood in his mouth. "Hold me. Let me hold you. I need to know you are here with me. That you're safe."

She stroked his hair and crooned, "I'm here. I'm here, love." Oh, those words. The same words he'd murmured against her hair as she died. He would never forget the panic in her eyes as she fought to breathe while the blood filled her lungs. Never, never, he would never escape the memory. "It's all right. I'm right here. It's over. It was just a bad dream. It's over now."

"You died in my arms," he gasped out, and tears burned his eyes, he couldn't keep them from splashing her skin and soaking the shoulder of her pajama top. "They were all dead, all of them, and then I found you and he murdered you before my eyes. I could do nothing," he rasped. Her arms around him tightened. "You died in my arms and I could do _nothing_ and I killed him, Dylan, I slew my father because he killed you." Nuada finally looked up and met her stunned gaze. He touched her face, so gently, and was surprised that there was no blood on his hand, on her cheek. He could still taste it, noxious copper. "You died in my arms. Your blood was on my hands."

Dylan stared at him for a long moment. Once, and only once, she had seen Nuada shed a single tear in the waking world. They had never spoken of it, because she knew it would have embarrassed him if she'd mentioned it. And once before that, she had seen him weep in slumber over a nightmare of blood and hell. But he was awake now, and the tears were sliding down his cheeks, falling onto the blankets like tiny diamonds.

"They were all dead, Dylan," Nuada whispered. "Wink and Lorelei, Yang and Erik and Aso and so many. So many dead. Wink... I failed him. I _failed_... My mother was there. And then I found my... my sister. My _sister_." And his voice broke then, and he buried his face again in the crook of her neck and held her as he shook with the effort to swallow his sobs. And she held him tightly, shaken by the depths of his grief for his sister, his mother, and his friends. He mumbled against her neck over and over, "My sister. Nuala, my sister. She left me alone. You both left me alone."

She didn't know how long they sat that way. It didn't matter. He needed her now, in a way he never had before. So she would stay. She ran her fingers through his hair, stroked along the back of his neck. Let the pads of her fingers smooth down his spine. Just gentle, soothing touches to let him know she was there with him. Dylan knew what it was to be alone, lost in the darkness of your own mind, your own loneliness, without the touch of your other half. She wouldn't let him feel that way if she could help it.

Nuada focused on reigning in his emotions. Focused on the warmth of Dylan's body so close to him, the hum of her blood beneath her skin and the steady throb of her pulse against his cheek, which lay pressed to her neck. Honeysuckle and snowdrop were a sweet mist along her oh so soft skin. Her touch was gentle, slow. Tender. The feel of Dylan cradling him against her eased the biting pain inside him enough that the feral-eyed warrior could force back the tears.

Eventually his grip on her shirt relaxed. He flexed his fingers. Pressed his palms to the silk-shrouded expanse of Dylan's back. Felt her heart beating against her spine.

When Nuada finally found the strength to lift his head, Dylan's fingertips caught the tears on his cheeks and brushed them away. "It was just a bad dream. We warned Erik and the others. We don't know Wink and Lorelei aren't safe. Nuala's fine. And I'm not going to leave you," she whispered. "I'm here. I go when you go, remember?"

And she kissed him, her lips barely ghosting over his. A flicker of warmth in the cold dark. A promise of life. Her fingertips glided along the royal scar, along his jaw, over the warm flesh of his neck and one shoulder. His hands slid up her back to cup her narrow shoulders as she shifted to twine her arms about his neck.

"I'm right here," Dylan said against his mouth. "Always." She kissed him again. Only the lightest pressure, the sweetest touch as her breath warmed his skin and the blood began to pound through his body. Only a sweet, sweet torture as she breathed, "I'm here. I love you. I'll always be here."

That promise sang through him like starlight in his blood. Shored him up against the darkness, gave him strength. Eased some of the knifing sorrow that still pierced his chest. Then _he_ was kissing _her_, and it was altogether different.

His mouth on hers was hot and hungry, different from any other time before. Not demanding, no. Not frightening. But there was a desperation in him that was so new, a need that would have scared her if she'd been kissing anyone else. She wondered suddenly if it were even possible for the Elven prince to frighten her. Then she lost the ability to wonder about anything under the warm press of his mouth, the velvet-slide of his lips on hers.

He pulled her tight against him, as if he thought she would disappear at any moment. His fingers buried themselves in the silken tangle of her hair. He was so careful not to hurt her, though. She knew he would never ever hurt her.

_I need you,_ he thought. _I need you, my love._ Nuada let his mouth linger over hers. Let himself savor the taste of her. It pushed down the dark seething mass of emotion churning in his belly. Allowed him to focus for a moment on nothing but the woman in his arms. No violence, no betrayals, no death, no loss. No nightmares clinging to his thoughts like black tar. Only Dylan. Warm, welcoming. Alive. Vibrant with life, warm with the blood in her body, warm with the beating of her heart within her breast. Warmer still with the heat of his own body against hers. _I need you so much._

Nuada had never kissed her this way before - as if he were drowning and she were his only chance for air. As if he could never get enough. It was all Dylan could do to remember how to draw breath. How did he do this to her? It was as if she were flying and free-falling all at once. Only Nuada's hands cradling her kept her from plummeting to earth. Only the rise and fall of his chest against her body with every shuddering breath and the way he still trembled from the nightmare kept her from floating away.

Nuada murmured her name, murmured sweet things in Gaelic, his voice husky with something too fierce to be simple love and too tender to be simple lust. His name fell from her lips like a plea and was swallowed by his kiss.

He loved the way she whispered his name, the feel of her mouth shaping it even as he kissed away the sound. How she pressed close to him. _My love, drown everything out, please. Drown out my grief. Help me forget the pain of this night._

He wanted to taste her truly. Wanted to let go of all the dark memories gnawing beneath his skin and simply lose himself in her, in the sweeping fire she sent burning through his veins. She was so soft, so warm, so impossibly sweet, and he _hungered..._

Yet he'd promised. Never mind that her lovely mouth was a siren call, her embrace a sweetly-baited trap. Nuada knew Dylan would taste so good if he coaxed those rosepetal lips apart and deepened the kiss. Just one kiss like that would sear away the sorrow. The taste would be heady as wine. Couldn't he ask her for just one kiss?

_But I would never be satisfied with only one,_ he reminded himself. _I would need another and another, until we were drowning in each other._

It was dangerous to let himself even entertain the idea of losing control right then when he held onto it by the skin of his teeth and they sat on this silk-draped bed. If he asked her, she would most likely let him coax her down onto those cool, smooth sheets in an effort to soothe his heartache. He had to keep things chaste. Had to remember not to take things too far, even though the sudden need for her fired his blood.

But he _needed_ to hold her, to feel her near him so that he could know for true without any doubt whatsoever that she was safe and whole and alive and then the last echoes of nightmare would finally leave him. He would no longer see her lying so still, sightless eyes staring. The nightmare would be a shadow and she... she would be a dream of moonlight and sweet flame and quiet love.

Nuada curled his hand around the back of Dylan's neck. He ached to memorize the shape of her mouth, memorize the paths of her scars with the tips of his fingers. Dylan's lashes brushed his cheek as his mouth caressed hers. Nuada followed a slender scar from the very corner of her mouth down over the delicate line of her jaw and along the side of her neck with his fingertips. The pad of his finger found her pulse, relished letting it beat against him for a moment. More proof that it had only been a nightmare.

Then he moved on to the shallow dip where neck met shoulder to the neckline of her pajama top. He began to trace along the silken edge of the shirt, ghosting over shoulder and collarbone absently as he kissed her soft mouth. Lines of golden fire licked across her skin, radiating from the feather-light brush of his fingers, threading through her chest and down the length of her spine, sweeping over her skin. She gasped. Sighed Nuada's name on a slow exhale of delirious amazement.

Her ragged breath jolted him from the haze of dread and desire and desperation. Nuada's eyes flew open and he saw Dylan's face. He wrenched away from her, hands on her shoulders, breathing hard. Shades, how was he supposed to remember his honor when she looked at him that way? When that satin-soft skin warmed to his touch and her breath caught in her throat and she responded so eagerly to this new and unyielding need for her? When she looked at him as if he were not merely the center of her world, but the whole of it?

There was no fear of him, of what he could tempt her with. Of what, if his father was right and he was a heartless coward, he could force from her so easily. No fear in her at all. Only love and trust mingling with the last vestiges of sleepiness and slumberous desire. His own desire roused at the sight until he could scarcely breathe for wanting her. Her touch helped him to forget, brought him peace. Could he not have a little peace?

"Nuada?"

His name brought his eyes back to her face. Faint lines wrinkled her brow. He wanted to reach out and smooth them away. Smooth away her worry. But his hands would shake if he let Dylan go and he did not want her to see the remnants of his weakness.

"Did I upset you?" She asked hesitantly.

"No. I simply..." _Love you, want you, need you, can never..._ "I simply need a moment."

"What can I do?" She asked, framing his face with her hands and lightly tracing the royal scar etched across his cheekbones with her thumbs. Nuada could not have torn his gaze from her if he'd tried. "Tell me what you need and it's yours."

"Anything?" He breathed, gazing into her eyes. "I have only to ask and you will give it?"

He studied her face, saw the moment she understood. Saw the instant when her eyes reflected her answer. He almost flinched.

He should not have asked, but he simply wanted to lie with her in the dark and hold her to him, cradle her to his chest while she went limp and warm with sleepiness and finally drifted off in his embrace. He had done it once. Craved the innocent intimacy still. Wanted her to hold him, allow him to lay his head against her breast and find some semblance of peace in the sound of her heartbeat.

But he knew, with that need still smoldering in his belly, even that innocuous act would not stay innocent very long. Nuada let out a shuddering breath and rested his forehead against hers. "Forgive me. I would never betray your trust that way. Surely you know that?"

Her voice was soft as a sigh when she replied, "I know."

She got to her feet. Nuada closed his eyes. She was angry with him now. Why had he asked her that question? Why had he let himself kiss her so desperately? He'd known he could easily seduce her, which was why he'd promised to follow her rules.

_I should not have kissed her that way. Should not have asked her... but I only wanted..._ And by the Fates, he could still taste her, strawberries and honey. Why had he been such a fool?

Dylan's fingers curled around his hand. His eyes shot open and he stared at her, not daring to breathe. Her smile was gentle when she murmured, "Come with me."

"Where... why...?"

She canted her head. "I think the bed might not be the best idea right now." Childlike, she tugged his hand a bit. "Too much of a temptation, I think. I know the feeling, though - it's okay. It's natural. I'm not upset. And I want to comfort you, so come on." A few more moments of tugging got him to his feet, though he felt as if he wandered through a dream. "Come sit at the window with me."

Because the sithen, by its very nature, was underground, all the windows were ensorceled to reflect what was actually outside - minus the human cities and their light and noise pollution. So Nuada knew that the black velvet night sky was what he would have seen had he been outside. That helped to relax him - the clear night, the stars glittering like bits of ice lit up from within by ivory and azure fire, the full moon giving the snow a brilliance rarely seen in the dark hours before dawn.

Time flowed differently in the sithen as well, and the nights were longer in the Unseelie court. He had time to enjoy the sight of the winter stars and the Harvest Moon. Time to sit with Dylan between his legs, her back to his chest, her hands resting lightly on his thighs and her head leaning back against his shoulder. His hands lay atop hers, warding off the chill of the faerie mound's cold stone walls. The warm weight of her helped to keep him locked in the present. The tune she hummed, slightly out of key, kept him firmly anchored to the waking world.

"What was that tune?" He asked softly after a long while in silence. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you," Dylan said. Every breath Nuada drew pressed his chest more firmly against her back, allowing her to feel his heart beating. "It's called 'Safe and Sound.' I like it a lot but," she added a bit dryly, "as you know, I can't carry a tune in a bucket with the lid nailed down if I don't have music, so I'm probably flat. It sounds a lot better on the radio."

Soft lips pressed to her ear. His breath was pleasantly warm against her skin when he whispered, "Sing it for me."

Her voice wobbled on the tune, but as always she sang with love. That eased him as well. The fact that she sang it for _him,_ merely because he had asked her to, was like a breath of summer against the ice that had crystallized inside him, thawing the chill. He nuzzled her temple very lightly with his mouth while she sang.

_"I remember tears streamin' down your face  
When I said, 'I'll never let you go';  
When all those shadows almost killed your light._

_"But I remember you said,  
'Don't leave me here alone.'  
But all that's dead and gone and past...  
Tonight."_

Dylan took his hands in hers and wrapped his arms around her middle, cuddling against his chest. Her fingers curled around his hands, her own slender hands dwarfed almost comically by the size of his. Her thumbs traced circles across the backs of his hands. Feathered across the scarred, calloused knuckles. That constant touch was almost hypnotic, lulling him slowly but surely. How he needed the simple contact. It quenched the desire in his belly and snuffed out the last vestiges of dread and grief. How did she do that? How did she ease him with something so simple?

_Love versus lust,_ Nuada realized. _A heart's need versus the wanting of the flesh. She nearly always knows just what I need, better than I know myself._ He pressed his face against the soft wealth of her hair and closed his eyes. Maybe he could fall asleep here in the windowseat, Dylan in his arms. That would not be such a hard thing. Dare he hope for it?

_"Just close your eyes.  
The sun is goin' down.  
You'll be all right.  
No one can hurt you now.  
Come morning light,  
You and I'll be safe and sound..."_

"I had a dream, too," she said softly into the silence after the song. Her fingertips traced intricate patterns over the skin on the back of his hands. "That's why I was awake, why I heard you."

He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he wanted an answer, but finally he asked, "A nightmare?"

"Not exactly," Dylan murmured. She was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed on the full, golden brilliance of the Harvest Moon. Then she said, "It... hurt, I guess is the word I'm looking for, but it was good dream. While it lasted. But then I woke up." She laughed a little. Her tone held an edge of self-mockery sharp enough to make the air bleed. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this. Never mind. You have more important things to worry about than my happy dreams."

"No," he said. "Tell me about it. I do not mind."

But Dylan shook her head. "Maybe later. It's... it's a little too... too soon. I don't even know why I brought it up. Maybe tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow, then." He kissed her temple in an attempt to dull the edge in her voice. Felt her relax more fully against him. "As you wish. And I thank you, dear one, for coming to me."

"Always," she promised softly. She let her head fall back against his shoulder and turned her face toward him. "I will always be here if you need me."

When dark lips finally curved into a weary smile, Dylan smiled back and turned her face back to the moon. The pale light gilded the smooth expanse of her throat and the soft curve of her cheek. Nuada skimmed his knuckles along the scar that was his favorite to touch.

"Mo calman gheal," he whispered, nuzzling her hair. "My white dove. Thank you."

"White dove? That's pretty. Makes me think of a song," she said. "One that reminds me a little of you and your father. Wanna hear it? I'll probably mangle it, but maybe it will help you fall back asleep." Receiving his acquiescence, she cleared her throat, closed her eyes, and began to sing again.

_"A crow flew to me; kept its distance.  
Such a proud creation.  
I saw its soul, envied its pride,  
But needed nothing it had._

_"An owl came to me, old and wise.  
Pierced right through my youth.  
I learned its ways, envied its sense,  
But needed nothing it had."_

Nuada could see it now, what Dylan had meant by "it reminds me of you and your father." And somehow, though he could tell she struggled to remain in tune, the soft melody _did_ begin to lull him. Did soothe the very last of the grief. Not only that, but it eased some of the hurt that was always with him when his mind strayed to his father and what the king thought of his only son. Then the next words slid over Nuada like gossamer, striking a chord within him, and he thought of Dylan.

_"A dove came to me; had no fear.  
It rested on my arm.  
I touched its calm, envied its love,  
And needed ev'rything it had."_

_"A swan of white, she came to me.  
The lake mirrored her beauty sweet.  
I kissed her neck, adored her grace,  
And needed ev'rything she could give..."_

_A dove_, he thought vaguely, his mind drifting away as sleep stole over him again, _and a swan. Adored her grace_. Dylan settled so that she could lean a little on his arm, and Nuada thought, _A dove came to me. My bright dove. It rested on my arm. It... rested..._

And he fell asleep in the windowseat, his cheek pillowed against Dylan's hair and his arms around her, as she continued to sing softly.

_"A hawk came to me, trembling afraid.  
It broke the pieces of my heart.  
I knew its strength, loved its soul,  
And embraced ev'rything it was._

_"Oh, how beatiful it used to be,  
Just you and me far beyond the sea,  
The waters, scarce in motion,  
Quivering still..."_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So... I'm in Florida right now, probably. Or on a plane. Or in a car. Or dying in a metaphorical ditch of loneliness and despair. Blergh. Please have pity on me. Buy my books so I don't get evicted. Review my fics (specifically, my_ Thor, Pokemon, Hellboy, _and_ ABC's Once Upon a Time the TV Show _fics) so I don't get depressed. Tell me you love me like the Easter Bunny loves jelly beans. Do my fantabulous review prompt. Do my challenges (yeah, haven't had those in a while, but the others are still up). Write fanfics yourselves. Enjoy the encroaching spring/summer. And think of me fondly._

_As for that prompt..._

_1) The nightmare. Was it too horrible? Is there any such thing? Yes, some people were out of character because it's a nightmare, reflecting our prince's worst fears. Would they act like that normally? No. Could it have been worse without getting gory/tacky? What was the worst part for Nuada, do you think? What was the worst part for you (since I know everyone has a favorite character or three and I'm sure I killed off at least_ one _of them in the dream)?_

_2) Ahhh, John. He's so cute. Now he's being ganged up on by peeps. Think he'll get the message?_

_3) And the royals of Dilong. What do we think of them now that we finally get to see them more... extrapolated upon? And what do we think of Ming Xian?_

_4) So I'm not sure about Nuada when he wakes up. Now part of it is the secret from chapter 55 (no one has found it yet, muahahaha) so keep that in mind, but I'm wondering a little because he's so shaken. I don't want him to come across as wimpy, but I wanted him to just shatter for a brief moment. Just break into a million pieces because he can't bloody take it anymore. So how did I do? And how was everything once the kissing started? I'm wondering if it read to you guys the way it read to me. And who thinks they know what Dylan's dream was about?_

_5) Okay, so I'm posting this either Wednesday or Thursday, which means by Friday, when I can actually check my email, I'll have been traveling all day and I'll be in Florida in the craptastical world that is what happens when an LDS person goes to the reunion of their entirely non-LDS family - lots of getting made fun of for being a prude and stuff. So I would ask, since this chapter is posted in honor of my birthday (which was Sunday), if I could have as many favorite things as you can think of. Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, whatever. As many as possible. Because I can almost guarantee you I'm going to be in tears by the end of Sunday, and I'm gonna need a pick-me-up. So yeah... faves?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title**_**:** Black Swan, White Raven _is actually a volume of Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's faery tale adaptation series. But I thought the title fit with the main song used in this chapter. Plus, I like it. It's a good book. =)_

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- A _chokutō_ is actually a Japanese weapon, the straight-edged predecessor to the traditional _katana_, but it originated in Korea and was also used extensively in China (where Dilong is).

- Zhenjin's epithet is Azurefire because he is the crown prince of Dilong is therefore known as the Azure Dragon (just like his father is known as the Celestial Dragon and the Dragon of Dilong). Unlike Balor, Elatha, Nuada, and Roiben, Zhenjin did nothing of any note to earn this nickname. However, his aunt is known as Yin Mei Redbird because she is a very lethal fighter - quick and darting, like a sparrow.

- Mazarine means "blue."

- The conversation "Then how would you beat him, Aunt?"/"With a very large stick, while he slept. But on the dueling field? With an edged weapon?" is paraphrased from A Knight's Tale. The original conversation goes, "How would you beat him?"/"With a stick, while he slept. But on a horse? With a lance? That man is unbeatable."

- Sunna Von Der Strom is a character belonging to OceanFire9, who obligingly shares her with me sometimes. Sunna Von Der Strom means "Sunna of the River" in German. She wouldn't really blame Nuada for Lorelei's death. At least, I don't _think_ she would. Ocean?

- Aurulent means "golden."

- Piper-rats are a name I made up (as far as I know) for a species of faerie that has no name found in the short story "Grand Central Park" by Delia Sherman, found in _The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest_. In that story, a rat-fae named Gnaw-Bone chases down and attempts to eat the main character, a mortal high school girl.

- Selkies are Irish fae that normally take the shape of seals, but can shed their sealskins to become humanoid in shape and walk on land. Some myths say a selkie cannot remain on land past midnight. Also called "roans." Sometimes they take human wives/husbands.

- In case anyone forgot, scitalis are mythical snakes that are so beautiful they mesmerize you with their awesome-possum scales. In this fic, scitalis are snake-shifters, and usually obtain work as dancers.

- Kelpies are shapeshifting Irish/Scottish water fae that normally take the shape of a black horse or a beautiful youth or maiden (or man/woman, if their intended victim is an adult) and try to lure humans to their deaths in the body of water they reside in.

- Eamonn's curse is mentioned in chapter 42.

- In chapter 24, I believe, it mentions that John used to eat pixie-stick, peanut-butter, and cheese-puff sandwiches as a kid.

- The first song Dylan sings is "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift and is actually the theme for the comfort scene in chapter 48, though from a male perspective that time. It's part of the soundtrack for _The Hunger Games._

- The second song Dylan sings is "The Crow, the Owl, and the Dove" by Nightwish. I changed the lyrics, however. Originally the third verse went, "A dove came to me; had no fear. It rested on my arm. I touched its calm, envied its love, but needed nothing it had." I changed the final words to "and needed everything it had." The fourth verse originally went "A swan of white, she came to me. The lake mirrored her beauty sweet. I kissed her neck, adored her grace, but needed nothing she could give..." I changed it to "and needed everything she could give." The final two verses are not part of the song. I wrote the second-to-last verse about the hawk, which is about Nuada, and the last verse is actually from another Nightwish song, "Turn Loose the Mermaids," from the same album. It just worked out that way, though, and I'm fond of it. =)


	57. Arrival

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note_

_Concerning the Chapter Title_

_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**IMPORTANT:**_ okay, everyone, _**my 2 books are out!**_ Yes, my original fiction works are available on Amazon for the Kindle/Nook/eReader thingies for $4.99 each. Please buy them! _**I don't want to get evicted from my apartment**_. (T.T) Because if that happens I have to abandon "Once Upon a Time" (and all my other fics) and I don't wanna! And I'll have to get rid of my cats! Not to mention I'll be homeless. Which would sincerely suck, since I live in the desert and summer is coming.

My books are called _Glass_ and _Their Forever Family_, and both are under my penname, LA Knight. =)

PS - the paperbacks will be out on Monday! They're $12.99 and $8.99. They're the same price on Amazon as they are at my eStore, but if you order them on Amazon, Amazon takes a huge cut and I get, like... fifty cents (yeah, out of 13 bucks - it's ridiculous). If that. Whereas my eStore does not do that. So buy them on my eStore. Links are/will be available on my profile!

_**Author's Note:**__ So because last chapter we had so much angst, I posted this chapter early because of the... well, I don't want to call it anti-angst. The humor? The lack of truly depressing angst? I dunno. I think you guys will like it, though. But because I'm posting this chapter today, next chapter won't be out until, like, May 5th. In the meantime, go read my other fanfics! =) Or go Google my beta's blog under "Blogspot Whisper on the Wind" to read the first eight chapters of her cool book_, Warrior, _and leave her comments. I'll try to have a link up on my profile... sometime by/before Monday._

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**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

**Arrival**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Letter, Girl Time and Its Effects, Two Pseudo Cat Fights, the Possibility of Friendship, Farewells, and a King's Suspicion**

.

.

Nuada woke tucked into bed - how had he gotten there? He vaguely remembered Dylan leading him to the bed. There was a hazy recollection of someone tucking him in and smoothing back his hair. Lips brushing his forehead. A soft voice crooning a lullaby slightly out of tune. _You and I'll be safe and sound..._

Dylan must have put him to bed, he realized. He'd been so tired he'd barely understood what was happening or he surely would have protested. Had his lady gone back into the children's room after? Firegold eyes blinked and focused on the door, slightly ajar, that led to the room where the children had slept the night before.

A'du'la'di poked his head through the doorway. "Your Highness?" The boy scruffed his mane, and Nuada saw that his arm was no longer in a sling. The healing had finally set enough that his arm no longer needed it. A'du stepped in holding a pile of folded clothes. Atop the pile was a piece of paper. "_A'ge'lv_ Dylan said to bring this to you when you woke up."

The clothes were Nuada's own, deep blue and black silk and leather. A'du said Becan had brought them from the cottage. The piece of paper was a note from Dylan.

_"Good morning, Nuada._

_I'm with Kaye and Val somewhere in the sithen. We're doing "girl stuff"  
according to Kaye, and you're supposed to stay far away until we're done.  
That depresses me greatly, but I think I can manage a little while longer.  
Please make sure A'du'la'di eats breakfast. I have 'Sa'ti with me, but A'du  
wanted to stay with you. He still has your knife, by the way._

_I talked to the healers. Tsu's'di is out of the woods, and John is going to  
make it too. Thank you so much for saving him._

_Nuada, I wanted to write you one of those letters like you wrote me,  
but I'm not very good at that kind of thing. So I'm just going to tell you  
that you're amazing. You're absolutely wonderful. Don't you ever forget  
that, okay? I want you to know that you have done so much for me. When  
you smile at me, you make me feel so happy. When you hold me, you  
make me feel so very safe. When I'm with you, I feel wanted. And when  
you kiss me, I feel beautiful. I'm so grateful to have you in my life. You've  
made it so much better. You said once that I was precious to you. Well,  
you're precious to me, too. I just wanted you to know that._

_I'll see you when Kaye finally cuts me loose. I should be ready to leave for  
Findias when that happens._

_Love always, Dylan"_

It took him a moment to be certain his voice would not shake when next he spoke. After how cruel he had been, after making her cry... first she had comforted him in the wake of that brutal nightmare. Soothed him with her touch and with a lullaby. And now she'd written him this letter.

By the stars, what had he ever done to deserve her?

There was still A'du to deal with, he reminded himself. The prince glanced at the cougar fidgeting next to where he'd set the clothing pile at the foot of the bed. "Have you eaten breakfast?" Nuada asked, rising. The boy shook his head. The prince sighed. "I suppose you want some."

"_A'ge'lv_ Dylan said to make sure you eat. She said not to leave you alone for a minute because you're sad and she says you need looking after."

It took every ounce of self-control for Nuada not to back away from the child as the blood drained from his face. He needed looking after? By A'du'la'di? For a moment he felt the sharp sting of betrayal. In his moment of weakness and vulnerability, she'd sicced the child on him! Left him at the cub's mercy - again! He'd been awake for barely five minutes and now he had to worry about the boy sticking like a tick to the letter of Dylan's "orders."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," the boy murmured, distracting Nuada from his mental tirade against his lady and her supposed orders. Feral eyes narrowed at the boy's somber expression. "About your friend. Do you know if he's okay?" Solemn gray eyes flicked to Nuada's face before finding the floor again. "I hope he's okay."

The prince reached for the shirt atop the clothing pile. "I do not know if he is all right," Nuada said softly. Images flashed behind his eyes - Wink's Seal lying in a splash of gray blood; the butchered corpse in his nightmare. The prince banished them ruthlessly. Then he gripped the boy's shoulder. "But I thank you, A'du'la'di, for the sentiment. Now, are you fit to be seen in my presence?"

"Um..." The boy looked down at the livery he wore - a simple slate-gray cotton shirt over royal blue canvas trousers, perfect for a rowdy child. The badge embroidered with Dylan's crest was bright on his shoulder. "I'm all dressed... oh!" A'du's ears pricked. "I gotta brush my teeth!"

Nuada arched a brow. "Shouldn't you do that _after_ breakfast?"

"Oh, yeah," the boy said, sheepish. Then he perked up. "Oh! I gotta comb my hair and wash my face!" Just as swiftly as he'd perked, A'du deflated. "That's not gonna be fun."

Nuada inclined his head. "Then you had best be getting on with it." Thinking back to his own childhood, the prince added, "And I know I need not remind you to wash the back of your neck and behind your ears." A'du shot the prince a thoroughly betrayed look, which Nuada met with equanimity. "I shall meet you at the door once you have finished and I have dressed."

The boy trudged out of the room while the feral-eyed warrior stripped out of the previous day's clothes and dressed in hard black leather over blue silk. Although Roiben's sithen was a safe place, although Roiben himself was an ally and a friend, Nuada still slipped on the simple leather vambraces and sleeveless overtunic he sometimes wore as armor. Donning his boots, he tied his sheathed sword at his waist and fastened his spear to his back.

Only then did he pick up the note from Dylan. Lightly caressed the words she'd written so carefully on the smooth, white paper. _I'm so grateful to have you in my life._ No one had ever said something like that to him before. Not ever. _You're precious to me, too._ He carefully folded the letter and slid it into an inner pocket where it would be safe until he could find a place to put it. Maybe in the trinket box in his santuary with the peony. _You're absolutely wonderful. Don't you ever forget that, okay?_

"Your Highness, I'm awful hungry," A'du'la'di said mournfully from the doorway, grabbing the prince's attention. "Aren't _you_ hungry? They've got pocket pies! With eggs and sausage and all kinds of stuff. And pancakes with plum preserves! And if we don't hurry it'll be all gone!"

"Horrors," Nuada muttered as he and the boy left the room.

**.**

"I am going to kill you both," Dylan grumbled as something cold slipped onto her face. "Painfully. And Roiben will never know," she added as someone else took her hand and started fiddling with her fingers. A harsh grating sound disturbed the air. "Because I will hide your bodies where no one will ever find them." She tried to ignore the servants laughing as she said this.

"Relax, Dylan," Kaye said from off to one side. "He'll like it."

She protested, "He likes me the way I am, thank you very much."

Liked her quite an awful lot, Dylan thought, recalling the feel of his mouth on hers and the gentle strength of his arms around her. Those memories still sent heat fluttering in her belly, made her heart race.

She had to be careful. They couldn't do that again. The kisses had been chaste enough, but the feelings behind them... that delicious, oh so tempting heat... she _had_ to be more careful.

But this time, she didn't have to worry about Nuada. He'd understood. The moment he'd asked her to lie beside him, and he'd seen the answer in her face, he'd understood how she felt. He knew her so well. Loved her as she was. How had she gotten so lucky?

And how the heck had she let Val and Kaye talk her into this?

Oh, right. Because for the return to Findias, she needed to look her absolute best. To shine on Nuada's arm, do him honor. And the only way to do that, apparently, was to let Kaye's servants have their metaphorical way with her. Which was fine, except... she had no idea what they were doing to her. Well, as long as they didn't cut her hair. She'd survive as long as they didn't cut her hair.

Someone took her other hand. Judging by the fact that the hand holding hers only had three incredibly long fingers and a thumb, she was fairly certain it was Kaye. The pixie's voice near the mortal's ear confirmed it. "Just don't be scared when you look in the mirror, okay?"

Dylan's eyes snapped open. "What are you guys _doing_ to me?"

**.**

While the children and Tsu's'di wolfed down their early supper, Nuada gazed at the small sheet of paper bearing Dylan's note.

_You're amazing._ He had no idea why he had a difficult time forgetting those words. It wasn't as if Dylan had never said such things before. She was always giving him compliments. Always looking at him as if the sun rose and set on his smile. So why did this letter distract him so much?

He had pondered her words throughout the day as he looked in on Tsu's'di, spoke with Roiben about getting his help in possibly finding Wink, gone to the local Troll Market to pick up a couple things, and dealt with all the last-minute arrangements of their return.

She'd signed it "Love always, Dylan." Such a simple thing, but it warmed him, thawing the dark chill that had settled in his bones ever since he'd gone to Midnight Fest. The fact that his truelove had even bothered to write such a missive helped warm him further. Why had she done that? Especially after all that had occurred last night. Surely she'd been too tired. And surely he had not deserved it after snarling at her during their fight, even though he had apologized. And afterwards...

"What's that?" A'du'la'di asked around a mouthful of stew.

"Do not speak with your mouth full," Nuada said.

Swallowing obediently, the boy leaned across the table to peer upside-down at the letter. "What is it? Is it... Ew. Is that a love letter?" Nuada's glare, for some unfathomable reason, did not phase the child in the least. A'du simply made a revolted face. "Ew, gross, it _is!_ It's a love letter! Ick. Your Highness, don't you know _anything?_ Real warriors don't read love letters! You can get cooties from those things!"

"Love letters are romantical!" 'Sa'ti snapped at her big brother, and rolled her eyes, huffing in exasperation. "You're such a boy! Can we see it?" She asked, turning to Nuada. "Will you read it to us?"

"No," Nuada said flatly. "Now finish your supper."

"Please, please, please?"

"No."

"Pretty please with honey on top?"

"No."

"Is it all gushy?" A'du asked, looking positively repulsed. He dished up another spoonful of stew, swallowed without chewing like the barbarian he was, "Who's it from? Where'd you get it? Why do you keep reading it? What's it say? Is it gross? Ew, I bet it's gross. Can I see it? You don't have to read it to me, I can read it myself. Can I read it?"

"No," Nuada said coolly. "Polite little boys do not read other people's correspondence."

"Oh. But why? I promise I won't tell anyone what it says. They could torture me and I wouldn't tell," the cougar boy promised earnestly. "Please can I read it? I promise I won't laugh at you."

Why, in the name of all that was holy on this earth, had Dylan left him with these demon-possessed children? And why wasn't Tsu's'di doing anything about this? But the cougar youth was busy inhaling the food in front of him, fueling the healing spells laid into his body, completely oblivious to all that was going on around him. He would be of absolutely no help.

"I am not concerned over being ridiculed by a child," Nuada informed A'du with chilly politeness.

"I would never... um... rid... rud... red-cool you, Your Highness," the boy said solemnly. "I just think love letters are gross. Especially ones from _girls_. They have cooties, I'm telling you," he added with the air of someone imparting a serious piece of wisdom to the uneducated. "Gotta watch out for that kind of thing."

"Ridiculed," the prince corrected automatically. "And I am not afraid of... cooties." By the stars, he felt like an imbecile for even speaking the word. "You are too young to know the depths of your own ignorance. Perhaps when you are older you will see that the fairer sex has much to recommend them."

A'du'la'di blinked a few times. "Um... huh?"

"He's saying when you grow up, you'll like girls," Tsu's'di translated before shoving a dinner roll in his mouth.

His little brother made a gagging sound and shook his head. "Blech! No way! Girls are gross! All they like doing is playing with dolls and wearing stupid dresses and wearing makeup and stuff. They never want to play anything fun. And they huddle up together like ducks and giggle at you and it's weird."

"Girls are good for kissing," Tsu's'di said around his mouthful of roll.

A'du shot his brother a scandalized look. "Oh, _gross_. You've kissed a _girl?_ That's just _nasty!_"

"Is your letter from _A'ge'lv_ Dylan?" 'Sa'ti asked the prince, bouncing a little in her seat. "Is it a love poem? That's so romantical. Or is it something else? Did she ask you on a date? Did she ask you to marry her? I bet she did! Did you say 'yes?' Are you gonna get married? You love her, right? She's your _a'ge'lv_. Are you gonna get married and have lots of babies?"

Where was Dylan? When was she coming back? Nuada knuckled his eyes to suppress the headache that was surely looming in the distance. Why were these children so obsessed with his and Dylan's love life? Didn't they have more pressing concerns? Such as... such as... whatever bizarre games children played when they had nothing more productive to occupy them. Surely the romantic lives of two adults were nothing of interest.

"Yay, now I can see," A'du chirped from his new spot next to Nuada's elbow. The prince was ashamed to admit that he jumped somewhat in surprise. Why, that sneaky little cougar... "Did she put perfume on it? 'Sa'ti said girls are supposed to do that with love letters. Did she? Huh? Are there cooties on it?"

Nuada slid the letter a few inches away from the child and his grubby little fingers. "No. Now sit down." A'du promptly plopped himself on the bench beside the prince and vainly attempted to peer over the Elven warrior's arm at the missive. "In your previous spot."

Another warm, furry body pressed against his other arm. Nuada gritted his teeth. "Oh, she signed it... lo-love al... al-wa-yis," 'Sa'ti said with a bit of difficulty. "Always. Love always. Awww! She signed it 'love always!' That is so beautiful and romantical and cool. I wish I had a prince to write letters to so I could sign them like that."

"Why would a prince want you?" A'du demanded scornfully.

"Because I'm a lady, that's why!"

The child thought about this for a long moment. "Well... not really. We're common. So you're not. A lady, I mean. But you're kinda pretty for a sister. So maybe you could get a prince. _A'ge'lv_ Dylan isn't a lady really and she got a prince. But that's 'cause she's really nice and pretty. So you've gotta be really pretty first."

'Sa'ti chewed that over for a few seconds while Nuada gave up on moving either of them and simply folded the letter and slipped it into a pocket. Then the ewah girl lifted her face to Nuada's and asked very solemnly, "Your Highness, do you think I'm pretty?"

"I..." _What?_ Why was she asking _him?_ "Suppose."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Yeah," A'du chimed in. "Is that a yes or a no?"

Feeling as if he'd somehow swallowed a live toad, the Elf prince frowned. He studied the upturned face. "Yes," he decided finally. "You are a very pretty ewah girl." _Now please,_ he added silently, _let that be the end of it!_

"Do you think I could marry a prince?"

_Clearly not the end of it_, Nuada thought with a smattering of pique. Aloud all he said was, "If one fell in love with you, I do not see why not."

"If he fell in love with me, would he kiss me, do you think? Like Tsu's'di was saying?"

Affronted, the prince opened his mouth to inform her that, pretty or not, she was too young to be thinking about kissing a boy, when A'du'la'di made a sound like a cat vomiting up a fur ball. The noise made Nuada's skin crawl. "Enough questions. Go sit down and finish your supper," he growled at them. They opened their mouths to argue, widening their eyes in an attempt to soften him. "_Now._" Both children groaned and trudged back to the opposite side of the table, pouting.

Where, for the love of the gods, was Dylan? What was taking her so long? They were supposed to leave for Bethmoora after supper. The children were already in the livery Becan had delivered that morning, being very careful not to spoil their clothes while they ate. He was dressed, armed, and ready. So where was Dylan? Worry prickled along his shoulderblades like a warning, along with something that, in a lesser man, would have been called desperation. Nuada called it a healthy instinct for survival.

"Whoa!" A'du'la'di suddenly cried, his whiskers and ears pricking and eyes widening. Nuada looked up from the letter to see the boy staring at something over the prince's shoulder with shining eyes. "_A'ge'lv_, you look like a total babe!" Tsu's'di cuffed him lightly with a light bap to the back of his head, but the cougar child merely grinned impishly at his brother. "Well, she _does!_"

'Sa'ti's eyes widened too. "Oh, _A'ge'lv_, you look bee-you-tee-ful!"

Nuada turned to see Dylan, flanked by Lady Kaye and the mortal Val, start to walk - almost to _glide_ - into the small dining room. He recognized the dress she wore; the same slinky black dress sprinkled with tiny star-like jewels she'd worn the night he'd returned to the cottage. He hadn't had time to appreciate it then. He did now - the way it fell in soft shadows past her knees, the way the bell-like sleeves accentuated her slender wrists and elegant hands, the way the neckline framed her lovely collarbones. But that was nothing compared to the rest of her.

So that's what they had been doing with her all day. "Girl stuff," as her note had said. Whatever women did to make themselves look just a little more lovely before an important occasion. Dylan looked like herself, but at the same time... different. Herself, and yet _more_ somehow. Almost fey-like. Her hair hung in loose curls down her back. Her skin looked soft as satin. His fingers ached to stroke along the elegant curve of her cheek and the length of her slender neck. And her _eyes_. They'd done something to make those lovely haunted eyes almost entrancing. The only thing they had left alone was her mouth. It was soft, lush and inviting all on its own.

"Hey, everyone. Sorry I'm late." Slanting her gaze at the retreating pixie and her other human companion, Dylan added, "It took a bit longer than Kaye and Val said it would." Her eyes found Nuada as the Elf rose to his feet and walked toward her, his handsome face inscrutable. She swallowed. "So... how do I look, Your Highness?"

He reached up and skimmed the very tips of his fingers over her cheek. Her skin was even softer than it looked. "'Sa'ti is right - you look absolutely beautiful." The expression on her face at those words heated Nuada's blood. Curling his hand around the back of her neck, he drew her in a little. His fingers brushed lightly over her pulse. She laid one hand on his shoulder to steady herself as Nuada's arm slid around her waist. "Lady Dylan, you are breathtaking."

She dazzled him with her smile. "Well, thank you, Prince Nuada." She dipped a swift curtsy. The Elf prince took her hand and brought it to the heat of his mouth. He planted a smoldering kiss against Dylan's knuckles that turned her blood to liquid gold. Dylan had to fight back a smile when A'du'la'di made a hairball sound and then muttered, "Ew. Love stuff. Gross. I think I'm gonna hurl." 'Sa'ti promptly smacked him on the shoulder.

Nuada added, deliberately ignoring the children, "I am considering running off with you so that I might have your beauty to myself for a while." His lady made an exasperated face and rolled her eyes. Not the reaction he'd been going for, honestly. More softly, allowing a whisper of heat to enter his voice that made her shiver more than a little despite herself, he said, "I would pay you fairer compliment, my lady, but the stunning vision before me has rendered me nearly speechless."

Dylan rolled her eyes again. _Really, Nuada?_ She asked through the link of their clasped hands. _You don't actually use lines like that to pick up girls, do you? Because somehow I don't see that working too well._ He quirked a brow. The message behind that was crystal clear. _Okay, really? Wow. I am intensely disappointed on behalf of my gender._

_I cannot help it if women succumb so easily to my charms, my lady. Nor can I help it that I am the epitome of masculine perfection. Even you are highly succeptible to my advances. Of course, it does not help that you are such a stunning creature._

When Nuada kissed her fingers again, flutters of warmth tickled her stomach and she couldn't suppress her smile. "I bet you say that to all the girls," she murmured aloud, more than a little breathless. Silently, she added, _And I hate it when you're right. It makes me feel like a bimbo that you can do that to me. It's pathetic._

"I say such things only," he said, breath deliciously warm against her skin, "to the ones who hold a place in my heart."

_The ones,_ he added through the link of their joined hands, _who make my heart race and fire my blood. The ones who comfort me when I am low and give me a good smack when I am being a boorish idiot._ Nuada smiled when Dylan grinned. _The ones who know me as well as I know myself. In short, my fair lady, only the one who stands before me now. Only the one who is mine. And you are not pathetic. You are very much in love with me. As you should be. I_ am _an Elven prince, mo duinne._

_So by virtue of your cute little Elf ears, I should be eating out of the palm of your hand? Yeah, I don't think so._

_My ears are_ not _"cute."_

She grinned wider. _I hate to break it to you, Your Highness, but they totally are._

_Wench._

_That's why you love me,_ Dylan said, beaming. _Right?_

_"Love" may not be the proper term, my lady._ Dark lips curved in a small smile when Dylan's expression fell a little. Brushing his mouth against her knuckles again, he added, _I personally prefer the word "adore."_ The soft look she graced him with left his blood humming and warmth caressing his heart. "Mo cridh," he whispered against her slender fingers.

"I can't take it! I can't take it anymore! Too much moony-eyed gazing! Too much mushy pillow talk! It has to stop or I think," said a familiar and _most_ unwelcome voice, "I'm going to throw up."

Honey-gold eyes flashed molten bronze as Nuada, rage suddenly boiling in his blood, started to pivot towards Dylan's twin. Then, surprisingly, Dylan laughed.

"Johnny! Don't tease him, he can't tell you're joking," she said, slipping out of Nuada's grasp and moving to throw her arms around her brother's neck. The whelp winced a little, but wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her temple. Smiled. The Elf prince felt something cold slither into his belly when Dylan smiled back at her twin. She'd never looked so happy. Not even when Nuada had taken her to the royal forest. Not even, he thought as his stomach knotted, when he'd shown her the unicorns. "How do you feel, John-boy?"

"Like a pair of shandymen ran their cruddy Porsche into my Mustang and then impaled me with a wooden stake." The twins shifted so that the feckless idiot could sling an arm about Dylan's shoulders. Nuada gritted his teeth. "And like I haven't had my coffee," John added, grinning when Dylan made a disgusted face. "Yeah, yeah. Spare me the coffee lecture this one time, seeing as how I nearly died, okay? And how are you, Sis?"

"Wonderful, now that I know you're okay," she said, thumping her head against his shoulder. Nuada felt his heart thump painfully in his chest. Dylan draped her arm around John's waist. "Have you eaten yet? Come sit with me."

At the table, John on one side of her, Dylan glanced back to see Nuada coming to sit beside her. He moved, she thought with a lancing of concern, like a man who'd received a near-fatal wound and was trying to hide it while slowly bleeding to death. Gone was the suave, charming prince who'd paid her fair - and incredibly cheesy - compliment. She wanted to ask if he was all right - was it the nightmare again? Something else? - but with John right next to her, she had the feeling the Elven warrior would merely brush off her concern. So she merely ghosted her fingertips over his wrist. When he glanced at her, she flashed him a smile. He didn't smile back, but his eyes softened and melted back to that honey-gold she liked so much.

John kicked her ankle under the table. She promptly kicked him back.

Nuada glanced at the children, who had all ceased eating to stare at this strange human who their mistress so obviously loved (and their prince so obviously did not). Finally, A'du'la'di cast a furtive glance toward the Elf prince before demanding of John, "Who are _you?_"

The human paused with a strawberry halfway to his mouth. "Um... I'm John. Who are you?"

"I'm A'du'la'di Ewah, of the Children of the Cougar," the boy said coolly. His ears flattened against his skull and his whiskers slicked back along his cheeks as he added with narrowed eyes and a slight growl under his words, "I'm _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's page."

"Well, I'm Dylan's twin brother."

The cougar boy immediately looked at Nuada. "_A'ge'lv_ Dylan has a brother?"

"Yes," Nuada replied tonelessly. The Elf prince was torn between reprimanding the boy for his rudeness and wanting to applaud him for his attitude regarding the troublesome human whelp. "She has one brother and seven older sisters, isn't that right?"

Dylan nodded and took a sip of strawberry cordial from the small glass a servant had provided for her. "John, this young lady is U'de'ho'sa'ti, or just 'Sa'ti, my handmaid. And this young gentleman beside her is-"

"Tsu's'di Ka'ta," the youth said too softly, locking eyes with John. There was a faint hint of growl to the cougar youth's words as well. Like his little brother, his ears were flat to his head and his fur was fluffed in aggression. "Lady Dylan's bodyguard."

With all the gravity of his nearly fifty years of adolescence, A'du informed John, "You smell funny."

"No, he doesn't," 'Sa'ti piped up. "His nose is too small to smell anything. He just _looks_ funny. Kind of like a mouse with a really short nose," she added. Nuada bit down on the inside of his cheek. It would be most unbecoming to laugh. And Dylan would hit him. "Except he doesn't even have any fur. He's all pale. Like a mushroom."

"Yeah?" John said, a little irked. "At least I'm taller than you pipsqueaks."

"Not when we shift," Tsu's'di said, voice still a half-growl. "I'd imagine I outweigh you by at least fifty pounds then. I've taken down a moose before. A moose is way bigger than you. Which means I could take you, too."

"_That_ is _enough_, Tsu's'di," Dylan said sharply, and the cougar youth bowed his head and fell silent.

"I've taken down punks loads bigger than you before, kid," the federal agent said. Tsu's'di's head shot up and he opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.

"John," his sister growled, "drop it."

"I could take you, too," A'du piped up.

The adults and Tsu's'di turned to stare at him. John's expression was incredulous as he replied, "Kid, you're so short you probably couldn't reach the stove to turn it on. There is no way in Hades you could take me."

"I can _so_ reach a stove!" The cougar boy contradicted, outraged. "All I need is a chair! So there, myeh!" And the child promptly crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at Dylan's twin.

_Oh, for heaven's sake_, Dylan thought with no little irritation. The kids were taking their cue from Nuada. Which meant they didn't trust John and probably didn't like him on principle, since their prince didn't like this strange human male either. Dylan cut her eyes to the Elf prince, who was studiously examining the table. John was glaring at Tsu's'di.

"Okay," Dylan said, slanting a look at her twin and then at Nuada. "Here's the deal. I love John. You don't have to love him, but everyone has to be nice to everyone else. That includes certain deliriously attractive Elven princes I know," she added, and was rewarded with a fleeting quirk of Nuada's lips. Fleeting, because John made a gagging sound. "Oh, my gosh, John, you are _so_ immature!"

"I'm twenty-one; it kinda comes with the territory. Ask Francesca."

"I'd rather not, thanks," his twin replied. "No matter what we start off talking about, eventually it always gets around to my love life. Or hers, which is equally disturbing. She still wants to see you with your shirt off," she added to Nuada, who choked on the sip of water he'd just taken. To John she said, "Now behave. Don't make me kick you under the table again."

"Oh, I'm very afraid now. Ow." John slanted Dylan a look. She glared back at him for a second before losing the battle to hide her smile. "Ha. I win."

"Shut up and eat, John-boy, before I paint your nails again. Neon pink, this time."

"I'll be good!" He yelped, and applied himself to his food as if eating would soon be declared illegal. Dylan just laughed and went back to her own dinner, which involved something remarkably similar to French toast, her favorite breakfast-any-time food.

Nuada feigned indifference, and his seemingly uncaring attitude regarding the two mortals soon returned the three ewah to their former ease. They quickly began eating again. All three of them needed an extensive amount of fuel in order to recuperate from the healing magic that had been laid into their bodies. Although they were mostly recovered, the spells were still necessary to keep the healing and strengthening on track, and the magic had to get its power from _somewhere._

After the hasty meal, Dylan and the children went to double-check that they hadn't forgotten anything (mostly Neytiri-the-stuffed-mountain-lion and the picture book _The Wonderful Wizard of Ha's_, which Becan had obligingly brought that morning, and a set of "good" formal livery for each of the cougar shifters on the off-chance that, upon returning to Findias, they would have to accompany the prince and his lady before the court). Nuada knew Dylan also had some goodbyes to make to some of the residents of the sithen - including, Dylan informed him before leaving the room, the vampire boy and the mortal man known as Neil, who might be hard to find.

The Elf prince was set to leave as soon as his lady and her household returned with their belongings and all errands had been completed. Unfortunately, the feckless moron that claimed blood-ties with Dylan didn't follow his sister out of the small private dining room. When Nuada got up to go somewhere - anywhere where the human was _not_ - John cleared his throat.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?" The whelp asked, then added belatedly, "I mean, um... may I perhaps have a moment of your time, Your Highness?"

Slowly, Nuada turned to stare at the human. Where was this sudden diffidence and show of respect coming from? The Elven warrior didn't trust it. "I am busy at present. Perhaps another time." _Although not likely,_ he added silently, turning away again to leave the room. Ruddles, Roiben's chamberlain, intercepted him.

"Your Highness, Prince Nuada, by His Dark Majesty's command I am to tell you to 'ware the corridors for the time being," the lion-like little sprite said, offering the prince a short bow.

"What?" Nuada demanded, irritation whispering under his skin. _Now_ what was the problem? "Why?"

"Lady Ethine is within the sithen, Your Highness."

Nuada's blood went cold and fury bloomed out of the irritation. Ethine. Ethine was here? What did she want? She'd turned against Roiben more than a decade ago. Turned against _him_ even before that. Monster, she'd called him. Murderer. Child-killer. Evil. Soulless. She was the first to call him so. At least, he amended silently as anger and something else, something icy and razor sharp, twisted his belly in knots, she was the first he had loved to call him such things. But not the last.

_Murderer. You killed my child! You enjoyed hurting her. You have betrayed your king. Shamed your mother's memory. Murdered your sister. Sacrificed your honor. Traitor. Coward. Monster._ Words from the past, words from memory and words from nightmare, crashing together in a whirlwind of fury and hurt in his mind. The Elven warrior shoved it all down and threw up walls of glacial ice to keep those words out.

_And just in time_, he thought grimly, hearing the click of heeled boots on the cold stone of the floor behind Roiben's steward.

"Don't bother, you filthy thing, I've found him easily enough," a cool voice snapped from the hall behind the chamberlain. Ruddles bared his teeth in a feral smile and offered the Elven woman in the entryway a mockingly deep bow. "I knew it. I knew the Unseelie king was twisted enough to still count you as an ally."

The Elf prince didn't notice John get up and edge out of the room. Didn't notice Ruddles do the same. He only looked into that familiar face as pale as ivory, into the eyes as cold and gleaming as iron, and inclined his head in an empty gesture of deference. He was a prince, but this was not his kingdom. She was not a princess by birth, but she was the twin sister of the king of two courts. That made her Nuada's superior in rank - barely.

"Lady Ethine, you should not speak so of your brother. He saved your life, as I recall. Paid quite dearly for it. Some might even say _too_ dearly." After all, Roiben had nearly died defending his sister. Had nearly lost Kaye to the blades of the former Seelie queen's knights. Had nearly lost his crown and his kingdom, as well as his home.

"My _brother_ is dead," the Seelie lady replied with venom. Ethine tossed her hair, which she'd cropped short in mourning for Roiben when he'd become king of the Night Court and refused to rejoin the Bright Court. Unbidden came the memory of how Nuada had enjoyed running his fingers through the waterfall of snow-white silk strands. He curled his fingers into a fist as the half-sídhe, half-Elven noblewoman added, "Thanks to the infection of this so-called court and due to his foolish consorting with creatures like you. The monster left in his place is no kin of mine."

_Creature. Monster. Beast_. She'd hurled all those words at him. Words of sharp iron to punish him for battling humans, for defending his people. And later, when he had gone to visit Roiben during his exile, before Roiben's quest that had led to his kingship... she had hurled worse things at him. Condemned him as readily as his father and sister and so many others for the Golden Army. And he'd been surprised to learn that though she had left him long ago, Ethine still possessed the power to hurt him with the lash of her tongue.

"So who put himself between you and the sword that would have cut you down on the dueling field?" Nuada demanded. If he focused on defending Roiben, on defending the honor of his friend, he would not have to think about how much he truly did not need the reminder of Ethine's hatred on top of everything else. "A ghost? A glamor? You call me monster, lady, yet who is the truly treacherous one? Who betrays her own kin with every word? Every breath?"

"Your father was right to cast you out," the half-Elf hissed. "You speak to me of treachery? After all your sins? With all that innocent blood on your hands? Not just a monster and a murderer, then, but a hypocrite and a coward and-"

"Okay, you'd better shut up before I forget that you're Roiben's sister and rip your hair out so I can strangle you with it," a sharp voice interrupted. Ethine jerked around to see Dylan standing between John and Ruddles, her eyes like glittering cobalt ice as she glared at the fey noblewoman. "And if it's not long enough, I'll just strangle you with my bare hands." She stepped up to the other woman. Nuada was vaguely surprised to realize they were of a height. "By the way... I hate you. So much. You can't even _begin_ to comprehend how much I hate you."

"How dare you speak to me as if-"

"As if you're insulting my esteemed lord and my truelove? Gee, how could I possibly take offense to that? And as I'm Roiben's guest, and you his kinswoman, you abuse the laws of faerie hospitality with your words. Technically, I'd be within my rights to rip your hair out as I've threatened. Or you could apologize to Prince Nuada and then get your oh so splendid self out of my face."

Ethine raised silvery brows. "Apologize? To that _monster?_ That heartless _thing_? I will nev-"

"Okay, that's it," Dylan muttered, and the sharp _crack_ of her palm against Ethine's cheek echoed through the room. The faerie woman's jaw dropped and her hand flew to her abused cheek. A pale golden mark was already blooming from the human's strike. John and Nuada locked eyes for a split second of shared astonishment before turning their gazes to the perpetrator.

"Oh, I bet that smarted her," John mumbled.

His sister shot him a look while shaking her stinging hand from side to side. "Somehow, I doubt it. Ow, that hurt, ow. Ruddles, go tell His Majesty I slapped Ethine, would you please? And implied she was stupid, just so we've got everything covered. Ow. Well, now I know why Nuada dumped you, at least. Ever been cast as the Wicked Witch of the West? You'd be perfect, with your incredibly irritating hag-voice and your swamp brains and your entourage of evil flying monkeys."

"He did not 'dump' me, as you put it. _I_ cast _him_ away, you filthy base-born human tra-"

"Call me a tramp and I guarantee you'll have a matching handprint on your other cheek, you pasty-faced zombie queen," the mortal snapped at Ethine, even as she turned and walked to where Nuada stood stock still, watching the two women. When she came to stand in front of him, she slid an arm around his neck. Though she was looking into eyes of incredulous amber, she spoke to Ethine when she said coldly, "You ditched Nuada? The legendary Silverlance? One of the best men that has ever lived? That means you're not just a decrepit hag-witch, you're a _stupid_ decrepit hag-witch." And then she raised up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth against Nuada's.

Once upon a time, Wink had explained something about kissing to a young Elf prince. There were kisses taken in lust and kisses given in love. A tender brush of lips or a press of mouths where every moment burned with need. Usually kisses were given to convey something between two people. But sometimes, Wink had said, a kiss was used to convey something to everyone in a room. And that was the kind of kiss Dylan gave Nuada now. A message to Ethine first and foremost, but a message to everyone else as well - including the prince of Bethmoora.

_I am his, and he is mine. We are one, we are a unit. To attack him is to attack me. I am with him. Do not mess with me, or he will hurt you. And do_ not _mess with him_, ever, _or I will kick you into next week._ And knowing Dylan, tacked onto that would have been, _And if you have a problem with that, bite me._

It surprised the prince, that she would know how to give such a kiss. And it moved him, because he knew she was embarrassed to kiss him so publicly and she was afraid he wouldn't understand, would rebuff her.

So he kissed her back. Showed her, with every touch of his mouth, with the cradling strength of his hands as he framed her face, that he accepted what she offered. That he needed this, this support, in the face of Ethine's words. He'd been caught off-guard by the strength of his anger at Roiben's sister, at the depth of the hurt she could still somehow inflict. Dylan sensed that hurt, that rage, and accepted it, soothed it, while rejecting completely its cause. There was no possible chance, in her mind, that Ethine could be right. No possible way could Nuada be anything like what the half-Elf was saying.

But Dylan knew Nuada's fear. Knew that this woman was not the only one to use those words against him. So his mortal lady reminded him, with the warmth of her mouth on his and her arms twined about his neck, of other words. Kinder, sweeter, softer words. _My love. My prince. You're amazing. I see you. You're worth the world a million times over. I love you._

_I love you._

She waited, and allowed him to pull away first. For a moment he gazed down at her, and John, who had been watching all of this like the trained observer he was, realized he'd been a complete and total idiot.

He'd thought that the Elf prince didn't care about Dylan at all. That Nuada was merely a fae playing with a mortal toy. But all he had to do now was look at the guy. See the emotion in those feral eyes as Nuada caressed Dylan's face with his gaze. He didn't just love her; the royal Other Kin utterly _adored_ her.

John hadn't seen it before, because of the blank mask the prince often wore. Well, he could see it now. See the way Nuada cradled Dylan's face as if she were made of spun glass. The way he leaned a little, protectively, sheltering her somewhat with his body. And that _look_ on his face. John had never seen anyone look at someone that way. As if there was nothing in the world at all that could ever possibly compare to what Nuada was looking at now.

He definitely owed the prince an apology. Crap.

Nuada hazarded a sidewise glance at Ethine, and was surprised to see her staring at them not in revulsion or hatred... but envy. And he realized that he had never looked at the half-sidhe woman the way he looked at Dylan. He had only ever looked at one other woman that way - Nuala, his twin, one half of the heart that she shared with Dylan, though that heart beat in Nuada's breast. Each of them half of his world. No other had ever held his affection, his love, the way they did.

But there was something else in those silver eyes as well. Something that chilled him.

"I pity you both," Ethine said softly. "You're both cursed by what you have shown me this day. Because of that pity I will forgive your strike, mortal. Yet I warn you... this beast will be the death of everything he professes to love one day. So get far away from him. Soon. As soon as you can. Before he brings about your ruin. Before your heart's blood stains his hands."

Ice spilled down Nuada's spine at Ethine's words. _This beast will be the death of everything he professes to love one day._ And as if from far away, from the depths of dark memory came Eamonn's voice, choked with pain, the breath in his chest rattling as death slipped fingers of graveyard chill around the Zwezda Elf's heart. _I curse you now to lose everything you hold dear. Your father, your sister, that troll you call your vassal. Your friends and allies. And your precious mortal toy. You will lose them all by your own hand._ The nightmare throbbed like a rotten tooth at the back of his mind. No. No, that would not happen. He would never hurt Nuala or Dylan. Never harm Wink or his father.

But Wink was missing. Badly hurt. Possibly dead. And his father had more than likely betrayed him. What if...

Dylan's hands curved around his own, a reassuring press of fingers against his suddenly cold skin. He met her eyes. The message in them was plain: _don't listen. I'm not listening. Don't you listen to her either. She's a moron._ The trust in her gaze thawed some of the chill. With that warmth and trust bolstering him, he met Ethine's gaze once more.

After a long moment, Roiben's sister added, "I came to warn the Unseelie king that there are rumors of Bethmooran Butcher Guards in New York City. They were seen in the East Village last night. My spies also told me that they saw a silver cave troll with a bronze arm and a raven-haired siren faerie fleeing the battle that took place last night at Midnight Fest. They were pursued by more Butchers. The troll and the rhinemaiden disappeared into the goblin sewers before the guards could catch them. I thought the king - and his... ally - would wish to know."

And she swept out of the room, brushing past Roiben as he strode quickly down the corridor with Ruddles at his heels. The Unseelie king called after his twin, but she didn't stop. Firegold eyes saw Roiben's shoulders slump a fraction.

The Bethmooran prince understood the feeling all too well. But he had only a brief bit of attention to spare for his friend. _A silver cave troll with a bronze arm and a raven-haired siren faerie fleeing the battle._ Wink and Lorelei. They were alive. Or had been, when Ethine's spies had seen them. _They disappeared into the goblin sewers._ No faerie knew sewer and subway tunnels as Wink did. And the water - purified by goblin magic - was Lorelei's element. The odds of the Butchers being able to track them were next to nothing. Which meant that more than likely they were alive. Alive.

The relief that swept through him almost brought Nuada to his knees. Dylan must have sensed it, because she slid her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his heart. "Didn't I tell you?" She asked softly, smiling up at him. "Have faith. We got some good news." She slanted a frosty look in the direction of the entryway. "Maybe I should apologize to Ethine for slapping her."

"It changes little," Nuada replied, trying to keep his hope from rising. "We do not know for certain that either of them still live." Silently, he added, _And we still must go back to Findias tonight. We dare not push my father further than we've pushed him already. We cannot afford to wait for Wink to rejoin us. Ow,_ he grumbled when she thumped her forehead against his chest, a subtle reminder not to be so pessimistic.

_But he's probably okay,_ she said. _That's what matters. He's okay. He got away, and so did Lorelei. Things are looking up, right? We were wrong about Wink not having escaped_, she added slowly, thinking "out loud." _Maybe we're wrong about other things. Maybe your father wasn't the one trying to kill us. Or maybe he was trying to send some kind of message, just hurt us, not actually kill us. I mean... maybe. Maybe things aren't as bad as we thought. And why would Balor try to hurt us? Hurt you?_

The Elven warrior knew she was only thinking out loud, and was grateful that Dylan was seriously considering alternate possibilities about the king (although the presence of the Butchers gave such suppositions flimsy legs to stand on). But the last question, of why. The question of Balor's desire to inflict that sort of pain. Nuada almost smiled. Had Dylan forgotten what Ethine had said only moments ago? _Monster. Murderer. Heartless thing._ Forgotten that his father and sister believed the same? Or did she just not give it credence because she didn't believe it?

_You heard what Lady Ethine said-_

_Don't listen to her,_ Dylan murmured, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder and mumbling aloud about something trivial to hide the fact that they were communicating silently. _For one thing, she's an idiot. I mean, she dumped you, didn't she? That makes her pretty stupid, no offense to Roiben. And for another thing, she may have come to Roiben's court to give news of Wink, but she came_ here _just to see if you were around so she could hurt you. Which makes her a snaggle-toothed, weed-eating, swampy hag-witch. So just forget her. I know you'd never do anything bad to me._

_And we are_ not _cursed. I don't believe in curses, anyway. At least, none that the fae can command. You wanna talk about curses? Go read the Bible and the Book of Mormon. Seriously._ Dylan sighed. _So... I only heard this in passing before her big mouth rid me of my common sense - you and Ethine used to date? You dated_ her? _What were you, drunk?_

Nuada surprised himself by laughing. _That is not nice, mo duinne._ Softly, merriment fading, he added, _She was kind and gentle once, like you. She loved Roiben. I thought she loved me, but... she could not accept the darkness in me._

_Horse radish,_ she grumbled silently, and his mouth twitched. _Darkness, my foot. So she called you 'monster' and cast you away. That monumental bi- never mind,_ she added, cutting off the expletive balanced on the tip of her mental tongue. The fact that his lady had come so close to calling Ethine such a name, and was flushing a charming rose from embarrassment, made the prince laugh a little more.

Dylan gave him a fond look. "Okay, I'm not quite done with the kids yet. John came and got me," the mortal added aloud, and surprise twinged in Nuada's chest. John? "He said you might need some help, so I booked it down here. Give me about twenty more minutes, all right? And then we'll go. Or do you want me to stay with you for a bit?"

Dark lips curved into a smile. "I am not a prized poodle in need of cosseting, remember?" He kissed her temple. "Go on. We must be on our way soon."

He watched her go. Watched her reach out and gently touch Roiben's shoulder as she came abreast of him. The king offered her a smile and patted her hand. She made an apologetic face, said something, but the half-sidhe shook his head. Canted it in Nuada's direction. Dylan's eyebrows quirked upwards and she said something else. Roiben nodded, and the mortal bobbed an awkward curtsy and moved off.

Silver eyes met Nuada's. The Elf prince and the sídhe king nodded to each other - an acknowledgment of many things, all of them involving Ethine. Then Roiben vacated the corridor as well, leaving Nuada alone... with John. Any happiness or warmth the Elven warrior might have felt due to Dylan's timely interference vanished.

"It is unwise to be in my company, whelp," Nuada growled when he caught the human watching him. So John had been the one to fetch Dylan. It meant nothing.

John sighed. "Look, I have something to say to you, Your Highness. It's gonna be hard for me, so I'm asking for your patience. Please," he added when Nuada blinked at him, momentarily surprised. His amazement only grew when the mortal said, "I owe you an apology. A big one. I accused you of... a lot of bad things. Letting those monsters..." John clenched his fists for a moment, then forcibly relaxed them. "Letting Dylan get hurt. Not caring. The worst one, I think for you, was when I said you didn't care about my sister. That you got off on hurting her.

"I... I know better now. I know it's not true. I saw how you looked at her just now. I've wanted that for her ever since she got out of the institution. I know you'd never hurt her on purpose. Whatever happened between you two during that fight is your business, I guess. She says it's resolved, and here you are, so everything's cool, right? I'm sorry for everything I said. I thought I knew what was going on, and I didn't. If you'd seen her face that day, maybe you would... well, it doesn't matter, I guess. It's all fixed. So I guess... not that you need my blessing or whatever, but if it means anything, if I had to choose between you and anyone else being with Dylan, I'd pick you, because I know you love her, and you make her happy."

There was a long moment of silence, where John, clearly uncomfortable with making such heartfelt speeches, dropped his gaze to the boots provided by the Unseelie court. Nuada could only stare at him. This human who had so clearly expressed his hatred not even a month ago, now claimed to prefer Nuada over any other suitor Dylan might attract? _I saw how you looked at her just now._ He'd seen something, the prince realized. During that kiss Dylan had given him, her twin had seen something that had made him realize just how precious his sister was to the Elven warrior. And that made the prince wonder...

"You said if I'd seen her face that day," Nuada said softly. John frowned, nodded. "Come here." Hesitantly, the human obeyed. Nuada extended his arm. "Give me your hand." Gray-blue eyes flicked to the Elf's face. Narrowed in thought. Then the mortal nodded and gave the prince his hand. Bracing for the contact, the Elf prince touched John's mind. The memory of Dylan when John had gone to see her swam before Nuada's eyes. The Elf prince barely suppressed his flinch.

In the memory, she curled up on her bed, crying without a sound, while John stroked her hair. Neither twin spoke. Her feet were bare. No silly socks. Her face was pale despite the tears. Her beautiful eyes were red-rimmed and wet. The misery on her face sent anguish spiraling through Nuada like shards of ice. He'd seen Dylan look that way only twice before - during the soul-purging, when he'd helped lance the festering heart-wounds... and the night before, when he'd shouted at her. Clutched to Dylan's chest, Nuada saw, was a very old ragdoll made of what looked like cheap linen and tied into a clumsy doll shape with frayed blue threads.

_One of Dylan's two favorite dolls from when she was a kid,_ John supplied. _She made it in the institution. Kept it hidden under her bed. The kids weren't allowed to have toys. She only pulls it out when things are really bad. Normally she keeps it in a box in the closet so it won't fall apart._

Nuada carefully extricated himself from the mental contact. He understood now. Understood perfectly. If anyone had put that look on Dylan's face - or Nuala's - Nuada would have hunted them down and extracted payment a thousandfold for whatever pain they'd put her through. Could he truly, _honorably_ blame John for trying to do the same? Unfortunately, no.

_Stars curse it, anyway._

"You have my thanks," Nuada muttered aloud, turning away. "For showing me this." For showing him the true depth of his transgressions against Dylan.

"Um... you gonna be okay, Your Highness?"

Firegold eyes sliced to John's face for a moment, searching for mockery or deceit. Nuada wasn't entirely sure if he was disappointed or merely surprised when he found neither. There was only sincere concern. How bizarre. "I am well enough." He paused. Chewed on the words for a minute. They tasted sour on his tongue, but he forced them out anyway. "Your concern is... appreciated."

John cocked his head. Smiled. Nuada wasn't altogether sure he liked that smile. Then Dylan's twin asked, "So does this make us best buddies? Because Dylan's birthday is coming up, and that would make her really happy."

Nuada blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come on, admit it - I'm not so bad. I'm not as cute as Dylan, I'll admit. You know, being a guy and all. Unless there's something you haven't told her." Seeing those feral eyes narrow, John held up his hands and added, "Joking. Seriously, just joking. Tryin' to be friendly." After a moment of silence, the mortal said, "Anyway, now that this has gotten awkward - do you feel awkward? Because I totally feel awkward - I'm gonna go now. Although I'm still wondering... are you going to start liking me now? It kinda hurts my feelings when I see that smoldering hate in your eyes and know how much you wanna eviscerate me."

Coolly, swallowing back the tickle in his throat - was that... a _laugh?_ Impossible! - the Elven warrior replied, "I make no promises about not hating you. I am a prince, not a miracle worker."

John smirked. "Just remember, Your Highness, Dylan's my twin and you _love_ her, which means you _have_ to like _me_. Even if it's just an itsy-witsy little bit deep down where you'd rather drop dead than admit it exists. It's okay. Your secret's safe with me."

"_Whelp-_"

"Bye," the human chirped, limping a little as he made his escape. Nuada glared after him, refusing to admit that maybe, just maybe, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. _Do you feel awkward? Because I totally feel awkward._ How often had Dylan said that to him? The whelp just might have been right about the fact that Dylan and her brother had more in common with each other than Nuada had first supposed.

**.**

Final goodbyes took a little time. Dylan snuggled against her twin, who every so often would murmur, "Don't forget to _call_ me, okay? Or at least write. So I know you're safe."

When that was over with, Lady Kaye and the human girl, Val, hugged Dylan and talked about meeting up and having another "girls' day" when the envoy from the Seelie and Unseelie Courts came to Bethmoora for the Midwinter festivities. Nuada hoped they didn't. Not that he begrudged his lady the time spent with her friends. He was merely wary of the results, especially since just today he'd nearly swallowed his tongue when he'd caught sight of her at supper.

Kaye pulled something out of the pocket of her jeans and handed it to Dylan. "Speaking of calling, I've got something for you." In Dylan's palm was a small blue stone carved into a bird. A slim cord looped through one wing. When the light hit the cord, it shimmered with glimmers of rainbows. "This is a stone of Lāzhward - a lapis lazuli. It's a charm for your phone. I know you've got a spot for a keychain on your protection case. Hook this on and your phone will work in Faerie."

Dylan's mouth dropped open. "You figured out how to make my phone work in Faerie?"

"Yep!" Val grinned. "Ravus's idea, although we had to get help from some guy named Dean Nails down at the Rustworks. I think he's half-Erlkin or something. Good with machinery. Anyway, this charm means your phone works in Faerie the same way it works in the mortal realm. Except it doesn't drain your battery like, at all. I think."

The mortal threw her arms around Val and Kaye. "You guys are the best _ever!_ Thank you!"

"The best ever, huh?" Val echoed, grinning. "Are we better than His Highness?"

"Don't push your luck," Dylan said. "Unless you kiss better than he does, which is impossible."

Val made a face. "Ew." Kaye just laughed.

Standing slightly apart from the adults were the three ewah. Tsu's'di stood with Lena. The hamadryad and the cougar shifter were quietly discussing how to keep in touch while the youth was in Findias. 'Sa'ti and A'du were hugging and being hugged by Bean and Kate, and making plans for playing together when the American sidhe envoy came to Bethmoora (if the prince, the _a'ge'lv_, Kaye, and the king said it was okay).

Trying to ignore the three women, the three children, and the human male that had somehow managed to confuse him earlier, Nuada turned to Roiben. The king and the prince gripped each other's forearms in the way of warriors.

"You have Our sincerest thanks, King Darktithe, for your hospitality and for the services you have rendered Us, Our lady, and her household. We also thank you for the aid you have offered in retrieving Our vassal. If you ever have a need, and We are able, call on Us and We will come to your aid."

"We have been friends a long time, Prince Silverlance. There is no thanks necessary. But We will remember that it, and your aid, were offered." Then Roiben smiled, and glanced at Dylan. She was smiling at whatever Kaye had just said. "You're lucky to have her," the king added softly.

Nuada let his gaze linger for a moment on Dylan's face as she said something to Val. "I know it." Quietly, almost as if to himself, he repeated, "I know it." And like a phantom haunt out of the darkness, he saw for a moment his mortal lady lying bloodied and still amidst the ash and smoke of ruin. Looking back into Roiben's eyes like silver coins, he asked, "How do I protect her, Roiben? How do I become strong enough, powerful enough to keep her safe?"

The king's expression was unreadable, but his emotion was evident as he raked a hand through the salt-whiteness of his long hair. "The more powerful you become, the more others will find ways to master you. They will do it through those you love and those you hate; they will find the bit and the bridle that fits your mouth and makes you yield. The only way to truly break free of such chains is to make them yield first. Or be dead. No one can yet master the dead." The half-Elf clasped his friend's shoulder. "I am sorry, Nuada, but there is no way to truly keep Dylan safe."

"I see." It would be worse, then, when he returned to Findias and took up his duties as prince, as he would have to do. Worse still when he became king some time in the far, far distant future. "Should I... should I cut ties with her, then? Would that perhaps do it?"

Roiben shook his head. "I tried that with Kaye, years ago. It only put her in more danger. The best you can do is be honest with Dylan about what dangers there are. Are you willing to defend her? Stand as her sword and her shield?"

Nuada watched Dylan hoist a bouncing 'Sa'ti onto her hip as she continued to speak with Kaye and Val and John. The motion was smooth and effortless, and the prince was suddenly reminded of his own mother doing the same to him, to Nuala, when they were small. Dylan held the cougar girl easily. Every so often she would look down and say something, her face soft with mother love, and 'Sa'ti would laugh. "I would stand with her, for her, until the end of all things," he whispered. "Until the stars fell to earth. I would defend her till my last drop of blood and my dying breath."

"Then _you_ are what will keep her safe, Silverlance. Your love for her. You will make it be enough."

Dark lips curved in a tired smile. "Thank you, Darktithe. Remember what I said - if you have need of me, send word, and I will come."

"And if _you_ have need, call on me, and _I_ will come."

Eventually the time came for the prince and his lady to depart. Dylan hustled the children into the Chariot of Annwn, and Nuada bid goodbye to Roiben's lady in standard princely fashion. The Bethmooran prince and the Unseelie king clasped each other's hands in the warrior's way one more time. Then, taking Dylan's hand in his, Nuada helped her step into the carriage before following after her.

Right as the carriage pulled away, before it could slip into the otherworldly place between realms where it traveled like a shadow and a thought, Dylan thought she saw the skeletal trees of the park rustling with the dark wings of dozens upon dozens of nocs. Their black eyes glinted with hints of electric violet and midnight purple sheened their feathers in the cold light of the full moon. Then the world blurred against the cool window glass and there was nothing more to be seen. Dylan pressed close to Nuada, soaking in the warmth of him, and fought back a shiver.

**.**

Nuala stared down at her hands, which lay palm-up in her lap. The faint lines of barely-healed scar tissue held the faintest pearlescent sheen. These marks would fade swiftly enough. Had her brother been hurt? Not badly, then, or she would have felt more pain. Blood would have beaded along the edges of the needle-thin cuts and spilled over, instead of merely glinting in the candlelight the previous night.

The Elven princess flexed her slender fingers. Curled them into loose half-fists. What had happened last night to her twin? Was he all right? How had he come to be wounded? Why had he sounded so terrified when his mind-touch had reached out from the darkness, stretching toward her with all the desperation of a drowning man?

_Brother, are you safe? Why is there this ache in my chest, this weight of grief tempered by hope?_

A burst of frantic babbling snatched her attention from her prodigal brother. Glancing up, she saw the chamberlain and one of the Butcher Guards - though from which company, she did not know; Nuada would have known - hurrying down the garden pathway toward her.

"Princess!" The chamberlain cried the moment he caught her eye. "Thank goodness you are safe!"

Her first thought was startling in its clarity. _Bres._ Something had happened to the prince who had been so sweetly paying court to her over the last month. Someone had hurt him. He was the crown prince of his kingdom, having been forced to eliminate his other siblings in order to stay alive. But he had cousins, didn't he? Children of his dead aunts or uncles who had survived the deaths of the previous generation set in motion by King Elatha? Did Fomori custom dictate that these distant kin could take the throne if they slew the Elf prince?

Nuala's heart thumped hard against her breastbone as she rose to her feet. "What is it?" She demanded, reaching out to the chamberlain as he drew near. The steward fae clasped her hands in his long, spindly fingers. "Chamberlain, what has happened?"

"His Highness is returning," the steward replied in a quavering voice. "Crown Prince Nuada is coming back to Bethmoora!"

The ice of a sudden chill wind knifed through the princess's dark jade gown, raising goose flesh on her moon-pale skin. In the branches of one of the leafless black oaks above Nuala's head, a raven croaked. Instinctively the princess flinched from the sound. Moonlight caught gleams of midnight violet on the raven's feathers. One gimlet eye glared down at her. A shiver ghosted up her spine.

Nuala tore her gaze from the dark-feathered bird and focused on the chamberlain. "But why would you think me unsafe simply because my brother returns to the castle?" Did this have anything to do with Nuada's almost frantic mind-call the night before?

Now the chamberlain's hands trembled, clasped around hers. His xanthous face paled as he bowed his head and whispered, "Your Highness... this past night, Prince Nuada's vassal was... in an altercation with the royal guards."

Golden eyes narrowed. "What sort of 'altercation,' Chamberlain?"

The king's steward hunched his narrow shoulders and lowered his head further. "He nearly slew them all, Your Highness. Common fae were killed in the battle as well. A few managed to escape the confrontation with their lives. The king sent a man to question them just this evening when the survivors returned. But the Butchers that had survived the slaughter had been... had been..."

"What?" She asked. The princess knew the faerie steward was not a hard man. He abhorred violence, and had always detested the sight of even a little blood. Only his friendship with Nuala's father - the two had been bosom companions since boyhood - and his knack for keeping the court and the king's household in order had landed him the position of chamberlain. The steward paled further. Nuala said, putting every ounce of regality in her voice, "Tell me."

"They were butchered in their room in the barracks, Your Highness," the guard said. "Captain Oisin, Lieutenant Padraig and the rest of the surviving men. We told the king they looked as if wild animals had been at them. We found them because who- or whatever killed them left the barracks door open. The crows had been at them already so we could not tell much. The king ordered us to find you at once and make sure that whatever had done this had not come after you, milady.

"This is Loén, Highness. He will escort you to your sitting room. His Highness Prince Bres the Ladies Polunochnaya and Na'ko'ma are waiting for you there. They will stay with you until we've searched the castle grounds."

"But what of my brother?" Nuala glanced from the guard to the chamberlain. "What has he to do with any of this?"

The chamberlain cringed a little, but replied softly, "The king believes... the king _suspects,_" he amended, "that His Highness ordered Wink to attack the Butchers and then arranged for the deaths of the survivors, Princess. There has been some... some talk that the prince means to go to war against His Majesty."

Nuala jerked back from both men. "No," she said sharply. The raven in the branches overhead let out a strident squawk. "That is ridiculous. You forget your place, Chamberlain. My brother would never betray his country and his king in such a way. I know this to be true. As does my father," the princess added coldly. "Now, escort me, Guardsman Loén."

In her sitting room, she found Bres reclining on one of her sofas. Nuala's two ladies-in-waiting, Polunochnaya and Na'ko'ma, sat together on her other sofa. Cat-slitted silver eyes and hawk-like eyes of bright jewel-like yellow flicked to the princess.

"Nuala, what's happening?" 'Ko asked, her feathers ruffling in agitation. "One of the guards came to 'Naya and me as we were coming to your room and said we had to stay here until we were told we could leave. What's happened?"

The Elf princess glanced at her two oldest friends, then to the prince who had done his best to romance her over the last weeks. Bres sat forward, propping his elbows on his knees. The firelight turned his wavy hair to burnished gold. His smile was gentle when he held out his leather-gloved hand to her. His sapphire blue eyes were kind. "Having a rough day, Princess?"

Nuala went and sank onto the sofa cushion beside him and, though it probably shocked 'Ko, laid her head on Bres' shoulder. "They think there is a danger in the castle. Once the guards have searched, they will tell us, but they want me to stay where it is safe until all is clear."

"There is something else," Bres murmured. He took her hand, and the cool touch of his kid-leather glove eased some of the ice that had frosted her heart the moment the chamberlain had informed her of her father's suspicions. The stroke of his thumb across her knuckles sent a whisper of something shivery and utterly delightful sparking beneath her skin. "What is it, Nuala?"

"Nuada has come back, hasn't he?"

The princess glanced at 'Naya, whose lightly-painted lips glittered like the first frost of winter as they curved into a smile. Her silver eyes gleamed with something that might have been happiness. Oh, dear. Surely her lady-in-waiting did not still hold affection for Nuala's twin. The prince had paid 'Naya some attention - Nuala was not sure how _much_, exactly, but surely not _too_ much - centuries ago, before the wars. But that had been such a long time ago. Surely...

"Silverlance is coming back?" Bres cried, a smile blooming on his handsome face through the golden beard. "That is splendid news. He is friend to me and-"

"It's the king," 'Naya said briskly, as if it were of little consequence. "Everyone knows King Balor and Nuada do not get along. And with the human girl he's currently dallying with a bone of contention between them, things are bound to get... interesting. I expect about as much excitement there as with a dog fight."

"Polunochnaya!" The princess cried, pulling away from Bres to glare at her friend. "Nuada is _not_ dallying with the girl. He is courting her in earnest. From all appearances, they are very much in love." Nuala ignored 'Ko's inelegant snort. Both her ladies-in-waiting had known Nuada since childhood, and knew his disdain for the human race. Though they didn't _know_ about the king's involvement in Nuada and Dylan's relationship, they suspected outside influences. "And you should know better than to speak of my father or my brother in such a manner," the princess added sternly.

The Zwezdan Elf inclined her head toward her princess. "My apologies, milady. You are absolutely right. I _do_ know better. Forgive me." And 'Naya smiled.

**.**

Sometime during the journey, 'Sa'ti and A'du had curled up - the little girl on Nuada's right, the little boy on Dylan's left - had fallen asleep against the prince and his lady. At Dylan's silent prompting through their linked hands, Nuada had even laid an arm lightly 'round the cougar girl's shoulders as she'd drifted off. Tsu's'di, still stiff from the healing, had curled up in cougar-form - the first time his mistress had seen an ewah fully-shifted. The ewah youth cat-napped on the opposite seat. Dylan had her head on Nuada's shoulder. He in turn had laid his head atop hers. Their fingers were tangled together against the prince's thigh.

Through their link, he could feel how tired his lady was. Her mind was still a bit fragile from the soul-purging. Nuada had laid the groundwork for a true healing of her soul-wounds, but it would take time. Something they did not have in any sort of abundance. He could also feel her nervousness, like the charge before a thunderstorm.

_You are afraid,_ the Elven warrior murmured, his voice gentle in her mind. _You still fear to return. You fear my father._

Her laugh was soft and self-deprecating. _Nuada, I'm afraid of everything in Faerie, since anyone here could blink at me and I'd explode in a shower of pixie dust. Did you miss the memo? I am very much aware that nearly anything in Faerie can do horrible things to me as easily as I draw breath. So yeah, I'm a little freaked out._

_You surely do not think I would allow you to come to harm?_

_I'm more worried about me not being able to prevent_ you _from coming to harm,_ she said. The hand that had been smoothing along A'du'la'di's tufty mane went to the medallion at her throat. _I'm scared for you. Scared of losing you. Of doing something that will hurt you. Or,_ she added wryly, _the kids getting into some kind of insane mischief, like painting your father's throne neon-orange. Although that would be pretty funny._

_I shudder to think of my father's reaction to such an outrage,_ Nuada replied with gentle sarcasm, then pressed his lips to the top of her head. _Everything will be well, mo duinne. I promise you. Your plan will work, and I have to say I am looking forward to it._

She laughed aloud; she couldn't help it. _I love you_, she said. _You know that, right? And I'm lucky to have you._

_No. It is I who am lucky to have you at my side, milady._

_Well, I knew that already, but I didn't want to rub in how incredibly spectacular I am._

Smiling, Nuada kissed the crown of her head once more, and tried to suppress the increasing dread slowly spreading through his stomach and chest. Dylan snuggled against him and breathed a soft sigh against the side of his neck.

When the carriage came to a halt in front of the Royal Stables, he knew they were finally back. He let Dylan gently rouse the children while he woke Tsu's'di - an Elven warrior was better equipped to deal with a sleep-grouched cougar than a mortal healer.

Before getting out of the Chariot, Dylan managed to somewhat tame A'du's mane, while Tsu's'di smoothed down 'Sa'ti's bangs. The mortal straightened the ewah youth's collar, as well. Finally the human tied back her own hair with a length of black ribbon she'd pulled out of the black leather satchel Becan had brought for her, the one that held her scriptures and other personal items.

"How do we look?" Dylan asked him, gesturing to herself and the children. Nuada smiled.

"Very fine," he said. "Come on."

Nuada stepped down first and reached up to help Dylan. Her slim hand in his, her fingers half-curled around his own, and the warmth of her skin suddenly seemed to be the only things standing between him and utter ruin. She alighted from the carriage step. Took a deep breath. Smiled at him. He raised her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her fingers. For just a split second his lady almost looked as if she might cry.

_All will be well, mo duinne,_ Nuada reassured his lady silently. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. _Do not fear._ Dylan opened her mouth to say something, though to disagree with him or not, Nuada wasn't sure, when-

"Can we get down now?" A'du called plaintively from the door. "I have to go to the bathroom!"

"I smell horsies!" 'Sa'ti piped up from behind her brothers. "Can we look at the horsies?"

Tsu's'di rolled his eyes. Dylan merely laughed.

Once everyone was out of the Chariot - Becan and Brighid had been back and forth all the day, transferring Dylan and the children's necessary belongings to Findias, so there was no luggage - Nuada took Dylan's arm. She pressed close to him. 'Sa'ti and A'du, who felt some of the tension off the adults, clasped hands and looked around as the group began to move toward the main entrance. Tsu's'di prowled behind all five, keeping his eyes open and his ears pricked, every sense on alert for possible attack despite the residual aches in his body.

Nuada had arranged for everything before leaving Roiben's sithen. Once out of the stables, there would be two Butcher Guards and a herald waiting to escort them to the king's study. A servant would escort the three ewah to Dylan's suite, to their own room attached to her suite. As soon as the audience with the king was over, Dylan would put the children to bed and Nuada would arrive in time to hear the bedtime story.

That was how it _should_ have gone.

Instead, once out of the stables, at the head of the path leading to the main part of the castle, waited a dozen Butchers armed with their iron swords that made Nuada's teeth ache, growling as the chamberlain stepped from between their ranks and came a pace nearer the prince, his lady, and their young servants.

"Chamberlain," Nuada said coldly. Was it his imagination, or did the faerie steward's tiny black eyes gleam just a little? "What business have you with me this night?"

"Not _my_ business, Your Highness," the steward replied, all politeness. "I bear a message from His Majesty the king. He very much wishes to speak with you about the incident involving your vassal and the massacre of nearly an entire company of royal guards.

"And he bade me say that these guards are to place you under arrest for treason if you refuse, and will drag you before him, willing or no."

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_**Author's Note:**__ so because my bedtime is in 40 minutes and I've still got a lot to do, I don't have time to write up a really good author's note for you guys. I'm sorry. I love you all, though. Oh, and for those who didn't noticed, Dylan didn't say "sorry" once in this or the last chapter. It's been pointed out that she does that a lot, and I mean to go back and tweak that because it apparently happens a whole lot, which I hadn't noticed. Anyways, so here's our awesome review prompt._

_And everyone should buy my books 'cause they're awesome!__ Amazon and my eStore, yo!_

_Oh, and __a teaser for the next few chapters__! The teaser soundtrack listing is as follows, make of it what you will: "Careless Whisper" by Seether, "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls, "No Way Out" by Leann Rhimes, "I Cry Out" by Barlow Girl, "Stand in the Rain" by Superchic(k), "The Last Night" by Skillet, "Diary of Jane (Acoustic)" by Breaking Benjamin, "The Harold Song" by Ke$ha, "Don't Walk Away" from _Xanadu the OST, _and "In Joy and Sorrow" by HIM._

_1) Awww! Dylan wrote Nuada a letter. So cute. Well, I think so. What do you guys think of the letter?_

_2) John's interactions with Nuada. What do we think?_

_3) John's interactions with the kids. Same question._

_4) 17 Favorite things from this chapter? =)_

_5) The scene with Nuala; how do we feel about it? Her interactions with the Chamberlain as well as Bres and her two ladies-in-waiting, her thoughts on Nuada, all that stuff - what do you guys think?_

_6) Oh, dear. Possibility of arrest, talk of sedition and civil war and treason, blah-blah... where do we see this going?_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- later. I have to be in bed in 40 minutes so I'm up in time to get on the plane. Blergh.


	58. Book 7 Guileless Son

_**Author's Note:**_ _So we're back in Findias. Finally! Everybody cheer! Ow, I just popped my wrist. Anyway, my trip was great. Surprisingly, no family drama. Well, very little. Got some hate-mail via reviews for some of my other fics, but you know, I'm okay with that. Scariest thing that happened was I found a scorpion in my bed. I went and got my dad and he killed it, though. But I was like, "WTH is a scorpion doing in Georgia?" Apparently following me from Florida. Anyways, so here we go. Hopefully this chapter moves a little faster and has more action than the last few, since those were mostly set-up for the Findias Arc._

_Although don't forget that now that we're in Findias, we gotta deal with Ming Xian, Nuada's treason charges, Bres and his plans, whatever happened to Wink, the sick baby, the fact that Tiana (who remembers Tiana from chapter 32 and 39?) was a witness to Arrachd's crime back in chapter 32 and now Team Bres wants to kill her, the Midwinter festivities, and the fact that Balor still plans on punishing Nuada for the first 3-odd weeks he was gone without permission. *pant, pant, pant* So... yeah. Keep all that in mind._

_**OMG CURB!**__ It's YOU! I had no idea you were still around! *hug* Wow, I haven't heard from you in_ ages. _Glad you're still chillaxin' over at OUaT-Corner_. =D

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**Chapter Fifty-Eight**  
**Guileless Son**  
**that is**

**A Short Tale of Confrontation, a Prince's Oath, Punishment, Polar Bears, Certain Rash Words, the Ragdoll, and What Comes Next**

.

.

_Whatever you do,_ Nuada said as he brushed his fingers against Dylan's palm, _no matter what happens, don't show them you're afraid. Everything will be all right, Dylan. I promise you._

The Elven prince knew she wanted to ask if he was certain. Wanted to cling to him like a frightened child clinging to a stuffed toy while the Butcher Guards hissed at her and the three ewah children. Instead, she squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine. He could feel the resolve firming in her mind.

The children saw their mistress straighten and meet the chamberlain's beetle-black eyes. A'du squeezed 'Sa'ti's fingers. If _A'ge'lv_ Dylan wasn't afraid, then everything was okay. But just in case, they would stick with Tsu's'di and try to stay out of Prince Nuada's way. Just in case he had to kick some butt. A'du wondered if the legendary Silverlance could take all these guys in their weird iron helmets. Probably. He _was_ the Silverlance.

Dylan fought back panic as they followed Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Worm-Fingers through the palace of Findias. The last time she'd been in the faerie palace, she'd been overwhelmed by the architecture, by the intricate tapestries and vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows and elaborate carvings in the stone. Now she focused on the echoing _clunk-clunk_ of the Butchers' iron-shod footsteps along the corridor as they flanked her and Nuada and the children. Focused on the shushing hem of the chamberlain's black robes along the floor, which reminded her too much of dead October leaves brushing against old bones. Dylan suddenly wished for Moundshroud; for the otherworldly green of his eyes and rasping laugh and the scent of graveyard earth. The Keeper of the Samhain Tree would've been more than enough for these fae.

_I won't be scared,_ she reminded herself. _I have to be brave. For the children. If I let myself become frightened, they'll panic. And I have to be brave so Nuada won't worry about me. He has to focus._

Two small figures waited for them on the bench outside Balor's study. When the figures straightened and stepped fully into the light, Nuada blinked in surprise. He recognized the taller of the two. Barely inclining his head, he said, "Jenny."

Jenny Hob, head housekeeper of Findias, and the chambermaid Fiona, dipped curtsies to the prince and the chamberlain. "Your Highness. Fiona will escort your bond-servants to their quarters, if it pleases you. And your lady?" She made the last a question, as Dylan's hand promptly clamped around his arm in an iron grip.

He glanced down at her with a quirked brow. The look she gave him made it very clear that if he wanted her to go with Fiona, he'd likely have to knock her unconscious and have the hob chambermaid carry her limp body to their joint suites. He allowed himself a brief smile. _Very fierce in her defense of me, indeed_, he thought.

Then his smile faded and firegold eyes slanted to Tsu's'di, A'du, and 'Sa'ti. The children watched the Elven warrior with wide eyes. A'du's tail was fluffed out to twice its normal size already. 'Sa'ti clutched fistfuls of her brother's shirt while managing to keep Neytiri-the-Stuffed-Mountain-Lion tucked under her arm. Tsu's'di, on the other hand, met Nuada's eyes and merely waited, tense and ready. The youth's task was to guard Lady Dylan unless told otherwise by the prince. Neither demons nor royal guards were going to pull him away from his mortal mistress without a fight.

Nuada knew if the boy challenged the Butchers, especially in their current mood, the fight would end with the youth's death. "Tsu's'di," the prince said coolly, "take A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti and go with Fiona. Lady Dylan and I will meet up with you as soon as may be."

Tsu's'di bowed. "Yes, Sire." A nudge from the ewah youth reminded the two younger cubs to offer bows to their prince and their mistress. Then they tentatively approached the hob chambermaid, Fiona. She smiled kindly at them, which put Dylan a little more at ease. This fae, at least, would do what she could to ease the children's fear.

_And Nuada wouldn't have sent them with her if he was worried_, Dylan thought. But it was still hard watching the three cougar-shifters walk away. Especially when 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di both twisted around to shoot fearful glances back at their mistress. Dylan plastered an encouraging smile on her face and hoped they couldn't see the nerves buzzing just beneath the surface.

_They'll be all right,_ Nuada murmured. _Don't worry._

_I'm not worried,_ she replied. Was it her imagination, or had the corner of Nuada's mouth just twitched? She slanted her eyes at him. _What? I'm not. You're with me; what do I have to worry about?_

"Your Highness," Jenny said, snagging the prince's attention. The hob eyed the mortal with surreptitious distrust. She didn't like how the prince seemed to have a hard time taking his eyes off the human woman. "After you and His Majesty the King have spoken, might I beg a moment of your time?"

"Of course," the crown prince said. Dylan felt the sudden tension coursing through him, yet his voice was calm and collected as he said, "If I have it to spare, it's yours."

She bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you, Your Highness. If you'll excuse me, Sire. Milady," she curtsied to Dylan, then to the king's steward. "My lord chamberlain." The hob quickly made her way down the hallway.

As the chamberlain knocked on the study doors, Nuada turned to Dylan.

_You must wait out here._

_But-_

_My father said he wished to see_ me. _That he didn't ask for you means you're not to follow me inside. You_ must _stay out here._ When her teeth sank into her bottom lip and she looked as if she would protest, he squeezed her fingers in reassurance. _Do not be afraid. Some of the guards will remain out here with you, to protect you. And if anything happens, I will come for you._

_I'm not scared for me, remember?_ She pinned him with rainswept eyes. _What if he hurts you? What if he really_ is _trying to kill you? Then what?_

For a long moment, Nuada said nothing. Then, taking a deep breath, the crown prince of Bethmoora said tonelessly, _If he has done what we suspect, then he has broken the oath he swore when he became king. It would mean he's no longer worthy of the throne. No longer fit to rule. And it would mean that, as crown prince, as the heir to Bethmoora's Golden Throne, I must challenge him for that throne, in single combat... or with war._

Dylan stared up at him, searching for a trace of indecision, a flicker of regret or doubt. There was nothing. Only cold determination masking pain she wondered if Nuada even realized he felt. He would really do it. He would really go to war against his own father if their suspicions were correct.

_But you don't want to fight him_. When he only looked at her, she insisted, _I know you don't. You love him. And as much as you love your people, your kingdom... you don't_ want _to be king. Especially now, with everything so crazy. Not with..._ She wanted to say "Not with what's happening between us." But even now she didn't dare. Nuada's pseudo-confession was still too tender and fragile a thing between them. _You don't want to fight him._

_As we've discussed before, my lady, my life is not my own. What I want and what I must do are hardly ever the same thing._

A muffled "enter" prompted the faerie steward to open the polished wood doors and swan through. With a flourishing bow, he announced, "Your Majesty King Balor, I present His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance."

With a final squeeze of her fingers and a whispered, _Wait here, mo duinne,_ Nuada stepped into the king's study.

Balor, seated behind his hawthorn desk - the same desk Nuada had cracked by slamming his fist into it only a few days prior - removed his half-moon glasses and set them on the short stack of papers on his desk. "Thank you, Chamberlain. That will be all."

The chamberlain bowed low. "Sire."

Once the chamberlain and all but four Butchers were on the other side of the now-closed study doors, Nuada met his father's eyes. "Is this formal or family?" Nuada asked softly. Balor's eyebrow quirked.

"Formal," the king said, and watched with grim approval as the crown prince knelt before him.

This was his son. If the mortal could be believed, he was noble and strong, honorable, brave. Nothing like the beast Nuada had proven himself to be in the aftermath of the last war with the humans. Yet Balor saw the same rage, the same hatred - the same darkness - simmering just beneath the surface, like blood flowing beneath the skin. That darkness was reflected in the ever-deepening shadows around Nuada's eyes, the blackness of his mouth. The monster the king feared was still there.

Yet Balor couldn't help remembering the boy, laughing and reckless and so young. The boy he'd read stories to when Nuada couldn't sleep for bad dreams. The boy who'd broken his arm trying to ride his father's horse to impress his sister. That dear boy who'd once run to Balor with a smile and bright eyes. That boy, _his_ boy, was still there as well. Or was the king blinded by a father's love and futile wishes? Balor couldn't be sure.

"Rise, Crown Prince," the king said. Once Nuada was on his feet, King Balor demanded, "Where is the troll in your service, Prince Nuada?"

The troll? Not Wink, not even Wink Ironfist, but _the troll?_ Was that how his father referred to the warrior who'd saved his and Nuala's lives as children? The Elven prince ruthlessly suppressed any emotion before it could show on his face or in his body language. He merely said in a voice as empty as blown glass, "I do not currently know his whereabouts, Your Majesty."

"Are you lying?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Why should I believe you?"

Nuada let a flicker of emotion show through. Not hurt, nor fury. Icy disdain spread across his face. "Why would I lie? Such dishonor is beneath me. I don't know where Wink Ironfist is. If you don't believe that, there's nothing I can do to change your mind, Sire."

Anger, slick and cold as serpent's poison, flooded Balor's veins. "Did you order the troll to attack my guards?"

Cold and emotionless once more, the prince stared at a point above his king's shoulder and said, "I did not."

"Then why did your vassal attack my soldiers, Crown Prince? Are you saying he's betrayed us both?"

A muscle in Nuada's jaw twitched twice before subsiding. "No, Your Majesty."

"Then why did he attack them?"

Nuada strained to keep his fingers from knotting into fists. "Someone with Wink's code of honor?" The prince said softly. His eyes zeroed in on the king's face, searching for even the barest flicker of reaction to his next words. "I would imagine, Majesty, that anyone Wink engaged in a physical confrontation more than likely attacked him or someone he was protecting first."

Balor slowly straightened in his chair. "What precisely are you insinuating, Crown Prince?"

Nuada arched a brow. "Nothing. Insinuation is the tool of cowards and politicians, Your Majesty. When I speak, I speak plainly enough. Wink fought your Butcher Guards because they attacked him unprovoked." Blood pounding through his temples in time with his hammering heart, he added in a voice that carved every word from ice, "Your soldiers ambushed my bond-servant in a civilian location, resulting in the injuries and deaths of several innocent fae. As if that weren't bad enough, the cowards mobbed him. I counted at least two dozen Butchers against a single fighter. Where is the honor the royal guard is so proud of, Your Majesty?"

King Balor rose to his feet. Old as he was, he was still as tall as the Elven warrior. Nuada stared straight into an infuriated gaze of hot copper nearly identical to his own and didn't flinch. His own rage pulsed under his skin, hot and dark.

"Watch your tongue, _boy_," Balor said too softly. "Do you think because your plaything is just outside these doors that I'll go softly with you for your insolence? In this room, in this moment, you are not my son and I am not your father. I am your king. You would do well to remember that."

"Oh, I remember it _very_ well," Nuada spat. "How could I forget? My _father_ would not attempt to tear from my grasp nearly everything I hold dear. He wouldn't send assassins after an innocent woman, or corpse-drinkers after helpless children! He wouldn't send the king's elite after the fae warrior that avenged my mother's death and saved my sister's life. He wouldn't put innocent fayre and humans at risk merely to get back at me for the gods only know what perceived insult-"

"How dare you accuse me of such things?"

"Do you deny them?" Nuada demanded, fury razoring his voice. "Do you deny you tried to have Wink killed? That you tried to have Dylan and I killed after assuring our safety? That you sent dullahan after Dylan's retinue - a trio of defenseless children? Sent shandymen after Dylan's brother? Do you deny that?"

Balor scoffed. "Of course I deny such wild tales. If nothing else, I've nothing to gain from such actions!"

_Send assassins after an innocent woman,_ the prince had said. The woman on the other side of the door? Was that why there was such fury in the crown prince, because the human girl had nearly been harmed? Or because someone, anyone, had _dared_ to try and take away a possession of the mighty Prince Nuada Silverlance? Affection or possessiveness?

And that was even assuming what Nuada said was true to begin with. He was long past the age where falsehood was easily caught as it slipped off his tongue. But... _Sent corpse-drinkers after helpless children._ What had the prince meant by _that?_

"Unless you sought to break me," his son muttered. Bitterness was as wormwood on his tongue. Rage smoldered in his belly. "That was my lady's suggestion when I defended you to her, saying you couldn't possibly have been the one responsible because you would never behave the coward in such a way. I told her if you sought to take my life, you wouldn't use subterfuge to do it. And she said perhaps that wasn't what you sought. Perhaps you only sought to shatter me."

He took a deep breath. Another. There was nothing he could do about the emotion thickening in his throat, so he merely met Balor's eyes and asked softly, "Is that what you wanted, Father? To break me? To bring me to heel by any means necessary?"

"My son… I-"

"I trusted you with this!" Nuada cried, unable to look at his father any longer. "I trusted you with how I felt for Dylan, thinking you would be happy. Thinking you would be glad that at least one human had softened my heart. Glad I'd found someone who... but then..." In his mind's eye, he saw her falling to the grass. Saw the dipsa serpents flocking to her, fangs bared, eager to draw mortal blood. The Elven warrior forced back a shudder. "But then you try to take her from me. Why, Father? For my disobedience in not returning when you asked? For that, you would murder an innocent woman? For that, you would try to break my spirit? My heart?"

"Break your heart?" The king echoed, and he could feel the slender thread that had begun to form between him and his son a few days ago, feel it hovering just on the edge of breaking, and knew he was being cruel, but knew it was necessary when he said, "It's rather difficult to break something that doesn't exist."

Nuada couldn't stop his flinch. Furious with himself, he forced his face into a blank mask.

So. There it was. His father thought him truly heartless. Well enough.

Stiffening his spine, Nuada cleared his throat and said too softly, "I see. Well, Majesty, perhaps you might consider this. You claim you didn't send the Butcher Guards to Midnight Fest to attack Wink. Yet attack him they did. If _you_ didn't order it, then someone else is commanding your soldiers. Surely that worries you."

"It would if you were telling the truth," the king said. It was harder than it should've been for Balor to meet his son's eyes. They were blank of any emotion. There wasn't even any anger. Merely emptiness. "Which I doubt."

"Fetch Nuala, then," Nuada snapped. "Have her read my thoughts. Have her test the truth of my words."

"I'll not bring my daughter here until I'm certain you are no threat."

Nuada had thought he was beyond feeling the sting of his father's words. He'd been wrong. "You think... you think _I_ would harm _Nuala?_ Even if my love for her did not prevent it, hurting her would be the same as hurting myself. Why would I-"

"In case I wasn't clear, Crown Prince, you are suspected of treason. You're accused of acting against your king and your country, of attempting to usurp my authority, slay my soldiers, and of plotting to steal the throne before your due time. If I thought you capable of all of that, why shouldn't I believe you capable of harming your princess as well?"

"Plotting to steal the throne?" Nuada echoed. Something bitter edged the incredulous half-smile that stretched the dark mouth. "As if I would. As if I'd want it right now. In a hundred years, perhaps I might want it, but now? No, I don't want it now. Unless forced to it by the Fates, I wouldn't take it now."

Balor arched a brow. "Oh? And why not? What will be different a hundred years from now?"

"Dylan will be dead." His father stared at him. "Oh, I see. Even that day, when you offered your advice and granted me time with her, it was a trick. You didn't truly believe I could love her. Do you believe me capable of love at all? No, of course not. I have no heart, you said. Like the Golden Army," Nuada added, each word fired by savage heat. "Incapable of love, of loyalty. Nothing more than a tool to you. Soulless and empty. Well, _she_ knows better.

"It was quite the seductive little trap you laid for me, Majesty," he spat. "Of course you knew the allure of having someone believe in me so absolutely. You knew, didn't you, that I'd fall in love with her? Or as close to love as a 'monster' like me could ever come. You _knew_ I would. You wanted it to happen, so you could have yet another blade to aim at my throat. Even if I were mad, I wouldn't dare try and steal the throne from you, _Father_ - not when you hold the lives of all I hold dear in your hands. Wink. Dylan. Nuala. Even innocents who are my responsibility by virtue of my royal blood. You've played your hand very well. So what now? Effectively trap me, accuse me of treason, and for what? So that you might denounce me as heir? So that you might have justification to execute me?"

"Don't stand there and play the martyr to me, Crown Prince, when the sins committed here are your own! You attacked my soldiers unprovoked-"

"_I have not been disloyal!_" Nuada thundered, bringing his fist crashing down on the hawthorn desk. The crack in the wood split wider. "I've _always_ loved you, Father! I've _always_ tried to make you proud! Tried to do what was right by the standards _you_ taught me! I have _never_ acted against you or this kingdom! _Never!_"

Balor stared at his son. At the eyes nearly feral with hurt and betrayal. It was more than the glimpse Balor had received the day Nuada had asked for an order of execution for four humans. This was deeper. More raw. Doubt pierced him like shards of iron as he studied his son. Doubt, and a dark suspicion that still poisoned his thoughts. "You've given me little reason to trust you-"

"I've given you _no_ reason to _dis_trust me!"

"Calling for the merciless slaughter of countless innocents isn't a reason to distrust you?"

"The humans were going to massacre us all! I warned you they would be the end of us, but you wouldn't listen! And now here we are, more than two-thousand years later, our people are dying and the humans are responsible. You cling to your precious truce, a truce based on shame, and then punish those who would protect our kind from the predation of mortals. You refused to heed me when I warned you the humans couldn't be trusted."

The king growled in frustration. "What the humans do is in their nature. You've learned this through your wanderings during your foolish exile. They cannot help themselves."

"So you knew they would betray the truce and you forged it anyway?" This was an old argument. Countless times, Nuada and Balor had circled each other, snarling about honor and mercy, justice and vengeance. Nuada could feel himself falling into that circumlocutious trap but wasn't sure how to stop. It dragged at him, like quicksand, and he couldn't seem to escape it no matter how he tried. "How dare you say _I_ am the one who acts against the kingdom when _you_ have done this?"

"I've obeyed the dictates of my honor!"

"_So have I!_ And let me tell you, Father, my honor is not so flimsy a thing as yours seems to be. My honor isn't an excuse for doing what I know is wrong, or a shield to hide behind when doing what is right is too difficult for lesser men. There is no honor in abandoning your people to be the pet of a corrupt race!"

"There is even less in the soulless butchery of civilian women and children, Crown Prince, yet you stood by and allowed it to happen."

Nuada fought not to step back. Managed to keep his reaction to a mere, nearly imperceptible flinch. _Monster. Murderer. Child-killer._ Ethine's words. His father's. His sister's. _Heartless beast. Soulless._ Whispered by so many. The prince tightened his gloved hands into fists.

"Allowed? _I_ allowed it? What could I do, Majesty, when the unstoppable Golden Army followed _your_ orders? 'Kill the humans,' you commanded them, and so they did. You thought they would stop when they reached the edges of the mortal armies. You didn't think a fae could create something so merciless. And when you saw the slaughter that had come about because of _your_ orders, what did you do? You blamed me." The one who still had nightmares about the things he'd seen. "You blamed the Golden Army, you blamed the Sigri of the Bethmooran goblins, and you blamed me. You blamed everyone but yourself."

"And when I said such a thing could never happen again, you argued for the continued use of that accursed monstrosity. How could you claim to value the lives of the innocent and still argue for the Army? Argue against peace with our enemies that we'd wronged so deeply?"

"Because there would be no peace! There is no peace! There is only death at their hands! You weren't there on those battlefields. You didn't smell the reek of slaughter; hear the screams of dying men and women and children. People I knew. People I _loved_. You didn't see families ripped apart, forests burning, villages and towns and cities razed to the ground, the world drowning in blood. You wanted peace with them? With _them?_ How long would that peace last - a decade? Two at the most? Within twenty years, the humans broke the treaty, and instead of using the Golden Army, instead of reminding them of what they'd sworn, you gave in. Because of your cowardice, our people died by the thousands! They're _still_ dying!"

"Better to fade into death and twilight than to flood the world with more innocent blood, Crown Prince."

Bronze eyes narrowed. Nuada hissed, "Better to burn than fade, Majesty."

"Spoken like a true monster."

Balor regretted the words almost before they spilled off his tongue. A soft sound of pain ripped through the ensuing silence. Nuada jerked back a step. Even now... even _now,_ with so much at stake, with so much riding on this conversation, he'd still allowed his father's words to slice through him. Allowed himself a moment of weakness he could ill afford. A tremor shivered through him. He sank his teeth into his tongue to allow the sparks of pain to calm his sudden shakes. Forced himself to stand at attention once more.

"Are we finished here, Sire?" Prince Nuada Silverlance asked. The wall of court standing and noble rank slicing between the two Elves was almost tangible. Balor felt the divide widening between them yet again. The prince added, "I've answered your questions. My vassal did not attack your soldiers unprovoked. Are we finished?"

"Nearly," the king replied. "Swear you do not mean to spark civil war among the people of Bethmoora. Swear you won't try to usurp Us and steal the throne before your appointed time."

After a long silence, Nuada asked softly, "Do you truly need such an oath from me, Athair?"

"As king of Bethmoora, We demand it of you, Crown Prince."

"Very well." Dropping effortlessly to one knee and bowing his head before his king, Nuada said, "I, Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of King Balor, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, do swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things that I have no intention, nor have I ever had the intention, of betraying my king, of usurping his throne, or of attempting in any way to gain that throne for myself before my proper time. I do swear by that Living Darkness that all I do, all I've ever done as the Crown Prince of Bethmoora, is for the benefit of my kingdom and my people. I do swear I am loyal to my father King Balor and to my country; that both my king and my kingdom have my allegiance and both have my love." Raising his head, he finished by saying softly, "And I swear, by the Darkness that dwells beneath Faerie, that I would never and will never betray either."

He met his father's eyes, and knew his expression was beseeching. There was nothing Nuada could do to erase the pleading from his eyes. For just a moment he thought he saw his father waver. Thought he caught a glimpse of softness in aged amber eyes. For that moment, Nuada allowed himself to hope.

Maybe his father hadn't tried to hurt him so cruelly. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding, some plot by an as-yet-unknown enemy against both of them. Maybe what they'd begun building the day he'd come to Findias on Dylan's behalf would continue to grow between them. Maybe - just maybe - he could have his father back.

Then Balor's expression went hard as stone. His eyes grew cold. He turned away. Nuada let his head fall once more. Was he shaking again? He couldn't afford weakness now, not in front of the king. But a tremor shivered through him and he didn't know how to make it stop. He clenched his teeth. Tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood when he bit his tongue again. The pain did little for his self-control.

"Your punishment for your continued absence from this court after We ordered your return still awaits, Crown Prince," Balor said, bringing Nuada's attention back to the king. "Are you ready to receive your sentence?"

"I am, Majesty."

Balor steepled his fingers. "Very well. You are hereby under house arrest, from now until the spring equinox. You may not leave Findias without my express permission and an armed escort of at least a dozen Butcher Guards. You will accept an armed guard outside the doors of your chambers at all times. When We require your presence at court functions, you will be present and punctual. And you will surrender the Silverlance to Us now."

For a long moment, Nuada was certain he'd misunderstood that last. He could only gape at his father. "I... am to... surrender the Silverlance?"

Topaz eyes were empty of sympathy or any other emotion. "You've been found unworthy to bear that weapon."

"Unworthy?" He echoed. "Father, you cannot... it's my best weapon. Dylan is in danger here; I cannot give up my best line of defense when her life is at risk!"

"Then take more guards."

"That's not good enough!" Nuada protested. "You cannot ask me this!"

"We were not asking. It was an order. Surrender the Silverlance, Crown Prince," the king said coldly. "We won't say it again. And once you've surrendered this weapon, you're forbidden to take up either _Claiomh Solais,_ the Sword of Victory, or _Sleá Bua,_ the Spear of Light. You are allowed to keep your own sword... for now."

With sharp, jerky movements devoid of his usual grace, Nuada rose to his feet, drawing his spear from the sheath on his back. He flipped it and extended his arm to offer it to his father. When Balor's fingers closed around the haft, the prince tightened his grip for an instant. Aged amber eyes locked with a gaze of glittering topaz. The message was clear: Nuada surrendered his weapon of his own volition, because the king asked him to. If Nuada was so disloyal, why would he do such a thing?

Another second of eye contact. Then the prince withdrew his hand, leaving the spear of Elven silver glittering in the candlelight on his father's desk. The red light limned the blade like human blood. Nuada could admit he felt naked without the weapon. A spot between his shoulder blades itched as he returned to military attention.

"You are dismissed, Crown Prince."

Nuada bowed. "Your Majesty."

Just before the door clicked shut behind the Elven prince, Balor murmured, "Good night, my son." There was a brief pause in the sound of Nuada's retreating footsteps. Even more quietly, Balor thought he heard Nuada say, "Good night, Your Majesty." The door shut on the sound of Balor's son walking away.

The old king dropped his face into his hands.

**.**

"Tsu's'di," 'Sa'ti mumbled, scrubbing sleepily at her face. She stepped fully out of the little bedroom she, A'du, and Tsu's'di were meant to share for the time being, which was attached to _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's sitting room. The ewah girl clutched her stuffed mountain lion by the tail in a loose grip so it dragged along the floor beside the hem of her new linen nightgown. "There's a polar bear outside."

The cougar youth blinked at his sister for a moment. Surely he'd heard her wrong. He blamed it on the still-healing crack in his skull. "What did you say?"

"I saw a bear outside," the little girl insisted. "A big white polar bear by the stables." She pointed with the hand holding Neytiri-the-Mountain-Lion, so the old stuffed animal smacked the half-open door. One black button eye came loose. 'Sa'ti didn't notice. "I saw it from my window."

"'Sa'ti," her brother said. "We're in Bethmoora. They don't have polar bears in Bethmoora. Not even magical ones. It's too warm for them, even in winter."

"But Tsu's'di," she said as he picked her up and carried her back into their room, "I saw it! There was a lady on its back! And a little girl."

Just on the off-chance his sister wasn't imagining things, after popping her into bed, the young bodyguard peered out of the single window in the room, which overlooked the Royal Stables. Although he didn't see a polar bear - or any kind of bear - he did see a man and a woman.

The man had salt-white hair, like the prince's, but cut short. His skin, though, was black as a panther's. It stood out darkly against his all-white clothing. The woman was maybe a few years younger than Lady Dylan, physically. In her arms, revealed by the torchlight and the glow of the stables, was a little girl with flame-red hair who seemed to be asleep. The woman had the same brilliant red hair. A servant - one of the higher-ranking hobs, Tsu's'di was pretty sure - bowed to the trio and escorted them toward the castle.

"Did you see it? Did you see the bear?"

Tsu's'di sighed and pulled the blanket back over his little sister. "I didn't see any bears. Now go to sleep. It's past eight-thirty, so it's past your bedtime."

"There _was_ a bear!"

"'Sa'ti," he said with a warning growl. "Go to sleep."

"Will you tell me a story first?"

He scowled. "Once upon a time, there was a great big battle, and everybody died. Then they all had ice cream with sprinkles. The end."

"How can they eat ice cream if they're dead?"

"They were resurrected by a flying pink unicorn covered in purple glitter."

"That's stupid."

The ewah youth briefly contemplated banging his head against the wall, then realized that would probably undo all the healing spells laid into his skull. "'Sa'ti, go to sleep, or I'm going to feed Neytiri to a rabid dog."

She hastily stuffed her toy under the blankets and scrambled to lie on top of it so her brother couldn't get to it without a fight. Tsu's'di bit back a grin and turned to go back into the sitting room, where he'd been waiting for the prince and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan.

"Tsu's'di?"

Flattening his ears, he snarled, "_What?_"

"Are _A'ge'lv_ Dylan and Prince Nuada okay?"

With a sigh, he leaned against the doorframe and stared up at the ceiling. "Probably. I mean, the _a'ge'lv_ is pretty smart. And Prince Nuada's the ultimate badas- um, I mean, he's incredibly strong and skilled. Nothing can get to _A'ge'lv_ Dylan if the prince is with her. He'd rip 'em to shreds. He's the Silverlance, remember? And she's got that knife. They're probably fine."

"You sure?"

The youth knelt by his little sister's bed and brushed his cheek against hers. His chest rumbled with a reassuring purr. Her whiskers tickled, but she purred in response. "Don't worry, 'Sa'ti. Now go to sleep, okay? You missed your nap today."

She yawned and curled up around Neytiri. "Don't need a nap."

"You are getting very sleepy. Your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. You're sleepy now. Sleeeeepy. And when I say 'okay,' you're gonna shut up, close your eyes, and go to sleep so I can have some peace." He gave her a fierce mock-snarl with crossed eyes that made her giggle drowsily. He knew from outside sources that he currently looked like a puma who'd taken a two-by-four between the ears. "Now sleeeeeeeeep," Tsu's'di intoned in a fake-hypnotic voice. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Grateful, Tsu's'di smiled at his sister, who closed her eyes and snuggled down. Then he glanced at his brother.

A'du'la'di's fur bristled in agitation even in slumber, and every so often he made a small distressed noise. 'Sa'ti would be able to sleep through them; A'du had nightmares nearly every night. Clutched in his hand the same way 'Sa'ti clutched Neytiri was a twin-dagger sheathed by slim black leather and clasped with gold. The cougar youth knew his brother had received that Elven knife from Prince Nuada the night before, as a symbol of trust - and, the bodyguard knew, as a promise that Nuada and Dylan _would_ come back for the three cougars, no matter what happened.

Tsu's'di settled his hand on the knife at his own hip. Prince Nuada had given it to him a couple days after he'd sworn service to Lady Dylan. Did his little brother hold the prince's knife for the same reason Tsu's'di often reminded himself he still possessed his own - because it gave him a strange sort of reassurance? Because it reminded both cougar boys that by swearing oaths of service to _A'ge'lv_ Dylan and, through her, Prince Nuada, both their mistress and her prince had sworn oaths to them in turn? Liege lords and ladies had responsibilities to their bond-servants in the same way vassals had responsibilities towards their masters. Lady Dylan had told the three ewah that they, Dylan, and the mighty Silverlance were a team. They would look out for each other. Prince Nuada and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan would be back.

He went back into the sitting room and dropped into a chair, unsheathing his knife to study it by the light of the freshly-laid fire. He really hoped their mistress and her prince were okay. Because if they weren't, Tsu's'di really didn't want to go up against whatever had managed to get to them, but the honor of the ewah would demand it. And that, he thought, would really, _really_ suck.

_Please come back soon_, A'ge'lv, _Your Highness. I don't want to have to try and kill anything that could take you on. I'd get ripped to shreds._ After a moment's thought, the youth added, _And I'd die a virgin. That would be embarrassing._

**.**

Dylan looked up the moment Nuada stepped out of the king's study. One look at the storm brewing behind his eyes and she closed her mouth on the questions jumping around in her throat. Then she noticed the prince no longer carried his spear. That could've been explanation enough for the molten bronze fury in his eyes.

"Come," he said sharply. Dylan got to her feet and fell into step beside him. She tried not to squawk in nervous surprise when a full dozen Butchers did the same, surrounding the prince in a circle. Rainswept blue eyes flicked to Nuada. The Elven warrior's eyes tightened and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He continued to stare straight ahead as he strode through the corridors with Dylan at his side. Since he didn't speak after that initial command, neither did she.

At a familiar-looking door, he paused and turned to the royal guards, who settled into a loose sort of formation along the walls on either side of and across from the door to Nuada's suite. The guards didn't appear to be looking at him, but Dylan couldn't tell since they were wearing helmets.

The prince yanked the door open and gestured his lady inside. She scuttled in quickly. If Nuada had been much younger, she was fairly certain he would've slammed the door hard enough to crack the doorframe. Instead, he merely closed and locked it before stalking over to the window, wrenching the locks, and throwing up the sash. He braced himself against the window ledge and leaned out into the bitter winter night. Even as Dylan watched, a few tiny snowflakes drifted down from the cloudy night sky.

Remembering the last couple fights they'd had, she hesitated to go to him or say anything. Before the attack in the royal forest, if Nuada had looked like that, she would've come up and put her arms around him, the way she had that night in her cottage when she'd been sick. Now... she didn't know if the prince even desired her presence.

"Sometimes I wish I could hate him," Nuada said softly. Dylan took a step toward him. "Sometimes I wish I could sever all ties with him, so that nothing he did affected me. So nothing he said could ever..." He clenched his teeth; pressed his fingers so hard into the window casement that the wood creaked. She took another step nearer. Moonlight filtered through the clouds to caress the spill of star-blond hair flowing over his tense shoulders.

"Nuada-"

"He took my spear," Nuada said softly. She stopped moving. He sounded so forlorn, like a child who'd lost their teddy bear. Dylan could tell he was angry and upset, but at the same time, she could feel her mouth twitching a little. She'd thought it was just the guards that had him so riled, but... "He took the Silverlance from me."

"You still have your sword," Dylan offered.

"It's not the same," he replied, voice a mere thread of sound. "I'm half the warrior I was without that spear. Half the man."

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, hating the undercurrent of defeat in his voice. Nuada's head whipped around. He glared at her with hot eyes. She folded her arms and stared him down. "Three times, off the top of my head, you came to my rescue when I would've died. Only one of those times did you have your lance."

"You don't understand; you're mortal, how could you? Without the Silverlance-"

"You're still Nuada," Dylan interrupted. "Still the same crazy-brave, honorable warrior prince who's earned my respect, who made me fall in love with him. You don't need a piece of metal to define how amazing you are." Nuada merely sighed. She could tell he wasn't buying it. Biting her lip and going for nonchalant, she added, "And anyway, you have other weapons. Swords, axes..." She noticed he was watching her now, so she deliberately flicked her eyes from his head to the toes of his boots in a swift once-over before settling her gaze on his face. "Spears."

It took him a moment to recall how to breathe. Had she really just... had she _really_...? A golden simmer of heat flooded his body as she smiled at him. Nuada suddenly remembered the way he'd kissed her last night, the feel of her pressed against him, her soft mouth beneath his. He took a step toward her.

She groaned suddenly. "I... cannot believe... I just said that," Dylan mumbled, covering her face with her hands. "Oh my gosh, I'm such an idiot, I can't believe I _said_ that! Ugh, I feel stupid. Witty innuendo is _not_ something I'm good at."

"Was your intention to make me feel better?"

From behind her hands, the embarrassed human murmured, "Yes."

Gently, Nuada pulled Dylan's hands away from her face. A charming blush painted her cheeks. "Thank you, mo duinne - for the intent," Nuada offered a smile that sent her heart racing, "and for the compliment." He ghosted his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. "If I may ask... was that an offer?"

"No," she gasped, blushing hotly. "I didn't mean for you to think, I mean, I was just trying to cheer..." She trailed off when he started to chuckle. "Oh, shut up." But she couldn't help smiling back at him. For the first time since their visit to the meadow in the royal forest _before_ the dipsa attack, Nuada's expression was clear of nearly all its shadows. "Feeling better?"

He inclined his head. "The situation is still... inconvenient. I'm under house arrest; I may not leave Findias without the king's express permission. Even Nuala's won't suffice this time. We're to have a squad of guards accompany us - me, rather - everywhere. And I'm not allowed any of the three sacred weapons of the Tuatha de."

Dylan perched on the edge of the window seat. The window was still open, and winter air shivered over her. She didn't mind, though; the air was crisp with the scent of snow and felt good after being trapped in Roiben's underground sithen since the night before. "Sacred weapons?"

Nuada sighed and turned to stare out at the moon. In Roiben's faerie mounds, the moon had been ripe and golden. Aboveground in Faerie, however, the moon was still a few days shy of being full. Nuada's gaze bored into the waxing roundness of the Harvest Moon.

"The Tuatha de Danaan, my people, have many powerful objects in the king's vaults. _Lia Fáil_, the Coronation Stone, which roars when the rightful king of Bethmoora stands upon it; _Coire Dagdae_, the Cauldron of the Dagda, with which one could feed an army with nothing but magic; _Órga Na Corónach_, the Golden Crown, which now lies in three pieces, which gives a wearer of royal blood control over a vast clockwork army."

He bit his tongue. He hadn't meant to say that last. Nuada flicked a glance at Dylan. She watched him with curiosity in her fey-like eyes. "And what are the sacred weapons? Why are they so special?"

"When I received the royal scar, I proved myself a man grown through tests of cunning and skill. By passing those tests, I proved myself worthy of the inheritance that is the right of the crown prince of Bethmoora - the right to bear the three sacred weapons of this kingdom: _Claíomh Solais_, the Sword of Victory, against which no man can stand once it's drawn from its sheath; _Sleá Bua_, the Spear of Light, which never misses its target when thrown and cannot be defeated in battle; and _Áirgetlámh_, the Silverlance, the weapon of the man who is heir to the Golden Throne, which cannot be used against its wielder. My father has forbidden me to take up any of them until he deems me worthy once more."

The hammer of Nuada's fist smashed into the side of the window casement. Dylan jumped. Speaking now more to himself than to her, Nuada demanded in a low vow, "Does he mean to disown me? To strip me of my title as heir? Will he take the throne from me? Over a simple matter of being absent for less than a full moon? I was doing what he wanted; taking care of a human. Why is he _doing_ this?"

When he unclenched his fist, Dylan saw amber blood well up from a few tiny cuts on the side of his hand.

"You're hurt," she said softly. Reached for his hand. He jerked away from her.

"Don't touch me." In less than ten minutes the light mood had vanished, leaving rage and bitterness in its wake. Nuada glared out the window, his eyes molten with fury. He leaned against the casement again. His fingers ached with the pressure of his grip. "No amount of coddling or petting will erase what's happened tonight."

Unsure of her footing once again, Dylan murmured, "I just want to help."

"Well, you can't," he snapped. She flinched. "What good is a human in this? Without my best weapon, you're twice as vulnerable. I was foolish to bring you here; I should've left you in the mortal realms where you wouldn't be a liability. Now my feelings for you make you just another knife at my throat." He could almost feel the noose tightening around his neck. "By the Fates... what was I thinking, allowing myself to feel any softness for a mortal?" The bitterness in his tone made Dylan's eyes sting. "I should've known my father was only using you as bait to weaken me. Stars curse it anyway. And now I'm trapped."

She abruptly got to her feet. Turned to the door joining this main room of Nuada's suite to the sitting room in her suite. "I'm sorry I'm such an inconvenience. I'll try to be less irritating next time we walk into a trap. Good night, Your Highness."

"Dylan," Nuada said. Only her name. Softly, wearily. "Dylan."

"Do you... do you wish you didn't love me?" She asked in a rush. His words reverberated through her mind: _what was I thinking, allowing myself to feel any softness for a mortal? Now I'm trapped._ She kept her eyes on the door. "Because love is weakness? Do you wish you still hated me? Do you wish I didn't love you?"

He was suddenly there, his arms around her, his lips against her ear as he whispered, "Never think that. Never, _ever_ think that, Dylan." Dark lips brushed her cheek, and he released her. "I'm not fit company tonight, my lady," he added, going back to the window. She turned to watch him. "You should retire to your chambers."

Dylan hesitated. Studied the bowed head and white-knuckled grip on the window frame. "Do you... _want_ me to go?" He said nothing. Only a couple feet separated them, but it seemed as if the distance were somehow far greater. "If you want me to go, I will."

He kept his eyes on the thickening snow whispering down on Bethmoora. After a long silence, he said, "Go."

What had happened in the king's study? What had put that look in his eyes, that edge in his voice? Not just the house arrest. Something else. But Dylan didn't ask. She inclined her head and moved to obey. When she was at the door that led to her sitting room, Nuada added in a somewhat gentler voice, "Good night, Dylan."

Feeling as if he'd slapped her, she mumbled, "Good night, Your Highness." She didn't see him flinch when she shut the door behind her. Didn't hear him mutter something vicious and self-deprecating under his breath.

Dylan found Tsu's'di dead to the world in an armchair in her sitting room. A'du and 'Sa'ti were in the little room reserved for her potential ladies' maids attached to Dylan's suite, both fast asleep. The mortal smoothed back the two cougar cubs' manes and kissed their foreheads. Her heart squeezed brutally in her chest when A'du'la'di mumbled in his sleep, "Mama." It was even worse when, for the first time, 'Sa'ti whispered, "Mommy."

She took a few minutes to fully explore her new suite of rooms. Her sitting room possessed two long couches and a few very cushy armchairs. A lovely, soft fur rug as white as snow lay in front of the massive marble and stone fireplace. A few bookcases lined the far wall. She made sure all three windows were locked before moving on to explore the little bathroom attached to the sitting room. _Perfect_, she thought, _for visitors who I might not want tramping through my room._

A small room on the far side of her sitting room proved to be a little private library with even more books, a cozy little fireplace, two armchairs, and a low hawthorn table topped by a chessboard, both miniature armies ready and waiting to do battle. When she looked closely at the board, she realized with shock that it was made of gold and white marble. Faceted amber and goblin crystal chess pieces reflected the light of a fragrant hanging oil lamp.

Finally she went into her bedroom and changed into appropriate pajamas. After the late-night encounter with Nuada the day before, Dylan didn't want to risk either the new set of silky PJs Kaye had given her as a gift, or her standard tank top and shorts or pants. Instead, she slipped on a soft blue linen gown that would've looked at home in a medieval film - something she'd worn when she'd been a few years younger while doing overnights at medieval faires with Anya and Joyce.

Feeling more than a little homesick and uneasy, Dylan slipped on her penguin socks. Wondering if she were being a baby, she then pulled out the ensorcelled wooden box that had been Kaye's Christmas gift to her years ago when she'd worked for the pixie at her cafe. Dylan carefully lifted the engraved wooden lid. The box acted as a preserver for whatever happened to be inside.

In this case, it was a pair of ragdolls. She'd made them herself while trapped in the institution from bits of string and stolen linen napkins, drawing their mouths with Sharpie marker and coloring their eyes with dabs of nail polish borrowed from one of the older, better behaved girls. Neither had names. One had been her friend, to be cuddled in secret whenever she felt sad or lonely. When Nuada had left, she'd pulled out this old friend and cried. The other doll had been her protector, to cuddle in secret whenever she'd been scared.

After a moment's hesitation, she pulled out her protector and closed the lid on the other ragdoll. Then she stowed the box in the bottom of the wardrobe which stood near the door to her master bathroom. Becan had told her earlier that he'd brought and stowed her two dolls, Nuada's glass and crystal flowers that he'd given her in apology, and her snow globe collection - including the one A'du had broken, which she'd fixed with Becan's help - in the massive wardrobe and put her clothes in the clothes' presses shoved against the foot of her new bed.

Dylan thought about putting the flowers and snow globes up, to combat the darkness that would be nearly absolute once she blew out the bedroom lamps. Wasn't sure if she felt comfortable doing that. Knew she was having trouble concentrating, knowing Nuada was on the other side of the unlocked door joining her bedchamber to his. She could _feel_ him on the other side of the door - a restless shadow.

In the end she laid the yellow diamond rose on the nightstand beside her gargantuan new bed along with the glass violet that sang in soft Gaelic. After a full week, she'd finally realized why the voice in the glass violet and aloe blossoms sounded so familiar. It was Nuada's voice, the lullaby timbre of it unmistakable once she'd had time to really listen. Her scriptures went on the nightstand alongside her medallion. She laid the ragdoll on the nightstand too. The flickering light from the yellow rose glinted off the doll's gold-painted eyes, which were framed with Sharpie that had slowly faded from deep black to soft charcoal.

_How funny,_ she thought, looking at her doll. _I never realized... he looks like a Bethmooran Elf._ A weary smile tweaked Dylan's lips. _That's just too funny. I wonder why I did that._ Then she thought of her own Bethmooran Elf, and sighed.

Dylan stepped to the unlocked door and pressed her fingers and her forehead against its polished surface. She wanted so badly to go back to his suite. Ask him if perhaps, instead of sleeping in their rooms, they could each take a couch in her sitting room. Or if he'd allow her to sit beside him on the couch until she fell asleep, and then he could carry her to bed. She didn't think she could actually sleep alone in this humongous place with the weight of Balor's authority pressing down on her.

_If you want me to go, I will,_ she'd said, and he'd ordered her to go. He didn't want to see her right now. Everyone needed their space sometimes. She was a big girl. She could handle sleeping on her own for a night or three. No big deal.

_Although I wish Bat was here, at least,_ Dylan thought. _Oh, well. I'll deal. He'd be cuddled up with 'Sa'ti anyway, the little traitor._ She smiled ruefully. _He left me for a younger woman. What can you do?_

Dylan didn't know Nuada stood on the other side of the door, though he could feel her just beyond the carved rowan wood. She didn't see him brush his own fingertips against the spot where hers rested. She didn't hear him whisper, "Good night, my love. Dream sweetly."

Dylan closed her eyes and wondered what had happened to pull her prince so far away from her.

Nuada quickly dressed for bed. Unable to rid himself of the restlessness winding him tighter and tighter, he paced the length of his bedroom. Wondered if his coldness had brought tears to Dylan's eyes for the third night in a row. Wondered if he dared knock on the door and beg audience with her while clad only in his sleeping attire. After last night, it seemed unwise. If he went to her now, and she was upset, he would have to kiss her tears away, and then he would kiss _her_, and then...

He'd dreamed of what could come after, though he forced himself not to think of it in waking. To think of it would make him yearn, and he couldn't afford that kind of distraction, especially now. He prayed he hadn't made her cry. She was so worried about him, and off-balance in his father's castle. It would be so easy to hurt her in the temper he was in.

He wondered suddenly if she'd yet noticed his surprise. Perhaps it would serve as an apology.

Turning away from the door between their rooms, Dylan moved toward the sumptuous silk-draped bed that dominated the majority of the bedroom. On the bright side, she'd always loved four-posters with curtains. This one, of rowan wood polished so it gleamed in the light of fragrant oil lamps, was draped with sapphire curtains and spread with royal blue linens. At least a dozen velvet pillows in various shades of blue made it even more inviting. When she brushed her hand across the comforter, plush sateen-velvet caressed her skin. And the thing was positively huge. Bigger even than her bed at home.

Something crimson lay stark against one of the blue pillows. When Dylan leaned over to get a better look, she felt her heart melt and a warm feeling fizzed in her stomach. On her pillow, tied with a soft ribbon of iridescent white, was a brilliantly scarlet tulip. Dylan picked it up and inhaled the sweet scent. Kissed one of the velvety petals. Another red tulip. _Tulips for trust_. His first gift to her had been a tulip. How did he always know just what to do?

When she fell asleep after reading her scriptures and saying her prayers, the tulip lay on the rowan-wood nightstand beside her bed, where she could see it in the flickering light of her _rai_ flower. Her doll was cradled to her chest.

Beneath Dylan's bed, a pearl-scaled snake-shifter lay perfectly still; listening to every word the mortal spoke, tasting every nuance of emotion on the air with a forked tongue. His name was Jacques Dipsa, he was a mercenary from the kingdom of Gevaudan in the employ of Prince Bres and Lady Dierdre, and he had something of interest to report tonight.

The prince's little human whore was sad. What a shame. Perhaps Lady Dierdre's plan was already working. Perhaps a rift was forming between the Silverlance and his mortal plaything, which would explain why the human wasn't currently warming the prince's bed.

And he'd discovered something else. The enchanted flowers on her nightstand and whatever she'd pulled out of that wooden box were _very_ important to her. Once the human fell truly asleep the serpent-shifter would leave and report back to his mistress that the prince had returned, things were not well in the land of romance, and about the strange items that had so much emotional significance to the human.

Too bad he couldn't take a bite out of the mortal before he left, but Lady Dierdre's instructions had been explicit. Jacques did _not_ want to enrage a Fomorian prince and a gancanaugh.

Nuada didn't sleep. He lay in bed, staring into darkness, still oddly restless. He tried to forget the guards waiting in the hall, his father's words striking him like sharp stones, and the woman on the other side of the door who tempted him in every way nearly beyond enduring. In the end, he finally slept. Dreamed of her. Of desire. Of blood and death. He woke with the ache of loss choking him and horror sending rivulets of fear-sweat down his spine.

Dylan woke in the wee hours just before dawn from the same dream that had plagued her the last few days. What had woken her? A creaking sound. She was too groggy to really process that. It took her a moment to realize what she'd been experiencing for the last however-many hours had only been a dream after all. When reality settled over her again, when she realized none of it had been real, she clutched her doll to her chest and turned her face into the pillows so Nuada wouldn't wake and hear her crying.

**.**

Dylan hadn't managed to fall back asleep after waking from her dream. Dawn found her freshly showered, brushed, medicated, and in one of the dresses Becan had packed for her - one of her own _leine,_ a soft wool gown of rich blue that she'd bought for a Ren-Faire a couple years before. With a gray ribbon in her hair, her white and blue belt that Nuada had given her for her dirk (which was snug in its sheath), and gray leather boots, she was fairly certain she wouldn't stick out too badly. Her medallion was a reassuring weight against her skin.

She'd set out her snow globes and crystal flowers (lacking her cat and his unavoidable cat-astrophes, she didn't have to worry about the height of the surfaces she chose) in an attempt to make the room seem more like her own. Now she sat at her window on a cushion, letting the wintry sunlight spread across her skin. It felt wonderful after being underground in Roiben's sithen the majority of yesterday. The icy window glass warmed quickly against her forehead. She closed her eyes to bask in the sun. Brushed the tulip against her lips.

A knock at the door that separated her bedroom from Nuada's surprised her. "Come in."

The prince stepped in and offered a formal bow. "Good morning, my lady." When Nuada straightened, his eyes softened. "If I may... you look beautiful."

Pleasure sent a blush heating her cheeks. "Thank you. Did... did you sleep well?"

A brief hesitation. "Well enough. And you?"

Now she hesitated. "My usual," she hedged. Was this what last night's brief, sharp exchanges had reduced them to? Small talk? Dylan forced herself to smile. "So, what's a girl gotta do to get some breakfast around here?"

He came and settled on the opposite end of the window seat. "Do you want to eat in our rooms? Or the kitchens? Breakfast _is_ offered in the formal dining hall, but I doubt you want to be there with the rest of the court. Am I correct?" The corner of his mouth quirked when she vehemently shook her head. "Or is there somewhere else you want to eat this morning?"

"I dunno. I'd really like to eat outside, but it's crazy-cold out, so I know that's impossible..." Dylan trailed off when Nuada smiled. "Isn't it?"

"Come with me" He held out his hand.

They left a note for the children. Then the Elven prince led his mortal lady - _and our retinue of royal babysitters,_ he thought sourly - to the kitchens. A brief exchange with one of the undercooks produced a basket, though Dylan had no idea what was in it. Back in the corridors, Nuada thrust the basket at one of the guards. "Make yourself useful." With a grumble, the Butcher accepted the food basket. Nuada then led Dylan outside. The frigid chill only nipped at Dylan's cheeks and nose thanks to the thick, wool cloak Nuada draped around her shoulders just before stepping out. Judging from the scent of feral woods, she was pretty sure the soft gray cloak belonged to him.

He led her through what looked like kitchen gardens, down a short pathway lined with polished rocks, past a fountain sculpted to look like naiads splashing about, to a hawthorn gate set in a stone wall overgrown with ivy. While everything else bore a light dusting of snow that crunched underfoot, the ivy was as green as summer. Nuada touched the door and murmured, "_Oscailte_." There was a soft _click_. The door swung open.

Nuada took the basket and said to the Butchers, "My father won't protest a single wall between us. Remain out here until we have finished our business." Ushering Dylan inside, he quickly shut the door on the royal guards' protests, leaving them standing in the snow. Thanks to the enchantments on the door, the Butchers couldn't get in. Only he, Nuala, and Balor could enter this particular garden without an escort.

He turned to study Dylan's expression - the wonder in her eyes and the pleasure on her face as she surveyed their surroundings. Nuada asked his lady softly, "What do you think?"

"Oh," she breathed. "Nuada, look at all the roses."

They were everywhere, blooming in riotous abundance and filling the air - which was suddenly warm - with the heady perfume. Peach, cream and yellow roses climbed halfway up the walls. Roses from deep mauve to a pink so pale it was nearly white bloomed from at least a dozen trees. Whereas everything beyond the stone walls was iced with winter, everything within this garden was vibrant and green and full of life. Sweet-grass spread across the ground in a soft green carpet. Several large stones covered in moss and a couple fallen trees made comfortable seats. The trilling song of a robin chirped from one of the rose trees.

A fountain, sculpted into the shape of three beautiful maidens petting a small dragon, burbled musically in a corner. Lilies of pale pink, cream, and pearly white floated on the surface of the water. Beside the fountain was a low, polished wooden bench carved with intricate Celtic knotwork in the shapes of trees. The rose tree that shaded the bench from the pale rays of the sun glinted in the morning light; its branches looked like burnished copper, its leaves were yellow gold, and its blooms seemed to be fashioned of hammered silver.

"It's beautiful." She caught one of the golden leaves fluttering from the branches. It shone in the dappled sunlight like real gold, but was as soft as a fresh spring leaf. Faerie magic. "It's absolutely beautiful."

Nuada set the basket down on a moss-covered stone beside the wooden bench and took Dylan's hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

"This was my mother's garden." At her startled look, he smiled. "This place is private. Sacred. My father... never comes here. Too painful, he says. But he enchanted it for my sister and I long ago, so the roses would always bloom. This tree was my mother's favorite; it's not native to Bethmoora. It comes from Cíocal, my mother's homeland." He pressed his palm to the trunk. "I've fallen out of this tree more times than I can remember."

She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. "I'm honored that you would bring me here."

He turned his face into her palm and pressed a kiss there. Then he gestured to the bench. "Come; sit. We'll eat."

Over a meal of russet-red winter apples, honey-glazed breakfast rolls, sweet raspberries, blueberry muffins, and honey-sweetened milk, Nuada finally told her the gist of what his father had said to him the night before. He left out the argument over the Golden Army, but kept in his father's suspicions of treason. He let spill the poison of his father's words that had festered inside him all night. When he'd finished the recitation, Dylan nibbled a muffin. Sighed.

"Have I mentioned your dad doesn't deserve you?" She asked after a long silence. "Treason. What a crock. As if you would ever... he doesn't realize how lucky he is to have you for a son. It's been my experience," Dylan added, catching his eye, "that most parents don't appreciate how wonderful their children are until they lose them. But that's the parents' mistake, not the child's."

Nuada made a noncommittal noise. They finished the meal in strained silence broken only by the trill of birdsong.

Breakfast had been finished for some time and the silence had begun to press too hard when she asked softly, "Can we stay here awhile? Or are there things we need to do?"

He studied her face. How pale she seemed in the sunlight, the shadows bruising beneath her eyes. Fatigue etched across her face. "You didn't sleep well last night, did you? Forgive me; I should have paid closer attention." When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, "We can stay for a bit if you wish. Let's move to the grass."

The sweet-grass was soft as the bed she'd slept in last night, dry and springy. Nuada spread the cloak they'd brought so he and Dylan could sit on it. Knowing that one of them needed to do something to break the tension between them, the Elven warrior let his head rest lightly on Dylan's shoulder. She tensed, then relaxed.

"Were your rooms to your liking?"

"Oh, yes, they're lovely. Although," she added with a laugh, "there's a chess set in one of those rooms that probably costs a fortune. I know you want me to learn how to play, but I don't think I can practice with that. The pieces are amber and crystal - what if I break them?"

"Hmmm?" Nuada straightened. "Amber and crystal? I don't recall... oh!" He smiled. "Never fear, mo duinne. That set is mine. Break it if you wish, though you'll have a hard enough time doing so. The pieces are Bethmooran and mortal diamond. Nigh unbreakable by human hands."

Her mouth dropped open. "Diamond? Who has a _diamond_ chess set? That's ridiculous. That's like... that's like... um..." She floundered a moment. "Wearing boxers made of Egyptian cotton. Or silk-lace underwear. Who wears silk-lace underwear?"

Nuada offered a sardonic look. "Forgive me, mo duinne, was that a serious question?"

She glared at him. "Do you have a serious answer?" The prince merely arched an eyebrow. Dylan's mouth twitched. "Oh, shut up, Mr. Elven Casanova."

"I said nothing." When she flicked a glance at him, the corner of his mouth quirked. She couldn't help but laugh.

After a moment, Dylan stretched out on her back with her hands cradling her head so she could look up at the strangely summery-blue patch of sky directly above the garden. How was that even possible? How could there be just this one small patch of summer in the middle of so much winter? Magic, of course. She'd never grow tired of its wonders. Or less wary of its dangers.

"What happens now?" She asked in the silence that had descended over them again, this one more companionable than the last.

"I play the obedient son. Attend my father's council meetings. Pretend I don't wish to slam my head against the nearest wall when the bureaucrats open their mouths." He was gratified when Dylan laughed again. "On a brighter note, I must also pay court to you, mo mhuire. Which means long walks, outings with at least some distance between us and those idiot guards, romantic dinners for two."

"You're only happy about that because it means you're not being followed so closely by the Goon Squad."

Nuada made a noise that might've been agreement if he hadn't been trying not to laugh. "I do enjoy spending time with you, though, Dylan," he assured her. "You make me feel... I cannot describe it. With you, I can simply be Nuada. Simply be a man. Not a prince, not a warrior, nothing but simply myself, and you accept it. That is a gift more precious than anything else you've given me."

She smiled up at him. He saw the sunlight, reflected off the golden leaves of the Fomorian tree, caressing her face. The fatigue was still evident there as well, but it wasn't quite so obvious. She closed her eyes. "I'm glad you feel that way. So... other than romantic dinners for two while being spied on by your dad's claymore-wielding guard dogs, what else are we going to have to deal with? When I was here last, Nuala mentioned something about an assessment?" She noticed the prince's sour expression and grimaced. "I'm scared now. I know what the assessment is, but what happens if I fail it? Can I fail it?"

"You most assuredly will, actually, which means while I'm forced to play the nobleman _you_ will be forced to learn how to be a noble lady. Especially if my father truly means to force us to marry."

"So I'll have… princess lessons, basically?"

He nodded. "For all intents and purposes, yes. Etiquette, Bethmooran and other fae histories, deportment, riding-"

"What, like on horses?"

"Mm-hm. And dancing, of course-"

"_Dancing?_"

Dark lips curved into a wry smile. "Do not worry about _that_, of all things, mo duinne. I'm fairly certain I can convince my father to allow me to teach you the fine art of dancing." When she shot him a panicked look, he added in a velvet voice, "I assure you, darling, I'm quite skilled in many forms of dancing. My father..." Nuada trailed off for a moment, and his gaze grew far away and sad. Then he came back to himself. "My father once told me that seducing a woman ends in the bedchamber, but often begins in the ballroom."

She arched her back a little and tilted her head back to get a better look at him. He nearly swallowed his tongue at the picture she made, but Dylan didn't notice. "Is that what you're going to try and do at these dancing lessons, Your Highness? Seduce me?"

His smile was slow and lazy and edged with blatant male interest. "If you wish."

Dylan grinned. "My baser instincts say, 'I wish,' but my common sense says, 'No.' Sorry to disappoint you. Although, all things considered, if that's the extent of our immediate worries, I can't really find a reason to complain."

"And Crown Prince Zhenjin of Dilong may challenge me to a fight to the death for his sister's honor."

"_What?_"

"Of course," he added, unruffled by her horrified shock, "I'll win such a duel. Even without my spear. And I can win without killing Zhenjin, thus avoiding war with Dilong. And he may not challenge me after all. We _are_ friends. Or were, last we spoke. So that is nothing to worry over."

She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. "A potential fight to the death over you refusing to marry a three-hundred-year-old Chinese-Elven princess and possibly starting a war between the faerie equivalents of Ireland and China if you kill the crown prince by accident is nothing to worry over?"

"Do you have faith in me as a warrior, Dylan?" Nuada asked. He pinned her with a stare of deep, fey gold. "Do you believe me to be, as you once said, 'the most amazing Elven warrior ever?'"

Without hesitation, his lady replied, "Yes."

"Then don't worry about Zhenjin. I will handle him. All will be well." He skimmed his knuckles along the thick scar on her cheek. "Now, I think you ought to go back to sleep for a time. You didn't rest well last night, and if my father happens to attempt to surprise us with a welcome-home banquet, you will need all your faculties about you." He absently fiddled with a curl that had fallen across her forehead. "Rest, mo duinne. I'll wake you when it's time to take you to church."

"Promise?" She mumbled, already seduced by the idea of curling up on Nuada's cloak in this wonderful garden and sleeping for a couple more hours. The cloak was ridiculously soft, and the sweet-grass beneath it surprisingly comfortable.

"Don't you trust me, then? The impertinence."

Dylan smiled, already drifting off before Nuada had finished speaking. The Elven warrior stretched out perpendicular to the drowsing mortal, most of his body on the soft, springy grass to leave Dylan the comfort of the cloak. Shifting, he reached out to clasp Dylan's hand. Her fingers immediately curled around his. An icy knot in his belly loosened, grew warm. The tension drained out of him. Surrounded by the scent of roses, his lady's hand in his, Nuada found himself drifting into a pleasant drowse.

Outside, the Butcher Guards grumbled, wondering whether the prince was making them wait because he was affronted by their very presence, or if he'd snuck out to this garden to tryst with his human tramp. Either way, they were counting the seconds until he came out so they could get out of the blasted snow.

Feral emerald eyes glittered from a ways down the path as they raked over the Butchers. Dierdre had seen Nuada disappearing with his filthy mortal whore into one of the king's private gardens. Icy fury frosted Dierdre's blood.

The prince should've been sporting with _her_, not playing with the human. Once the gancanaugh had the Silverlance under her power, once she'd addicted him to her sweet poison, she'd take her time killing the mortal. The disgusting creature would pay for daring to seduce the Elven prince right under Dierdre's nose. She would most assuredly pay.

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_**Author's Note:**__ all right, so here we are, and I'm totally late with this chapter, I know, I'm so sorry. Thing is, I wrote all of chapter 58 and 59, and then gave it to my beta, right? Well, she found humongous gargantuan gaping plotholes that basically made using either chapter impossible, and this was 2 days before I was planning on putting the chapters up to begin with. Blargh. Not her fault, my fault._

_Now, onto our lovely review prompt!_

_1) So first question first - Balor and Nuada's conversation. What do we think? There's also a secret (the same secret from chapter 55) hinted at again in this conversation, and a new secret about Balor. Has anyone found it?_

_2) Nuada's punishment, house-arrest and NO SILVER LANCE! Gah! Reactions? Originally I was actually going to have Balor psychologically torture Nuada from sunset to sunrise (and it's winter, so that's like, 15 hours) but my beta was like, "Balor's not that crazy - yet." So thoughts on his punishment?_

_3) Oh, the strain of the situation is already getting to Nuada (as is the secret from chapter 55). Do you guys think I'm sadistic enough to break up our lovebirds? Thing is, I've noticed in books/movies and in real life, relationships are easier to maintain when it's just you and the other person (like Dylan and Nuada staying in the cottage all the time). Once outside influences start popping up, it becomes a lot harder, and fights/spats/whatever happen way more often. So... think they can handle it?_

**.**

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ the chapter is called "Guileless Son" because a big component of this chapter is about loyalty and disloyalty, the "voices beneath" (doubts and suspicions and fears), and it reminded me a lot of the song "Mordred's Lullaby" by Heather Dale (which fanon has dictated to be Nuada's theme, basically). And the opening line of every verse starts with the phrase "Guileless son..." And the chorus ends with a chant of "Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty, loyalty..."_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Nuada put the crack in Balor's desk in chapter 48.

- "Better to burn than fade" is a line from the novelization of the film. In the film, this line is replaced with "We will _not_ fade."

- The thing about Nuada "allowing" the Army to do things and Balor being responsible for the slaughter is based on something I read on the Nuada wikia, that one of the big bones of contention between them about the Army was that Nuada thought he could've commanded it more effectively than Balor did.

- We see both _Claiomh Solais,_ the Sword of Victory, and _Sleá Bua,_ the Spear of Light in chapter 12. Both the Sword of Victory (also called the Sword of Light and the Sword of Nuada) and the Spear of Light (also called the Spear of Lugh) are two of the Four Sacred Treasures of the Tuatha de in Irish myth. Nuada mentions the other two to Dylan.

- The ragdoll concept was first created by WhenNightmaresWalked for one of her amazing word prompts, and she gave me permission to play with it. She came up with the "friend" doll, and I came up with the "protector" doll.

- The dipsa serpent's name is French because the dipsa come from the Medieval Bestiary, which was compiled by English and French "scholars" in medieval times, and so he'd either have a British-sounding or French name. I didn't have an English fae kingdom yet, but I've got a French one (Gevaudan), so I made him French.

- The sage bit of advice about seduction that Balor gave Nuada is a paraphrase from _Daughter of the Blood_ by Anne Bishop.

- Dylan told Nuada he was the most amazing Elven warrior ever in chapter 28.


	59. These Foolish Games

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**VERY IMPORTANT**__**:**__ still tight for money, still possibility of getting evicted. Buy my books, guys. You'll love them! If 25 people buy Glass, we should be able to make rent for this month. I hope. Maybe. Eeek. Scared. *crosses fingers*_

You can get Glass in large-print paperback here: createspace. com/ 3844725 for $11.49  
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_**Author's Note:**_ _So I'm rushing, so I don't have too much to say other than I'm so glad Comic-Con is over (if my beta hadn't paid for EVERYTHING, I wouldn't have gone, it was soooooo exhausting, blurgh) and I'm glad to be posting again. I hope you enjoy the chapter. I'm trying to wrap up certain subplotlines before going into more, so that should make you guys happy. I love you all, and I'm so glad it's summer because now all of your time, internet, and brains belong to me! Ahahahahaha! Hugs._

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**Chapter Fifty-****Nine**

**These Foolish Games**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of**** Talk of War, a Royal Spy, New Guardians, Words Between Princes, a Banquet, a Challenge, and Rash Words**

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Nuada came awake slowly, langorously, coaxed reluctantly from sleep by the caress of mid-afternoon sunlight on his cheek and the gentle tug of fingers curling in his tunic. He blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the wintry light filtering through the boughs of the Fomorian rose tree. Realized that Dylan had, sometime during their time asleep, cuddled up against him. Now her head lay on his shoulder, her fingers gently hooked into the collar of his tunic. Her breath was soft against his throat.

He was grateful to see that her expression was clear of any sorrow or grief. No nightmares, then. Perhaps his presence was all that was needed to drive such cruel phantoms away from her. If only he could lay beside her this way each night to banish such dark dreams. Mayhap then she would not be so pale and tired-looking all the time.

_I had a dream, too_. So she had told him two nights past. _That's why I was awake, why I heard you. Not exactly a nightmare. It... hurt, I guess is the word I'm looking for, but it was a good dream. While it lasted. But then I woke up._

Or was that why she was not sleeping well of late? Because of that dream? Nuada was fairly certain Dylan had not looked so broken down and exhausted during the first week he'd stayed at her cottage, when she had been woken nightly by the horror of her own screams. Was this "good dream" having such a detrimental effect on her where the brutal nightmares that had plagued her for so long did not?

His thoughts chased themselves in lazy circles while sleep, not having been pushed quite far enough away, slowly pulled him down into slumber once more. He was so tired that when the door to the Queen's Garden clicked open, he did not even stir.

**.**

Balor bit back a sigh as the door to his formal receiving room opened and Emperor Huizong, proceeded by a Dilong herald and followed by four Dilong royal guards, swept into the room. The herald bowed low to the king and announced in a tremulous voice, "Your Majesty King Balor, may I present His Imperial Majesty, the Celestial Dragon of Dilong, the August Jade Emperor Huizong."

A flick of Huizong's wrist had the herald scurrying out of the room again. The Dilong royal guards - the Téngshé, named for one of the deadliest breeds of dragon in all of the eastern fae kingdoms - settled themselves against the wall on either side of the receiving room door. The six Butchers also in the room did not move from their places arrayed protectively about their aged king. They kept their eyes, glittering through the slitted visors of their helmets, focused on the black-clad Téngshé.

"Dilong," Balor said, rising from his seat by the hearth. This room was formal, yes, though not as formal as the Great Hall, but relaxed enough that Balor could enjoy an old man's comforts - a warm fire, a comfortable chair. Huizong was old, too - only a few centuries the Bethmooran king's junior - and also appreciated this room.

The emperor inclined his head. "Bethmoora."

"Pray, have a seat."

Huizong sank into the proffered chair with a fluid grace the older monarch envied. Once, long ago, he had been not only the Jade Emperor's equal, but his superior in battle. _But not so now,_ Balor thought more than a little ruefully. _Not with these old bones and this blasted thing,_ casting a brief and disdainful glance at his false arm.

The Dragon of Dilong leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. Jade eyes smoldered. "I believe I have waited long enough for your explanations, King Balor. Where is your son, Prince Nuada? Why is he sporting with a base-born mortal harlot when he is betrothed to my daughter? And why do I hear rumors that you are encouraging him to turn his back on this union in favor of marrying that human whore?"

Balor reclined in his chair. "I am not sure what 'human whore' you are referring to, Emperor Huizong. The mortal my son is courting is a lady of high standing, a healer among her people. Lady Dylan has saved Prince Nuada's life on more than one occasion."

Huizong scoffed. "Oh, I see. 'Lady' Dylan, is it? An empty title to make this dishonor easier to swallow, I suppose?"

"Not at all. Common-born the human may be, but what she lacks in breeding she makes up for easily with courage, resourcefulness, a cool head, and the uncanny ability to bring my son to heel when nothing else can curb him. You of all people know what a useful tool it is to have someone who can be the leash to hold one's wayward offspring in their proper place."

The emperor did not flinch at the reminder that Zhenjin, the crown prince, was not his eldest son. The eldest prince of Dilong, Prince Shaohao, had long ago been removed from the line of succession and exiled to the Yue Mountains for repeated attempts to overthrow the emperor. As far as Balor knew, Shaohao was still rotting away in his palatial prison in the mountains, guarded by the elite of the Téngshé.

Huizong also knew - who, in fact, did not? - that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance despised the human race with every fiber of his being and would most likely upon becoming king break the treaty with the children of Adam and declare war on them once more. It was also no secret that Faerie itself was divided as Bethmoora; that half the fae were willing to sacrifice their lives and livelihood to maintain the so-called "peace" and the other half wanted to eliminate the threat of mankind forever. Both King Balor and Emperor Huizong were of the former party. Both of their heirs were of the latter.

So Huizong could understand what Balor was saying. That did not negate the fact that by courting this human commoner, the Silver Lance had dishonored Princess Ming Xian, the apple of the Dragon Emperor's eye. Which the Dragon of Dilong politely explained in words carved from jagged ice.

In a voice as equally glacial, Balor replied, "When We discussed this match before, Your Imperial Majesty, We informed you that Our heir would not be forced into this match if he was truly opposed to it. That still holds true. If Prince Nuada does not wish to marry Her Highness Princess Ming Xian, We shall not force him. The betrothal was never set in stone. We have broken no vows, nor foresworn any oaths. You will not hold Us to an agreement We did not make. Is that understood, Your Imperial Majesty?"

Jade eyes narrowed. Balor did not flinch. "You would risk war with Us, King Balor? Over the whim of a boy who is thinking with his loins instead of his brain? Over a mortal slut who is no better than she ought to be and will, in less than a century, be nothing but dust and fading memory to him?"

"You would go to war, Emperor Huizong, over this trifle? As We have said, We have made no set agreement. You are angry because your daughter is the jewel of your court and your dearest pride. All of Faerie knows this. We will then ask you this, Emperor Huizong - does Princess Ming Xian even _want_ to marry Prince Nuada? She is little more than a baby. He is a man grown. Surely she would not be happy with so old a husband, and unlike most of your children, We know that her wishes are at least a small factor in your decision here. If she was opposed to this match, would you force her into it?"

"We would counsel with her. Young the princess may be, but she is still a princess, and she has no real reason not to want this match when it benefits her kingdom, her family, and herself. She accepts this union as inevitable."

"Does she feel the sting of this 'dishonor' that you claim We have visited upon you?"

"Of course not," Huizong retorted, not even bothering to hide his disdain for such an idea. "She is a little girl. But whether she feels it is not the point; the rest of my kingdom knows that she was promised to Prince Nuada-"

"We are going in circles," Balor said wearily. "This is my final word on the subject, Huizong - I'll not force my grown son to marry a child barely into her third century. At any rate, the match is pointless due to the discrepancy in their ages. You can hardly expect your daughter, once old enough to actually consummate such a union, to wish to do so with a man nearly four-thousand years her senior. If you believe we have dishonored you, challenge Prince Nuada. He and Prince Zhenjin will fight for the honor of the princess. The victor will determinate whether you pursue this talk of war."

The Jade Emperor stood, and just barely inclined his head. "Very well. Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire will challenge Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance this night before the Court of Bethmoora - if Prince Nuada can be coaxed into appearing," he added with an edge to his voice. "Where _is_ the prince, anyway?"

"I don't know," Balor muttered.

Huizong snorted. "Do not insult my intelligence, Balor. I know Nuada has returned to Findias. Where is he?"

"He's in Findias," the king replied. "That is all I know. He's been absent from his rooms and from the castle-proper since nearly dawn this morning. I do not know where he is. Somewhere in the palace gardens, perhaps. He is under house arrest and cannot leave Findias without going through my Butcher Guards."

"Perhaps you should send Her Highness Princess Nuala to find her wayward twin," the Dilong Elf said with cool civility. "So that I may speak with him."

"Her Highness is currently out doing exactly that-"

Just then, someone rapped smartly on the receiving room door. Before Balor could even call out, the door slid open to reveal the Elven princess in question, windblown and with flushed cheeks and the oddest expression on her moon-pale face. "Athair, you must come see this! You will scarcely believe your eyes..." She trailed off when she caught sight of the emperor. Sinking into a graceful curtsy, Princess Nuala murmured, "Our deepest apologies, Your Majesty, Your Imperial Majesty. We did not mean to interrupt."

"Not at all, Your Highness," the Jade Emperor replied. "Your arrival was in fact quite timely. Pray, what is this thing His Majesty need see? We Ourselves are quite curious as to what could cause such an uproar."

Without missing a beat, the princess said, "Please excuse Us, Your Imperial Majesty. We mean no offense, but the thing We wish Our father to see to is a private matter between Us as father and daughter, not king and princess. It would be most inappropriate to show such a thing to one who is not family. Our apologies."

Huizong arched a sardonic eyebrow. "Quite a diplomatic answer, Princess. If you and His Majesty will excuse me, then."

Nuala waited a few moments after the emperor's departure to ensure that he was well and truly gone, and his Téngshé with him, before she went to her father and grasped his hand in both of hers. "Athair, you must come with me! You must see this!"

"My daughter," he replied, baffled as she tugged him towards the door, "what is your hurry? Is something amiss? Where are your guards?"

"They are just beyond the door, do not worry," Nuala replied with no little impatience. "Athair, _hurry!_ If we take too long, it may be over before you see it for yourself!"

"Can you not at least tell me where we are going or what it is we are going to see?"

She shook her head. "You would not believe me if I told you. Just hurry!"

Nuala led him down the hall to the king's entrance to the gardens, and out into the cold winter afternoon. The sun was perhaps a quarter of an hour from setting. Dark amber sunlight silhouetted the winter-bare trees and glinted on the snowy ground. Through the gardens they went, past the kitchen gardens, down a short pathway lined with polished rocks. Past the fountain sculpted in the shape of splashing naiads. All the way to a hawthorne gate set in a stone wall overgrown with rich green ivy. A dozen Butcher Guards had all taken seats on stools that, Nuala informed him quietly, had been provided by some of the young under-gardeners out of sympathy for the royal guards' aching feet. The guards leapt to those feet the moment Balor and Nuala swept into view.

Balor froze when he caught sight of the hawthorne gate. A vicious agony pierced him straight through his chest for a brief eternity before subsiding into a throbbing ache. Not here. His daughter could not ask him to come here. Why had she brought him to Cethlenn's garden?

His daughter took his hand of flesh in hers and said softly, _I am sorry, Athair, that this is where I must bring you, but you must see what lies within its walls. I believe it will bring joy to your heart to see it. But you must glamor us so that no one can see or hear us, or my brother will be alerted to our presence._

_Your brother?_ Balor echoed. _Nuada is within? Why must I-_

_Please, Athair, you won't believe it unless you see it, but I am certain it will make you happy. Please?_

After an inner struggle that left hope warring feebly with bitterness, he glamored himself and his daughter and touched the garden door. "_Oscailte_," he whispered. Open. And the hawthorne gate swung inward, revealing the garden beyond. Balor stepped inside, followed swiftly by Nuala, though the guards remained on the path at the princess's insistence. The door shut behind them without a sound thanks to the royal faerie glamor. Balor stared in absolute shock at the sight before him.

_Is he truly asleep?_ The king demanded after a moment. He still held his daughter's hand, so she could still hear his thoughts.

_Yes,_ Nuala whispered. _He has no idea we are here. That anyone but the two of them are here. And he is fast asleep. They both are; I can feel her thoughts through their contact. Look._ She pointed, and Balor took a moment to truly take in what he was seeing.

Nuada lay on his side on the grass, his body curled protectively around Dylan, who lay with her back to him and her head pillowed on his outstretched arm. His other arm was draped over her, his hand resting lightly on her belly. One of the human's hands covered his. The other was stretched out so that her fingers twined with the fingers of Nuada's outstretched hand.

Even as Balor watched, Nuada tightened his grip fractionally and nuzzled the mortal's hair. She sighed in contentment. Murmured his name in her sleep. What shocked the king even further was when the prince mumbled, "Dylan, mo duinne," before nuzzling her again.

_How... how can this be? He would never... he cannot... I do not understand this,_ Balor confessed.

_He loves her,_ Nuala replied. Her voice was a mere thread of sound, for fear of waking her twin with her mental presence. _He truly loves her. I have not seen him so relaxed in centuries, even with a woman or with friends. And look,_ she added, soft wonder in her voice. _He is smiling. My brother is smiling._ And it was true - a soft smile curved the prince's mouth. _I have not seen him smile in slumber - or, in truth, known him to sleep so peacefully - in many years. Athair... you did it. You truly did it; he is in love with her._

Balor wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe that all the scheming, all the plotting, had come to fruition and there was nothing more he need do to prevent his son from slaughtering the children of men. But he couldn't afford to believe. Not yet.

_I want to observe them for a while,_ the king said softly. Nuala looked at him askance. _If they begin anything I should not see, I will leave. But I want to know if your brother was telling the truth about everything he said regarding this mortal. I want you to return to the palace, my daughter. Tonight there is a banquet to honor Nuada's return. And tonight Prince Zhenjin will challenge him on behalf of Ming Xian. I want you to be ready._

_Yes, Athair,_ she replied, and left as silently as she'd come, leaving the king to take a seat and study his son and the human with the impunity granted by fae glamor.

Sometime later, Nuada's eyes flickered open and he stared up at the sunset-painted sky for a moment, disoriented. Then he glanced down at the human cuddled up to him. Balor expected the prince to pull away from the girl or reject her in some other way. Instead, Nuada leaned down and kissed the top of the mortal's head. Brushed his lips along the thick scar that marred her cheek. Then he gently extricated himself from the human and sat up, stretching the kinks out his spine with several audible _pops_. Then he shook out the arm that the mortal had been sleeping on and began, Balor imagined, to work the feeling back into his fingers.

"It is much later than I thought," Nuada mumbled, gazing up at the sky. "I was supposed to wake her in time for church. Blast it." He reached out and gently shook her by the shoulder. "Dylan. Sweetheart. We overslept; time to wake up now."

"Mmmm." The mortal blinked awake and sat up very slowly. She looked around as if dazed. Her eyes met Nuada's, and she smiled, then frowned. She looked around again, brows furrowed. "Wait. Where... wait." Her eyes went wide with something like realization. She glanced down at herself and squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear leaked out to roll down her cheek.

"Dylan?" Nuada laid a hand on her shoulder. "What is it?"

"I... I thought that... darn it," she whispered, and pressed a hand to her mouth. She drew a sharp breath that was almost a sob. "_Darn it_. Why did you wake me up?" And then she began to cry. Bitterly. Wretchedly. As if someone had stripped all hope from her.

The king did not expect his son to pull the girl into his arms and begin stroking her hair. Did not expect him to murmur soft things in Gaelic while he held her, rocking her slightly while she wept into his shoulder. The helpless anguish in Nuada's eyes shocked Balor as well. Nuala was right. His daughter was absolutely right - this scarred, ugly human girl had somehow managed to win Nuada's heart.

"Shhh," Nuada whispered while Dylan sobbed. "Shhh, mo duinne. It's all right. You are safe now. I'm here, you are safe. It was only a nightmare, sweetheart. Please do not cry. You are safe now, it's over. It was only a bad dream. Do not cry, I am here. Shhh."

Dylan shook her head without taking her face away from Nuada's shoulder. "It _wasn't_ a bad dream. It was... it... I didn't want to wake up. Not ever. Why did you wake me up? I wanted it to be real. I wanted so badly for it to be real but it wasn't. _Why did you wake me up?_"

"Forgive me," he said, laying his cheek atop her head. "I did not know. Forgive me."

After a tense moment, she mumbled, "S'not your fault. I k-keep having this st-stupid dream and it hurts _so m-m-much_ to wake up."

"The dream you mentioned before?" He words were soft and did not press her. Balor was startled once again by the gentleness in his son's voice. Where had it come from? "It is the same dream?" She nodded. Her tears were beginning to exhaust themselves. "Tell me?" It was not a command, or even a request, but an offer to unburden herself. Dylan shook her head. "Is there nothing I can do?"

At this, she finally lifted her head and sniffled, swiping at her eyes with a trembling hand. "You just did it." The mortal offered the prince a tremulous smile. "Jeez. What would I do without you?"

He quirked a brow. "We already know the answer to that, darling - you would be very, very boring." But the king could see that the smile Nuada offered her was edged with concern and his eyes were shadowed.

Dylan laughed. Brushed at her eyes again. "Thank you, Nuada."

"For what?"

She kissed the tips of her fingers, then pressed them to his cheek. "For being you."

He cupped her face in his hands and leaned in to lightly kiss her lips. "I could say the same to you, mo mhuire." He kissed her again, still soft as a sigh. "Dylan... won't you tell me your dream? If it pains you so, perhaps I can help you. Or perhaps you would allow me to enter your dreams and I could suppress it-"

"No," she protested, shaking her head with surprising vehemence. "No, I don't want you to get rid of it! I... it's so... it's wonderful. You don't understand. It's so wonderful, but... but it isn't real, you see, and so when I wake up and I realize it's a dream, I... it just crashes down on me for a minute. Reality. That's all."

His thumb stroked along her cheek. "Sweetheart... won't you tell me what you've been dreaming? I... I am worried for you." At her puzzled frown, the prince added gently, "You do not look well. You're so pale, and you seem so tired. I have to wonder if it's because of this dream."

"It's because of your dad, the jerk," she muttered. Balor blinked. "The whole situation with him and the stupid treason thing and all is just... really stressful. I'm fine."

"You do not _look_ fine."

Dylan smiled at the prince. "You worry too much, my love. I'm all right. I'm just a little tired, that's all. As for my dream... we can talk about it later, okay?" She let her head fall to his shoulder. Sighed. "Please let's talk about it later."

He pressed a kiss to her temple. They touched so easily, Balor realized. As if it were second-nature, as natural as drawing breath. Nuada was _not_ one for casual contact. Was not, as far as Balor recalled, one for much physical contact at all outside of the practice ring, dallying with women, and interactions with his twin. Yet the prince seemed almost to need to touch the mortal. To touch, and be touched by her in these small gestures - her head on his shoulder, his hand running up and down her arm in a soothing motion. How had the king not seen this? And what did it mean regarding Nuada's plans for the Golden Army and Balor's plans for Nuada?

"As you wish, my lady," Nuada murmured. "As you wish. But I would ask something of you." When she looked up, he trailed a fingertip down her cheek. "I would ask you to allow me a chance to bring a smile to your lips once more. I have a surprise for you, if you will permit me."

The mortal gave him a fond look. "Really? Another one? You're going to spoil me for regular guys, you know."

Nuada scowled. "Which is exactly as it should be; you are too good for those lowly mortals, anyway." She opened her mouth to reply, and he added, "And you are far beyond the reach of those feckless court buffoons as well. None of those imbecilic louts are worthy of you."

Dylan reached up and lightly caressed Nuada's mouth. Even now, Balor waited for the prince to reject the touch of mortal fingertips ghosting over dark lips to rest at the corner of the prince's mouth. Instead, the human said softly, "Smile, Nuada. You don't smile enough."

"Nor do you. We shall just have to fix that. Come on; on your feet."

Balor watched his son gently pluck a few blades of grass and a handful of golden leaves from Dylan's dark curls. Then he collected an empty basket and the cloak that he and the mortal had been half-curled up on together. Watched him drape that same cloak around slender mortal shoulders in preparation of the winter cold waiting beyond the walls of the ensorcelled garden. Watched them walk out together. Nuada did not even protest when the dozen Butchers assigned to keep him in line gathered into formation around him and the human woman. The prince merely offered the human his arm in a formal escort's gesture, and he and Lady Dylan walked away.

After a long moment, Balor settled onto the wooden bench beneath the Fomorian rose tree. This garden had always been reserved for the queen of Bethmoora. Before Cethlenn, Balor's own mother had called it her own. Cethlenn's contribution to its beauty had been some of the roses and especially the great rose tree that now loomed above the king's head. They had spent hours beneath this tree over the centuries. It was beneath this tree, in fact, that the queen had told him she carried their children, their twins, Nuada and Nuala.

He had not set foot in this garden in a very long time. But he had managed to remain within its walls for nearly two hours now, studying the softness, the tenderness so newly awakened in his son. And it was easier to be within the garden even now that Nuada was gone. Balor wondered if he ought to credit the mortal with both the prince's transformation and the odd, subtle peace that had come over the king in the last hour.

_Cethlenn,_ he thought then, and for the first time the agony was not as deep and crushing. _Cethlenn... I do not know what is to be done about our son. I do not know if he can ever be salvaged. If there is anything left of the boy you knew. But if there is aught that can be done, this girl might just be the one to do it._

Balor closed his eyes and laid his palm against the rose tree, unconsciously mimicking Nuada's gesture from earlier that day. The king decided he might stay in the rose garden, just for a while.

**.**

Nuada was surprised when the leader of the Butchers assigned to his babysitting detail agreed to keep the royal guard near the entrance to the kennels instead of insisting on following him inside.

Once he thought about it, however, he understood. It was warm in the antechamber just outside the kennels' main entrance, with comfortable wooden benches, and so long as he stayed in the main room and didn't venture into the back rooms, the guards would be able to see him and know where he was. And he suspected it was beneath the dignity of the royal elite to be pounced on by happy hound pups, anyway.

"Miyax," the Elf prince called. He knew the Mistress of the Kennels, by virtue of her agloolik senses, would hear him. So he merely leaned back against one of the countless stacked wooden crates that were supposed to go to various somewheres and waited.

The kennels had always filled him with a sense of peace - the sweet smell of fresh straw and rushes that carpeted the dog pens as well as the corridors and the floors of pretty much every other room in the building except sleeping quarters; the warmth from the lamps, kitchen and bedchamber hearths, and the hounds themselves; the sounds of kennel-workers caring for the animals, the yips of puppies at play, the comforting noise of the dogs sleeping or wrestling with each other or working with their handlers. This had been one of the places he had come with his father often as a boy. The kennels, the stables. They had always been a safe place. A happy place.

In a few moments, a woman stepped out from the back rooms and approached the prince. The wintry sunlight and the light from the lamps sent the thin sheet of ice on her dusky skin and midnight-black hair glittering like tiny diamonds. The only thing that kept her from looking completely fey and unreal to Dylan was the bits of straw clinging to her dark leather breeches, her white linen shirt, and her frosted hair. White fur trimming her long brown boots also had bits of straw chaff stuck to it.

A massive white wolf with sloe black eyes paced along at her side. Its thick, snowy fur glistened like hoarfrost. It left no footprints and did not stir the rushes and straw on the floor with its steps. No straw or other debris stuck to its body. Dylan noticed with a start that it cast no shadow.

Only a few paces away, the woman bowed. The wolf lowered its head in a strangely human gesture of respect. When the woman straightened, a smile curved her blue-tinged lips and crinkled the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. Dylan thought she caught a brief glimpse of cerulean and pale green flashing in the dark eyes.

"You honor the Royal Kennels with your presence, Your Highness," she said in a voice that held undercurrents of the creak and groan of ancient glaciers and the roar of northern winds. "Your return is always much looked for."

Nuada inclined his head. A fond smile played about his mouth. "It is good to be here. Miyax, I present my fair lady, Dylan of Central Park. Lady Dylan, this is Miyax Agloolik of Saami, Mistress of the Royal Kennels and one of my oldest friends."

_Saami,_ the mortal thought with no little surprise. _How did a native Inuit fae find such a high-ranking position in an Irish faerie kingdom?_ Saami, Dylan knew from study, was the fae kingdom farthest to the north, covering the whole of the Arctic Circle, a huge part of Canada, a little bit of Russia, Alaska, and the Aleutian Islands. She had heard - though she didn't know this for a fact - that the king of Saami was a giant shapeshifting polar bear, and that his queen was a fire sprite or something.

Miyax offered Dylan a short bow. "My lady, it is a pleasure to meet the one who has lightened my prince's heart. You have my deepest thanks. I take it, then, Your Highness, that you are here for that which we discussed when last you came to the kennels?" At Nuada's nod, the agloolik smiled. Her teeth were sharp as a wolf's. "I shall fetch Flannán for you, then, Sire."

"No need," Nuada said. "Bring the other two if they are ready."

As the wintry fae woman left the main room, Nuada raised two fingers to his lips and gave a sharp, short whistle. Dylan smiled. "I didn't know you could do that."

He arched a brow. "Can you not whistle?"

Dylan sighed in mock-despair. "Well, kinda-not-really, and not like that. I..."

She trailed off as the _biggest_ dog she had _ever_ seen slowly padded into the room.

Dark eyes regarded her steadily for a moment. Then the dog approached Nuada and sat at his feet, offering him a look of absolute adoration. The Elf laid a hand on the dog's head and scratched behind its ears. The dog's shoulder stood higher than Nuada's waist; the top of its head nearly reached his sternum. Its paws were as big as Dylan's hands. The slightly curly, bronze-colored fur was thick and silky-looking under the light.

"Dylan," Nuada said, and there was a wealth of pride in his voice. "This is Flannán."

*Hello, my lady,* the dog said. Dylan's jaw dropped. *Yes, I speak. I am a _Sidhe Cú Faoil_. We can speak. You are Master's lady. He has told me about you.* Flannán took a step towards Dylan, who tensed. That dog was nearly as tall as she was. *Do not be afraid. You are a friend. I do not bite friends.* Another step.

"She likes her ears scratched." Nuada made it a suggestion, paired with an encouraging smile. Hesitantly, mouth suddenly dry, Dylan reached out and touched the top of the faerie hound's head. The fur was as soft and silky as it looked. When she managed to give a tentative scratch, the dog sighed happily. Encouraged, Dylan carefully went to work on what was obviously a very itchy spot.

*Thank you,* Flannán sighed a moment later. *That is nice. Yes. Thank you very much. You give good scratches.* She gave Dylan's hand an affectionate bump with her head and then shook herself. *That is enough scratching. It was very nice. Master, Eimh is ready.* Nuada nodded his approval. *You will take Sétanta?*

Nuada pursed his lips. Sétanta was the second hound he had requisitioned to guard Dylan when he'd been making the arrangements for their return the day before. He had written a brief missive to Miyax telling her that a second beast would be needed as protector for his lady, and to speak to Flannán about finding the best one for the job. One who could work with Eimh, one who was steady and trustworthy and had good sense.

Flannán had chosen Sétanta. Nuada would not have considered the puppy a good choice in the least, but Flannán had insisted that this particular son was the best choice. She had been so insistent, in fact, that Nuada had been forced to agree. The Elven warrior still wasn't sure what to think about it all.

"Is he ready?" Nuada asked. Flannán whuffed, the hound equivalent of a nod. "Very well. Miyax went to fetch them-"

*Is it our turn to see Master _yet?_*

Dylan started a little at the voice that seemed to come from inside her own head. It hadn't been quite so strange with the adult Flannán, whose voice was mature and female, but this voice was young and impatient and clearly boyish. In fact, it reminded her very much of A'du'la'di. A reflexive smile spread across her face. Nuada saw it, saw that it lacked hardly any shadows, and felt some of the tension that had been tightening his shoulders ease back a little.

*_Sétanta_,* a second voice cried in dismay from somewhere beyond the main room. *Shut _up!_ We are _working!_*

*We're not working _yet_, Eimh,* the first voice said. *When it is time to work, we will be serious then. Do not be such a hissy-cat.* Dylan's smile was slowly morphing into a grin. *What do you think Master's lady will be like?*

*I don't _know!_ Shut _up_, before they _hear_ us! Master's lady will not like us if we cannot work!*

*We are allowed to play until it is time to work,* the first voice insisted. *Master and Miyax both say so. And Mother says Master's lady needs a friend, not just a guard. We will be her friends _and_ her guards. We will play games with her. We will love her. She will be our person. She will like us.*

*We are going to be sacked,* the second voice lamented, every word smothered in misery. *Master will not love us anymore. Mother will spank us. We will be disgraced. I will lose my squeaky ball. I will lose my special meatbone.* Then, with horrified conviction, *_I will lose my comfy chair_!*

_Oh, the horror,_ Dylan thought, trying not to giggle. She glanced at Nuada, who was staring with fierce concentration at the ceiling. A muscle in his jaw twitched twice. He swallowed hard. When she made an inquiring noise, he flicked his gaze to her and she saw barely-suppressed mirth sparkling in the amber of his eyes.

*You will _not_ lose your comfy chair.*

"If you two are quite finished," Nuada called, voice a lazy drawl. Dylan choked on a laugh. There were two high chorusing yips, almost like yelps of surprise. Then, a pair of hounds crept into the room on either side of Miyax. They kept their heads lowered but peeked up at Nuada from beneath their lashes, looking for all the world like a pair of children caught red-handed at being naughty. The hounds - Dylan supposed they were puppies, but they were easily the size of small deer and the tops of their heads reached her waist - came to a halt just behind Flannán.

*Master,* said one of the pups, a pure white beauty with honey-gold eyes and gargantuan paws. The other pup, whose coat shone like velvet midnight, bowed its head and echoed the other hound's address.

Miyax slid her hands into her breeches pockets and rocked back on her heels. "My lady, if I may present the hound-pups Eimh Ionsaí and Sétanta." With a quirked brow that sparkled with a dusting of hoarfrost, she added, "I could give you their pedigrees - they're thoroughbreds - but I doubt you would appreciate them. Simply put, they are Flannán's pups by His Highness's best war-hound. For all they can be silly at times, they will make wonderful guard dogs."

Dylan glanced at Nuada, who suddenly looked, to her trained eye, almost nervous. When the puppies had been talking to each other and mentioned her being "their person," she'd thought it simply excitement. Puppies often bounced between various people with the attitude that this newest friend was their new "person" - until they met another new person. But if she was getting this right, then Eimh and Sétanta were...

"They're for me?" She asked softly. Nuada canted his head. _We will be her friends_ and _her guards,_ Sentanta had said. "Extra protection?" She wanted to be certain she knew exactly what she was getting into.

"Protection," the prince acknowledged. "And companionship."

_Translation,_ Dylan thought. _I want to make sure you're safe... and I want to make sure you're happy here, if I can ensure it._ She couldn't help it - she smiled. Something warm and soft fizzed pleasantly in her stomach at the thought. Nuada had arranged this for her. To protect her, and to make her happy.

*You are smiling,* the black pup - Sétanta - said diffidently. His ice-blue eyes were wide and hopeful. *Does this mean you like us?*

Miyax laughed. The gargantuan white wolf at her side made a whuffling sound - it sounded like wolfy laughter. "Let Lady Dylan get a look at you first."

Dylan would have knelt to really get a good look, but Sétanta made a small whining sound and very carefully touched her right knee with his nose before she could kneel. *You are hurt. Who hurt you? I will bite them. I have sharp teeth. See?* He bared his teeth briefly. *Who hurt you?*

She realized he'd somehow sensed her knee was busted. "It was a long time ago. The prince took care of the ones who hurt me."

Sétanta's long slender tail gave two little tick-tock motions. *Good. Master has sharp teeth, too. And a spear. Do not come down; we will come up.* And the puppy gave a graceful little leap onto more of the stacked wooden crates, landing without so much as a wobble or a scrabbling of claws. The white-furred pup followed quickly after her brother. Both dogs sat, looking for all the world as if, had they been human, they'd have been standing at military attention.

*I am Eimh Ionsaí,* the white hound said, and lowered her head the same way Flannán had done to Nuada. *It means 'swift attack.' But I like Eimh. I will guard you.*

*I'm Sétanta Cian. It means 'legendary protector.'* The black hound bowed his head. *I will guard you, too.* Then he gave Dylan what could only be called a puppy smile. *And we will be friends and play games so you will not be lonely. But we will be gentle because you are injured.*

Dylan laid her hands on both hounds' heads. They bestowed looks of absolute adoration on her. She looked at Nuada, grinned, and mouthed, _Best gift __**ever**_. He flashed her that familiar smirk of smug male pride and inclined his head.

**.**

*We will love you forever, because you are our person,* Eimh said, trotting along beside Dylan as she, the puppies, Nuada, and the Butchers began the journey back to the main part of the castle. *And we will protect you-*

*And play with you-* Sétanta added, keeping pace in front of Dylan. For all his talk of playing, however, once they had left the kennels the little hound - "little" being a relative term - had become quite serious in keeping eyes, ears, and nose open for possible danger. Nuada watched him with approval. Dylan watched him with delight, finding him utterly adorable, which Sétanta was more than pleased by.

*And make you happy when you are sad,* Eimh continued as they went through the entrance, out of the deepening cold of the approaching winter night.

*We will sleep on your bed with you to keep you warm,* Sétanta said.

*Do not worry - we do not have fleas.*

*And I will not look when you are dressing," the black hound added. Dylan would've been embarrassed if anyone but she and Nuada had heard the puppy, but according to Nuada, the strange mental-speech ability the fey hounds possessed allowed them to be highly selective about who heard them when necessary. *Master and Miyax both say two-legger females do not like that.*

*And we will not jump in your bathtub, either. Or chew on your shoes. We have been trained.*

*Yes, we have been...* Sétanta trailed off for a moment, then suddenly dropped back a ways to put himself between Dylan and whatever he'd sensed or seen. Eimh moved forward to stand next to him. *He smells angry,* the black hound muttered. *He does not like Master's lady.*

Nuada and the Butchers had shifted to battle-readiness the moment the dog had reacted to whatever threat he'd sensed. "Who?" The Elven warrior demanded in a low voice. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. "Who doesn't like my lady?"

Eimh stretched out her neck and pointed down the corridor with the tip of her long muzzle. *The dragon Elf.*

Feral amber eyes zeroed in on a figure leaning against the wall, partially hidden by deepening shadows. The reclining figure straightened and turned, stepping more fully into the lamplight. Amber light shone on raven black hair that just barely brushed shoulders clad in dark green silk. Slanted eyes of midnight viridian with slitted golden pupils glared from beneath slender black brows. Nuada bit back an oath when he recognized the eastern-style sword known as a _chokutō_ at the figure's side.

"Hail and well-met, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora, Heir to the Golden Throne of the Tuatha Dé Danann."

The voice was regal, and so cold it burned. When the figure came within an appropriate distance, Dylan realized it was a male Elf. An Elf, but unlike any she'd seen before. The slitted pupils didn't faze her after seeing Eammon, though these eyes of smoldering jade were more reptilian than cat-like. It was the scales.

There weren't many - in fact, there were hardly any, which was what made them so noticeable. Traceries of emerald and gold graced just beneath the Elf's brows and along the sides of his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his _biànfú_, a formal Chinese silk tunic. The scales accented the upper ridge of eye-socket as well as the shallow depressions between the lines of muscle from just beneath the pointed ear down the side of the neck. When he straightened from the perfunctory bow he offered the Bethmooran prince, Dylan saw that scales glinted at his wrists and vanished under the hems of his sleeves.

Nuada offered the same short bow to the man before them, but his voice was warmer when he said, "Hail and well-met, Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong, Heir to the Jade Throne of the Lóng De Chuán Rén."

Dylan went very still. _This_ was Prince Zhenjin, older brother of Princess Ming Xian and crown prince of the Chinese Elf kingdom? The guy who was, last she'd heard, potentially planning on challenging Nuada to a fight to the death over the honor of his sister?

"We would have words with you, Crown Prince Nuada," Zhenjin said. "In private."

"By order of Our royal father, His Majesty King Balor, We go nowhere without an escort." Nuada gestured to the assembled Butchers. "May We not speak here, Crown Prince Zhenjin? We will order Our guards to fall back to afford Us a little privacy. Our lady," the prince added in a voice suddenly edged with shards of frost, "of course remains at Our side."

Zhenjin's jaw went tight. Dylan saw the fingers of his left hand twitch. Wanting a weapon? _I thought Nuada said he and Zhenjin were friends,_ she mused as the Dilong prince canted his head in reluctant acquiescence. _So why are they both being so formal? What's going on?_

"Fall back a space," Nuada ordered the guards. Since they were not letting the prince out of their sight by doing so, they obeyed. Dylan and the hounds stayed where they were. "Sétanta and Eimh - you will both be on your _best_ behavior." Both hounds glanced at the prince. Shifted a little. They did not release the tension humming through their bodies, but they no longer looked as if they meant to pounce on Prince Zhenjin.

The Dilong Elf stopped a pace away from Nuada. When he looked at the prince, Zhenjin's face betrayed a ripple of bewilderment and... was that just a touch of hurt? But when he looked at Dylan, there was nothing on that feral countenance or in those snake-slit jade eyes but contempt.

"This is the woman?" Zhenjin demanded softly.

Nuada shifted his weight. Tension coiled in Dylan's stomach when she saw the first glints of icy topaz in his gaze. "What woman would that be?"

"The whore you dishonor my sister by rutting with," the other prince hissed. "_That_ woman. The human tramp."

"Be _very_ careful, old friend," Nuada said too softly. Menace glittered in his jewel eyes. "I will stand for much from you that I will stand for from few others, but be very careful when you speak to or regarding my lady."

Zhenjin stared at him. Dylan almost felt sorry for the prince - he looked almost as if Nuada had hit him. "You are joking, surely."

Nuada's gaze remained cool and level. "Do I appear to be joking?"

The prince's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a long moment. Then he managed to sputter, "Nuada, you cannot be serious. I... you... _look_ at her!"

_Ouch,_ Dylan thought, surprised the remark nettled as much as it did. But then, why not? Hadn't she told Nuada this would happen? That her scars, and her just-above-average looks beneath them, would be yet another mark against her and their relationship? Dylan tried to shrug off the sting of Zhenjin's remark. Managed it when she became distracted by the sudden chill emanating from Nuada. She glanced at her prince and saw the familiar muscle tic in his jaw.

_I really hope he doesn't punch this guy,_ she thought. Dismissed the idea almost immediately. Nuada had grown up at court; he knew better than to give way to his temper. Although giving way to one's temper was a lot easier when the person you wanted to sock in the face was "an old friend."

"Perhaps We should rectify an oversight," Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance said in a voice like a rumble of thunder for all its softness. "Your Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong, noble son of Huizong Tilung the Jade Dragon Emperor and Yeh-Shen Fenghuang the Serpent Empress, Heir to the Jade Porcelain Throne of the Lóng De Chuán Rén, it is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that We present to you Our fairest and most esteemed lady, the savior of Our life and the recipient of Our highest regard, the jewel of Our Golden Court and the light of Our royal heart, Lady Dylan of Central Park."

_Whoa,_ was all Dylan could think. In a blink, it seemed, the Elf at her side had gone from being her Nuada - albeit her Nuada in a really, _really_ bad mood - to this proud and regal warrior prince who refused to take any disrespect from anyone. She'd never seen him quite like this before. This was not _quite_ Nuada. This was Prince Nuada Silverlance, ice in his eyes and a razor's edge to his tongue despite the carefully enunciated courtly words. Dylan saw that Zhenjin had noticed the difference, too.

"Nuada," he said, and Dylan blinked in surprise at the undercurrent of betrayal in his voice. "I... she is a human. How can you have fallen in love with one of _them?_ How could you do this? What were you thinking? Have you lost your mind?"

Nuada sighed, and the court mask dropped away again. "Zhenjin, you do not understand-"

"My father is demanding I challenge you for my sister's honor. Tonight. In front of the entire court of Bethmoora. We'll have to fight each other, Nuada. Do you think I _want_ to step into the dueling ring knowing that I will die if I do not kill one of my dearest friends? Is she worth that? Is your human whore worth taking my life?"

Sétanta bristled, more at the Elven prince's tone than his words. Dylan instinctively laid a restraining hand on his back. He didn't lower his hackles, and he practically quivered under her touch, but he did not growl or snarl at Zhenjin. He only fixed his ice-blue eyes on the two-legger and glared. Eimh did the same. Both dogs kept themselves between their Master's lady and this new threat. Dylan, satisfied that her new dogs weren't going to attack the other prince, glanced at Nuada.

Each word was sharp enough to draw blood when Nuada said, "I will say it once more, and once more only - be very careful in how you speak of my lady."

Zhenjin swore. "You're right - I do _not_ understand this. I do not _believe_ this. For a few tumbles with a mortal, you would do this. Because you think yourself in love, you would fight me. _Me_? We rode to war together. We saved each other's lives. We fought against the humans together; against _her kind_. Have you forgotten what the sons of Adam have done to our peoples?"

The Bethmooran prince looked away. His fingers knotted into fists at his sides. "No," Nuada murmured. "I have not forgotten."

"Yes, you have," the Dilong prince said softly. "I can see it. Elsewise, how could you look on one of _them_ with anything but disgust? They're monsters. They rape the world of everything it has, destroy all that is pure and good in it, and for what? You were the one to tell me, Nuada, that the humans will never have enough. That their greed would bring all to ruin. That they had to be stopped before they burned the world to ash. And now you're _in love_ with one of them?"

"Zhenjin-"

"When I came to Bethmoora I thought it was rumor only. I thought there was no possible chance you had betrayed the fae with a human. Perhaps your father had forced you into an injudicious position. Perhaps there was something else I didn't know about. I was going to help you somehow. But I saw you with her as you came down this hall. It was plain enough that she'd bewitched you somehow. You've sold your honor, and for what? The lowly pleasure of sporting with a mortal-"

"Okay, that's enough," Dylan snapped, wrenching both men's attention towards her. Eimh and Sétanta tensed. Nuada glared at her, the warning to back off evident on his face, but Dylan only stared into Zhenjin's glittering snake eyes and continued, "You have no idea what you're talking about. You said Nuada's your friend, or he was. If you were so close, if you liked him so much, I imagine you trusted him, right? So why don't you trust him now? You saw us together - so what? Maybe there's something going on you don't know about. Maybe you're missing a few details. You thought about it before you got all ticked off, but would you deign to consider it now? Maybe I'm different than other humans. Maybe I did something that made Nuada think I'm different. Ever think of that?"

The other prince scoffed. "What could you _possibly_ have done? You, with your human weakness and your mortal stupidity?" Dylan's expression went flat, but she said nothing. "What could you have done to warrant this softness he feels for you? There is _nothing_. Humans are incapable of compassion, of mercy, of love, of any true sentiment or kindness. And he's become such a fool, he's so enamored with you, he does not realize you don't even love him-"

"Don't ever say that I don't love Nuada." Dylan refused to look away from that jewel-like stare. "Don't you _dare_. You have no idea what he and I have been through together. You have no idea what we have suffered for each other."

"Suffered? What would a creature like you know about true suffering? You have lived for what - two decades? Maybe three? What would you know-"

"Show him," Dylan bit out from between clenched teeth. Nuada stared at her. She wrenched her eyes away from Zhenjin to glare up at Nuada. "He really wants to know? Show him. You've projected memories and stuff into my head before. Can you do it to him?" When Nuada nodded warily, Dylan folded her arms and repeated, "Then show Prince Zhenjin just what I know of suffering. What _we_ know. Show him the truth, and let our actions defend us since talking seems to be pointless."

More than a little stunned by this sudden flash of reckless temper, the Elf prince murmured, "Mo mhuire, I do not think-"

Dylan scowled. "I'm sick of people insulting you because you're dating me. I'm sick of people insulting you period. And His Imperial Highness called me stupid. I get to take offense at that. He wants to insult either of us, he needs to know what he's talking about first. Let's see if he can stomach the truth."

The truth, the mortal thought with just a touch of hysteria, was that her heart thundered in her chest hard enough to bruise her ribcage and she could feel the sweat trickling down her spine like ice water. Because what she was telling Nuada to do was... the idea had simply popped into her head as a flash of heat had warmed her uncomfortably tight chest. Her first instinct had been denial. No way was she going to show her darkest, most brutal memories to this creep. The very idea made her sick. But the flare of golden warmth in her chest had persisted.

"I can stomach whatever you care to show me, human," Zhenjin spat. Turning to glare at Nuada, the Dilong prince extended his hand, palm up. "Show me, then, Nuada. Show me what prompted you to betray us and become a pet of the humans like our fathers."

Molten bronze eyes narrowed. Slashed to Dylan's expressionless face. "Everything?" The Silver Lance demanded.

She lifted on shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. "You may show him everything that's mine. If there's something of yours you don't want him to see, I'm not going to try and make you show it to him."

Nuada laid his hand upon Zhenjin's, palm to palm. He flicked a glance at his friend. "Brace yourself, then. I will make this quick."

Dylan knew the moment the Dilong prince saw the first memory, whatever it was - his face paled and revulsion twisted his features. What did he see, she wondered? Where had Nuada begun? With her attack in the subway? Finding a helpless woman so battered and broken that she didn't even possess the will to scream anymore, trapped beneath human wolves? If she tried, she could picture how she must have looked to him in those first moments, in her scarlet dress with her blood smeared across her face and streaking her thighs, filling her mouth, pooling on the concrete, soaking the scraps of her clothes. So much blood. Was that what Zhenjin saw?

It lasted less than five minutes. By the end of it, the prince was nearly gray with something too brutal to be shock and too pitying to be horror. Sweat dampened his dark hair. The hand he raked through his hair trembled a little. Dylan wondered if Nuada had shown him what Eamonn had done to them both. Wondered if he now knew about her parents, and Saint Vincent's, and Westenra and the Blackwood brothers. She wondered, and felt more than a little sick at the thought of him knowing.

Zhenjin croaked something in what sounded to Dylan like Mandarin Chinese and pulled his other hand away from Nuada's. He gazed up at the somewhat taller Bethmooran prince with slightly glassy eyes. Then, slowly, like a man waking from a dream, he turned to Dylan and stared at her as if he'd never seen anything like her before.

"Tell me again," Zhenjin murmured. Somehow, Dylan knew exactly what he meant. She locked eyes with the Elf prince.

"I love Nuada more than my own life," she said. "I would do almost anything for him."

The crown prince of Dilong nodded slowly. "I believe you. For insulting you both earlier... I apologize." He swallowed. Dylan wondered absently if he might be feeling a little sick. What exactly _had_ Nuada shown him? "Nuada... my father has ordered that I challenge you for Ming's honor tonight at a banquet. You know I must obey."

The Bethmooran prince canted his head. "I know it. We are both bound by the dictates of our honor. Yours demands your obedience to your emperor. I do not hold that against you, old friend."

"You know that I cannot hold back in a battle."

A beat of silence. "That I know as well."

Zhenjin sighed, then bowed. "I take my leave, Prince Nuada. Milady."

Watching the Dilong prince stride away, to be met near the end of the hall by a trio of silent, black-clad Elves that she guessed were the prince's bodyguards, Dylan suddenly thought that maybe Nuada's life wasn't the only one that probably had to really, really suck. Looking into her prince's face, the mortal was sure of it. Even though it might have been considered inappropriate, she laced her fingers with Nuada's and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

_It'll be okay,_ she said through their link. With the added mental contact, she could feel more than just the tension thrumming through Nuada's body. Through their joined hands Dylan sensed anger - not at her, and not at Zhenjin, but at the emperor and the situation - as well as worry and a sharp sadness. _It'll be okay,_ she repeated.

_I do not want to fight him, Dylan._ The confession was so soft she barely heard it. They began to walk again, acting outwardly as if nothing at all had happened. _I do not want to fight and kill one of my friends. I do not want to do battle for a stupid old man's pride. I do not want to hurt Zhenjin. I do not want to kill him._

_Well... he has to fight you to the death,_ she said slowly, trying to think of something, anything that could help. _Right? By order of the Dilong Emperor. But that guy's not_ your _emperor. You don't have to do what he says. This is your kingdom. You're prince here. So... you don't_ have _to fight to the death, do you? You could incapacitate Zhenjin and win that way, couldn't you?_

_Perhaps. But I do not now know for certain. I had thought he would help me in this fight; that we would make a show of it, and then I would defeat him without too much bloodshed. But he has just warned me that such a thing is not possible. Zhenjin is - or was, last we saw each other - my equal in battle. It would take all I have to defeat him without holding back. If I try to beat him without killing him, when he is truly in the battle for my blood, I do not know for certain if I will win or not. What say you to that, my lady?_

By this time, they were at the door to Nuada's suite. Uncaring of the eyes of the guards, uncaring that anyone might walk by and see them, Dylan turned to Nuada and framed his lean face between her hands. "Then all I can say is that I'm sorry."

He tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. "You always say that. 'I'm sorry.' But you don't mean it. Your true meaning is, 'I sorrow for your grief. I lament your pain. I mourn for your sadness.' Is it not?"

Dylan nodded. In that moment, Nuada's gaze hurt her heart. Made her want to cry. She had rarely seen him look so sad.

But she didn't cry. If she did, he would feel compelled to comfort her when _he_ was the one who needed comforting. She only mouthed the words, _I love you._ It eased some of the tightness in his expression. He turned his head to press a kiss to her palm.

"Come," he said briskly after stepping back from her. "We have a banquet, and a challenge, to prepare for."

_Oh, fun,_ Dylan thought with no little sarcasm, and followed him through the door.

**.**

In a reversal of the gender roles Dylan had often taken for granted, she was ready well in advance of Nuada. In fact, all she'd done was get her hair wet to give it back its curl without so much of the frizz; changed into a different and more formal gown; and added makeup.

The makeup had been mostly to do something about the odd paleness she couldn't seem to get rid of - soft bronzer at her temples, cheekbones and jawline and gentle blush just beneath the cheekbones kept her from looking like a corpse. A bit of cheating with lipstick made her mouth less pale as well. She kept it all subtle, so the effect only made her look healthier instead of dolled-up. Nuada's words about her looks from earlier that afternoon still echoed in her head.

_Am I getting sick again?_ Dylan wondered while 'Sa'ti fetched a pair of soft suede boots from the wardrobe and Dylan dabbed just a tiny spot of perfume at her throat. _Is that why I'm so tired all the time lately? Why I look so pale? Or is it just the stress of everything?_

She'd been worried about making Nuada late to this banquet thing. As it turned out, when the prince finally deigned to appear, the mortal had worn a metaphorical hole in the carpet of her sitting room with all of her pacing. So many thoughts zipped through her brain. _He doesn't know if he can win but he has to accept. What will he do when it's time to fight Zhenjin? How do I help him?_

"You look lovely," Nuada said from the door connecting his suite to hers. Dylan jumped. She hadn't even noticed him. "Almost fey."

Dylan flushed with pleasure. "Thank you." Suddenly feeling oddly shy, she smoothed her hands over the wine-red velvet of her kirtle and murmured, "You look wonderful." And he did, in burgundy silk tunic and trews with touches of sable and rich gold embroidery. Bethmoora's crest gleamed against a black sash in the lamplight. His sword rested at his side. He needed no crown or symbol of office. In that moment he looked more like a prince than ever before. "You really do," she added.

Nuada studied her. Did she know her face practically glowed with pride in him? And did she know how truly beautiful she looked, dressed as a lady of the court in champagne silk and claret velvet, with her medallion glittering gold at her throat and the ring he had made for her gracing her finger? But he could also see she was nervous.

"Take a breath, mo duinne," Nuada murmured as he reached up and brushed back a lock of Dylan's hair. "It will be all right."

"I'm breathing," she replied brightly. "I'm totally breathing. We'll be fine. It'll be great. Never mind that everyone will be staring at me." She bit her lip. "I hate being stared at. Cripes. But it's okay," she added. "Because we'll be together. It will be just fine. Except for your dad being there. And the challenge-to-the-death thing."

He could see the nerves beginning to buzz in her voice and through her mind, worry over what was to come. Adoping his most pragmatic tone, he said, "Well, when put that way... we are quite clearly doomed. Whatever shall we do?"

Dylan shot him a look. "We mortals have a saying, Your Highness - it's not over 'til the fat lady sings." At his puzzled frown, she shrugged. "Opera reference. Anywho, and as for what should we do, in my family we have another saying. When life gives you lemons-"

"Make lemonade?" Nuada suggested as they moved to the door. Dylan scoffed.

"Heck, no. When life gives you lemons, attack life and pour lemon juice in its eyes. See how life likes it. Throw the lemons back. Demand to see life's manager. Make life rue the day it dared to give you lemons." She grinned as Nuada's mouth twitched. "_Then_ make lemonade."

"I shall keep that in mind."

A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti lamented their great misfortune in being too young - and, though neither adult mentioned this, too superfluous - to attend the banquet. Tsu's'di, on the other hand, looking quite handsome in formal livery with Dylan's new and official personal crest as a badge on his shoulder, was allowed to come by virtue of being Dylan's official bodyguard, and bore his long-knife on one hip and a shorter dagger on the other. If things were so dangerous that neither weapon proved effective, the ewah youth would simply shift and slash his way through his enemies with cougar claws and fangs.

Eimh whined low in her throat when Nuada told her that she, too, was not coming to the banquet. One hound would not raise eyebrows (many fae lords and ladies brought dogs and, in some cases, cats wherever they went - even to formal dining halls. It helped that many of the non-Elven members of Balor's court were bestial in some way. For example, Princess Nuala's lady-in-waiting, Lady Na'ko'ma, had feathers). Two, however, was one too many. Sétanta would be allowed to accompany Dylan and help Tsu's'di in guarding her.

*Why is Sétanta allowed to come but I'm not?* Eimh asked meekly. Her words held a definite canine whine to them. *Am I in trouble?*

Sétanta himself nudged his sister with his nose and engaged her in a private mental conversation that seemed to make her feel better. Her tail gave a few hesitant _tick-tock_ motions before Eimh whuffed quietly, licked the black hound's muzzle, and curled up in front of the sitting room fireplace and closed her eyes.

_What did he tell her?_ Dylan asked Nuada while the prince, his lady, and her two guardians stepped into the corridor. Dylan kept her fingers laced with Nuada's; until they reached the corridor outside the formal dining hall, she wanted as much physical contact as possible. The warmth of Nuada's skin against hers was always soothing.

_No doubt exactly what I told him,_ the prince replied. They spoke in silence to keep their conversation private from the Butcher Guards accompanying them. _That you would be nervous about this banquet, and that you would need someone to keep your spirits up. Eimh is very straight-laced, and prides herself on taking her role seriously. Sétanta, on the other hand, will be able to protect you and make you smile if it's needed._

_You think of everything, don't you? You're a genius._

_Hardly a genius, mo duinne. But_, he added with the ghost of that familiar smug male smirk, _I_ am _an Elven prince_.

_So I've heard,_ she said, and they exchanged a brief smile. The shared smile slipped away when they reached the banquet hall. Nuada muttered something deprecating under his breath. _What's the matter?_

_We're late. And I know you do not like being stared at._

Dylan began to sweat. Being late meant everyone was probably already seated. Or standing, waiting to be seated. Were they supposed to wait for the royal family to all take their seats first? Were they going to get death glares when they walked in? They were all going to be staring at her. The entire court. They would see her in her rather non-Irish dress, with her slashed and scarred face and her crooked nose, standing next to Nuada and... and what? She couldn't even think that far ahead.

With a faint creak, the doors to the formal dining hall began to swing inward. Nuada shifted his grip on Dylan's hand so that instead of the intimate entwined fingers, she was on his arm in a formal escort's gesture. She immediately missed the solid strength of his hand gripping hers. The herald announcing them seemed to be speaking from a long ways off. Dylan felt lightheaded. Was she hyperventilating already?

_Relax, Dylan._ Nuada's voice was a soft encouragement. It pushed back the dizziness and allowed her to draw a real breath. _You can do this easily. I am right beside you. Mo dathúil calman gheal, my lovely white dove, be brave for me. You can do this._

_Thank you, Nuada. For being with me._ Not just at her side, but truly _with_ her. He understood, and in front of the entire court of Bethmoora, he smiled at her and mouthed the words, _Let's do this_.

Dylan grinned.

**.**

Dinner went surprisingly swiftly once she and Nuada took their seats. Balor had _not_ waited for them, even though the dinner was (officially, at least) supposed to be in honor of Nuada's return. The court _did_ stare, whisper, and in some cases point at the pair of them. No one batted an eye at Sétanta's presence. Tsu's'di, however, drew quite a lot of attention - from a few nobles, but mostly from younger court ladies and several serving maids. The young guard seemed to remain quite oblivious. Sétanta took up residence at Dylan's feet beneath her chair.

Dylan was intensely if unwillingly grateful to Balor for the seating arrangements - he'd put her between Nuala and Nuada. _She_ was glad to be so close to her prince, and without a stranger seated near her, but Nuada seemed oddly tense. Possibly because he was sitting beside his father? Or because Zhenjin and four other Dilong Elves were seated at the king's table? She wasn't sure. She saw nothing of Ming Xian, but wasn't surprised since the princess was supposed to be a little girl. Dylan presumed she was in bed already.

The king's table was on a dais near the front of the dining hall, with other tables set before it so that everyone could see the king and the king could, if he chose to look, see everyone. When Dylan took quick peeks at the rest of the hall, the inhabitants of the other tables were always watching. It made eating rather awkward.

She tried to get good looks at everyone seated at the king's table as well without drawing anymore attention to herself. A subtle brush of Nuada's fingertips against her palm beneath the table allowed the prince to tell her just who their seatmates were: Prince Hou Junji, Prince Goazu, Princess Yin-Mei, Crown Prince Zhenjin, and Emperor Huizong of Dilong to the king's right. Between the emperor and King Balor stood an empty seat that Nuada explained silently was in honor of Queen Cethlenn, Nuada's mother. Then there was Balor, then Nuada and Dylan, then Nuala. On Nuala's other side sat a tall, broad Elf with summer-blue eyes and shoulder-length golden hair in clothes just as finely cut as Nuada's and Zhenjin's, who kept casting fond glances at the Bethmooran princess, though he also had a warm smile and greeting for the Silver Lance as well. Nuada explained that this was Crown Prince Bres of Cíocal, and that the darkly handsome Fomorian Elf on his other side was Ciaran MacAengus of Caer Ibormeth in Cíocal, the Fomorian crown prince's oldest and dearest friend.

Both Fomorian Elves sent rivulets of ice water trickling down Dylan's back, though they both offered her pleasant smiles and greetings. She wondered if her uneasiness in their presence was due to the horror stories she'd heard about the Fomorians and tried to push the nerves away. She made sure not to look too often at Ciaran, however - for some reason, whenever she glanced his way she got a mild headache.

Dylan found that Nuala, despite the cool civility of her relationship with the princess, made a very comforting dinner companion. The Bethmooran princess made sure to include the human in her conversation with Prince Bres and somehow managed to smooth the raw edges of Dylan's nervousness with soft comments or witty remarks. She didn't make fun of Dylan or insult Nuada, which helped.

Bres was all charm, paying compliments to Nuala's beauty and Dylan's "conquest" of Nuada. Although the guests at the royal table who overheard seemed to think it funny, Dylan noticed Nuada's jaw clench and the tension in the Dilong emperor's eyes. And whenever Bres made veiled inquiries about Dylan's face, Nuala steered them to a different topic.

And when Dylan's stomach flutters threatened to get the best of her, Sétanta was always there with a joke or a comment to ease the nerves. Nuada had been right; the hound pup had a superb sense of timing when it came to irony and humor in general.

The food, for the most part, was wonderful. Unlike during the Samhain feast the last time she had been in Findias, Dylan was not so distracted and uneasy that she couldn't eat. And either Nuada or Becan had spoken to the kitchen staff, or Caspar had remembered himself, but while everyone else drank beer or wine - or in the case of the Dilong Elves, tea - Dylan's glass held nothing but sweetened cider.

She was surprised that Nuala, who seemed like such a dainty thing, ate nearly as much as Nuada. The mortal couldn't blame her, though. She'd never even heard of half of the stuff the servers brought - coddle stew, for instance, made with deliciously seasoned pork and potatoes; colcannon, a potato and kale dish Nuada encouraged her to try, which turned out to be divine; and crubeens, which Nuala informed her firmly that she didn't have to eat if she didn't want to, since only barbarian males let such vile things touch their tongues. Dylan was grateful for that, since the stuff looked grotesquely similar to boiled pigs' feet - but between the stuff she ventured to try and the stuff she already knew she liked, she was hard-pressed not to stuff her face like a teenage boy.

She wondered how anyone could eat all of this and still have room for dessert. Princess Nuala seemed to sympathize.

"After the banquet, when things have quieted down, if my brother will allow it we can sneak off to the kitchens and see what of the desserts is left," Nuala whispered in Dylan's ear. "He and I used to do so all the time as children, but he may think it beneath his dignity to play such children's games now."

Dylan arched a brow. "Don't worry about that, Your Highness. We'll be there."

Nuala smiled, and Dylan was surprised to find herself smiling back without any effort at all. "Oh, good. I would like us to be friends, Dylan," the princess added softly. "If that is all right with you."

The mortal hesitated a moment, then said, "I'd like that." It was neither a yes or a no. Simply a statement. Perhaps Nuala could be a friend. Perhaps. She was certainly being nice enough right now. Dylan would have to discuss it with Nuada to make sure there wasn't some trap she was too inexperienced to see.

Talking with Nuala allowed Dylan to eat without really thinking about it, and so Dylan often found herself finished when she'd been certain she was too nervous to eat a thing. And to Dylan's surprise, talking with both of the royal twins helped her to forget what she knew was coming at the end of the banquet. It wasn't until the end of the very last course - a marvelous lemon custard that, Nuala informed her in a whisper, was Nuada's favorite - that she remembered, because Zhenjin stood up.

"Your Majesty King Balor, if I may speak?"

Balor flicked a glance at Huizong, who returned the look with a level gaze. He did not so much as glance at his son. Beside Dylan, Nuada had gone very still. Dylan could feel the tension radiating off of him. He didn't look at the Dilong prince, but at a point somewhere beyond him. The Bethmooran court hissed and murmured.

"Speak, Crown Prince Zhenjin."

"Your Majesty, the royal family of Dilong was under the impression that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance was promised to our princess, Her Highness Princess Ming Xian. That promise has fallen through and dishonored our princess, my sister. I would challenge Prince Nuada to single combat for the honor of my sister."

For a brief moment Dylan thought Balor would refuse. There was just a flicker, there and gone, in the aged amber eyes. A flicker of what, she didn't know, but she saw it. Instead, the king turned to Nuada and said, "What say you, Prince Nuada? Will you accept this challenge, or back down?"

Nuada slowly rose to his feet. The murmuring courtiers fell silent. There was a cruel weight pressing and pressing on Dylan's chest until she could scarcely breathe.

Glacial topaz eyes met a gaze of reptilian emerald. Something passed between Nuada and Zhenjin, so swift no one could catch it. Nuada almost imperceptibly inclined his head. Zhenjin did the same. Then Nuada said, in a voice completely devoid of emotion, "I accept your challenge, Prince Zhenjin. We will fight for the honor of your sister in three days' time. Is that acceptible to you?"

"It is acceptible."

Both princes took their seats again as if nothing had happened. But Dylan felt the tension rolling off Nuada in waves, and Nuala cast surreptitious glances at her twin from the corner of her eye. Nuada acted as if neither woman existed and focused on eating. After a while, the rest of the dining hall went back to their meal as well.

**.**

The banquet over, back in Nuada's room, Dylan expected the prince to start pacing. Or at least swearing. Instead he merely went to the window again and stared out at the snow-swept winter night. She recognized the taut set of his shoulders from the night before. Well, she wasn't going to let him wallow in misery again.

"You wanna talk about it?" She asked, moving to the windowseat. The window glass chilled her skin through the back of her dress. "Or are you just going to brood some more?" Nuada slashed her with a look. She didn't flinch. "Don't look at me like that. Last night we were farther apart than we have been since the first days in your sanctuary, despite there only being a door between us. You ordered me to leave, but you didn't really want me to, did you? You sent me away - why? Because you think I can't handle it? Because you think relying on me makes you weak?"

His eyes were glacial when they pinned her in place. "Relying on you _does_ make me weak, Dylan. You're not a warrior. You're fragile, vulnerable. Human. You're a weakness, one I can scarcely afford. Letting you become a bigger weakness would be foolish."

"So you don't want my help?" She demanded, folding her arms and laying them on her updrawn knees. "After promising that we would look out for each other, protect each other. After everything we've been through together, all you can say to me is that I'm a weakness? That I'm a liability? Useless?"

He turned away from her. "How could a human ever protect one of the fae?"

"In case you've forgotten, Your Highness," Dylan snapped, jerking upright, "I've saved your life at least twice! You would've died the night we met if not for me. And the night your father had you flogged, the shock and the poison would have killed you if I hadn't shown up when I did. Don't tell me I can't protect you just because I'm human. And who was it who was sobbing in my arms over a nightmare not three nights ago? You didn't seem to think me so useless then!"

"And what help are _you_ going to be in this?" He demanded. His eyes blazed molten bronze. "I have to kill one of my oldest friends, and for what? So that we might be together. So that I might be with _you!_ Because of _you_, because of what _you_ have made me feel, I am forced to fight Zhenjin, who has been my ally and my friend for thousands of years, and kill him! And you think _you_ can _help_ me?"

She just looked at him for a moment. He was uncertain if she even breathed. Then she got up and went to the door connecting their rooms. "I have work tomorrow. Early. I don't know when I'll be back. Excuse me, Your Highness."

"Dylan, wait-"

The door clicked shut behind her. After a few seconds, Nuada heard the _snick_ of the lock engaging, echoing like a gunshot. He sank down onto the windowseat and dropped his head into his hands. Why? Why was it becoming so easy to turn on her, to hurt her? Why did his anger seem to bubble up, thick and noxious and dark in his veins, at the slightest provocation?

He thought of her expression, so curiously blank before she'd gotten up and left. He'd never seen her look that way. Never heard that strange tonelessness in her voice before. It made him uneasy... and guilty. _I am sorry, mo duinne. I'm sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. Did not mean to say those things._

But the door was locked. Dylan had made it very clear, with that and with her empty words, that she did not want to speak to him just then.

Nuada sighed and turned to stare out the window into the frigid darkness, wondering if he would be able to sleep tonight. Somehow, he doubted it.

**.**

"Well?" Bres asked, approaching the scarlet-cloaked Dierdre. The gancanaugh gazed up from one of the public palace gardens at a lit window. The amber glow from inside was marred by the silhouette of a person. "Is that Nuada brooding up there?"

"Indeed," Dierdre murmured. A smile curved her lips. She had been watching the drama unfolding beyond the glass. Hadn't heard anything, but she was a mistress of reading body language. Nuada had been enraged, the human bitter and hurt. Then she'd left the prince's room altogether. "And the mortal tramp is in her room as well. Things seem to be going ill with the little lovebirds. I think your spell is working quite well, my prince. It's left them both depressed, anxious, paranoid. It's all coming together quite nicely."

"I am glad you're pleased."

Pleased? She was vastly more than pleased. Yet another night when the filthy tramp was unavailable to warm the prince's bed. Eventually the wedge driving between them would be enough to send him running to her, to Dierdre. Which was where he belonged - until she tired of him and let Bres kill him as he planned.

The gancanaugh cuddled against the Fomorian prince, her smile morphing into a grin. "And I have a request."

A golden brow winged upwards. "A request, my sweet? Haven't we done enough to them for now?"

Dierdre shook her head so that her glamored titian curls bounced. "_Not at all_. Until the spell takes full effect, I'm going to be so bored, Bres. Please, I have an idea for a little prank I can play on the mortal. But I know better than to do anything without your permission, my prince. Please, might I play my prank? It's nothing dangerous and nothing that will draw attention to our plans. But it will tear the very heart out of the little human slut. Please?"

"Give it a bit more time, my love. Then you can have your little joke. Until then, be patient. Try to be satisfied with watching the mighty Silverlance and his whore self-destruct while their world goes to hell all around them." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Come along, sweeting."

"As you wish, my prince."

But Dierdre cast one last look of longing back at Nuada's window. Bres bit back a snarl and merely offered her his arm. It wouldn't do to let Dierdre know she could make him just a little jealous of Silverlance. Besides, it was only fair, he supposed, since he had such delicious plans for Princess Nuala.

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_**Author's Note:**__ and we're back with chapter 59! So, this secret that I keep hinting at is explicitly stated in this chapter. Did anyone notice? And please buy my books, all you who have not yet (Nightmare, you darling, you're amazing for having done so already). The links are available in the top author's note as well as on my profile. And I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! It was supposed to be up AGES ago, but as I mentioned in last chapter's AN, there was a bit of an issue with gaping plotholes and so chapters 58 & 59 had to be rewritten and took awhile. Sigh. Anywho, onto our lovely review prompt!_

_1) What do we think of Huizong and Balor's relationship, especially as it compares to Zhenjin and Nuada's?_

_2) I am totally curious as to what you guys think Dylan keeps dreaming about._

_3) Balor and his venture into voyeurism. What do we think of what he saw/heard and how he interpreted it? Did I spell "interpreted" right or is there a third T? What effects do we think this will have on his plans?_

_4) Sétanta and Eimh. Are they not adorable? Sorry, I have a weakness for dogs. Especially puppies. I would so have a puppy, but I can't afford it. The only reason we even have cats is to deal with the venomous spiders and scorpions and such that sneak in from the desert, sigh._

_5) Oh, dinner. Formal dinners. I felt I needed to go into at least one, since it was going to be an ordeal (the staring, the whispering, being eyeballed while trying to eat, etc.). I hope it wasn't boring. And those are real Irish dishes I mentioned, too._

_6) The tentative bonds of feminine friendship! Who thinks Nuala and Dylan could maybe possibly hopefully be friends?_

_7) And of course, in honor of my true age (lol), seventeen favorite things. Things that made you laugh, cry, snarl, ponder, sigh, face-palm, whatever. Also if you found any typos or anything like that._

_Loves to all of you! I've missed you guys SO much! Toodle-oo!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- "The August Jade Emperor" is another name for the character from Chinese mythology.

- Téngshé are actually a type of dragon in Japanese mythology. In this fic, they look like Elven ninjas.

- Shaohao is a character from either Chinese myth or history; I just don't remember what he did. XP

- There was once a province in China called Yue. I don't know if it still exists, but one of the most famous women in Chinese history was from this province and was given the title The Lady of Yue by the Emperor of China for her expert swordsmanship.

- Miyax is an Inuit name, though I don't know what it means. It's the Inuit name of the titular character in the novel Julie of the Wolves, who has both an Inuit and an English name. Considering this Miyax's racial identity (Inuit wolf spirit) I figured it was a fitting name.

- Although I mention this in-text, Saami is the Inuit fae kingdom. It spans nearly the whole of the Arctic Circle (except what parts of Finland, Iceland, Greenland, and Norway peep over the line), a huge part of Canada, a little tiny bit of Russia, all of Alaska, and the Aleutian Islands. It is ruled by King Mashkaupeu.

- _Sidhe Cú Faoil_ literally means "faerie wolfhound."

- Sétanta is the birth-name of the Irish hero Cù Chulainn.

- Lóng De Chuán Rén means "Descendants of the Dragon."

- The quip about the lemons is paraphrased from the game Portal 2. I'm fond of it.


	60. Bleeding Before You

_**Author's Note:**_ _So I kind of wanted to call this chapter "Angst," but that would've been stupid. Fitting, but stupid. Sigh. So instead, it's called "Bleeding Before You," which is a line from the song "Foolish Games" by Jewel. The line is, "This is my heart bleeding before you. This is me down on my knees." Also, for those of you who want to strangle certain characters, I must ask for your patience until the end of this chapter. Okay? Huggles!_

_**New Story:**_ _there's another drabbly-bit collection in the world of_ Once Upon a Time _that I've posted today. It's called "__Once Upon a Time: Shadows of the Moon__." You guys should check it out, yeah? Cuddle-hugs of adoration for all of you who do!_

_**Recommendation for This Chapter:**_ _This is the soundtrack for the chapter_. _You guys can listen to it while reading, maybe. It will enhance the flavor_. =) _Which is why I posted it here instead of at the bottom. They're in no particular order._

_"Broken English" by Adam Lambert  
"Buy Me a Rose" by Kenny Rogers  
"Careless Whisper" as done by Seether  
"Dark Side" by Kelly Clarkson  
"Don't Walk Away" from_ Xanadu  
_"Favorite Mistake" by Sheryl Crow (kind of; only certain parts)  
"Foolish Games" by Jewel  
"In Joy and Sorrow" by HIM  
"Iris" as done by Leona Lewis  
"It's All Coming Back To Me Now" by Celine Dion  
"Moonlight" by The Piano Guys (it's on Youtube)  
"Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum.  
"Stand in the Rain" by Superchic(k)  
"Why?" by Jason Aldean_

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**Chapter Sixty**  
**Bleeding Before You**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of** **Cowardice, Broken Sanctuary, Exhaustion, Retrieval, Canine Comfort, a Sick Child, Cruel Words, a Nightmare, and Tender Whispers**

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It might've been cowardly of her, but Dylan set her phone to vibrate so it would wake her without rousing Nuada. As it happened, she didn't need it - she snapped awake in a frigid sweat from fragments of nightmare and bittersweet dream that brought tears to her eyes. She bit her lip until stinging copper flooded her mouth and didn't let the tears fall. She didn't want to wake Nuada. Didn't want to see him, be forced to talk to him. Not right now.

Once up, she quickly showered, dressed, took her meds, and silently said her prayers. She packed her phone and everything else that usually managed to scramble away back into her purse. Glanced at the door connecting her room to the prince's bedchamber.

It was five in the morning. He wouldn't be awake. And if she woke him, he would just snarl at her again.

_Because of you... because of__**you**__._ Her eyes stung. The world blurred. She blinked to clear her vision and clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms to push back the hurt and anger like poison in her veins.

He hadn't meant it. It didn't matter. They could talk about it when he was in a better mood. When she didn't feel like the slightest pressure would shatter her composure. When she didn't want to punch him. When she wouldn't say things she knew she'd regret after the fact.

She decided against leaving a note. She'd told him she had work and didn't know when she'd be back. He'd know where she was.

Swallowing against the thickness in her throat, Dylan turned the ring on her finger and whispered, "So that we might always find each other."

**.**

The sanctuary was just as she remembered it - the little well near the corner, the Spartan furnishings, the hearth, the two doors leading to privy and bathing room. Without understanding why, Dylan reached out and brushed her fingertips against the embroidered gold satin quilt on the bed.

She'd slept on this bed, warmed by that quilt and comforted by Nuada's presence even before they'd begun to truly trust each other. She'd listened to his breathing in the dark and known he would protect her so long as she remained within the walls of the enchanted haven.

What was happening to them? Why were they suddenly at odds?

Dylan sighed. She didn't have time to reminisce about the past, or to wonder about the present. It would take a while to navigate the subway tunnels to get to where John waited for her. She was going to take the subway to work. She would see if she could handle it. See if enough time had passed that she could walk concrete labyrinths without being forced to remember wolves howling in the darkness and the burning cold pain of a blade against her skin...

Tightening her grip on her purse straps until her knuckles ached, Dylan started to walk to the sanctuary entrance. Nuada had given her the words to quell the earth guardian protecting the haven so it wouldn't attack her. Everything would be fine. It would be just fine. And when she got back to Findias, they could... they could...

_Fight some more_, she thought with surprising bitterness. _Because apparently it's_ my _fault Zhenjin challenged him. That jerk. I really ought to_-

"You were going to leave without saying goodbye?" A familiar - and, in that moment, entirely unwelcome - voice demanded. Dylan barely managed to bite back a shriek. She whirled to see Nuada leaning against the far wall, arms folded across his bare chest, watching her with unfathomable eyes. She noticed the Elven prince still wore the cropped trousers he sometimes slept in. "Like a coward in the night, you would've slunk away without a word?"

She narrowed her eyes. Her knees felt weak as water. "So I'm a coward now, am I? Thanks _so_ much. I really needed _that_ on top of everything else. And for your information, I don't slink. It's not even dawn; I thought you'd be asleep."

"You could have woken me-"

"Why would I want to?"

Glacial topaz slashed her to the bone. "So I was correct, then - like a coward, you slink away-"

"Will you stop _saying_ that?"

"What do you expect me to say when you sneak off-"

"I wasn't sneaking off! I have work, in case you've forgotten, Your Highness. I _did_ mention this last night. And just an FYI, my life doesn't always revolve around _you_. I have a job. Friends. A family."

He scoffed. His expression was almost - but not quite - a sneer. "Of course. How could I forget your precious family? The sisters that abuse you, the pathetic brother that fails to protect you as you deserve-"

"Do _not_ talk about my brother like that. You, you're such a... you don't know anything _about_ John! You want to talk about family that treats you like dirt, what about your sister? Nuala's a complete witch but you stick by her anyway. In your eyes she can do no wrong even though she makes you miserable-"

"You know nothing of what you speak." His words, chiseled from ice, stopped her cold. "What would someone like you know of loyalty? Of the kind of love that spans centuries? No human could possibly fathom the bond that exists between my sister and I-"

"Someone like me? What does _that_ mean? What's so different between Nuala and me?"

"My sister is an Elven princess, with centuries of wisdom and experience, a gentle heart, compassion, mercy. Whereas _you_ are nothing but a-" He cut himself off abruptly, but Dylan was fairly certain she knew what he'd been about to say and was _not_ about to let it go.

Readjusting her purse straps on her shoulder, she said, "Whereas _I'm_ nothing but a disgusting human whore. No heart, no soul. Just an empty shell with no value. Isn't that right, Your Highness?" There was something awful in those rainswept blue eyes when she added, "Forgive me for forgetting my place. I'll try to keep in mind that I'm nothing to you except an inconvenience and a tool to keep your father happy. Now if you'll excuse me, I have someplace to be."

She turned and touched the smooth stone of the entryway. Muttering the words under her breath, she passed through the ensorcelled barrier between Faerie and mortality and stepped into the tunnels of the New York subway system.

Nuada stared after her, the blood pounding in his temples, heart thundering. The breath stuttered in his lungs. Hating himself, hating the look he'd seen in her eyes, hating that Dylan had succeeded in making him feel like a monster, he slammed his fist into the stone wall hard enough to leave his knuckles bleeding. Then he laid his forehead against the cool stone and wondered what was happening to them.

**.**

John tried to question her when they met up, but she brushed off his inquiries about her pallor, the shadows under her eyes, her jumpiness, and the tear-tracks she couldn't hide. He stayed with her on the trains and even walked her to the office. Ariel, her secretary, exchanged worried glances with the two security guards on duty upon Dylan's arrival. Dylan realized she looked a lot worse than she'd realized. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now.

She gave John a kiss on the cheek and sent him off to his own job, then got down to dealing with her patients. Miguel was first, just a quick session before he ran off to school. The third-grader always cheered her up with his gap-toothed grin and crazy ideas for how to spend vacation days (examples included sledding down the slides at McDonald's on plastic trays and spending a night in a tree in Central Park to try and catch a wood sprite). She made sure to catch up on how Lisa was doing at Saint Vincent's during a few free moments, as well.

Peabody called from Cop Central to inform her of what Dylan already knew - that Westenra had been found dead in his office, killed by a single stab wound to the lung with a small blade. The police lieutenant informed the psychiatrist that Dylan wasn't being looked at as a suspect for so many reasons that she wasn't even mildly concerned.

Several adolescents and teenagers later, her final appointment ended at eight. She bid the security guards goodnight and stepped out into the winter night. The cold seeped into her bones despite her leather coat, a loan from John because she'd forgotten her own coat in Findias. Her hands ached from the bitter chill. Her breath steamed as she hunched inside the coat and trudged to the nearest convenience store. Once inside, she hopped into the bathroom for some privacy, twisted the ring on her finger, and whispered the words that would take her back to the sanctuary.

The way she understood the magic of the rings, the spell was tethered to a stationary object somewhere inside the sanctuary. Sort of like a cell phone. The magic linked to the object before bouncing her to wherever Nuada happened to be, like the waves bouncing from a cellular phone to a cell-tower and then to another phone. Unlike with a phone, however, she had the option of just staying at the prince's underground sanctuary if she chose.

Dylan half-expected the prince to be waiting for her, as he'd been this morning, but the haven was empty. Exhaustion dragged at her. For some reason, she felt oddly lightheaded. Almost nauseous. She really hoped she wasn't getting sick. That would've been inconvenient. Not to mention dangerous.

She dropped her purse to the floor and sank onto the bed. She'd just rest for a minute before heading to Findias. She needed to take a few minutes and get her breath back. Wait for the dizziness to pass. Then she'd go back. Then she could talk to Nuada. Make him apologize for being a jerk, and apologize to him for throwing those words in his face. She didn't believe he thought of her as nothing. She'd only said that because she was angry and tired and for just a second she wanted him to feel as hurt as she did. And..._Disgusting human whore._ She should _never_ have said that to him.

_I have to apologize for that,_ Dylan thought, dropping her face into her hands. _Even if he doesn't apologize to me. Even if we keep fighting like this. It doesn't matter what's going on, I owe him an apology for saying that to him._

And she _would_ apologize... when she got up. And she'd get up in a minute. Just a minute...

**.**

"Where is she?" Nuada demanded, pacing the length of the private study in the prince's suite. "Where _is_ she?" There was no one to hear his snarled demands, nor anyone to answer them. It didn't matter. He had to do _something_, say _something_, even if there was no one to hear him. Worry mingled with dread and gnawed at his belly. It was nearly midnight. Why wasn't she back yet? She'd never worked this late before. Why hadn't she returned?

Unless she didn't mean to return. The thought left him cold to the marrow. Would she do that? Would she leave him without so much as a goodbye, with nothing but vicious words between them? If so...

What would he do without her?

Or was she in danger? Had something happened to her?

_Enough,_ the Elven warrior decided, coming to an abrupt halt. _Wherever she is, I can find her. And drag her back here if I must._ He reached into his shirt and pulled out his ring on its new chain. Slipping it onto his finger, he twisted it and snapped out the words that would take him to his wayward and infuriating mortal lady.

The Elven warrior hadn't expected to find her in the sanctuary, curled up on his bed with her tear-streaked face pressed into the pillow, fast asleep. Even asleep, she looked miserable. A glint of crimson on her finger drew his eyes to the ring he'd made her - she still wore it. Had she been meaning to come back and fallen asleep? She looked exhausted, the skin beneath her eyes bruised dark. Her breathing hitched every so often with the ghost of a sob. Nuada's heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

He knelt beside the bed and gently brushed back the dark tangle of Dylan's hair from her face. She didn't wake. Didn't even stir. If not for the fact that her chest rose and fell with her breath, he might've been concerned. She didn't wake even when he lifted her with infinite care into his arms. Only curled her fingers in the collar of his tunic and pressed her face against Nuada's chest. Murmured his name.

The Elven prince laid his cheek against her hair. Breathed in the scent of roses and sorrow. Why hadn't she come back to Findias? Because she'd fallen asleep, or because she hadn't wanted to return? After what he'd said to her, he couldn't really blame her.

_Forgive me, mo duinne._

Nuada sighed and adjusted his grip. He wouldn't wake her, but they had to get back before his father found out Nuada was gone. Jenny or one of the other servants could easily be persuaded to help him slip back into the castle. It was _getting_ to the castle in the first place that would take a while.

He would have to carry her. Ah, well.

**.**

Dylan bolted awake, disoriented to find herself not in the sanctuary and not in her cottage, but back in her room at Findias. She checked the room in the flickering light of the crystal flowers. Wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed to find Nuada wasn't there. Eimh and Sétanta sprawled at the foot of the bed, watching her. Eimh gave a huge yawn that showed miles of pink tongue. Sétanta whuffed at his person before closing his eyes again.

*Master brought you back,* he said in a sleepy voice. *You slept a long time. Are you still tired?*

She swiped at her eyes, which felt gritty from crying and sleeping too long. "I'm awake now." Nuada had brought her back from the sanctuary? Was he angry? Was he still angry about their argument that morning? The thought sent anger and despair spiraling through her until she could barely distinguish between the two. Dylan bit her tongue until she could speak without yelling or bursting into tears. "Hey, you two - where _is_ your master, anyway? Is he awake?"

*Master is in his study,* mumbled Eimh. *Working. It's a secret.*

*He's 'not to be disturbed,' he said.*

Disappointment curdled in Dylan's stomach. She nodded to show she understood and flopped back onto the bed. She and Nuada needed to talk. She owed him an apology. He owed her one. They needed to clear the air between them. And maybe he needed a good kick in the shin. She wasn't sure. But apparently it would have to wait. Dylan felt pathetic that the thought made the backs of her eyes prickle. What was she, twelve?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned onto her side and drew a shaky breath.

Something warm and solid squirmed against her until hot, moist breath washed against her face. Her eyes shot open to meet a gaze of icy blue. Sétanta gave a little whine. *You are sad?*

A warm weight against her back was Eimh settling in to comfort her, as well. *Why are you sad? Don't be sad.*

*Yes, do not be sad. We love you.*

Dylan draped an arm over the black puppy. "You guys are sweet. It's okay, though. Sometimes humans get sad, that's all. When they're lonely or... or wish they hadn't said or done something. If someone they love is sad. When they miss someone very much." It didn't make sense for her to miss Nuada; he was only a few rooms away. But she missed him so fiercely she ached with it.

*Do you want us to get Master?* Eimh asked. Dylan shook her head.

"No. Let's just sleep a bit longer, okay?" She was still so tired. A glance out the window at the pitch black sky told her dawn was at least a few hours away. She didn't have to get up for work just yet. "I'll be okay when I wake up."

Both puppies settled against her with sleepy murmurs of assent. Despite Dylan's exhaustion, however, it took a very long time for her to fall back asleep.

**.**

Nuada slept badly and woke in a foul temper an hour before dawn. He could hear Dylan moving around in her room. Wondered if she would abandon him yet again without so much as a word of farewell. He thought about knocking, demanding she speak to him before she left. Dismissed the idea. He wasn't so desperate for her affections that he would beg for some soft word like a dog begging for scraps.

She did not bid him goodbye before she left.

This time, he didn't follow her to the sanctuary. He went in search of Jenny, who would no doubt be awake by now. The hob servant had said she wished to speak with him about something important. Now was as good a time as any.

Jenny, it turned out, had ill news. The head housekeeper of Findias explained that the orphaned halfling babe he'd brought to the castle a few months past had become very sickly. While the little illnesses resolved themselves with a touch of healing magic, the fact that the child kept falling ill to begin with was worrisome. Nuada was no healer, but the child he remembered and the infant Jenny showed him were vastly different. The baby, once plump and rosy-cheeked, was pale and listless and much thinner than she should've been. Nuada was reluctant even to hold her, as fragile as she seemed.

"Have you had a healer to see her?" Nuada demanded.

The hob nodded. "Healer Conn said it was naught but the little sicknesses halfling children often suffer when they're young, Your Highness. Siobhan, Cabhán and I - that's Siobhan Dubh from below stairs and Cabhán Glaistig, the herb-woman and midwife from the township - tried to speak with him when the bairn fell ill again, but he wouldn't listen."

Nuada gazed down at the baby, who curled her tiny hand around his finger and gurgled at him. A thought was slowly taking shape in his mind. "My lady is a healer. Only of the more mundane sort, but a skilled healer nonetheless. When she returns from the mortal realm this evening, I'll ask her to look at the child. Perhaps she'll have some idea what ails the little one."

"Your lady?" Jenny echoed. "Are you... with all due respect, Your Highness, are you certain that's wise? What would a human know of faerie ailments?"

"Lady Dylan might surprise you, Jenny," was all the prince said, but there was something in his eyes that made the hob woman nervous. She recalled the rumor that many of the servants had taken to muttering behind closed doors, that Prince Nuada's mortal lady was a witch. Could it be true?

The Elven prince found himself back in his study, glaring at the letters and invitations which had slithered onto his desk between the time he'd left to see the housekeeper and his return. If only Wink were there, the prince thought, instead of... wherever he was. If the troll had been with him, Nuada could've asked his advice about Dylan while his vassal sorted through the correspondence. Where _was_ Wink? Was he safe? Or had he succumbed to his wounds? What of Lorelei?

There was so much to think about - Wink and Lorelei, the attacks on Dylan and the others that may or may not have been orchestrated by his father, the fight with Zhenjin which loomed on the morrow, the health and welfare of the sick halfling child, Nuada's current disgrace and house-arrest, the courtship charade, even the far-off plans regarding the Golden Army.

And on top of it all, there was Dylan herself, and the way he seemed to keep hurting her. _Forgive me for forgetting my place. I'll try to keep in mind that I'm nothing to you except an inconvenience and a tool to keep your father happy._

Hell's teeth, what was he supposed to _say_ to that? How was he supposed to convince her that such a thing was untrue? Where had she even come by such an insane idea? Surely she didn't truly believe such a thing. Did she really doubt his feelings for her?

A knock at his study door jerked his attention from the thoughts racing through his mind. "Enter."

The door swung open, and he caught a glimpse of dark curl and velvet skirt. His heart leapt in his breast, only to plummet when he realized it wasn't Dylan, but the knot in his stomach, present since waking that morning, eased a little when he recognized the Elven woman standing in the doorway. Nuada rose to his feet and bowed. The Elven lady sank into a graceful curtsy with a rustling of skirts. He moved from behind his desk to take her slender hands in his.

"Naya," he said warmly. "I wondered if you meant to come and see me." He pressed a brief kiss to the back of her hand. "Didn't my sister order you to stay away?"

"Even if she had, you and I have far too much history for me to obey such an order, Nuada." Her smile was as bright and open as he remembered. When he offered her a chair and she sank gracefully into it, Nuada caught just the faintest whiff of familiar perfume. "Nuala is my friend, but you and I are friends as well, are we not?" A lift of one slender raven brow was a brief reminder that once upon a time, they'd been much more than that. "So how _are_ you?" She propped her chin on her clasped hands. "I heard about this house-arrest nonsense. What did you do _this_ time?"

"Played hooky from school," he replied with a straight face, and silver-painted lips curved into a grin. "In truth, it seems I lost track of the days while in the mortal world with my lady. My father wanted me back in Findias. I wanted to be with her."

"Oh, yes!" Polunochnaya leaned forward in her chair. "Your human! Tell me _all_ about her, I insist. What's she like? Is she good to you? Tell me _everything_."

Though he had to hide how much it hurt to speak of Dylan, speak of her he did, answering all of Naya's questions. Unlike the gossiping hags of the court, the Zwezdan noblewoman wanted to know literally _everything_ - what Dylan did for a living, where Nuada had met her, what they did together, what things Dylan enjoyed doing by herself, about her family. Whatever came to mind.

Once they'd exhausted that topic - noon had come and gone; Nuada had sent for food at Polunochnaya insistence so they could continue talking - she regaled him with the latest court gossip. Most of it was useful, as it involved either himself or Dylan. He learned also that the envoys from Saami and Onibi had arrived in the last day, and that the group from Álfheim would arrive in a few days.

Saami's king had come himself with his mortal wife and young daughter. The Phoenix Emperor of Onibi had sent his heir and his two youngest daughters, none of whom Nuada had ever met. The heir to Onibi's throne was not the eldest prince, but the fourth eldest. The older princes had been taken out of the line of succession for various reasons. As for Álfheim... it took Nuada a few moments to realize the feeling spreading through him was relief. Only good things had ever come of a visit from or to Crown Prince Günther Wolfjarl and his brothers. This time, not only would he have someone he could relax around without worrying about stepping on political toes, but he knew for certain that the Álfheim envoy would approve of Dylan and make her feel more welcome than the Dilong envoy had. Nuada was certain Dylan would get along well with Günther's wife, Princess Eir, to say nothing of the congenial Nordic Elven prince himself.

And he learned that included in the envoy for Cíocal was one of the Elves known as a scarlet Fomori; an Elven noblewoman who, according to Naya, looked remarkably similar to Queen Cethlenn. A distant cousin, perhaps. Her name? Lady Dierdre macAengus of Caer Ibormeith. Lord Cíaran, Prince Bres' oldest friend, was Lady Dierdre's elder brother. Perhaps Naya could introduce the prince to the Fomorian lady at some point? Not now, of course; Nuada needed to prepare for his duel with Zhenjin. Sometime afterward, maybe.

When his sister's lady-in-waiting finally bid him goodbye, Nuada was sad to see her go. It had been a long time since he and Naya had been able to talk so freely and for so long. He hadn't realized how much he missed her. He would have to introduce her to Dylan. It would be good for his lady to have friends in Findias.

_Where_ is _Dylan?_ The Elven warrior wondered suddenly. He glanced at the study window. The sun was setting. Not even five in the evening, then. He shouldn't expect her for some hours yet. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Would he have to go looking for her tonight as well? Why hadn't she said goodbye to him this morning? Was she still angry? Dylan, who never seemed to hold onto her anger for very long... could she still be furious with him?

_Are you safe, my love? I detest letting you out of my sight, with our enemies prowling close and shadows looming. How can I protect you from them like this? And how can I protect you from the pain I seem to cause you so easily?_

They had to talk. Tonight. He couldn't afford to think about what was between them tomorrow, with his fight against Zhenjin so close. It would have to be resolved tonight.

**.**

She hadn't meant to fall asleep again. Honestly she hadn't. But she'd sat down for perhaps a minute in the wooden chair in the sanctuary and the next thing Dylan knew, her head was pillowed on her arms atop the table and a gentle hand was shaking her awake while a familiar voice murmured, "Dylan. Mo duinne? Wake up, sweetheart. We need to talk. Come on, now."

Dazed, tired eyes blinked open. Met his. Filled with tears. She blinked them back before they could fall, but he saw them. She sat up slowly. Pushed her hair out of her face. "I fell asleep again. I didn't mean to, I was just so tired... what are you doing here?"

"I was worried when you did not return. It's after midnight."

"Oh." Dylan looked away. "I didn't mean to... I didn't think you'd worry." Nuada had to admit it hurt that she would think he wouldn't care that she'd been gone for so long. But after the last few days, he more than likely deserved her doubt. "Thank you for bringing me back last night, by the way, Your Highness," she mumbled.

"_Don't_," he said sharply. She shot him a startled glance. "Do not do that. Don't put walls of rank and title between us. I deserve better than that from you."

When her lip began to quiver, she sank her teeth into it to force it to be still. Were they really going to start yelling at each other so soon? Fine, then. She could take whatever he dished out. "And I think... I think _I_ deserve better than for you to put the walls of race between us, but you do it anyway. You talk about how you care for me, how I'm dear to you, but then you slap me down with just a few words. 'Human,' or 'mortal.' As if that's all I am. _I_ deserve better from _you!_"

He turned away to pace the length of the sanctuary's main room, snarling under his breath. So easy. It was so easy to make him angry lately. Why? Dylan refused to shrink from Nuada's anger. Let him be ticked off. She didn't deserve his fury, and she wasn't letting him take it out on her anymore.

"I deserve better than for you to slap me down every time I try to help you," she said. "I deserve better than being ridiculed for trying to comfort you. I've _had_ it! I'm supposed to protect you, just like you're supposed to protect me. That's what we promised each other. Or were you lying?"

Nuada whirled on her, eyes flashing. "How dare you question me this way? How dare you doubt me? Have I not proven myself to you over and over again? What have I done to earn your doubts?"

Voice a mere thread of sound, Dylan whispered, "You told me everything was my fault." That mere thread was a noose that threatened to strangle Nuada as she added, "You said I was a coward. That I didn't know anything about loyalty or love. That I was nothing." She wrapped her arms around herself as if cold and stared at the bare tabletop. "How could you tell me I was nothing? How could you _say_ that to me?" She squeezed her eyes shut. Pain etched every word into the air between them. "You used to tell me I was brave. That I was one of your most loyal allies. You used to tell me I was b-beautiful. You said I was worth _everything_. And now..." Her fingers twisted in the black knit of her sweater. "Now it's like you blame me for everything that's happening to us. Just like _they_ did."

_They._ He knew who _they_ were - her family. Her parents, her sisters. Accusing her with words and baseless anger and their refusal to believe. Rage and hurt and denial knotted in his belly, coiling and churning until he felt sick. He hadn't... wasn't... didn't...! But Dylan wasn't finished. These words, it seemed, had been brewing inside her ever since the fight about Zhenjin, and she could no longer hold them back.

"And none of this is my fault!" She burst out, the words catching in her throat like jagged shards of glass. Rainswept blue eyes fixed on his face and there was such pain in their depths. "I didn't _do_ anything! It's _not_ my fault! If you hate me so much, why did you save me? Why didn't you just leave me for the wolves? Or hand me over to Eamonn? It would've solved all your problems!"

Stunned, he could only stare at her. "Dylan... that isn't true, I-"

"Why didn't you just let them kill me? Wouldn't it have been better for you if you'd left me in the subway that night? You never would've met me. You could've gone on hating humans without anyone challenging your prejudice; without ever having to worry about the ugly, stupid, useless human whore that dared to fall in love with you, who was too stupid to realize you could never love her back!

"You said you were fond of me, but I _know_ you wish you weren't! I _know_ you wish you could hate me just as much now as you did when we first met. I know that somewhere, deep down, you still _do_ hate me! You despise me because I'm just a filthy human and I dare to presume to try and comfort _you_, the crown prince of Bethmoora! Dare to presume to try and be kind and compassionate and so supposedly 'fey-like' when I'm nothing but a jumped-up, common-born mortal slut. I _know_ you wish I didn't love you. You wish you didn't care-"

"_Damn you_," he ground out from between clenched teeth. She fell silent. Both of them were breathing hard. "Damn you for saying this to me. Do you have any idea... how I have struggled with... fought with myself _constantly_ over..." He swallowed back the words. Such a confession would help _nothing._ "Damn you; how dare you question how I feel for you? How _dare_ you? Perhaps I _should_ have left you in the tunnels that night and spared myself..." He trailed off, realizing just what he was saying. He raked a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry." The words were snarly, but she knew they were sincere. "I am so sorry, forgive me. I should _never_ have said that. I could _never_ mean that. But damn it, Dylan - what do you _want_ from me?"

Suddenly all the fight drained out of her and she was left tired and shaking, chilled to her very core, and trying not to drown in the venom that had spilled from her lips.

"I just... just want you to stop being mad at me," she whispered. The childlike pleading in her voice nearly broke his heart. "That's all. It seems like I can't do anything right in your eyes suddenly and I don't understand why. I try to comfort you, I can see you need it, you're so sad and upset, and you have every right to be, but you just get angrier and angrier with me and then we start fighting and we say things to each other that I know neither of us mean and I don't understand what's happening to us. Why are we like this suddenly?"

She closed her eyes, desperate to keep from crying. She'd cried enough in the last few days, hadn't she? Crying never accomplished anything. Never mind that she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in days, she was exhausted and scared and trying not to show how much she was of either, and now one of the three most important people in her life was angry with her...

Dylan tried to bite back the sound that threatened to crawl out from between her clenched teeth, but didn't quite manage it. It might've been a whimper. It might've been a strangled sob, or a scream. She covered her face with shaking hands and fought to draw a steady breath. She _wouldn't_ break down_._

After an interminable silence, strong arms slid around her shoulders. Her breath caught in her throat as Nuada pulled her close. The scent of feral, ancient woods enveloped her, soothed. A gentle hand stroked her hair. "I'm sorry," Nuada murmured. She realized he was shaking. "Dylan, I am so sorry. I don't know why we are fighting. I do not know why I've said such cruel things to you or why either of us seems to be so angry with the other. I'm sorry, mo duinne. I... I can only say I don't mean to hurt you. I don't mean to be cruel. I'm a man of swift temper; that is my only excuse, paltry though it is."

She slipped her arm around his waist to hug him tightly. "I wanna tell you something Francesca told me once, okay?" She waited for his nod before continuing. "She told me once that if someone loves you, they shouldn't do things that hurt you. And I know... I _know_ you aren't _trying_ to hurt me. People say things when they're mad that they would never say normally. Things they don't mean. I know you would never hurt me on purpose. And I don't want to hurt you. But... I don't know. It seems like, the last few days, we can't even talk without fighting. What's happening to us?"

Unable to speak, he tilted her chin up to meet her eyes and then laid his hand lightly against her cheek. Her lower lip began to quiver. A tear spilled down her cheek to splash his skin. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Sometimes, Nuada realized, he forgot that Dylan was still young. Not even thirty yet. Thirty wasn't so old, not when you'd lived for more than forty centuries. In some ways she was still young. Inexperienced when it came to love and relationships. And he'd forgotten that she relied on him nearly as much as he relied on her.

Dylan drew a shuddering breath. "I'm so sorry about what I said yesterday," she whispered. "And today. I know it's not true, that _none_ of it is true. I know it's the last thing you need, with everything going on. But it seems like no matter what I do lately, I make you angry. You say things to me that hurt so much. Do you really hate that I'm human? Does it bother you that much? Because I can't do anything about it, and I wouldn't even if I could. There's nothing wrong with me. You shouldn't want me to change who I am. Do you wish you didn't... that I didn't..."

She swallowed back a sob. His arms tightened around her.

"Why am I here, Nuada, if you don't want me here? Am I just here because you'll get in trouble if I'm not? Do you really blame me for everything that's happening-"

"_No_," he said. "Gods, no. I don't blame you. I should never have said such a thing. And you are here... well," he added with an attempt at a smile, "you're _here_ because you fell asleep in my chair." She obliged him with a weak laugh. "But you are with me because I'm blessed to have you at my side, even when I don't deserve you." He skimmed his knuckles down her cheek. Another tear spilled over. "I don't know why we seem to be fighting so much. I only know that I regret being the one to make you cry."

Dylan looked away. "I'm not crying."

He gripped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. "Do not lie to me, Dylan, not even to spare me guilt or grief. Much as it shames me, my words and my cruelty are what brought those tears to your eyes. I'm sorry. I can only try to be better in the future."

"It's not just you, Nuada," she said, laying her cheek against his stomach again. She wanted his chest, where she could hear the beating of his heart, but as she was sitting and he was standing, that wasn't feasible. The silk of his tunic was soft against her cheek.

Dylan suddenly realized her tears had more than likely ruined his shirt, since it was made of royal blue silk and silk and water didn't mix. And yet... Nuada had said nothing about it. Just let her cry. Comforted her. And now she wanted to cry again. He hadn't yelled at her about the shirt. Hadn't gotten angry or even annoyed. The relief at that thought had a lump forming in her throat.

"What do you mean, amhain a chara?" His fingers threaded gently through her hair. "Tell me, dear one."

"Just... I said some cruel things yesterday and today. Things I knew would hurt you. I didn't mean them. You know that, don't you? About... about you thinking I'm worthless and a wh-" She bit back the word when she felt him tense. A shadow darkened his gaze. Dylan sensed that somehow, the word _whore_ in connection to herself had a stronger impact on Nuada than it did for her. Why? But she didn't ask. Only said, "I'm sorry."

"As am I, mo duinne. More sorry than I can express." He kissed her hand. "Do you forgive me?"

She nodded. "Of course, but... Nuada, why are we fighting so much? We never fought like this when we were at the cottage. And it's not just stress. You live with stress; it wouldn't turn you into such a monumental jerk all of a sudden. I mean," noticing his wince, "um... stress doesn't explain why we're both suddenly so edgy. Do you think... do you think someone's messing with us? A spell, maybe? This just doesn't seem like us."

Nuada frowned. "Possibly. I hadn't considered that. Although I doubt it - as a fae royal, even though I'm not a monarch, only the magic of a king or queen would affect me so strongly without my noticing. And it makes no sense for my father to try and manipulate us that way. He _wants_ us together. I think it may simply be the situation we find ourselves in is adversely affecting us. Little sleep and too many worries to count. We'll be all right, though, Dylan. I promise you. I'll not give you up so easily."

Somehow she managed to dredge up the ghost of a smile. "Yeah. You're stuck with me for life, O Prince of Elves. Sorry." She closed her eyes and just held onto him for a moment. Tried not to embarrass herself by sniffling like a crybaby. "I missed you. I missed you so much. How did you become so important to me?"

"I could ask you the same question," he murmured. "I could ask how you managed to steal your way into my life, into my heart; how you managed to do it without my noticing, until you were so firmly entrenched there that I could never have wanted you gone; how you managed to become not merely the center of my world, but the whole of it. Sweetheart," concern in his voice now, "why are you crying?"

Dylan sniffled. Laughed a little shakily. "When you're a jerk, you're a real jerk, but when you're being romantic, you're just downright amazing and I love you and I'm sorry and I feel really stupid right now. I always feel stupid after getting mad at people." She brushed at her eyes. "Ugh, I need to stop crying. Maybe I'm just hormonal; moontime blues, maybe. Or tired. I don't know. All I know is, when we get back to Findias, I don't wanna sleep in my room. Can you and I sleep on the couches in my sitting room? I don't want to be apart from you. The last few nights have really sucked."

"Whatever you like, mo mhuire." He kissed her fingers. "Now come. It's quite late, and you need your rest."

"I cleared my schedule for tomorrow," she murmured, slowly getting to her feet. "I have to go into work, but I'll be back by noon. I'll be here for the duel… unless," hesitant now, her face a mask of uncertainty, "you don't want me there."

He just looked at her for a moment, then pulled her into his arms. "Forgive me," he whispered against the soft wealth of her hair, "for ever giving you cause to doubt that I would want you with me. I will always wish you near." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "If I win tomorrow, I will need the solace of your presence. And should I lose... I can think of no better way to die, than with your voice in my ears and your face before my eyes."

"You're _not_ going to die," she snapped. Thumped her forehead against his chest hard enough that he grunted from the impact. "I won't let you. You're going to win. Everything will be okay. Now let's go home."

"Is Findias home now?"

After a beat of silence, Dylan stole his breath away by whispering, "For me, home is wherever _you_ are, Nuada." And she laid her cheek against his chest to hear the steady drumming of his heart.

**.**

They slept on the twin couches in her sitting room, as she'd requested. Rather, _she_ slept. He remained awake, watching her sleep curled up beneath a velvet comforter, the dim golden glow of the fireplace caressing her scarred face. She wore her favorite pajamas - loose, black and pink plaid pants and one of Nuada's black tunics. Nuada knew the clothes made her feel safer. Knew she needed the security of being surrounded by his scent, even in sleep.

Both dogs stretched out on the floor in front of their mistress's couch, as if guarding the mortal in her sleep. Guarding her as he did.

How many times had he come within a hair's breadth of losing her? Through death, or his own folly? How many times had he wielded a verbal knife that managed to pierce straight to her already half-broken heart? Why was it so very hard sometimes to go softly with her? Dylan deserved better than this from him.

_One day,_ Nuada thought, watching Dylan's chest rise and fall, _you may ask which is more important to me, you or my life. And perhaps I will be distracted, and say without thinking, 'My life.' And you will walk away, never realizing that you_ are _my life._

He closed his eyes. How long would this peace between them last? Would the shackles of court intrigue, politics, his father's schemes, and the coming war - whenever it _did_ come - drive them to such vicious words again? Nuada prayed it wouldn't happen, as he hadn't prayed since that frantic race through winter woods to save Dylan from Eamonn. He wasn't sure anymore if he could survive without the mortal who slumbered so near. And if he couldn't... what then?

Feral eyes blinked open to study her again. _You_ are _my life. Gods have mercy on me. May the gods have mercy on us both._

Mercy. Dare he look for mercy from the gods? From any corner? Thoughts of Zhenjin, of what would happen when they crossed swords on the morrow, pressed on Nuada like a crushing weight. In the wars, he'd often delivered a mercy stroke to fallen soldiers. The blood of enemies dripped from his sword, sometimes to mingle with the blood of fallen allies. But he had _never_ been forced to fight and kill one of those allies. Had never crossed blades in earnest with someone he considered a friend.

_I don't want to do this,_ Nuada thought, letting his eyes drift closed once more. _Why must I do this?_ He wished Wink were there to advise him. Perhaps the troll warrior could've found some way out of this that didn't involve bloodshed or dishonor.

And the Elven warrior couldn't escape the simple fact that there was no guarantee he would survive the upcoming battle. If he'd been nothing but a warrior, it wouldn't have mattered. His father had sent his sister away just that morning, as far from her twin as possible, to lessen the bond that would inflict his pain and wounds upon her. So if he fell to Zhenjin's sword, at least Nuala would live. And he'd made peace with death long ago.

But there were his people to consider. Who would lead them out of the twilight, back into the real world? Who would protect them from the humans if he died?

Perhaps that was his father's plan. Balor had no cause as yet to execute him. The charge of treason lacked the needed proof. If the king wanted him dead, and wanted a very public death so that he might wash his hands of the affair, was this not the way to do it? A snake-like and cowardly way, but cunning as well. If Nuada bled out in the dust of the dueling field, pierced by Zhenjin's sword, how was the king to blame? It was lack of skill, or the ill favor of the gods, that had sent the Silverlance to his death. Was _that_ his father's goal? Putting an end to the one who would spark war once again?

A low moan distracted Nuada from his thoughts. He focused on Dylan's face, on the grief there. Not the latest dream, then, whatever it was she dreamed of lately. A nightmare this time. Dylan scrunched beneath the blanket, shivering as if cold. Made a sound that might've been a whimper. Eimh and Sétanta lifted their heads, instantly alert. Sétanta got to his feet and touched her white-knuckled fist with his nose.

*Sad,* he said softly. *Hurt. I can smell it. She is caught in a trap.* He gave Dylan's fist a tentative lick. *Much pain. Who is hurting her?* The hound turned to Nuada, upper lip pulled back to partially bare his teeth. *We will find them and hurt them back. I will _bite_ them.*

Nuada slid off his couch and knelt beside hers. Gently took her hand, which was clenched so tightly blood seeped from between her fingers. Her skin was like ice. "It's an old nightmare, I think. She has it often. And she will not let me hurt the ones who hurt her." The pup cocked his head, confused. The Elven warrior opened his mouth to explain when Dylan made a tiny, heartbreaking sound. Shuddered.

"It's not my fault," she whimpered. Nuada's heart stilled in his chest. He hadn't heard that child's voice since the night he'd walked through her nightmares for the very first time. Had hoped to never hear it again. "Mommy, it's not my fault. I didn't _do_ anything, it's not my fault." She curled into a ball as tears streamed down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't leave me. Don't leave me alone in the dark. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. It's not my fault. It's not my fault..."

_And none of this is my fault! I didn't_ do _anything! It's_ not _my fault!_ She'd shouted that at him earlier tonight. Had he triggered this nightmare? Had his rage, his cruelty, the misplaced blame, done this? Certainty was bitter as poison on his tongue. This was his fault, stars curse it. He'd done this to her. Did he dare try to wake her? Or would every touch, every word, be sucked into the Morphean hell, fueling the fear and heartache?

For one of the rare times in his life, the Silverlance hesitated.

Sétanta didn't. With an apologetic whine, he bit Dylan's fingers hard enough that she jerked awake with a yelp. She jolted upright, disoriented, and it took a few moments for her to process where she was and what had happened. Then she looked down at her bitten hand.

*_Sétanta!_* Eimh yelped, horrified. *What have you _done?_*

*I'm sorry!* Sétanta cried, hunching his shoulders and whining, tail tucked between his legs. *I'm sorry I bit you. You were caught in a scary-dream sleep-trap. Had to wake you. Master didn't know what to do. I didn't mean to bite very hard. Are you hurt?*

Dylan blinked to clear the sleep-induced blurriness from her vision so she could study her bitten hand. She wasn't bleeding, and the pain was already fading. The bite had felt more like a sharp pinch than anything truly bloodthirsty. There was a faint indentation on her knuckles from Sétanta's teeth. Nothing more. He hadn't even broken the skin. Dawn might find her with a slight bruise, but that would be it.

"I'm okay. Good job, Sétanta. It's okay. You're not in trouble." His tail began to creep back into its natural position. Dylan laid a hand atop his head and rubbed behind his ears. His tail wagged ever so slightly. "Thank you for waking me up. I'm not hurt."

*Good. I'm supposed to protect you, not hurt you. I don't want to hurt you.*

As the dog settled back into his place on the floor with a sigh, Nuada took Dylan's hand and examined it himself. Smoothed his thumb over the indent left by puppy teeth. "A nightmare?" He asked, though he already knew. Dylan nodded.

The Elven prince turned her hand over to examine the bloody crescents marring her palm. Dylan retrieved a handkerchief from her purse, which slumped beside her couch, and cleaned away the crimson smeared across her skin. When the tiny wounds were clean, Nuada brushed his fingers over her palm. Soothing magic eased the dull pain. The tenderness in the gesture pushed down some of the nightmare's residual chill.

After a long silence, Nuada ventured, "About... when you were a child?" When she nodded again, he steeled himself and murmured, "Do you wish to talk about it?"

Her smile was equal parts exhaustion and gratitude. "No. That's all right. I'm still really tired. Um..." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. A faint blush spread across her cheeks. "Could you... I mean, _would_ you, if you don't mind... I just don't want to be alone... and you're awake, I guess, so could you... um..."

Somehow, despite her stammering, he knew what she wanted. "A moment." He dragged a chair over to the head of the couch and sank into it. It might've seemed a small thing, sitting so near in order to offer some comfort. But Dylan lay back down, snuggling under the comforter. One hand was tucked against her chest. The uninjured one stretched out over the edge of the couch to lie atop Nuada's knee.

She closed her eyes and sighed when he let his hand rest lightly against her hair. The sleeve of his dark sleep-tunic brushed against her temple and cheek. "Sleep, mo duinne. I'll not leave you."

He thought she'd drifted off sometime later when she asked in a whisper, "Nuada... do you really not know if you're going to win?" He couldn't lie to her, so he said nothing. "Promise me... promise me you'll win. Promise me you'll be okay. If you can't promise that, don't fight him. I don't want you to do this if you're going to get hurt."

"I must fight him, Dylan. I cannot back down. I'm sorry. But don't let it worry you overmuch; whatever will happen," Nuada said in a voice as gentle as a lullaby, "will happen. You mustn't be afraid."

Her fingers twisted in the loose linen of his sleeping trews. She drew a short, sharp breath. "Tell me a story. Please."

Surprised, he blinked at her. Her eyes were screwed shut. "A story?" He echoed. "Which one?"

"I don't care," she whispered. Each word trembled like a tear ready to fall. "I don't care."

He stroked her hair, letting the dark strands slide like silk against his palm. He could feel her trembling; smell, along with the fragrance of lily-of-the-valley soap and the summer-rose perfume of her shampoo, an undercurrent of mortal dread and the salt of unshed tears. "All right, then, mo duinne. Nuair a bhí..."

_Once there was..._

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_**Author's Note:**_ _so this chapter I was going to have the fight with Zhenjin in here, but together those two chapter-parts would've made the chapter WAY too long for my beta, so I broke it apart. Anyway, so yes, the prince and Dylan are both capable of being nasty to each other. Who isn't when you're ticked off/stressed/freaking out/etc.? But hopefully this truce will hold over the next few chapters and everything will be all right in Love Land (until the next crisis, lol)._

_So here's our lovely review prompt. And again, guys - you should totally buy my books, lol. They are amazing, just like me. Loves to you all!_

_1) So Dylan fighting and being mad. I was worried that Dylan came across as too wimpy, with the crying and stuff. Was there enough anger to balance out the hurt? Did she stick up for herself enough, or no? See, I'm one of those people that when I get really hurt by someone in an argument, I just start crying and lose all my backbone. So I'm not sure how I did on her being angry._

_2) Our Prince Sometimes-Fathead - he is in character? I was more concerned not with his temper (he can be mean, we all know it) but more with what happens when he's not actively fighting with Dylan. The... aftermath, I guess? The constantly being torn between anger, worry, frustration, guilt, pride, blah-blah._

_3) I'm very curious what you guys think of the final fight that resolved everything. Some pretty harsh things were said, some interesting ideas brought up, etc. I'm wondering how you all feel about it all._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- I don't know if anyone remembers, but Miguel is the little brother of Cesar, the leader of the gang the Lobos (Rafael's gang). Miguel is the reason Dylan and Cesar have such a friendly relationship. It's mentioned in an earlier chapter that Dylan had an appointment with him around Thanksgiving weekend and I didn't want that little plot-thread to start fraying from lack of being tied up.

- I actually knew a kid who wanted to slide down the slides at McDonalds on the plastic trays. He was also 8.

- The thing Dylan says about "if someone loves you, they shouldn't do things that hurt you" is actually from a manga called _Drama-Con_. You should read it; it's interesting, and it's only 3 volumes. I forget who wrote it, though.

- "One day you may ask me which is more important to me, you or my life. And perhaps I will be distracted, and say without thinking, 'My life.' And you will walk away, never realizing that you are my life." This is an altered paraphrase of a quote from Anonymous, but I found out about it from the _Avengers_ fic "Brother Avengers" by the brilliant Alydia Rackham.


	61. Red as Blood and Bright as Gold

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Awesome news**__**:**__ so apparently the paperback versions of my books are available on Amazon (finally). So at least that's more publicity for me. However! I would still ask, for those who want to order them, if it's at all possible for you to order them through CreateSpace because Amazon takes a crazy chunk of my profits. Like, cuts them more than in half. Yeah, crazy, right? So here are the links again. Can't wait to hear what you guys think!_

_You can get_ Glass _in large-print paperback here: www . createspace 3844725 for $11.49  
You can get_ Glass _in regular-print paperback here: www . createspace 3885807 for $10.49  
You can get_ Their Forever Family _in large-print paperback here: www . createspace 3847035 for $9.49  
And you can get_ Their Forever Family _in regular-print paperback here: www . createspace 3885510 for $8.99_

_**Author's Note:**_ _So I was going to wait and post this on Father's Day, but then I realized that a) Father's Day is a Sunday, and b) there is no guarantee I'd be able to do that due to our reinvented driving rules (we only go to places where there are internet if we already have business there anyway, so I'm less likely to be able to post on schedule, due to trying to reduce our gas bill). So I'm posting it... five days early, in honor of Daddy Day. Everyone give your dads (or boyfriends who will one day be dads, stepdads, foster dads, older brothers who are like your dads, older guy friends you can rely on like you should be able to rely on your dads, blah-blah, you get the picture) a GINORMOUS hug. Unless they don't do hugs._

_Hope you enjoy the upcoming fight between Nuada and Zhenjin. If you can enjoy such a heartbreaking thing. And we'll see how it goes, yeah? See ya at the bottom!_

_Some really good music for the battle, I feel, is:_

_Moonlight by The Piano Guys  
Bourne Vivaldi by The Piano Guys  
Skyrim by Lindsey Stirling  
Desert Symphony by The Piano Guys  
Red Warrior from_ The Last Samurai_  
More Than It Seems from_ The Chronicles of Narnia _(not sure which one)  
King of the Faeries by Amadeus (a bit twangy in some parts, but I like it, and I wrote the scene listening to it)  
Transcendance by Lindsey Stirling (although this one is a bit techno-y)  
Numb by Linkin Park (yeah, I know, totally coming out of left field here)_

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**Chapter Sixty-One**

**Red as Blood and Bright as Gold**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of**** Work, a Warning, Super-Secretaries, a Prince's Confession, Tender Farewell, Battle, Assassins, Heart's Blood, and Deathly Cold**

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How Dylan managed to get through her morning appointments that day, she would never know. Most of them were the short, standard fifty-minute sessions, and thankfully most of her patients were doing well, so it was really more a series of progress reports than crisis counseling. She also had sessions with both Neil and Simon, who told her as they were walking out that the envoy from Roiben's court to Bethmoora would be leaving in a few days' time and would include Kaye, Val, Mallory Grace, and Lady Peri (as well as Bean and Kate, who were anxious to see 'Sa'ti and A'du again).

One of her patients, Varen Nethers, was one of those rare individuals who not only possessed the Sight, but possessed the raw creative power to create nocs. Unlike most other fae, nocs were created by humans, born from mortal imaginations. Usually male imaginations, as far as the psychiatrist knew. Edgar Allen Poe, so she'd heard, had been the creator of the Blue Murder, which was led by the midnight mazarine prince of the raven fae, Scrimshaw - one of the laziest, most laid back carrion eaters Dylan had ever met.

Pinfeathers, prince of the Red Murder - the group of about thirty nocs with blood-red hair and plumage - was Varen's noc counterpart, and the reason why the raven faerie and his minions couldn't truly harm her or another of her patients, Isobel Langley, Varen's girlfriend; nocs shared the emotions, the loves and the hatreds, of their mortal creators.

Dylan had never met a noc prince from another murder. Had never even seen a noc that wasn't red or blue until the attack on the Chariot of Annwn by the purple nocs. She had no idea to whom those raven fae might belong, or who might lead them. That ignorance made her twitchy whenever she heard a raven caw.

Varen had a session with her that morning as well. It seemed run-of-the-mill until the end. As he was walking out, the college freshman turned to her and chomped on the silver ring hooked through his lower lip for a minute. Then he pinned her with eyes like pale malachite. "The Queen seems distracted lately. No one's talking to me _per se_, but it seems like the closer we get to the winter solstice, the more distracted Her Majesty gets. Thought you or the Old Geezer might wanna head's up."

The Old Geezer was Varen's nickname for the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, whom he had met a couple times by virtue of being born at midnight on Halloween, and therefore under Moundshroud's purview. "The Queen" was Varen's euphemism for Ligeia, queen of the fey forest kingdom of Weir and Moundshroud's estranged - and often deadly - wife.

"Thank you," Dylan murmured. As an afterthought, she added, "Are you and Isobel all right? She's not bothering either of you, is she?"

Varen shrugged. "We've got it covered. Don't worry, Doctor D. Gotta go. My fair princess awaits; needs a ride to her early-morning flying practice." And he sauntered out, doffing his shades, strangely making almost no noise in his hulking black boots. As he walked toward a golden-haired girl in an NYU cheerleeding uniform waiting at the end of the hall, Dylan's secretary bustled in carrying a crinkly brown paper bag.

"Before you even attempt to dissuade me," Ariel said briskly, "I have to tell you that you look as pasty as His Dark Lordship back there," jerking a thumb over her shoulder at Varen's black-clad retreating form. "Which, considering he never goes outside and you're more outdoorsy than a Boy Scout, is more than a little worrisome. And you've lost at least ten pounds in the last two weeks. Not healthy.

"That said, eat this, you vampiric zombie doppelganger that has replaced my boss." Ariel plopped a go-cup of orange juice and the paper bag down on the coffee table in Dylan's office. "It's donuts. Cinnamon-dusted apple-jelly filled. I bribe you with sugary badness; eat it. Or I'm calling your sister."

Dylan smiled despite herself. Threatening her with Petra? That was just low. "You have a mean streak, Ariel."

But the cinnamony, apple-filled goodness was calling to her with a siren song too tempting to resist. So she caved and ate the donuts. After the first bite, her appetite woke with a vengeance and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she'd sat down and eaten anything since the night of Zhenjin's challenge. She'd nibbled on stuff, she was sure - granola bars, maybe some fruit. Otherwise she'd have collapsed some time ago. But the fact that she couldn't actually recall eating meant she hadn't been eating enough over the last few days.

Maybe that was one of the reasons she'd been feeling so sick and run-down - not enough real sleep and not enough food. With that in mind, she made sure to eat the sandwiches and extra bottles of juice someone (probably Ariel, the super-secretary) had packed in her mini-fridge in her office between appointments. Nuada had enough on his mind right now without having to worry about her fainting from hunger or low blood sugar.

Her last appointment ended right at eleven-forty-five. With a hasty goodbye and a "sorry, gotta go, I'm late for something" tossed over her shoulder, Dylan rushed out of the office, almost slipping on the icy steps leading down to the sidewalk. She ducked into another little convenience store and dashed into the bathroom so no one would see her randomly disappearing into thin air. Just in case the spell laid into her ring didn't include glamoring her invisible.

The spell took her to the sanctuary again, and from there to her room in Findias. That meant Nuada was in his suite, as the ring was supposed to bring her to wherever he was without dumping her right on top of him. She dropped her stuff on her bed, realizing absently that the servants had already made it up again after she'd wrecked it by dragging the comforter into her sitting room the night before.

She dashed over to the door connecting her room to Nuada's. Felt like an idiot when her hands automatically flew up to straighten her hair. This wasn't a date, for heaven's sake. But for some reason she really didn't want to look windblown and frowsy when he saw her.

Hesitation grabbed her just before her knuckles touched the door. What if he was in a bad mood? What if they fought again? The thought left a bad taste in her mouth and sent ice-water trickling down her spine. That morning's farewell had been everything she could've hoped for - tenderly spoken words and a soft kiss goodbye. There was no reason to think they would fight today, especially considering what had happened last night.

But there was also no reason to think they would fight as they'd been fighting the last several days, either. No reason to think she could scream at him like an enraged _bean sidhe_, or that he would snarl at her over the littlest things. Yet they had. And Dylan still wondered if the reason for _that_ was something external, some kind of outside pressure coming to bear on them. Or was Nuada right? Could it simply be stress?

Or was it the mental block in her mind? The one Princess Nuala had put in a month ago to prevent emotional response to Eamonn's psychic attack? The princess had said the block would start to fade once Dylan's mind could handle the trauma without fragmenting. And Eamonn was dead; that little fact might have subconsciously triggered something, some sense of safety, that sped up the process. Might the fading psychic shield around those memories be the cause of her and Nuada's fights? It would explain why she was so angry and teary all the time. Her medical training told her that it might even explain her exhaustion.

But her own mental issues didn't explain Nuada's sudden bouts of anger. Unless...

She recalled shared dreams with the Elf. Not often, but a few times. Even when he hadn't been in physical contact with her. Like during his nightmare, when he'd drawn his knife upon waking and nearly cut her throat. She'd actually seen and heard what Nuada had been experiencing. Could they be forming some sort of psychic connection, like the one Dylan had with John and the one he had with his sister?

Well, she wasn't going to waste what time she had left with her prince before this duel with worrying and introspection. She wanted to be with Nuada. And maybe, just maybe, he needed to be with her; this coming fight was going to be hard on him.

Dylan knocked. A muffled "enter" had her cracking the door to peek in.

Nuada sat tailor-fashion in the center of his large bed, dressed in his familiar sable and scarlet, his hands draped loosely atop his knees with his eyes closed. One eye slid open to regard her for a moment. Dark lips quirked into a wan smile. Dylan felt an answering smile curve her mouth when she saw Nuada wore his typical black socks. She would really have to do something about the distinct lack of footwear color at some point.

"What are you doing?" She asked, coming in and shutting the door.

"Meditating," he murmured. Closed his eyes again. "Trying to clear my mind a little and find some measure of calm. I often did so before battle when I was in the army." His expression warmed a little. "I find it a bit easier now that you are here."

Surprised and more than a little touched that he would confess even that small "weakness," she widened her smile for him and perched on the edge of his bed. His straight-backed pose relaxed and he opened both eyes. Trying to go for casual, Dylan asked, "So... what's going to happen today, exactly?"

Nuada sighed. "The sun will be at its zenith in a little more than an hour. Zhenjin and I will fight then." He hesitated. "Will you... be there? To watch?"

"Of course." Then she had a rather nauseating thought. "Wait a second. Are other people going to be there? Spectators and such?" She frowned. "Is this going to be a court event or something?" He inclined his head. "That's disgusting," she replied flatly. "This is supposed to be a fight to the death and it's going to be some sort of... of... _entertainment?_"

The prince chuckled. Shook his head ruefully. "I forget sometimes that you are mortal. What?" He asked, puzzled by the sudden change in her expression. "What is it, Dylan?" Had he mistepped already?

She looked down at her lap. Flexed her fingers. He could tell she wished for her medallion to give her hands something to fiddle with, but knew she didn't want to take it off and possibly forget it somewhere. "It's just..." She brushed ineffectually at her hair. "It's just, I think that's the biggest compliment you've ever paid me."

He caught her hand in his. Touched his lips to the backs of her fingers. "If that is the case, I have been remiss in my duty to you, my lady. I should have paid you many far fairer compliments by now. It appears I have much to make amends for." He pressed her hand to his cheek. "If you were any other woman, and you were as dear to my heart, I know what I would do in the time we have left. As it is, that is denied us. So-"

"What would you do?" She asked, and he smiled at the kitten-like curiosity in her voice. Dangle a brightly-colored string in front of Bat or even one of the cougar cubs and their interest would be just as piqued. "If I were someone else?" Nuada merely raised his eyebrows and let his gaze flick from her face to the bed and back again. Dylan blushed. "Oh. Right. Um..." She was clearly flustered now. "You were saying?"

"As that is denied us, I know what I would wish in its place." He shifted closer, until he sat right beside her. Callused knuckles skimmed light as a breath over the satin curve of her cheek, along the delicate line of her jaw. Dylan drew a shivering breath. Her heart jolted at the warmth and the nearness of him. "If I may."

Her voice was barely a breath when she murmured, "Yes."

His mouth touched hers, a soft press of warm lips and the caress of his breath against her skin. It felt as if he hadn't kissed her in so long, yet it had only been a few days ago, hadn't it? In the garden, beneath the rose tree, in the wake of a dream that had left her hollow and aching. She hadn't realized how much she missed such a little thing until now. Hadn't realized just how _much_ she missed Nuada, his gentle touch and his smile, the golden warmth of his eyes and his lips against hers.

Nuada broke away, and she made a small sound of disappointment. His eyes were soft and warm, a beautiful honeyed gold when they moved over her face. There was something there. Something behind his eyes that was sad, and torn, and uncertain. He leaned in to press close to her, to breathe her in and let his lips trail along one of her scars. She reached up to slide her fingers along the back of his neck. Felt the pulse beating against her palm.

_Don't go,_ she wanted to whisper. To plead with him. _Please, Nuada, don't go. Stay with me, please. I love you, I need you, please stay here. Be safe with me. Forget the fight. Forget politics. Forget everything. Stay. Just stay._ But it was impossible for her to speak those words. She knew him. Knew he could never give her that one thing.

"Dylan," he breathed, nuzzling her temple. "I must tell you something, mo duinne." Her breath caught in her throat. "I cannot meet this challenge knowing I might not survive without telling you this. Perhaps you know it already. Perhaps you suspect, or perhaps you doubt - and rightfully so, after all I have said and done. I do not know for certain. But I have never said the actual words to you, and I cannot meet death without having done so."

He shifted to meet her eyes. The wintry sunlight coming in through his bedroom window glinted off the gold of his lashes. He stroked a fingertip down her cheek as if committing the feel of her skin to memory.

"Dylan, mo calman gheal, mo cridh... you must know that I lo-"

"_No_," she said sharply, pulling back. "No."

Nuada stiffened. Pain flashed behind his eyes; he could feel it. Pain, and the banked embers of the anger that always smoldered beneath his skin. Embers that Dylan seemed to spark to blazing life so very easily. The hurt stoked his anger into fury. He could feel hot, harsh words scorching his throat and burning his tongue. Only with immense effort did he manage to swallow them back.

It did not matter, he told himself. Did not matter that she had rejected him with such vehemence. He deserved it after all he had said and done. And truly, what else had he expected? It didn't matter. He would not _let_ it matter.

"Forgive me for speaking out of turn, milady," Nuada mumbled, beginning to pull away. "I did not mean to distress you."

"Wait, Nuada. Wait a minute," she said. Pleaded. He had no choice but to pause. "Just wait. Please don't be mad. It's not that I don't... I just... you can't tell me that now. Not _now_. You said you can't meet death without telling me what you want to tell me. So if you don't say it, you have to tell me later. You have to come back."

The hurt faded from Nuada's gaze as fear and sorrow filled hers. Comprehension soothed the sharp ache in his chest.

"You're going to win, you're going to come back to me, and then you can tell me. I'll listen, I promise. You just have to come back. That's all."

"Dylan-"

"I need you, don't you get it?" She pressed against him, burying her face against his shoulder. "I can't do this, any of this, without you. Before you, I could do anything, handle anything, but now... now I need you. You made me need you. I can't... you're the only one... you're the only who... I can't do this without you. Please, you have to come back. Just promise me you'll come back. I'll do anything you want, just please... Nuada, _please_."

And because he could do nothing else, he enfolded her in his arms and murmured against her hair, "I will do my best, Dylan. I promise you that. I shall do my best to come back to you, I swear it."

And then he would tell her just what she meant to him, so that she would never doubt again. So that she would always know how much he loved her.

**.**

They parted for the last time in a small antechamber attached to a forked corridor that Nuada explained would lead to the dueling field, or to where those who would witness the fight were waiting. His touch against her cheek was a soft goodbye. The leather of his black glove was cool on her skin. "You must go with the Butcher Guards to where my father is waiting, mo mhuire."

Dylan glanced at the royal guards standing by the door. Tsu's'di and her dogs waited there, too, at a respectful distance to give the mortal and the Elf prince a little privacy. The hounds were tense beside the ewah youth. The cougar did his best not to fidget. Once again he was serving in the capacity of _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's official bodyguard, but the tension between his mistress and the prince was palpable.

The human turned back to Nuada. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, so she traced the curving lines of the Royal Seal of Bethmoora that gleamed at his stomach with her eyes. It was different than the one the prince wore on his sash to court functions. This was Aiglin, the great ash tree, the symbol of Bethmoora at war, and not the peaceful Eildon Tree of hawthorne she was used to seeing.

"Why do I feel like I'm never going to see you again?"

Topaz eyes softened to amber, but they lacked the honeyed warmth she wanted to see just then. "Everything will be all right, Dylan."

Her expression told him she struggled to believe. She knew his doubts, so it was impossible to quell her own. Instead she thumped her forehead against his chest. For once, he wore armor. Smooth and cold as the blade of his sword, glittering golden in the dim light of the antechamber and etched with elegant and elaborate scrolling Celtic knotwork, it was supposed to protect him from Zhenjin's blade. Keep Nuada safe for her.

Greaves to protect his legs, shortened breastplate, shoulder-guards, and vambraces of engraved faerie metal washed with gold; light as a feather, so he'd said, but stronger than mortal steel or even Elven silver. Beneath that, a long-jerkin and trews of hardened black leather embossed with a similar scrolling design as his armor - just in case. In case of what, she didn't want to think about. Hidden by all that, she knew, was his crimson shirt. A gold-washed helm waited on a bench behind him, etched with the symbol she'd seen on his lance-blade.

Dylan wondered if it would really help, all that armor, or only serve to slow him down. She wondered if Nuada had worn this or similar armor into battle before. Wished he could have his lance back; knew her prince longed for his favorite weapon. Wondered if Zhenjin really would attempt to kill the other Elf. Wondered if Nuada could really bring himself to cut down his friend, even in the heat of battle...

A small sound escaped her as she stepped closer, desperate to push away her thoughts with the warmth and the solid strength of the prince. The slightly-ridged breastplate felt icy against her forehead. Trembling fingers ghosted over the thin gap between breastplate and shoulder-guard. Touched smooth leather. Could a sword-point get through there?

Dylan suddenly thought to wonder how women who were married to soldiers or police officers dealt with this - the gut-wrenching fear that the one you loved the most would step onto a battlefield and might not come back to you again. With a shuddering breath, she hooked her fingers around the breastplate's metal edge. Tried to draw comfort from how solid the cool faerie metal felt in her grasp.

"I know that you have something to tell me when this is all over," Dylan murmured. The fingers of her other hand curled around the back of his neck, which felt strangely exposed with his hair tied back in a silver braid in an attempt to keep it out of his eyes. "So you've already got some incentive to win. But I want you to hold onto something for me, okay? Until the fight's over. You have to promise to give it back to me. I know," she added in a small voice, "I _know_ that you always keep your promises. If you promise to bring it back, I'll believe you."

Nuada looked down at her, unable to speak. He could not lie to her. Much as he wanted to soothe her with what might be empty promises, he could not. Not even now, when she fought to keep from breaking. She deserved better than untruth from him.

She must have seen it in his eyes, because she nodded. "Okay. I... okay. Hold onto this. I expect it back. I won't make you promise, but I expect you to give it back. Do you understand, Your Highness?" Sliding her hands to his armored shoulders, Celtic scrollwork pressing against her palms, she rose up on tiptoe and lightly laid her mouth against his.

Something about _this_ kiss, unlike all the others they had shared in the hour before the duel was set to begin, set every nerve tingling. Set his heart pounding. Without thinking, Nuada wrapped his arms around her slender waist and held her to him as tight as he dared. He could forget for a minute. Just forget what was to come. It was washed away by the slide of her lips against his, fire and silk. Drowned out by the way Dylan managed to make his breath come short and his senses reel, even now. He nipped ever so gently at her bottom lip. Tasted her sigh like honeyed mead and strawberries. For just a moment, everything was simple. There was nothing but Dylan, the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her, the taste.

But then it was over far too soon. He caught her against his chest, holding her without her having to ask, for a few more seconds. Her breath was soft against his throat. Her lashes tickled the exposed flesh above the collar of his breastplate and shirt. She wasn't trembling, but she clung to him as if he might disappear like smoke on the wind. He let his forehead touch hers. Closed his eyes to savor the warmth of her skin. Breathed her breath and felt her heartbeat against his chest.

Then it was time for her to go.

"I have one last question," she said from the entryway. He watched her, saying nothing. She was like a shadow in her borrowed gown of black velvet and champaigne silk, her face so pale, her rainswept eyes shadowed with dread and her hair a dark waterfall tumbling to her shoulders. "If you... _when_ you win," she amended firmly, "does that mean that we'll be officially engaged?"

A lazy half-smiled surprised him by spreading across his face. "Would you like to be?"

Her tremulous smile eased him more than he would have thought possible. "Let me think about it. I'll tell you afterwards."

The prince offered her a formal bow from the waist. Dylan rolled her eyes and bobbed an insolent curtsy. "Off with you now, mo duinne," the prince said, waving a hand at her. "I will look for you in the stands."

Only when the sound of footsteps had faded to nothing did he close his eyes and let his smile slip away. One hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The other curled into a fist at his side. He could still smell her perfume, the tantalizing sweetness of lilies. Still feel her lips against his.

_Goodbye, my love._

After that, it was just a waiting game. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later when a Butcher Guard came to fetch the Elven warrior to the dueling ring. His stride was slow and measured, his breathing carefully even, as he walked behind the royal guard down the short hallway leading to where he would draw swords against one of his oldest friends. The wintry light might have blinded a lesser man, but Nuada merely waited for his eyes to adjust as he stepped out onto the hard-packed earth.

Zhenjin, in the Elven bronze armor of Dilong, waited across the way. The onyx leather and bronze and emerald brocade uniform of a Dilong military general showed in the occasional gap between the polished metal of his armor. The crest of Dilong - two sinuous five-clawed imperial dragons of dark green and amber jade twining together into the form of a double orobouros - glittered in the center of his breastplate. Similar dragons had been shadow-etched into the Elf prince's polished bronze greaves, vambraces, shoulder-guards, and the armored half-skirt that protected his upper thighs.

A traditional Dilong topknot kept most of his jet hair well out of his face. His engraved bronze helm was tucked beneath one arm, just like Nuada's. Zhenjin looked, the Bethmooran prince thought, much as he had when they had gone to war against the humans centuries ago.

Nuada glanced to where his father sat in the place reserved for royalty and their guests, regal behind the mask of his court facade. Before Dylan's return from the mortal world earlier that day, the prince had made a request of his father regarding Zhenjin. Balor had granted it... on two conditions. Those conditions sent dread and anticipation and hope knotting in his belly. He would have to fulfill those conditions when - _if_ - he won this battle. He wondered what Dylan would say.

Dylan sat rigid beside the king. Even from this distance, the amber-eyed prince could see her face was pale with worry. Her fingers twisted together in her lap - no doubt to keep them from shaking. Behind her stood Tsu's'di in formal storm-gray and sapphire livery, his face blank of any emotion, but one hand rested lightly on his mistress's shoulder. Nuada caught Dylan's eye and inclined his head. She nodded to him.

On his father's other side sat Emperor Huizong. An Elven maiden of perhaps fifteen centuries, Second-Rank Princess Yin-Mei Tilung Redbird, watched with jade eyes from beside the emperor. On her other side sat the other two visiting Dilong princes, Gaozu and Hou Junji.

In Yin-Mei's lap sat an Elven child in pale green silk that must have been Princess Ming Xian. Had the Dragon Emperor really brought his toddler daughter to witness her brother killing her former almost-betrothed - or being killed by him? The little princess looked confused and perhaps a little sleepy. Nuada wondered absently if she was missing her nap. Didn't children her age need naps?

Zhenjin moved toward the center of the ring, drawing Nuada's attention back to the Dilong prince. The other Elf glanced to where his father, siblings, and aunt sat watching. Something flickered across Zhenjin's face, there and gone too quickly for Nuada to truly understand it. Zhenjin raised his hand in a casual wave. A rustle of movement from the stands showed Princess Ming Xian propping herself up on her knees and waving wildly at her brother with studious concentration on her small face. Nuada blinked in surprise when Zhenjin laughed while Princess Yin-Mei resituated the other princess back into a proper position. The emperor merely rubbed the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache.

A herald stepped up and began to speak for the benefit of the crowd, but neither prince acknowledged the fae servant. They merely gazed at each other. Neither could miss the regret in the other's eyes. Nuada drew his sword at the herald's bequest. Zhenjin drew his _chokutō_. Weak winter sunlight glinted off both blades. A chill wind raised puffs of dust from the ground of the dueling ring.

The herald stepped back to a safe distance. Nuada inclined his head. "Are you ready, Azurefire?"

Zhenjin drew a breath. Let it out. "If you are, Silverlance."

As if receiving a silent cue from some invisible source, both Elven warriors lunged forward. Their swords met with a clash. The battle began.

**.**

Dylan wrapped her arms around herself and forced her eyes to remain locked on Nuada as he blocked a wicked slice from Zhenjin's sword and countered with an attack of his own. Sunlight flashed off Elven silver with every strike. There was a lethal elegance inherent in every move either Elf made - when Nuada ripped across Zhenjin's upper arm with the edge of his sword, when Zhenjin got in a vicious slice across the outside of Nuada's thigh, when Nuada flipped and spun out of the way of the Dilong prince's next brutal attack.

She'd been right - the armor didn't seem to be doing much. Or maybe it was, and she was simply too inexperienced with weapons and combat to know. Maybe the two princes just knew how to inflict serious damage around the armor. All the mortal really knew was that both swords gleamed with wet amber already. She was suddenly very glad that she had ordered A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti to stay in her suite.

Nuada did not dare take the time to dash the sweat out of his face as Zhenjin darted in for another attack. Didn't dare spare any attention for the burning gash along his thigh. Merely kept blocking, kept slashing, kept pressing forward. He and the Dilong Elf were equally matched. He'd known it. The knowledge churned in his stomach as he tried to find a way, any way, to keep from cutting his friend down and leaving him to die in the dust. He had a plan, but he would need both skill and luck for it to work...

Time passed out of his comprehension with every blow of silver on silver, with every lancing breath of icy air. Despite the frigid bite of winter, sweat soon soaked the shirt he wore beneath his armor. Blood dripped onto the dirt from his wound and Zhenjin's.

The Elven warrior leapt out of the way of the other prince's _chokutō_ as it arced downward. Managed an acrobatic flip over the prince's head that landed him behind Zhenjin's back. Nuada whipped his sword toward the back of the prince's thigh. _Hamstring him, cripple him, get him on the ground_. The words pounded through his skull. But Zhenjin twisted and blocked the attack with enough force to send tingles of half-numbing pain sizzling up Nuada's arm. _Damn._

Before the Bethmooran prince had time to recover and either dance away or move in for another strike, Zhenjin's sword flashed forward. Only a quick dodge kept the _chokutō_ from piercing him. It still managed to bite deeply into Nuada's side through the black leather jerkin, just beneath the edge of his breastplate.

_Damn!_

"Do you... need... a respite?" Zhenjin panted. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, hoping to work some semblance of feeling back into them. "Or can you continue?"

Nuada swallowed. Took swift mental note of the fire searing his ribs and the hot wetness seeping into his shirt. Nodded curtly to Zhenjin.

The Dilong prince muttered, "Very well."

Their swords met with enough force to send biting sparks rocketing up both of their arms. The clash of swords sent hot pain ripping through the amber-eyed prince's side. He winced inwardly, but his face remained blank. Warm blood continued to soak his shirt. How deep had that slice been?

Blades flashed in the sunlight. The clang of metal on metal sang through the winter air. There was no other sound for the two battling princes except the thunder of their hearts, the blood roaring in their ears, the harsh rasp of their breathing.

Nuada suddenly lunged. Dodged another attack, ducked low, and brought his sword ripping across the back of Zhenjin's thigh just above the knee - a rare opening in the other prince's armor. Elven silver sliced through cloth, muscle, and hamstring. The other prince stumbled. His leg gave out, but as he fell he snapped his blade out in a lightning strike that left white-hot agony searing Nuada's sword arm. Only centuries of training kept the Bethmooran prince from dropping his weapon.

Zhenjin swore in Chinese and eyed the other prince warily, waiting for Nuada to recover and move in for the kill. Topaz eyes met a gaze of draconic jade.

"Fight me with all you have, Nuada, or you stand no chance of winning," the other prince snapped. One hand pressed against the back of his thigh. When he drew it away, it was slick and dripping with golden blood. "I told you I will not hold back for the sake of our friendship. I must obey my emperor."

"I am not going to kill you if I do not have to, old friend," the Bethmooran prince rasped, just loudly enough for his opponent to hear him. "I will not kill a proud and honorable warrior at the whim of a mad sovereign. He is not _my_ emperor. _I_ need not obey him."

"Damn you," Zhenjin spat, adjusting his stance. His right leg would hold none of his weight. It served as nothing but dead-weight, dragging him down, but Nuada knew the Dilong prince was not about to give up merely because of a lamed leg. "You would condescend to me this way? Shame me this way?"

"Don't be an idiot," Nuada snapped. Zhenjin swung. Nuada blocked, dodged, countered. The wounds in his side and arm sent shards of pain screaming through him. "There is no shame in being spared by one you consider a friend. _I_ would be ashamed to kill you." The feral-eyed Elf barely managed to block a swing aimed at his throat. "As my lady would say, _get over it_."

"Bastard," the other Elf growled, but there was a rueful half-smile playing about his mouth. "I really do _not_ want to kill you, Nuada."

Nuada allowed himself a small smile despite the pain of his wounds. "I do not want you to kill me, either."

He'd let his guard down because this was Zhenjin. His friend. Because they had sparred together often. So he had forgotten for just a moment that banter had no place in an earnest battle. As a result, when next he dodged an attack, Zhenjin feinted to the left. Nuada ducked right before realizing it was merely a feint. Too late. There was a lightning-flash of sun on silver. The screech of metal ripping through metal. The sensation of being punched in the chest.

Someone screamed. Nuada dimly recognized Dylan's voice. The prince of Bethmoora stumbled. Swallowed.

Looked down.

Zhenjin's _chokutō_ pierced the right side of his chest. Nuada wondered, when his friend withdrew the blade, if his heart's blood would pump hot and wet onto the dirt or whether he would drown in the blood that might have been simply waiting to flood his lungs. Had Zhenjin hit anything vital? It seemed impossible that he had not.

Swallowing again as pain began to make itself known, he reached up with his free hand and gripped the blade. It wouldn't stop the Dilong prince from running him through, but instinct warred with intellect. Blood speckled the ground when the _chokutō_ bit into his palm through his glove. Amber ran down the slender sword blade.

Nuada felt the other prince tense. Regret burned in Zhenjin's dragon-slitted gaze. Nuada knew the prince was about to thrust his sword all the way through his body. There was nothing the Bethmooran Elf could do to prevent it.

_Brother!_ Nuala's voice rang out in his head. Gods, she could not be here, could she? His father had sent her away, hadn't he? _Brother, you cannot die! You cannot! Fight back! Do something, you must, you cannot leave me!_

_Nuala..._

His sister pleaded frantically through their distant link, _Brother, please! I beg you_, please, _do not leave me!_

_Nuala... my sister..._ He felt Zhenjin's grip tighten on the hilt of his sword. _Nuala, forgive me. For everything... for hurting you... please forgive me. I love you... Sister..._

_Brother, no! __**Brother!**_

"_No!_ No, Zhenjin, don't! Please!" Startled jade and amber eyes jerked to see Dylan on her feet, being held back by two Butcher Guards. Indecision held Tsu's'di and the hounds immobile; the guards were not _hurting_ Dylan, merely keeping her from getting where she desperately wished to go - right into danger. The mortal strained toward the two princes, eyes wide and frantic. "Zhenjin, don't! Please don't! You can't, you can't, Zhenjin, _please!_"

The emperor lunged to his feet. He ignored Ming Xian, who currently struggled just as desperately as Dylan to reach her brother and the Bethmooran prince. Only the restraining arms of Princess Yin-Mei kept her pinned to the older princess's lap. Huizong snarled, "You filthy human tramp, how dare you-"

It was all Nuada needed. He jerked back. The sword-point slid free with a spatter of blood. Even as Zhenjin moved in to press his advantage, instinct and centuries of battle and training had Nuada bringing up his sword to block the next strike.

The prince of the Tuatha de gritted his teeth. Sucked in an agonizing breath. Risking a gamble, he smacked his sword against Zhenjin's, startling him. A quick twist of the blade dragged it across the back of the Dilong Elf's hand. Zhenjin yelped and his blade dropped from suddenly limp fingers. He lunged to catch it.

Nuada punched him in the face. Blood spurted from what was likely to be a broken nose. Zhenjin staggered back.

Dizzy, the world spinning around him, Nuada dropped to one knee. Dylan yelled his name. He blinked away the blurriness in his vision. How much blood had he lost from that final strike? What had Zhenjin hit? It was so hard to draw a full breath. He tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood on his tongue.

A shadow moved overhead. A sword blade arced downward. Nuada knew he couldn't dodge that strike completely. Instead, he twisted and reached, knowing he had one last strike to make before he could safely say he'd won the battle. Zhenjin's _chokutō_ sliced downward. Nuada twisted again so the blade missed the weak points in his armor and clanged against the Royal Seal protecting his stomach.

Triumph entwined with pain to flood Nuada's veins with fiery ice as he twisted, slashing his own blade across the back of Zhenjin's ankle. The Elven silver sliced through the Dilong prince's leather boot. Through flesh and muscle. Severed the tendon.

Zhenjin fell with a hollow cry. His sword, clutched in his uninjured left hand, clattered to the ground. Nuada rolled onto his back and tried to breathe.

For a long moment, both of them simply lay in the dust, panting for breath. Blood soaked the ground. Soaked Nuada's shirt and oozed steadily from the wounds in his chest, side, thigh and sword-arm. He could scarcely draw breath. But he managed to struggle to his feet and point the tip of his sword just beneath Zhenjin's chin.

Jade eyes locked with amber. Nuada refused to let his sword tremble, though his arm shrieked at the abuse.

"That... hurt," the Dilong prince mumbled. "Bastard."

"As I said before," Nuada wheezed, "get over it. At least neither of us is dead." He wiped his blade against his thigh and sheathed it. The Elven warrior knew he would have to clean it thoroughly later, but for now it was all he could do to keep on his feet. "And at least there will be no senseless war between our kingdoms over this."

With hands that he refused to allow to shake, the prince removed his helm. His former weapons' tutors would have had fits if they saw what he did next, but the exhausted prince did not care - he let the helm drop to the dust at his feet. Nuada swayed on his feet as another wave of dizziness struck. It took him a moment to work up the saliva to wet his desert-dry mouth enough to speak. When he was sure the assembled fae would be able to hear him, he finally spoke.

"I will not kill an honorable opponent who cannot even stand, much less fight. By the dictates of His Imperial Majesty the August Jade Emperor, Crown Prince Zhenjin Tilung Azurefire was to fight me, and his victory would be ensured by my death. _My_ victory, however, requires no such sacrifice. By the dictates of His Royal Majesty King Balor One-Arm, I have won this duel. I am no longer bound in any way to Princess Ming Xian." Swallowing against the sudden urge to laugh - he had won, he was free of this ridiculous "betrothal," and Zhenjin still lived; relief threatened to make him giddy - he turned toward where his father sat beside Huizong and added in a voice that managed to ring with royal authority, "I declare myself to Lady Dylan of Central Park for all to hear and bear witness."

After what felt like several small eternities, the One-Armed King of Elfland inclined his head. Relief and exhaustion warred within the prince until they were nearly indistinguishable. He closed his eyes and just breathed for a minute. There was still more to what he owed his father for letting him end this battle this way, but for now this was enough. Thank the stars, it was enough.

Things grew just a bit fuzzy then. Nuada knew that healers came to carry Zhenjin away. They could heal the damage Nuada had inflicted - that was the request he had made of King Balor earlier that day. Without that healing, a crippled Zhenjin would be removed from the line of succession for the Jade Throne. With it, he would be back on his feet in only a few days, and still be the crown prince.

The Bethmooran prince turned on leaden feet and stumbled toward where his father sat rigid, watching him approach with fathomless eyes. It took him a moment to know if he could do it without collapsing, but Nuada managed to kneel before his father and king.

"Majesty," he rasped. The world was swimming. Every movement sent wicked agony throbbing through his body. He heard Ming Xian sobbing for her brother, nearly hysterical. The sound of childish fists striking Princess Yin-Mei in desperation thudded against his skull. Childish weeping buzzed in his ears. Nuada strained to make his voice strong and clear above the sound. "Is it finished to your satisfaction?"

He didn't expect his father to get up. To come and put a hand on the shoulder of his uninjured arm. Nuada looked up through his sweat-drenched hair to see his father gazing down at him with a look that might have been pride. Nuada wasn't sure if he were hallucinating due to bloodloss or not.

"I am satisfied. As is the Dragon Emperor." Over his shoulder, the king commanded, "Release the prince's lady. Where are the other healers?"

Nuada was not sure what it was that alerted him. Perhaps the sudden tension in his father, the barest hint of old battle instincts coming to the fore. Perhaps it was Ming Xian's sudden silence. Or maybe it was Dylan's gasp. Whatever it was, it pierced the fog of pain and gave the Elven warrior just enough of a warning to shove past his father as one of Huizong's black-clad Téngshé lunged for the aged Bethmooran king.

Gritting his teeth against the sudden flare of white-hot fire ripping through his chest, Nuada drew his sword and whipped it up. Thrust the blade of Elven silver deep into the Téngshé's belly. Amber blood fountained hot and wet over his hand.

A second blade, slim as a dagger, with a glittering hilt of jade as red as mortal blood, pierced the Téngshé's shoulder. Shock hollowed his cry of agony while his fellow guards moved in on him. A young girl's voice snarled, "Got him. Now hold the traitor! The poison on my stiletto should prevent him from trying to suicide until we can question him." Then the Butchers and the other Téngshé had the maverick Dilong guard in their grasp.

Nuada allowed himself to fall to his knees once again as his strength failed him. He would have collapsed to the ground, but slender arms came around him and took most of his weight. He managed to lift his head enough to meet a gaze of impossibly fey-like blue.

_Dylan..._

"Stay with me," she pleaded. The world faded away around them. The weary Elven warrior let his head drop to her shoulder. "Nuada, stay with me. These wounds, they're nothing, right?" She tried to force some lightness into her voice, but it came out hollow and panicked. "You've had worse. You'll be okay. Come on, now. Stay with me, okay? Okay?"

He did not - could not - answer her. Everything seemed so far away. Something wet and hot touched his lips. Blood? Every breath was a struggle. Pain hissed beneath his skin, strangely dulled by a deathly cold that whispered oh so seductively to him.

Dylan's voice trembled when she whispered, "Nuada, don't leave me. Please don't leave me." Her hand pressed hard against the wound in his chest, a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Slick amber seeped between her fingers. Stained the sleeve of her gown dark gold. "Stay with me. Come on..."

"Dylan, I... I..." _I love you. I love you, Dylan._ His lips moved soundlessly, but the words would not come. He didn't have the strength to speak. How much blood had he lost? Was he going to succumb to these wounds after all? That final strike, from the Téngshé... where had it hit him? Somewhere in the chest. Where?

He heard, as if from a long ways off, his father roaring for the healers. Tsu's'di was on Nuada's other side, helping Dylan support his weight while pressing something against the slice in his side to staunch the bleeding there. He wanted to say something to the boy - he was uncertain as to what - but it seemed far too much effort. Sétanta and Eimh pressed close, trying to help him stay at least somewhat upright. Both hounds whined low in their throats.

"Nuada? Please..."

_Brother!_

His eyes drifted closed. It was so hard to keep them open. He wanted to rest for a bit. Just for a bit. He'd stopped the attack, won the fight, could he not rest now? Just for a moment. Just rest with his forehead on Dylan's shoulder, the fragrance of her hair cutting through the stench of sweat and blood from the fight. She was soft and warm, and he was suddenly so cold.

"Nuada? Nuada, no. No! Open your eyes. Come on, you jerk, open your eyes! The healers are coming, you have to stay awake until they get here. Wake up! Don't do this to me," crying now, he did not want her to cry, never that, but he couldn't seem to muster the strength to respond, to comfort her, "Nuada, don't leave me. Please. Please. Nuada, _please!_" In tremulous Gaelic she begged, "Tabhair ná téigh. Tá grá agam duit, Nuada, ná téigh!"

_Please don't go. I love you, Nuada, don't go!_

He just barely managed to scrape together the strength to whisper, "Tá bron... orm... a ghrá..."

_I'm so... sorry... beloved..._

He sagged in her arms, completely spent. Only Tsu's'di and the hounds kept them both from falling under his weight. He thought he heard his father shout his name. Knew it could not be. But there were others calling...

"Your Highness!"

*Master!*

"Nuada! _Nuada!_"

And then the soft weight of her against him began to slip away. He could no longer hear her voice pleading with him. No longer feel her arms around him. There was nothing but a dull cold that seemed to spread from his chest to freeze his limbs. Nuada wondered if Dylan still wept. Wondered if she would ever forgive him for this.

_I am sorry... Nuala... Dylan... Father..._

Then he drifted away, and the last thing he heard was Nuala screaming for him through their link, begging him not to leave her alone.

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_**Author's Note:**__ yes, I ended it there! I know, I'm evil. Hehehehehehe. And it's a bit confusing, sort of - it's supposed to give you this "Whoa - what just happened?" feeling. So I'm actually up for taking a vote. Who thinks I should have Nuada die? I could do that, you know. Since I'm trying to fix the issues of the film, one way to do that would be to just never have the film happen in the first place. Our prince dying would do that. So who thinks I should kill Nuada off? Because I could so do that._

_While you all are thinking about it, onto our lovely review prompt! Woot-woot!_

_1) So Dylan receives a warning about Ligeia, wife of Moundshroud and faerie queen of Weir. Who heard a "dun-dun-DUN" at that point?_

_2) Who forgot Dylan had a magical mental block in her brain? Now that we remember, how long do you guys think the shelf-life on that little protection is? Who thinks they know when it'll expire? Or if it will expire all at once or slowly, bit by bit? What will happen when it does?_

_3) Nuada's almost-confession. How do you guys feel about that? Besides that you wanna strangle me, lol. How are Dylan and Nuada's reactions to each other at that point? The almost-confession isn't too mushy, is it? I'm just really curious about your guys' reaction to the whole thing._

_4) Nuada and Dylan's farewell right before the fight. Too mushy? Not mushy enough? Not enough kissing? Too lighthearted? Too depressing? What d'you think?_

_5) Of course, favorite things. I know this chapter's a bit short, so I know there might be some difficulty finding 17 for most of you. Try your best to get as many as you've got. Nightmare, you managed 26 last chapter. *announcer voice* Can she do more, ladies and gentlemen? Doubling-up letters works for me, lol. I know, I'm so greedy. But I love getting faves from people!_

_6) And the duel! How did I do? It's hard to write Nuada in a fight where he's not trying to actually kill someone. So what do you guys think?_

_7) What conditions do you think Nuada has to fulfill since Balor let him spare Zhenjin's life? I said one actually in the text, but there's another that I don't explain. What do you think it is?_

_8) Nuala's reaction to Nuada's injuries/almost-dying - what do we think? We haven't had much twinly interaction, so... yeah?_

_9) Wow. Considering this chapter is shorter than normal, this is kinda weird that our prompt is longer than normal. Anywho... the Tengshe. He tried to attack the king. What could this mean? Is Huizong a bad guy? Is the Dilong guard a spy? Were one of the princes behind it? Or was it (dun-dun-DUN) Ming Xian? What do you think? And what fallout will this attack have?_

_Love you all! Ta-ta!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Neil is Cornelius Stone, who appeared in chapter 54 and is from Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Ironside_. Yes, he's an adult now, but he's been seeing Dylan for a few years, since he was about 16 (he's 20 now).

- Simon is Simon Lewis from _The Mortal Instruments_ by Cassandra Clare; Dylan is counseling him regarding both his issues with his vampirism and his issues with being kicked out of his house.

- Mallory Grace is the older sister of Simon and Jared Grace from _The Spiderwicke Chronicles_, as well as the junior partner of Val Russel (the MC from Holly Black's _Valiant_). She's one of Dylan's Sight-kids as well as in training to be Kaye's bodyguard along with Val (both of whom know how to sword-fight).

- Varen Nethers is the male lead from Kelly Creagh's _Nevermore_ (starring alongside female lead Isobel Langley).

- There is actually such a thing as a cinnamon/sugar-dusted apple-jelly-filled donut. They're my favorite.

- So I know that we see Nuada's "armor" in the film... but if he were actually going to do battle against another fae warrior as strong and skilled as he himself is, he would wear something that covers a bit more. And since this is a formal duel and a court event, it would be a bit more elaborate. Kind of like the difference between Aragorn as the Ranger, Aragorn fighting at Helm's Deep, and Aragorn fighting as the King of Gondor.

- When you think of a double-orobouros, think of the AURYN as seen in _The Neverending Story_ film.

- Yin-Mei being a second-rank princess means she is a female of the royal family but is not in line for the throne.


	62. Death of the First Born

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So this chapter is named after a song from_ The Prince of Egypt _(part of the instrumental score). And I posted it so promptly so that you guys will be able to make sense of the "whoa, what just happened" feeling from chapter 61. Hope you enjoy this chapter! I love you!_

_And, if you guys would be so kind, please tell me your initial reaction upon seeing the chapter title._ =D

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**Chapter Sixty-Two**

**Death of the First Born**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of** **Unwilling Guards, Suspicion, a Child's Prayer, Forbidden Comfort, Fathers' Love, Vigil, a Request, Doubt, Nightmares, and Deathly Sleep**

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Guardsman Loén shifted to relieve some of the dull ache in his feet. He'd been set to guarding the chamber in the Healers' Wing that currently housed an unconscious Prince Nuada since early afternoon. As of that moment, Loén could catch a glimpse of the Evening Star sinking below the horizon as she gave way to her sister, the Midnight Star. Hours on his feet, keeping watch over the healing chamber alongside Guardsman Siothrún. Why? Why would the king assign any of the Butchers to stand guard over the man that had killed Captain Oisin and Lieutenant Padraig in cold blood?

Everyone in the Royal Guard knew the Silver Lance had done it. Some might not have wanted to believe it - like Oisin and Padraig's replacements, Captain Phelan and Lieutenant Jarlath - but there was no refuting that the crown prince had ordered his bond-servant to slay nearly two dozen of the king's elite, killing helpless civilians in the process, before having the survivors of the cowardly attack murdered in their very beds. And they were supposed to protect this monster?

So he had taken a sword for the king. So what? The prince had probably arranged the so-called attack in the first place. One of Emperor Huizong's royal guards had tried to attack the king, but the Dilong sovereign insisted the attack wasn't at his order. Perhaps Prince Nuada had paid the Téngshé to feign an attack in order to secure King Balor's consideration once again in the face of the prince's house arrest. Although Loén could acknowledge that at this point he was reaching; why risk death just to slip metaphorical shackles?

All anyone really knew about the attack that afternoon was this: one of the Téngshé, seemingly without prompting from his emperor, had made to attack the Bethmooran king after the duel between the crown princes of Dilong and Bethmoora. Crown Prince Nuada, already severely injured, had lunged between his father and the attack, taking a sword to the chest in order to protect Balor. Emperor Huizong had ordered his guard to work with the Butchers in apprehending the rogue Téngshé with the help of Princess Yin-Mei. The Dilong princess had attacked and subdued the already-injured Dilong warrior with a poisoned blade to prevent him from suiciding before they could get the information from him as to why he'd attacked Balor and who he was working for - be it Huizong or someone else.

And that was all anyone knew for certain at the moment. It was enough to drive a guardsman mad. In the face of that uncertainty, Loén focused on what he _did_ know - that Prince Nuada was more than likely responsible for the deaths of one of the two Butcher Captains and his lieutenant, as well as an entire company. And... and that he was no doubt manipulating an innocent human girl; though for what reason was anyone's guess.

Loén let his eyes drift over to the human that Prince Nuada had declared himself to earlier that day after the duel with the crown prince of Dilong. Poor, stupid girl. Did she have any idea what she was getting herself into? Did she know what kind of cruelty the Elven prince was capable of?

Loén didn't adhere to the idea that humans were evil strictly by virtue of being human. He'd known a few decent mortals in his time. For the most part, the guardsman was indifferent to the breed. But not so indifferent that he felt no pity for the girl who currently sat hunched in a chair by the prince's bedside with her black and white hounds at her feet, her young guard gazing out the star-spangled window behind her seat. The mortal kept her head bowed and arms folded defensively against her belly, murmuring under her breath so softly that even Loén's superior fae hearing could not distinguish the words. Fire- and candlelight illuminated her scarred face and unseeing eyes. A gold and ruby ring glinted on her finger; a match to the one on a slender chain around the prince's neck. Every so often, the mortal would caress the red jewel on her finger.

"How fares the prince?" A soft voice asked from just beyond the entryway to the healing chamber. Loén, distracted from his study of the scarred mortal woman, turned back to see Jenny Hob peering around him to get a glimpse of the room. A wooden tray floated at shoulder-level, bearing a plate of sandwiches and muffins and a mug of something that steamed. When the housekeeper caught sight of the human, her dark eyes tightened. "I knew it. How long has Her Ladyship been there?"

"She has not left the prince's side, ma'am," Loén replied in an equally soft murmur. "When the healers brought him, she begged to remain in the room. They agreed, so long as Her Ladyship stayed out of the way - which she did. Stood trembling in a corner, whispering to herself while the healers worked on His Highness.

"It is still touch-and-go, ma'am," the young guardsman added. "Crown Prince Zhenjin bore a sacred blade, and the wounds left by such a weapon do not heal easily, even with sorcery. And the prince had lost a great deal of blood even before the Téngshé's attempt on the king's life injured him. The healers are unsure of his chances."

Jenny frowned. Worry darkened her already dark eyes. Loén remembered that Jenny Hob had been head housekeeper in Findias since before the prince's birth; had, in fact, watched the mighty Silverlance grow from babe to boy to man. "That is ill news, indeed," Jenny murmured. "And you say the human has been whispering to herself? What did she say?"

Loén merely shrugged his broad shoulders. "I do not know, ma'am. She spoke too softly for either Siothrún or I to hear." Loén glanced at his fellow guardsman, who merely stared straight ahead, watching the corridor through the slit in his beaked helmet. "She would murmur to herself every now and again even after the healers left, or sometimes speak softly to the prince and hold his hand. I cannot hear what she says, though."

The hob woman pursed her lips and stared at the human from the safety of the doorway. Loén wondered why Findias's head housekeeper suddenly looked so uncertain. Almost frightened. "Muttering to herself," the hob whispered. The seven spindly fingers of both hands fiddled with her apron strings. "I wonder what she says..."

Before Loén could even attempt to answer, Jenny bustled into the healing room, the tray floating along behind her.

Dylan blinked when Tsu's'di touched her shoulder; a silent alert that someone had come in the room. Ending her prayer, she straightened a little and met the licorice-black eyes of a hob woman. Judging by the cut of her clothes, a high-ranked servant. It took Dylan several moments to realize the hob held a tray piled with food.

"Milady-" Jenny began, sinking into a curtsy and dipping her head.

Sétanta interrupted. *She does not like being 'milady.' It makes her sad. Her name is Dylan.* The dog's tail thumped against the floor twice when the human's foot rubbed absently over the exposed black belly. *She gives good foot-pets.*

Did not like being addressed as "milady?" Was this an act, or truth? Jenny knew Nuada's hounds would not lie, and they could smell untruth in others. But if the rumors were correct - if the girl truly was a witch - then why seduce Prince Nuada and bespell him, if not for the purpose of achieving rank of some sort? Many women (and men) used nobles in just such a way for just such a purpose. Unless the human had another motive. Though all this hinged on whether the mortal was actually a witch or not.

*Since you are older, you can call her 'Dylan' or 'child,' even though she is not a human puppy,* Sétanta added, gazing up at Dylan with worried and adoring eyes of glacial blue. *The pack-leader of the kitchens and Miyax call her that sometimes.*

*They call her 'milady,' too,* Eimh added. Sétanta whuffed at her. *Well, they _do.*_

"Both of you hush," the cat-faced youth behind the mortal growled, flattening his ears against his skull. "His Highness needs to rest so the healing can take full effect, and you're upsetting _A'ge'lv_ Dylan." Both dogs looked up at the mortal in question. Jenny acknowledged that she did indeed look pale and drawn. Concern for Nuada... or exhaustion from working some kind of spell on the unconscious prince?

"You poor child," the hob murmured, catching Dylan's full attention. There was something very maternal in her voice. The gray bun she'd twisted her hair into reminded Dylan suddenly of her Aunt Niamh. It was oddly comforting. "Here, now. I've brought you something to eat."

Feeling as if she were struggling to move and think through a soup of sludge and mental fog, Dylan asked, "Who are you?"

*That's Jenny,* Eimh piped up from the floor. She shifted just enough that she could rest her chin on Dylan's foot. *She is pack-leader for all the maids in the castle. She loves Master very much. She is one of the only servants allowed to swat him. We can have food, too?* This last was directed at the hob, who shook her head. Eimh heaved a great big doggy sigh, but did not press the issue.

"Come, child, you should eat something," Jenny said in the same sort of no-nonsense voice Becan sometimes used with Dylan when she was being stubborn. That, too, was strangely comforting - to find someone with that kind of voice in Findias. "And it is after midnight. Surely you wish to return to your chambers and sleep."

The mortal shook her head. "No, I can't. I can't leave. Can't sleep."

A pale hand pushed at the tangle of dark curls falling into her face. Jenny caught sight of the ruby ring on one finger. _A match to the one that rests against the prince's heart_, Jenny thought, and suppressed a frown.

"I have to stay with him," the human insisted. "I can't... I can't leave him..." But it was very clear to the hob woman that, whatever her reasoning, the human girl was on her last legs and would soon find herself succumbing to slumber in the chair she currently occupied if she didn't get back to the chambers she shared with the crown prince.

Using her most persuasive voice, Jenny said, "My dear, you really must take some food and rest." Anything, to get the girl who was rumored to be a witch far away from the prince. Who knew what she might be doing to Nuada with those mutterings of hers? "His Highness will be well enough, I promise you. He is well guarded and the healers are checking on him every hour. He will be just fine, child. Now come along with me. I shall escort you myself."

Tsu's'di demonstrated tacit approval of this plan by shifting away from the window to stand at an angle to the chair, a silent "order" for Dylan to get up - please. The hound pups heaved themselves to their feet, as well. Weary mazarine eyes drifted over the assembled guardians. She was going to let herself be bullied by a teenage cougar-shifter, two puppies, and an old hob woman?

Unfortunately, Dylan lacked the energy to even be embarrassed by this, much less the energy to fight them all about it.

The mortal managed to get to her feet, though it seemed to take her some effort. She moved to stand just beside the prince lying unconscious on the bed. Reached out with trembling fingers and caressed the royal scar etched across sharp, feral cheekbones.

Dylan allowed herself to truly study Nuada for the first time since the healers had first left the room. Fear, black and choking as a taloned hand, had clawed at her throat as she'd watched helplessly from the corner while the Elven healers worked frantically to stop the bleeding from the vicious slash that bit deep between Nuada's two lowest ribs, from the ragged wound in the right side of his chest from Zhenjin's sword punching through his armor to find flesh, and from the vicious thrust that had just nicked the underside of his heart and the edges of both lungs. The sword-thrust from the Téngshé that had been meant for King Balor. The attack that, apparently, the Dilong emperor swore had not been ordered by him or one of his children.

She couldn't have cared less who'd ordered it. She only cared that Nuada had nearly died. Nearly died protecting his father, the father who constantly betrayed and hurt him, the father who believed him lacking heart or soul or honor. The father that, as far as Dylan knew, was the only person who had ever reduced her prince to tears. She only cared that Nuada, one of only two that she _could not_ do without, hovered just at Death's door even now. The only reason he hadn't died yet was because he was hardier than a human; that didn't make him unkillable.

She'd thought she'd prepared herself for the possibility that Nuada might die... but how could she have ever been prepared for the end of half of her entire world?

Bracing herself against the edge of the bed, Dylan leaned down and ever so gently touched her mouth to Nuada's slack lips. They were warm and soft, and felt oddly vulnerable to her. His breath was shallow against her lips.

A careful hand brushed back a strand of his star-blond hair from his forehead. She touched his cheek. Whispered in a voice that held a wealth of tenderness, "Don't leave me, _mo airgeadach_, my silver one. I'm waiting for you to tell me what you were going to say before. I promise I'll listen. You just have to come back to me, _mo phrionsa_ - my prince. So don't leave me... okay? Just don't leave me."

Dylan squeezed Nuada's hand very gently, careful of the bandage covering the cut from where he'd gripped Zhenjin's sword. She thought, just for a fleeting moment of insanity, that the long fingers pressed back ever so slightly. The pulse in his palm beat against her hand. Then she let him go, and turned to follow Jenny.

**.**

She was ashamed to realize she'd forgotten A'du and 'Sa'ti in the aftermath of the duel. They woke when she came back to her suite, and she knew they had to be told what had happened.

'Sa'ti clutched Tsu's'di around the waist and began to sob. The ewah youth laid an arm around her shoulders and began to purr in an attempt to comfort her.

A'du'la'di proved to have gotten a bit older and more mature since the dullahan attack, because he did not begin crying. He bit his lip, and his fur started to fluff while his whiskers quivered with agitation. His ears pressed against his skull, sideways instead of back to indicate fear rather than aggression or anger. Then the ewah boy climbed onto the bed where Dylan sat rigid and laid his head in her lap. He softly stroked her knee.

"It'll be okay, _A'ge'lv_," the little boy murmured. A quiet and reassuring purr rumbled just beneath the words. "His Highness will be okay. He wouldn't leave us. He loves us. It's gonna be okay."

Dylan stroked a hand along the tufty mane the boy possessed in place of hair and thanked the Star Kindler for a page like A'du'la'di.

Instead of sleeping in their separate rooms, all of them piled into the sitting room. 'Sa'ti curled up in Dylan's armchair. Tsu's'di dragged out the two overstuffed armchairs from the room with the chess set and shoved them together so that A'du could sleep there. Tsu's'di took the sofa nearest the door. Eimh and Sétanta sprawled out across the floor in front of the couch that Dylan slept on.

Everyone was ready for sleep, and Dylan had already eaten the food Jenny had brought for her, said fervent prayers for Nuada, and done her nightly scripture study, when 'Sa'ti came over to her and said in a very serious and grown-up voice that she had a question.

"What's your question?"

"Should we... pray for the prince?" The cougar girl asked, more than a little timid. "I don't know how," she confessed, "but you do it all the time, so you can show us, and maybe it'll help."

"Yeah," A'du said from his double-chair bed. "You always talk about the Star Kindler. You pray all the time; we've seen you. If we pray for the prince, maybe it'll help him get better."

Tsu's'di looked up from where he'd been studying the floor from in front of his couch and added, "It can't hurt, _A'ge'lv_."

Dylan stared at them all, shocked. She hadn't realized the children had paid attention to such things. She should have, she realized. In fact, by the laws of the Star Kindler, she was supposed to be raising her servants to follow the High King of the World, too. However, this had the potential to blow up and become a real rat's nest of problems if she didn't handle it properly.

So she invited 'Sa'ti and A'du to sit on either side of her and for Tsu's'di to come a little closer. Then she explained, "Praying might help. It can never hurt. But..." How to word this? "Sometimes... sometimes it's just time for someone to... to go back to Heavenly Father because He needs them for something. If it's time, prayer won't keep them from..." Emotion clogged her throat. It took her more than a few moments to get a firm grip on her composure again. A'du'la'di leaned his head against her upper arm and purred like motorboat. 'Sa'ti did the same at her elbow. After a bit, Dylan managed to continue. "The best thing to do is to pray for the prince to be healed, if it's God's will. And if it's not... we should ask for comfort if that's what has to be. Do you understand?"

"How come the Star Kindler might not heal the prince?" 'Sa'ti asked. Her words were slightly muffled because she had her face half-pressed into Dylan's sleeve. "Does He not like the prince?"

"No, sweetie," she replied, putting an arm around each cougar child. "Sometimes... sometimes losing someone is what's best for us, or for them. We're only on this earth until we've done everything we agreed to do before coming here. Once our mission is over, we can go to be with the Star Kindler in His kingdom. If... if the prince is done with his mission here... then God will call him back so that he can rest for a bit before doing the other things He needs him to do."

"Oh." A'du wrapped his arms around Dylan's arm and cuddled her. "I get it. The Star Kindler might need the prince... more than we do, I guess. But," and he turned earnest eyes up to Dylan, "_A'ge'lv_... don't _you_ need Prince Nuada? You love him, right? Won't you be mad if the Star Kindler takes him away? Won't you miss him?"

Dylan found it was a lot easier to offer A'du'la'di a smile than she'd have expected. "I'll be sad. I'll miss him. A lot. But I'll try not to be mad."

The ewah boy pondered that for a few minutes. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision. He looked at 'Sa'ti, who looked back with bright turquoise eyes and nodded. Tsu's'di seemed to know whatever was running through their minds. He nodded to each of them. A'du looked up at Dylan.

"So... how do we do this praying stuff? We should do it to try and help the prince get better."

'Sa'ti wanted to be the one to actually say the prayer. With some coaching from Dylan, she managed to come up with something the cougar girl liked, that actually seemed to comfort all three ewah.

"Dear Heavenly Father, this is 'Sa'ti... um, U'de'ho'sa'ti Ewah. Um, I haven't talked to You... to Thee, I mean, before, but... but this is kinda an emergency, and we really need Your help. Um, I mean, Thy help. So Prince Nuada is hurt really bad-"

"Like, really really super bad," A'du'la'di interjected.

"-and the healers don't know if he'll be okay. We love him a lot, and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan loves him so much and she'll be really sad if anything really bad happens to him. Please if it's okay, can You heal the prince? Or help him get better at least? And if not... um, can You... Thee... Thou? Um, can Thee help us not be too sad? And help _A'ge'lv_ Dylan to not be too sad? 'Cause we don't want her to be sad, and the prince doesn't want her to be sad, either. In the name of the Annointed One, amen."

Dylan reached out and hugged the little girl. "That was _very_ good, 'Sa'ti. Very good job. Thank you; that was wonderul."

The cougar rubbed sleepily at her eyes. Yawned. "Really?"

Her mistress nodded. "Now it's time for bed, I think. Okay?"

With the dogs snoring, the cougars asleep, the lamps extinguished and the fire banked, Dylan stared up at the ceiling and let just one thought fly up from her mind to the stars that glittered in the sky, a reminder of the Star Kindler's presence.

_Heavenly Father... I beg you... don't take him from me. Please._

**.**

Personal crisis of apocalyptic devastation pending or not, Dylan knew she couldn't afford to miss anymore work. She managed to scrape together a half-dozen hours of restless sleep filled with dark dreams. Thankfully none of her usual nightmares, nor the painful dream that had plagued her the last few weeks. Instead, Dylan dreamed of racing through a torchlit, deserted hallway that twisted and turned, coiling in on itself before undulating out again like a writhing, poisonous snake. Panic twisted in her stomach. Throttled her as she staggered down the ever-changing corridor. She was searching for Nuada, knew it was imperative she find him, but no matter how long or how fast she ran, he remained lost to her. She could only be grateful she hadn't woken up screaming or crying.

In the dim light of the banked fire, Dylan went through the little ritual of smoothing back A'du and 'Sa'ti's hair and kissing their foreheads. Both cubs barely stirred. She woke Tsu's'di briefly to tell him she was going to work. He was clear-eyed enough that she knew he'd remember, even though he fell back asleep fairly quickly. Eimh and Sétanta were on their feet and trotting around at Dylan's heels before she'd even taken two steps toward her bedroom door.

Showered, dressed and brushed, medicated, with prayers said and scriptures read, she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the icy glass of her bedroom window. Wished fiercely for Nuada. Knew she couldn't go down to see him before work. For one thing, without Tsu's'di - who was a growing boy and needed his sleep - it wasn't safe. For another, she'd probably get lost. But she just wanted... just wanted...

An idea popped into her head.

Wondering if she'd gone crazy - or just become incredibly pathetic - Dylan slipped into Nuada's room. She didn't let the hounds follow her.

She gingerly sat on his bed. It felt strange, being in his room without him after... after everything. But there was something comforting about it, too. Like whenever she wore one of Nuada's tunics (such as the white one she wore right at that moment).

Dylan smoothed her hand over the velvet blanket, over the soft linen pillow. An odd tingling, pins and needles, whispered across her palm and up her arm. She frowned; magical residue?

Even though he looked it, she rarely remembered that Nuada was fae, was Elven. Was inherently magical. Magic clung to all fae, especially royals. But it was easy to forget when he made himself so accessible to her. Was this the aftertaste of what made him fey? An echo of power because he'd slept in this bed?

Running her fingers over the velvet blankets and silk sheets and linen pillows again sent that same pins-and-needles feeling shivering along her skin. It was almost like being touched. Only gently, only whisper-light, but like fingertips ghosting along her arm from wrist to elbow and up along her shoulder before caressing down again. Was this Nuada's magic?

Part of her yearned toward the strange feeling. Wished desperately for Nuada to be with her so he could feel it, too. Would he feel it? Or was it such an inherent part of him that it didn't really register? She hadn't felt it the day before when they'd been sitting on his bed... but she hadn't touched anything but him. Was it like psychic scent - left behind for perhaps days on clothes and jewelry and furnishings, but vanishing on the air after only a few minutes or hours?

Dylan kicked off her shoes and curled up on Nuada's bed. Part of her felt... strange. As if she shouldn't be doing this. As if it were somehow dangerous. But she didn't care. She was so tired, and she missed him so much, and this feeling was the closest she'd come to him since leaving the healing chamber last night.

With a sigh, she grabbed the pillow and pressed her face into it, breathing deep of the feral scent of ancient wildwoods that was all Nuada. Beneath that, there was a soft whispery scent that teased her nose and made her heart kick into a gallop. She clutched the pillow and nuzzled her cheek against the linen. Closed her eyes. Just let the spice of green woods wash over her.

_Please don't die, Nuada,_ Dylan thought, feeling that strange tingling ghosting over her shoulders and down her spine, along the line of her legs over her jeans. A cool whisper of warning told her that maybe she ought to get up and leave, but she didn't want to. Not yet. Nuada's scent - Old World forests and clean sweat and summer sunlight - had always comforted her. Always. _You can't die. Please. I've lost so many. I've lost my entire world once, when I thought John died. I can't do it again. I can't_. She tried to muffle the small sob threatening to break free with the pillow. _Why was I stupid enough to fall in love with you like this?_

_Leave now._ The command was sharp and clear, and years of training herself to obey it was what brought her upright and had her sliding off the bed before she'd even had time to really think. _Go to work_, the Spirit commanded. Not in a voice exactly, but the words came into her mind as clear as glass. _Now._

She set the pillow back on the bed and slipped her feet back into her shoes. Swiped at her eyes to ensure they were tear-free. She didn't know _why_ she needed to leave right this minute, but that was okay. She would go because the prompting of the Holy Ghost told her to do so. Maybe someone needed her. Or maybe someone was going to come into Nuada's room, and finding her there alone would be dangerous for some reason.

Or perhaps it was just that the strange and wonderful feeling of that magic caressing her skin and drowning in the scent of Elven warrior would have kept her in bed all day if she'd let it, and Dylan knew from experience that _that_ was a dangerous psychological trap on all its own.

Whatever the reason, she settled her coat around her shoulders and smoothed down her hair. Drew a shuddering breath before letting it out slowly. She shut her eyes in an attempt to build up her mental walls again, desperate to ground herself in the present. Twisting the ring on her finger, Dylan whispered the words engraved on the inside of the golden band, and let the magic take her.

**.**

The voice came from so far off that Nuada could barely hear it. Every sound, even the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat, seemed muffled by the darkness that pressed down on him. But he knew that voice. Could just barely make out the words.

Could feel, as if from a long way off, a calloused hand smoothing back his hair from his face. That, more than anything else, made him want to wake up and see if what he felt was what was truly happening. It had been a long time since his father had touched him this way. Centuries. Not since he was a very little boy afraid of ill dreams. He'd almost forgotten, but now that he'd been reminded, he could recall that his father had often smoothed back his hair before patting him gently on the head and sending him off to the royal nursery for bed.

"Why did you do it, my son?" Balor's voice was tired; Nuada could hear that, as well. If only he could open his eyes. But the healing spells kept him from surfacing to full consciousness. He could hardly move, in fact. At least there was no more pain. "I do not understand you. Help me to understand. You swear that the humans must all die... and then give your heart to one. You move against me, attack my soldiers and plot to take my throne... then take a sword aimed for my heart. Why?"

_I would never plot against you, Athair,_ he wanted to say. _Will you never think well of me? Why must you always doubt? Why must you always think me a monster, even now? I took a sword for you. Athair... Athair, why must you look on me and see only a beast?_

"I wish... I wish your mother was here to advise me," Balor murmured. A familiar hand gripped Nuada's. "You and your sister were both so close to her. When I could not get you to do something, Cethlenn could always talk sense into you." The king gave a soft, bitter laugh. "You thought the sun rose and set on your sister, but you were certain your mother had been the one to set the stars in the sky. You would have done nearly anything for her."

Against his will, Nuada thought of his mother. Her quick smile. How her eyes would transform from emerald to silver in the moonlight. The nights when, after he and Nuala had had their baths and were getting ready for bed, Cethlenn would come in to comb out Nuala's long blond hair with her own golden comb engraved with blooming rose vines. How she always smelled of lilies. Her voice, when she would lay a hand atop his head and call him her brave warrior. He _would_ have done nearly anything for her.

"She would have known what was in your heart, I think. She would have known what could be done about all of this. I wish she were here to advise me. To counsel us both." His father pulled away then. The rustle of heavy velvet told Nuada the king had risen to his feet. "As your king - and as your father - I give you an order, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance. I command you to live. The healers are uncertain of your chances, but I know better." Nuada felt a presence come close above him. Felt his father's hand, gentle for the first time in so very long. "I know better. You are _my_ son, and you are a fighter. You will not give up on life so easily. I forbid it."

And then the king was gone, and Nuada drifted in darkness, his father's words echoing in his skull. _You are my son. You are_ my _son._ If Balor never said those words again, the Elven warrior was fairly certain it would not matter. He'd said them once. Nuada held onto that, and held onto the knowledge that Dylan was waiting for him to wake and tell her... tell her...

The thought faded as true sleep slipped in among the langorous haze of the healing spells and took him away.

**.**

In another part of the Healers' Wing, the Dragon Emperor of Dilong sat in a chair and met his second-eldest son's eyes.

The Bethmooran prince had spared Zhenjin's life, crippling him to win the duel. As it turned out, Nuada had struck some sort of bargain with King Balor - that the Elven healers would reverse the damage done by their prince and leave Zhenjin whole once more. What Silverlance had offered his father in exchange, Huizong did not know.

He didn't care, either. Zhenjin was alive, and would remain in the line of succession. That was all that mattered.

As an emperor of the Dilong Empire, he supposed he ought to be offended that his son had been spared. In the eastern fae kingdoms, such mercy was seen as the opponent dismissing the spared as too inconsequential to kill. A form of dishonor for most warriors. Yet Zhenjin had told his father what Nuada had said - that there was no shame in being spared by a friend. That the Tuathan prince would be ashamed to kill someone as honorable as Zhenjin.

As a father, there was no supposing. He was simply grateful. He had lost one son to exile centuries ago. He did not want to lose another to death.

"The Téngshé," Zhenjin said. Sweat dampened his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead. Unlike a simple cut or stab wound or broken bone, a severed tendon required a different sort of healing. One that hurt. And there was no pain-draught or sleep-spell that could help a victim escape that hurt. Despite the fire smoldering in his thigh and just under his calf, the crown prince of Dilong focused on his father and the matter of the traitorous guard. "What happened?"

Huizong frowned, stroking the thin length of his beard in thought. "Yin-Mei interrogated him." The emperor's mouth curved in a humorless smile at Zhenjin's wince. Princess Yin-Mei was _not_ known for her gentility. Her epithet was Redbird for a very good - and very bloody - reason. "He claims that he acted out of devotion to the empire and the Jade Dragon Throne. That we had been insulted and dishonored because Balor dared to claim satisfaction for us both when I had clearly stated the terms of the duel beforehand, and that your victory was thwarted by the interference of the mortal slut."

Zhenjin's mouth tightened. "I beg you not to insult her, Father. I have met her. She is a good woman. I would be proud to have a lady at my side as honorable and compassionate as the one who currently stands with the brave Silverlance."

The emperor's surprise showed clearly on his face, but he inclined his head nonetheless. "I bow to your wishes in this, my son. If I may ask, then... was that why you hesitated when she called out to you? Because you think well of her and did not wish to cause her grief?"

Recognizing that the wrong answer would turn this conference between royal father and son into a very dangerous confrontation between Dragon Emperor and wounded prince, Zhenjin took a moment to think before answering. "She caught me off-guard, Honorable Father. I did not hesitate. It simply took me a moment to comprehend that she had dared to try and stay my hand with her pleas. I did not intend to allow Nuada to survive the battle."

His father studied him for a moment through narrowed eyes before reaching out and resting a hand on his shoulder. "It must have been difficult for you. I know that he is your friend."

Zhenjin shrugged. "He is my friend. You are my father and my emperor. My duty was clear."

Huizong gripped his son's shoulder and bestowed a rare smile. "You make your father very proud, Zhenjin. Now, your sister wishes to see you and make sure the healers succeeded in... how did she put it? Putting all your pieces back together again."

The crown prince of Dilong grinned despite the pain. "Indeed? Doesn't she know that I am convalescing? Ah, well. I suppose she can come in if she must."

Calling to the Téngshé waiting outside the door resulted in the door bursting open and an explosion of lavender and magenta silk rocketed into the room, climbed into the emperor's lap, used it as a springboard, and then landed with a bounce on the edge of the bed next to Zhenjin. Ming Xian buried her face in her brother's stomach, twined her arms around his waist, and hung on for dear life as if she expected that at any moment someone would pick her up and drag her away.

Zhenjin laid his bandaged hand on top of her head, careful of the little enameled combs holding her styled hair in place. The other hand rubbed soothing circles over the golden cranes embroidered on the back of her _yihe-dang_. He wondered absently how Yin-Mei had gotten his little sister to agree to wear the short-sleeved jacket in the first place. "It is all right, Ming. I am all right. Come now, little orchid, all is well. I am all right."

"You are in big trouble, Zhen," the princess mumbled into his shirt. "I am going to tell Aunt Yethh-Thhen you got hurt and thhe will be very mad at you and thmack you with a thtick. Mama will be mad at you, too. You thaid you wouldn't get hurt."

"I did try my best, little orchid."

Ming Xian pulled her face away from his stomach long enough to stick out her tongue and slightly smudge the carefully-applied skinpaint on her mouth. She'd already smeared his shirt with the rice powder her servants had applied to her face. Zhenjin glanced at his father. The emperor rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I do not understand why Counselor Chi-Fu insists on having the servants put makeup on you, Ming," the prince said, swiping away the residue of pale rice powder from her face to reveal the natural bronze of her skin. A quick swipe erased the crimson on her lips. The only thing he did not attempt to wipe away was the kohl around her eyes. That would stay for most of the day... unless she decided to jump in a fountain. "There. Much better. Now do not stick your tongue out at me or else."

She narrowed her green eyes. In the fiercely challenging set to her features, her brother saw the princess she would become when she got older. Folding her arms across her skinny chest, Ming Xian demanded, "Or elthe what?"

"Or else," Zhenjin said, adopting a deep rumbling growl, "or else..." And then quick as a striking viper, he grabbed her and pulled her against his chest, growling with mock-ferocity, "I shall feed you to a fire-breathing dragon!"

Ming Xian squealed and squirmed, but couldn't escape. Zhenjin pretended to nibble on her cheeks and she giggled. "No! I don' tathte good, Zhen."

"Really?" He pulled back in time to catch one of the combs that tumbled out of her hair. "A dragon would think you taste delicious."

She shook her head emphatically, sending more combs falling. "Mmm-mmm, not me."

Huizong leaned back in his chair and simply watched his second-eldest child and his youngest laughing and playing together, grateful that the former still lived, glad that the latter could giggle and enjoy her brother's presence. He owed Prince Nuada his thanks... when the Bethmooran prince awoke.

If he ever did.

**.**

Work went by swiftly. Dylan had expected the day to drag on and on, with the worry and the dread gnawing at her insides and clawing at her chest until she could scarcely breathe, but throwing herself into the sessions with her patients helped to shove down the fear until she could function.

Every so often she would think back to the strange tingling sensation she'd experienced when she'd lain on Nuada's bed. It had been comforting, but oddly... almost frightening in a way. She hadn't realized it at the time, but the temptation to just lay on the bed and let that softly sorcerous feeling slide over her like a spell had been strangely powerful and even more seductive than she'd realized until she'd left it behind in Faerie. Even now, taking a moment to sit down in the underground sanctuary before she bounced back to Findias, the memory of that gentle caress of magic whispered to her.

Was it just the combination of fear for Nuada, missing him so much, and being so freaking exhausted all the time that had made the call of that magic so very powerful? Or was there something more at work? Thinking about that strange feeling left excitement and a strange reluctance warring in the pit of her stomach.

Shaking away the half-bewildered, half-bewildering thoughts, Dylan used her ring again.

**.**

Once again, she thanked Heavenly Father that Nuada had gifted her with Eimh and Sétanta. Somehow, the hound pups were waiting for her when she popped up not in her room in Findias, but in a (luckily mostly deserted) corridor. Of course, as Nuada wasn't in his suite but in the Healers' Wing, Dylan realized she should've expected to pop up somewhere new.

When asked how the dogs had known where the ring would take her, Eimh gave an odd roll of her shoulders and a shake of her tail that Dylan interpreted as a doggy-shrug and said, *We just knew. We are guards - it is our job to know where you are.*

_Maybe it's part of their magic,_ the mortal decided, and followed the hounds to the prince's room in the Healers' Wing.

She didn't have to identify herself to the Butcher Guards standing watch just outside the door. They merely stepped aside, each pressing a fist to their leather- and armor-clad chests and bowing their helmeted heads before returning to Bethmooran military attention.

Dylan was fairly certain she would never get used to the odd level of deference people were paying her now that Nuada had declared himself so blatantly to her before the entire court - servants bowing or curtsying to her, the odd fey noble offering truncated versions of the same, the guards saluting her as they just had. It felt weird when only a few days before, she'd known she was nothing to them but the jumped-up human slut supposedly occupying the prince's bed. No one had insulted her outright... but no one had done _this_ before, either.

The sight of Nuada, still unconscious on the healing bed, covered by soft black bedclothes with his hair spread out around him like a halo of starlight, shoved all these thoughts right out of Dylan's head. She went to his side immediately and took his hand carefully in hers. The off-white linen bandage wrapped around his upper arm emphasized the paleness of his already-pale skin.

"Hey," she whispered. Caressed his cheek with the backs of her fingers. Relief winged through her; the previous night, his skin had been chilled by bloodloss. Now he felt a touch warmer, and though his color wasn't where it ought to have been, it was still better than the night before. When she checked his pulse, she found it stronger as well. His breathing was deeper, too. She managed a smile. "Hey, I'm back. You seem better." Feeling her breath hitch in her chest, she whispered, "I really wish you'd wake up. I miss you."

Seeing her human mistress properly escorted, Eimh trotted off to bring Tsu's'di downstairs to the healing chamber to guard the Master's lady along with her and Sétanta. It took less than ten minutes for the milk-white hound to return with the cougar youth. Tsu's'di took up his position from the previous night at Dylan's back, seeming to gaze out the window and ignore what was going on in the room. The hounds settled near the chair Dylan set next to Nuada's bed.

Dylan hooked her index finger around Nuada's little finger, just as she had the night the children had first come to the cottage, and she and her prince had talked about weakness and strength, relying on one's self and on others and most especially on God's strength.

Such a small connection, her finger curled around his. But it somehow seemed as if, so long as she kept at least some tenuous hold of him, he couldn't slip away from her.

She wouldn't _let_ him slip away.

Wondering in a distant way what the Butchers guarding the room thought, she leaned forward and began talking to him about her day. About work and Ariel's antics to make her boss smile. About the second bribe of apple-cinnamon donuts. John taking her out to lunch. Trying to be a joker by dabbing frigid ice cream on her nose (she'd stolen a bite of his bannana-bread-batter-flavored ice cream cone in retribution). She murmured to him about 'Sa'ti's sweet little prayer. How Sétanta had fetched her shoes from where they'd somehow gotten kicked beneath the bed for her, and come out nearly gray with the dust the maids had neglected to sweep up.

And all the while, she craved the feel of his finger moving against hers. A flicker of his golden lashes. A furrowing of his brows. Anything to let her know that he was still holding on, still trying to come back to her. Maybe even actually listening to the random babbling of one frightened, heartsick mortal woman.

The sun drifted lower and lower in the winter-gray sky. Shadows in the healing chamber stretched and lengthened. A hob maid - Dylan thought she might have been the one who'd escorted the children to her suite that first night in the castle; Fiona, or something like that - came in to light some candles and build up the fire a little, chasing away the oncoming darkness.

One of the kitchen boys, Rórdán, came with a tray for Dylan and a couple sandwiches for Tsu's'di. Dylan had almost no appetite, but Eimh threatened to nip her on the ankle if she didn't at least eat the bowl of stew that sat steaming on the tray. A nip in that particular location wouldn't have hurt, since Dylan wore boots, but it would have left score-marks in the leather and she really didn't feel like dealing with it, so she ate. One taste of the mutton and potato stew woke Dylan's appetite, and she found it easier than she'd expected to eat the fresh white bread and drink the sweet cider.

She couldn't touch the lovely winter apple, sitting so shiny and red, however. Just looking at it reminded her of nights spent reading fairy tales and discussing life, the universe, and everything in between over cheese and apple sandwiches. Dylan offered it to Tsu's'di instead, who bit into it with muffled thanks. She realized she needed to make sure he was eating enough; he was still a growing boy, and the mortal knew from experience with John that teenage boys needed crazy amounts of fuel.

Late into the night, eyes burning with fatigue, Dylan leaned back in her chair. Sighed. Closed her eyes and let her head fall back. She was so tired. Bone weary. She wished, more than anything else, that Nuada would wake up and they could go back to the cottage where they had been safe and happy and they could be together without all the craziness.

"He'll pull through," a vaguely familiar voice broke into her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open to see Zhenjin, leaning on a crutch and sweating a little with either effort or pain, standing in the doorway. Dylan straightened in the chair. "You need not worry, my lady," the prince added in Gaelic. "Silverlance is a stubborn man. He'll not let these trifling wounds lay him low for much longer." The Dilong prince's smile seemed genuine as he limped a little further into the room. "With all due respect, milady, it is very late. Why are you still here? Surely you do not sleep here."

Dylan shook her head. "I don't want to leave him," she confessed. "Although I think it's later than I thought. And I _am_ tired." She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. Sighed. "I guess I should get to bed."

"Do you need an escort?"

Dylan blinked. Stared at him. The offer was genuine, and she knew he didn't mean the question in any sort of condescending or chauvanistic way. The only reason it startled her at all was because Prince Zhenjin seemed as if he would have trouble merely walking back to his own room, which she seemed to recall was only a few minutes away and on the same floor as this one. To traverse more than three flights of stairs? She'd have had to be a true sadist to inflict that on him.

"I thank you, Your Imperial Highness, but I have sufficient escort in my guard and my dogs. Thank you all the same." She managed to give a halfway decent curtsy upon rising to her feet.

Zhenjin responded with a formal bow, hindered a little by his crutch. With another smile, he shot Nuada's prone form a look, turned and walked back the way he'd come. If someone had asked her to interpret that look, she'd have described it as, "Dude - if you die, I am so kicking your butt." The thought actually made her smile as Tsu's'di came up and offered his mortal mistress his arm.

**.**

Back in her suite, Dylan quickly readied for bed. 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di asked if maybe they should say a prayer for the prince again, in case the Star Kindler hadn't heard them the first time. Their mistress explained that God always heard prayers, but sometimes it took more than one to get the desired result, and that if they wanted to pray for Nuada, they most certainly could. It surprised her just how much A'du's prayer eased the dread coiling like a snake around her heart. Remembering her duty as their mistress, she advised both children to try offering individual prayers as well.

Tsu's'di asked to speak with her after his younger siblings went into their bedroom to try out this new idea of saying prayers. Dylan sank into her sitting room chair and nodded for him to speak his mind.

The cougar youth paced in front of the fireplace a few times, his fur slightly bristled with agitation, ears twitching and whiskers quivering, before he came to a halt and pinned his human mistress with smoky turquoise eyes.

"I want A'du and 'Sa'ti to learn about the Star Kindler," the youth said, surprising her. "_I_ want to learn about Him. I've seen how praying and reading that book you have makes you feel so much better, even when things are really difficult. You have this... this peace about you almost all the time. This confidence about things. Even when you're scared, I can still see it. I want that. I want _them_ to have it. Teach us about the High King of the World." Remembering to whom he spoke, he added diffidently, "If it pleases you, milady."

Dylan got to her feet and went to the ewah youth. Placing both hands on his shoulders, she smiled. It was the first unshadowed smile he'd seen on her face since Prince Zhenjin had challenged Prince Nuada. Tsu's'di relaxed. He'd wondered if his mistress would get offended by the way he'd demanded everything, but he'd wanted to show her how important this was to him. How much thought he'd been giving it over the past few days.

"You are a wonderful young man, Tsu's'di Ka'ta," Dylan said softly.

Tsu's'di ducked his head and strands of his long mane fell in his eyes. His whiskers pricked forward. The mortal thought he might have been blushing.

"Here's what I'll do. For now, you might give praying a try. It's nice to be able to talk to Heavenly Father about what life is throwing your way. You, 'Sa'ti, and A'du can come to church with me on Sunday. After that, I'll talk to Nils Fjøsnisse and see about setting you up with missionary lessons, okay?"

And it would give her something else to focus on besides Nuada and whether he would ever wake up. "I am very happy that you've asked for this, Tsu's'di."

"Thank you, _A'ge'lv_. Um... will you be all right?" Her nod did little to reassure him, but he was exhausted, so he offered her a little bow. "All right, then." He smiled when she kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight, milady-mother."

She grinned. "Good night, Tsu's'di."

When he went into the room he shared with his brother and sister, Dylan felt the darkness of the oncoming night pressing in on her. She didn't want to sleep alone in the sitting room, recalling how she, Nuada and the hounds had spent the night before the duel. And she didn't want to be alone in her room, either. Yes, Eimh and Sétanta would be there, but it wasn't quite the same. She wanted... she wanted...

Before Dylan even knew what she was doing, she found herself in Nuada's room. The dogs hopped onto his bed without being prompted. Dylan followed, stretching out atop the covers and cuddling the pillow to her chest as she had before. She was so cold, she was shivering. Eimh and Sétanta pressed close on either side of her. The warmth from their furry bulk eased some of the cold.

A distant part of her wondered if she really ought to be here... but that still, small voice was drowned out by Dylan's exhaustion and dread. She began drifting off to sleep surrounded by the warmth of her faerie dogs, with the familiar scent of Elven warrior soothing some of the fear.

_And at least this way I'll be rested enough for work in the morning,_ she thought just before slumber rose up and dragged her down into oblivion.

**.**

_Brother._ Such a soft calling in the darkness. He knew that voice. Knew it as surely as he knew his own name. If he were struck blind, he would always know that oh so familiar voice. _Brother._

_Nuala,_ Nuada struggled to respond, to muster the strength to speak using even this simple method. He was so tired. So very, very tired. Tired of fighting, tired of condemnation from his sister, his father, even from many of his people. Tired of heartache and bloodshed and drowning in so much senseless death. _Nuala... my sister..._

_Brother, you must wake up,_ his twin pleaded. Each word was raw and ragged with tears. _Brother, come back to us. You cannot leave me. You cannot! What would I do without you? Nuada, please, you must fight. You must not give in. Please, my brother! I'm sorry, I am sorry for everything, do not leave me alone. You can't, Nuada, you can't!_

He strained to keep afloat amidst the numbing dark and answer her. Her voice had always been the one he could never ignore, the one that could drag him back from the brink, if only she would call out to him. As children she had always been the one... but it had been centuries since she had called for him this way. _Nuala..._ So tired. So stars-cursed tired. So much effort to press against sleepy oblivion and respond. _Little sister... my sister..._

Nuada sensed a moment of hesitation from his twin. A flicker of doubt. And then she said, _If you die, my brother, what will happen to your lady? You must cling to life, Brother. She needs you. As I need you. You cannot break our hearts this way. You cannot break Father's heart. Please, promise me you will fight._

Break Father's heart...

A jolt of adrenaline shoved at the exhaustion weighing him down. With it came pain - sizzling along his wounded thigh, searing through his arm and side, throbbing across his belly and ripping through his chest. He sucked in his breath with a hiss. _Father! Nuala... is Father safe? The Téngshé, did he..._ Already the burst of energy faded, leaving him drained ever further. _Did the Téngshé succeed? Tell me Father is well..._

Only vaguely did he remember his father at his bedside, and the words the king had said forced Nuada to wonder if that had been mere hallucination, a dream brought on by pain and healing spells. _You are_ my _son._ Hallucination, fever-dream, what-have-you. It mattered not. What mattered was his father; was his father all right?

_Athair is well enough, my brother, but your lady is not,_ Nuala replied, sending another painful jolt of adrenaline burning through him. _She fades in your absence. In Father's letters, he says she is like a summer flower withering in the winter shadows. Her heart is breaking beneath the pain of losing you. Will you not come back to her? Will you not return to us both?_

_Do you... even want me back... Sister?_

_Of_ course _I do, Nuada,_ Nuala said, and he could hear the desperation - and the doubt - in her voice. _You are my brother and I..._

But under the crushing weight of his pain, Nuala's half-buried doubts, and the sleep-inducing healing spells, he faded away before he could hear the rest of his twin sister's words.

**.**

Dylan woke in an icy sweat, disoriented, an odd taste in her mouth and pain throbbing behind her eyes. Eimh and Sétanta both startled awake the moment she bolted upright. Eimh scanned the darkened room - lit only by the dim embers of the fire and the light of the nearly-full moon - while Sétanta nosed Dylan's side and licked her ice-cold hands to warm them.

*Sleep-trap?* Sétanta asked, using what Dylan figured was the hound-phrase for "nightmare."

She shook her head. Tried to shove the confusion and frigid terror far away. She had to get out of this bed. Had to get out of this room. Had to get somewhere she could breathe. Stumbling out of bed, Dylan staggered toward the door. The dogs followed, whining softly, obviously bewildered. She ignored them. Shoved through the partially open door joining her room to Nuada's, desperately trying to swallow mindless panic. By the time she made it to the bathroom, she was gasping for air, pressing a hand to her chest in a vain attempt to calm her pounding heart.

_No,_ Dylan thought, sinking to the cool marble floor. _No, no, no! He wouldn't... he would never..._ She wrapped her arms around herself and shook. Her fingers bit deep into her arms. She'd have bruises in the morning. Shaking, gasping for breath, she shook her head to rid herself of every last vestige of the nightmare. _Never, never, he would never, he didn't, I didn't, no, he wouldn't, he wouldn't, I-_

The frantic thoughts cut off as the feel of something warm and slimy sliding across her neck jerked her back to the present with savage abruptness. Dylan yelped, and Eimh yelped and backed up hurriedly. Dylan realized the dog had licked her.

*I am sorry,* Eimh murmured, tail tucked between her legs. *I am sorry, I am sorry. You were making sad noises and crying. Are you hurt? I wanted to lick it better. Do not be angry. I am sorry.*

The little she-hound's panic gave her something other than nocturnal haunts for Dylan to focus on. "Come here," she croaked with a desert-dry throat. The dog bellied over and put her head on Dylan's thigh, whining softly. Dylan stroked the silky head with a hand that trembled. "It's all right. I'm all right. Don't be sorry. I just... it's okay. It's all right."

Sétanta whined. Dylan held out her arm, and the black hound came and pressed against her. *You were scared. Why? Scary dream?* Unable to speak, she laid her cheek against his thick neck and breathed in the oddly pleasant scent of fey dog and warm, sleepy animal. Sétanta turned his head to press his cheek against Dylan's forehead. *It is all right. We will protect you. Even from sleep-traps. It is all right. Do not be scared anymore.* He made a dog-noise. Eimh nosed Dylan's stomach. *We will always protect you because you are our person. We promise. Do not be scared.*

Dylan let her head fall back against the bathroom cupboard and tried to regulate her breathing. She desperately wanted a bath - she wanted one _now_, to wash away the filthy feeling the nightmare had left her with - but she knew if she got up, her legs would shake so badly she would just fall down again. So for the moment, the mortal merely clung to her faerie hounds and struggled to breathe.

*Why are we in the bathtub room?* Eimh asked after a little while. *You want a bath?*

"Actually, yeah," she mumbled. "Just give me a minute, I can-"

Eimh heaved herself to her feet and trotted over to the huge sunken tub in the middle of Dylan's private bathroom. Using her nose, she pushed on one of the silver taps shaped like a blooming rose so that a thick gush of crystal-clear water poured into the ivory marble tub. Eimh looked over at her Master's lady.

*You like hot water?*

It took Dylan a moment to find words again. "Yes, please." The hound nudged another silver tap, and steam began to waft up from the fountain of water pouring into the bathtub.

Eimh trotted back over to Dylan. Cocked her head. *You should have a happy bath,* the pup decided, and went back to the taps.

She pushed on one with a paw, and translucent gel spilled into the water, where it immediately began to foam and bubble. Another rose-shaped silver tap dribbled just the tiniest bit of something transparent gold, flecked with tiny bits of emerald, into the tub. Eimh added the tiniest dollop of something white flecked with pale pink. The rich fragrance of summer roses and the sweetness of lilies filled the air.

Sétanta took it upon himself to nose about in the open display-case of silver-embossed ashwood and nudge out three crystal bottles carved into the shapes of roses. One was filled with something of palest celadon, one filled with a transparent fuschia gel, and the other with something translucent that glittered with iridescent sparkles. Very carefully, the black hound tucked one of the bottles under his chin and carried it slowly to the edge of the bathtub. He did the same for the other two bottles and didn't drop them even once.

"I love you guys," Dylan blurted, distracted despite herself. The tub was full by now, and fragrant steam drifted up to circle above the water in a warm mist. She looked at the two dogs. Eimh gave Sétanta a nudge.

*Go away,* the white hound told her brother. He nudged her back before strolling to the bathroom door.

*I will guard the door so no one can peek at you,* he promised, wagging his tail. *Do not worry. We will protect you always. And I will not peek either because Master says two-legger females do not like being peeked at when they do not have on extra fur. Except sometimes by their mates but Master is not here to peek at you, so I will make sure no one else does, either.*

Dylan bit her tongue against the sudden urge to laugh even as her cheeks flamed at the idea of Nuada "peeking." As if he would.

Eimh closed the door behind him by pushing it with her head. She waited for Dylan to undress and slip into the deliciously hot water before coming over and plopping down on the floor beside the tub. She yawned, showing miles of pink tongue, then offered her new mistress an adoring and surprisingly sympathetic look.

*I have scary dreams too, sometimes,* Eimh said. *Master says brave people get them a lot. That means you are very brave. Master said so, too. He said you were very brave and smart, but that you had sleep-trap scary-dreams sometimes. That is okay - Sétanta and Master and I will keep you safe. Now you get all soapy and clean so you will feel better. Then maybe we will go back to sleep. Or have a snack. I like snacks.*

As Dylan soaped up with the gel that smelled of wild forests, and washed her hair with rose-and-lily shampoo, she realized she really was starting to feel better. Calmer, easier. The scent of roses and lilies reminded her of Nuada's sanctuary. The soap smelled like a softer, more feminine version of Nuada's scent. The rose- and lily-oil Eimh had put in the water, along with what Dylan could only assume was the Elven version of bubble-bath, was slowly lulling her back into a state of drowsiness. There was no more fear. The nightmare was fading into the background, leaving her warm and comfortable and feeling safe for the first time in a long while.

"Thank you, Eimh," Dylan mumbled, luxuriating in the feel of the water against her skin. "Thank you."

*You are welcome. I am glad you are happy,* the dog murmured.

An hour later, Dylan and her dogs were curled up on her own bed, fast asleep. Dreamless sleep this time. No nightmares plagued her, nor any bittersweet dreams. And when she woke in time for work, she felt more rested than she had in days.

**.**

Friday passed in much the same way as Thursday had, and Saturday morning found Dylan at Nuada's bedside just before dawn.

It was the fourth day Nuada had not awakened, and the healers were growing more than a little concerned. Though no one told her directly, Dylan knew they feared for Nuada's life. According to Somhairle, the chief healer, the prince should have awoken the previous day at the latest. The healing spells were not complete by any means, but they had repaired enough damage that Nuada should have woken already.

"The longer the prince sleeps, Your Majesty," Healer Somhairle murmured to King Balor, while Dylan's blood turned to ice and fear skittered down her spine, "the less likely it is that he shall awaken at all. Perhaps if you brought the princess home? Mayhap she could reach him."

Dylan didn't hear Balor's response. She'd been sitting so quietly and so still since the king and the healer had stopped just outside the door that she doubted if either man even knew she was there. She didn't care if they did know. All she cared about was this new and all-too-possibly fatal blow. _The longer he sleeps..._

She clasped Nuada's hand. Mustering everything she had, she "yelled" as loud as she could, _Nuada! Nuada, please! Wake up, please, I need you, I'm so scared and I miss you so much and I need you, please wake up! Please come back!_ Nothing. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. A sob caught in her throat. Reaching for anger, for desperation, she yelled, _Wake_ up, _you jerk! You're really scaring me! You promised you'd never scare me! Wake up! Wake up before I kick your butt! You know I will! I'll beat you with your own lance, I swear I will!_

Seconds, minutes, hours ticked by as she continued to call for him through their linked hands. She alternated between threats that would have probably made him laugh to hear them and desperate pleading. The king and the leader of the healers moved off without a word to her. She wouldn't have paid them any mind if they had tried to speak to her, anyway. All of Dylan's focus was on Nuada. On trying to reach him.

Over the last few days she'd tried this. It had never worked. She wasn't psychic - she could make a weak connection on her own, without the prince's help, but it wasn't good for much. If he was shielding, she couldn't break through. If he was locked somewhere within his own mind, she couldn't find him, let alone draw him back again. But the thought of losing him... losing him like _this_, after everything...

She hadn't even gotten a chance to truly say goodbye. They had been joking around at the very last as if there was no chance of him being hurt or losing the battle. And before that... every cruel thing she'd hurled at him ricocheted back now to batter her with regret and grief. How could she have said those things to him? Why had they wasted time fighting when they'd known he might not survive the duel?

_Don't leave me,_ Dylan pleaded silently, bringing his hand to her cheek. _Please, Nuada, you can't leave me. I need you. You saved my life, my sanity. You kept me safe when I'd forgotten what safety meant. You helped me stand on my own two feet again. You were the one who taught me how to be strong again. How to fight back. You taught me how to trust enough to fall in love. You healed my heart. You're the one who showed me I was worth something. Worth everything. I'd always doubted that deep down until you showed me the truth. You are my world. You're my heart and my world and maybe I can do this without you, but Nuada, please, I don't want to. Please, wake up. Please don't leave me._

She didn't know she was crying, didn't know she'd squeezed her eyes shut, until trembling fingertips brushed the wetness from her cheek and her eyes snapped open to meet a pale yellow gaze.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and yay! The end! Of the chapter, I mean, not the fanfic. That would be dumb. Obviously. Anyways, so at least we're out of that scary neck of the woods, yeah? But we still have other issues to worry about. Of course. So... yeah. And this is 3 chapters in like, 5 days, so I can't guarantee anymore chapters before July 1st. Sorry. But hopefully these will tide you over until then. And if not, there are other great Hellboy fanfics out there, like Orchid by Ariana Lussier and The Fire's Fuel by JasperIsAManlyMan. Not to mention Caves and Rivers by OceanFire9 and all of the other supplementary fics for Once Upon a Time. And the baths have returned! Who missed my amazing bathtub scenes? I did. Just writing them makes me feel like I've had a nice long soak in the tub, yay._

_And now, onto the review prompt! Yay!_

_1) Ah, Jenny. Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. Will she/won't she be a problem? She is one of the top-ranking servants (along with Caspar, Nils, Miyax, and a few others) at the palace. Will she be an issue with her overprotectiveness for Nuada?_

_2) 'Sa'ti and A'du rallying in the face of grief... actually, just the 3 ewah in general. How are they doing? How did Dylan handle them with their fear for Nuada and all of that? How's she doing in the pseudo-mom role?_

_3) That odd feeling Dylan got when she laid on/slept on Nuada's bed - what do we think of that? What do you guys think it is?_

_4) Dylan's grief/fear - was she too mopey? Too emotionally invested? Or not emotionally invested enough? Her "wake-up call" at the end - what did we think of that?_

_5) And Balor. And Huizong, actually. What do we think of our two Elven dads? And who thinks it's just sad that Zhenjin has a better relationship with his half-crazy dad than Nuada has with his completely sane one?_

_6) How am I doing on developing/fleshing out my secondary characters? Still doing okay? Do you guys have a favorite?_

_7) And of course, 17 favorite things. =) This chapter's about at my normal length, and lots of stuff happens, so... yeah!_

_8) Nuala. What do we think of Nuala? Her love, her loathing, her doubt? How's she doing on character development?_

_9) Wow. Lotta questions. Huh. Anywho - the dogs! Who loves them who didn't before? Who loves them even more than they did before? I want dogs like them._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Who remembers Loén from chapter 57? =)

- Dylan's aunt, Niamh, is married to her Uncle Thaddeus. We may recall from one of the first few chapters that Niamh and Thaddeus are Dylan and John's middle names, gotten from their aunt and uncle.

- Princess Redbird is a famous historical figure from Chinese history. The Royal Diaries book series has a book about her.

- Chi-Fu is the name of that pompous guy in blue from Disney's Mulan, lol.


	63. Shadows

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _Guess what, everybody? It is __the three-year anniversary__ of this fanfic! Wootness! Now, granted, I didn't touch it for almost 2 years (sigh), but still! And we've reached (and passed) our 666th review! Dun-dun-DUN! So, in honor of our 3-yr-anni, I'm posting two chapters today, hehehe. And lemme tell you, you guys will LOVE (repeat, LOVE) chapter 64. Oh, my gosh. I promise you, you will all scream your heads off by the time you finish. Hehehehe. Who's excited? I'm excited! Like, for realsies_. =D

_**Dear Anonymous:**__ melodrama, huh? You'll have to be more specific about where it started in order for me to actually answer your question. And I'll need, like, an email address or something. As for why there's so much... I'll call it internal drama (versus external drama, danger and all that stuff), it's because I laid the groundwork for certain plot points and plot threads in the first, like... 33 chapters. And so I have to follow those plot-threads to their natural conclusion, hemmed in and bound as I am by the fact that I also have to keep in mind the characterization of my characters and the fact that eventually, this fic will lead into the film. With that said, I can't just abandon those plot-threads, or randomly change how my characters act without a really really good reason ("'cause I feel like" it so not a good reason). Why can't I do that? Because if I did, I wouldn't be awesome like me. I'd suck, like Christopher Paolini. *sigh* Don't even get me started on the flaws of the Inheritence Cycle, blurgh._

_**Dear Sandra/Lylabeth:**__ about the blood thing. You're right - in the movie, when Nuada gets punched in the face during the Throne Room Scene, his blood is in fact dark red. Every other time he ends up bleeding, though, it's yellow or dark amber - in the library scene when he cuts Nuala's face, and in the final fight when he and Nuala get the arm-cut and when the blood spurts out after Nuala stabs herself/him. I figured they goofed on that one scene. Del Toro has made mistakes before._

_**VERY IMPORTANT**__**:**__ so apparently the website where you guys can order my books is being a pain in the kiester. I feel your agony. So here's how this works! I figured it out for you (I think; it should work. If not, message me). Go to "www . createspace . com" and set up an account. It's like Amazon and eBay - you have to have an account in order to buy from them. Hey, I have a question. Why is the "e" in eBay lower-case? *suspicious look* Once your account is set up, copy/paste the links provided in previous chapters (or on my profile) into your URL-browser-thingy and it will take you to my personal eStore and then you should be able to click "order" or some other happy-looking button like that. So, yeah. Hope that works! Loves to you all!_

**Pronounciation Guide:** for names that will pop up. Now, granted, I actually might be pronouncing these wrong, but this is how I've been pronouncing them in my head as I've been writing the chapters. Emphasis on the italicized syllable.

Ailbho - _al_-voh  
Ailís - _ay_-lish  
Fionnlagh - fee-_own_-lah  
Gráinne - _gry_-nuh  
Loen - loh-_ayn_  
Lorcc - _loo_-arc  
Mahon - _may_-hone  
Onóra - oh-_noh_-ra  
Siothrun - Shee-_oth_-rune  
Somhairle - summ-_harr_-lay  
Uaithne - ooh-_ayth_-nee

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**Chapter Sixty-Three**

**Shadows**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of**** an Awakening, an Admittance, Butchers, the Prince's Confession, Interruption, What Might Be Jealousy, and a Looming Threat**

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She didn't know she was crying, didn't know she'd squeezed her eyes shut, until trembling fingertips brushed the wetness from her cheek and her eyes snapped open. A pair of eyes the color of weak lemonade met hers. There was that tender stroke of fingers against her cheek again. She clutched Nuada's hand. Made a soft sound.

_Shhh,_ Nuada said silently, his mental voice so soft and exhausted she could barely hear it. _Shhh. Do not... cry, Dylan. It's... all right. Do not cry._

"Oh," she breathed. The room suddenly felt too small, as if the air were pressing down on her. "Oh, Nuada. You're awake. You... you're awake." Then she was sobbing, pressing her cheek against his palm, and mumbling, "You jerk, you stupid jerk, you scared the heck outta me, I ought to smack you into next week, I thought you were going to die, I thought I'd never see you again, you're such a jerk, how could you do that to me, you stupid Elf, how could you leave me like- wait, what are you doing?"

Because it looked a lot like he was trying to sit up. Trying, and failing. Putting weight on his injured arm made him wince. Despite that, he kept at it until, with Dylan's reluctant help, he'd managed to get partially upright, reclining on the pillows. The effort left him pathetically winded, in his opinion. At least he could see her better, though. And reach her much more easily.

Though his hand shook with the effort, he cupped her cheek. Felt the warm tears sliding against his palm and over the back of his hand. "Do not cry," he whispered. "Please do not cry. Sosanna mo chroí ag brón den sórt sin." _My heart breaks at such grief._

"I thought you were going to die," she whispered, nuzzling his palm and failing to fight back tears. She cradled his wrist with one hand, feeling his arm shake with the effort of holding it up, feeling the muscle straining under the slightly cool skin. Her other hand stroked up and down his lower arm, desperate to touch him. Desperate for tangible proof this was really happening. "You almost died. You almost... I'm sorry for yelling. I'm sorry for all the horrible things I said before, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I love you so much, please don't ever leave me again, I love you, I love you so much, I-"

"Shhh." His thumb stroked along her cheek, caressing one of her scars. His breath wheezed harshly in his chest, and his face was frightfully pale, but he managed to keep his hand against her face. "Shhh, Dylan. It is all right, mo duinne. You need not be sorry. Everything is all right. I'll not leave you again, I promise."

"You better not," she whispered. Closed her eyes. "You just better not."

"Mo cridh..."

Nuada drew a breath that sent tingles of pain through his chest. Not quite healed, he realized. He would have to be careful. Ah, well. He was alive, at least. Alive, and his truelove was with him, and he let his gaze drift over her face like a caress.

He'd heard her speaking to him in the darkness. Whispering to him. Calling for him. Pleading with him to come back to her. Even heard her singing ever so softly now and then. And he had heard Dylan praying for him, her voice thick with tears and fear and hope. Could not recall anyone ever doing that before.

"Dylan," he murmured. Her sigh was warm against his wrist.

For long moments he merely sat with her, reveling in the satin softness of her cheek under his fingers and the way the winter morning sunlight gilded her skin, in the sheer fact that he had survived the strike that could have killed him.

Dylan opened her eyes and gifted him with a gentle look. "You said you had something to tell me. After the duel. What was it?"

A tired smile spread across his face. His eyes warmed to honeyed gold. "Do you not know, milady?"

An answering smile curved her mouth. "Whether I know or not isn't the point," she reminded him. "The point is that you had some words to say to me, and you promised you'd tell them to me after your battle. Well, the battle's over. So I want to hear what you have to say."

"Maybe I wish to keep it a secret," Nuada said. With every moment spent awake, a little more strength returned to him. His arm no longer trembled with the effort of keeping it raised, and his breathing was not so harsh. "Or perhaps you are recalling nothing more than the mad ravings of a man who feared death."

She arched a brow. "If you weren't injured, I'd smack you. What were you going to say? Tell me or else."

His smile morphed into a weary grin edged with little-boy mischief. "Kiss me and I shall tell you. I have not had a kiss from your sweet lips in too long."

"Okay, first of all, Your Highness, that is _really_ cheesy. Second of all, it's only been three days since the last time we kissed." Not that Dylan hadn't missed kissing Nuada as well. "And third of all, tell me and I'll kiss you," she countered.

Fingers trailing slowly over her cheek to skim along the delicate line of her jaw, Nuada replied, "I do not know why I put up with your insults. And three days is too long; do you not agree?" He shifted his weight carefully to bring himself just a little closer. Did she know that she automatically shifted as well, mimicking him? "When a man courts Death so closely, he gains a new appreciation for more earthly pleasures. After Death's cold but fleeting kiss, I find myself craving something sweeter."

She tried - she _really_ did - but she just couldn't help giggling. "I'm sorry," she murmured between giggles while Nuada leveled a fierce scowl at her. "I'm sorry, but... does stuff like that really work on the girls you know? Does it really?"

His scowl intensified. She thought her pinkie toe might have been quivering. "I was _trying_ to be romantic," he growled.

Dylan offered him an apologetic smile. "It's not working."

"_Woman_-"

"Well, now," an overly-cheerful voice interrupted. Dylan turned to see Chief-Healer Somhairle sweep into the healing chamber in a flurry of dark green robes, followed by a hesitant Tsu's'di. When had the cougar boy left? "I see you are awake at last, Your Highness. Wonderful. His Majesty the king will be very pleased."

Because she was yet holding his hand, Dylan was the only one who heard Nuada's response: _somehow, I very much doubt that._ She pressed his fingers to her cheek and caught his eye. Dark lips quirked into a weary half-smile. He sighed, as if to say, _Some things do not change._ Dylan brushed her cheek against his palm. His smile became a little less weary, recapturing some of the lightheartedness from before Somhairle's arrival.

Somhairle swooped in like a moon-pale, blond vulture to examine the prince and make certain everything was healing according to the spells' schedule - and thus, Chief-Healer Somhairle's schedule. The Elven healer, Dylan learned during his babbling session to the prince, liked things to go according to schedule. Since he was the king's personal physician, she imagined his rank ensured his underlings paid attention to such things as well.

Nuada agreed to submit to being poked and prodded by the tall, wirey Tuatha de on the condition that Dylan left the room. Dylan informed her prince that any attempts to implement such a plan would result in her denting his head with a chair.

Somhairle watched in scandalized fascination as mortal and Elf bargained back and forth for a few minutes.

"It would hardly be proper for you to remain-"

"Oh, c'mon! It's not like I've never seen you naked before," the human argued. Somhairle and Tsu's'di both gaped at her in astonishment.

"That was different-"

"I'm a healer," she reminded him, folding her arms beneath her breasts and pursing her lips. "I've seen naked men before. You don't have anything I haven't seen. I am _so_ not concerned. Stop being a baby and do what the nice Elf doctor tells you."

Almost against his will, the Elven warrior's mouth quirked. "Do you intend to henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife?"

Dylan laughed out of sheer relief. "Oh, you betcha. Get used to it, Your Royal Highness. Someone has to keep you in line when you're being stubborn."

"I am never stubborn."

She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. "Oh, Your Highness. You should be ashamed to tell such lies."

Nuada forced a smile and caught her hand to press it to his lips. Silently, he murmured, _Dylan, I am asking you to step out for a few minutes. I know I do not look well. My injuries were quite serious, I know. I want to get a decent look at myself before I let you see the damage. And... and I have not the strength to stand on my own. It is... embarrassing for you to see me so weak. So helpless._

_Nuada-_

_You asked me to start trusting you with what I consider my weaknesses. I am trying to do so. I do not wish for you to see me helpless, for more than one reason; I know it is difficult for you to see me thus. Allow me some pride, milady._

Dylan sighed. She didn't like it, but he was right - he was giving her the gift of honesty, and she knew it was hard for him to admit that kind of thing. Especially to her. So she closed her eyes and inclined her head in acquiescence. _Okay. I'll leave. I'll be right outside the door, though. Don't ask me for anything more than that._

_Attempting to bargain with the fae, mo duinne?_ His smile was weary but teasing. _You'll have to try a bit harder. Perhaps if you were to attempt to bribe me, I might be more amenable to you staying so close by._

_A bribe, Your Highness?_ Dylan asked with mock-outrage, but the corner of her mouth quirked. _I? I should never stoop so low._

**.**

As requested, Dylan waited just outside, her back pressed to the edge of the doorframe with the dogs sitting at her feet. The two Butchers - they had introduced themselves that morning as Guardsman Uaithne and Guardsman Ailbho - made room for her. Tsu's'di remained in the room to help Chief-Healer Somhairle.

Dylan could hear the rustle of cloth and Nuada's breath drawn in a sharp hiss. Wished she dared turn around to look. But he'd asked her not to. It touched her, that he would humble himself enough to even explain that much. Most of their arguments and fights had been about her trying to help him when his pride refused to allow him to accept aid from someone else, and been fueled by his refusal to acknowledge that he needed any kind of help in the first place. That he would admit to her that he didn't want to appear weak... it was a step. An important one, as the psychiatrist in her knew. But it was hard not to be with him.

There was a muffled thump, like someone smacking their fist against a mattress. Nuada snarled under his breath. Hissed in pain. Dylan's arms slid around her body of their own volition, and she hugged herself as if cold.

Part of it was the doctor in her. The need to know how to heal and to use that knowledge was what had gotten her through medical school. Having people die under her hands when she could have saved them... That need to heal others thrummed through her now. And then there was the simple fact that this was Nuada, and he was in pain.

Dylan bit the inside of her cheek and didn't move.

"Are you all right, milady?" Ailbho asked suddenly. Dylan glanced at the Butcher Guard and offered him a tight smile. He had a very young voice behind the helmet. She thought he might have only been, physically, a few years older than Tsu's'di. "Do you need a chair? Some water, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

Uaithne, the other Butcher Guard, noticed that the mortal's slender fingers tangled in the golden chain around her neck as she clutched the medallion he'd seen glimmering at her throat. Her free arm was pressed to her belly almost defensively. No, the prince's lady was not fine at all. Uaithne did not blame the girl. He had a wife and two children, a young son and infant daughter. His son, Tadgh, had broken his arm once climbing an apple tree. The look on the human's face reminded the guardsman of the pain on his wife's while the village healer had set his son's broken arm.

If she'd been another woman and not the prince's truelove, Uaithne would have offered her some comfort. But what could a common guardsman say to the prince's mortal lady?

Nuada heard the young guard Ailbho speaking to Dylan, but said nothing. So long as the king's elite treated his lady with the proper respect, he didn't care if they spoke to her. Right now, actually, he didn't care about much besides the pain smoldering through his arm, leg, belly and chest.

Days of healing spells had knitted the flesh back together - but only loosely. The wounds were still being held together by very fragile spell-induced bonds. Unlike Zhenjin, Nuada had not severed anything, and the nicks to heart and lung were more strongly knitted than the other injuries, as they had been the ones that nearly proved fatal on their own, but everything else was still healing.

So Somhairle explained as he examined the tender pink line slicing across Nuada's right arm just above the elbow. If the prince were not careful over the next several days, the danger of reopening most - if not all - of these wounds was incredibly high.

He hated to admit it, but Nuada could tell that Somhairle was not merely being overly cautious. There was a tight burn when the Elven warrior flexed his arm and leg; an ache in his upper chest that throbbed dully in time with his heartbeat. Breathing too deeply made his chest feel more than a little tight. And the flesh across his belly was one giant mass of dark brown and sickly yellow where Zhenjin had tried to cut him and hit the Royal Seal instead. Everything beneath the surface of that bruise felt as if it had been methodically pounded by Wink's bronze fist.

The prince despised the fact that he needed to lean on Tsu's'di's arm in order to get up and get to the small bathing room attached to the healing chamber. Was grateful Dylan only heard him snarling, and didn't see how much even simply limping exhausted him. He wanted a bath, but a quick wash was all he was going to get until he grew strong enough to stand on his own two feet for more than three minutes.

Cleaned up, dressed in loose linen trews and a very loose shirt, and more than a little refreshed, Nuada let the ewah youth help him back to bed. Once Somhairle was satisfied with the state of the king's heir, the Elven healer left. Nuada called Dylan back into the room.

He was more awake now, thanks to splashes of cold water on his face and some extra magic from the healer to help him shake off the ensorceled sleep. Now that he _was_ awake, he saw things in Dylan he'd missed before, and he remembered what Nuala had said while he'd floated in that enchanted slumberous darkness. _She withers like a summer flower in winter shadows._

She had lost weight. Had she lost it during the time he'd been unconscious? Or had it begun when their fighting had picked up? Or before that? She didn't look ill, exactly... but she did look thin. Nuada was sure he could shackle her wrist easily, merely with his thumb and forefinger. And she was so very pale. What worried him was that he was fairly certain Dylan wore makeup to mask her pallor. If so, how much color had she lost to begin with? Those fey-like eyes showed haggard exhaustion. Her dark hair hung limp and lifeless in a loose ponytail.

With a jolt, Nuada realized she reminded him of the photograph he'd seen of her at eighteen years old, when she'd gotten out of the torturous mental institution her parents had imprisoned her in. Not _quite_ that bad, but... but...

_Dylan,_ he thought, _what have you been doing to yourself? And how have I not seen this?_ Anger and concern twined together until concern was just another flavor of the anger, and the anger only fueled the sharp-edged worry. _You have not been sleeping, mo duinne. Are the nightmares so bad? Was it because I was not with you? There is something weighing on your heart, some new shadow. What is it?_

"I look pretty blech right now, don't I?" Dylan asked, sinking back into her chair. "I can tell by your face that's what you're thinking." She studied him with sleepy eyes. She hadn't slept well the night before - the same nightmare had come upon her, throttling her awake in an ice-cold sweat and forcing her to seek solace in a steaming hot bath and the companionship of her dogs. This dream was new, and so she had no defense against it - yet. It left her feeling nauseated and sick upon waking, even after the bath. So Dylan knew she looked bad. She wondered if she looked as bad as Nuada did.

He was pale from bloodloss and thin from three days with no food. The darkness around his eyes and at his mouth seemed heavier than she remembered. And his eyes were an unhealthy xanthous tint that worried her. But he was alive, he was awake and alive and she couldn't stop herself from reaching out and taking his hand.

"You always look lovely," the prince murmured, throttling back his anger until he was calm once more. He would _not_ fight with her this day. Not when her smile was so brittle and she gazed at him with bruised-looking eyes. "Although I think we both could use some fresh air and sunshine. Whenever Somhairle decides that I can get out of this blasted bed for more than five minutes," he added with a grimace. "Have you eaten this morning? I know you, and I know you tend to forget."

Dylan bit her lip and studied the plain black expanse of the blanket on the healing bed. "I haven't had much of an appetite the last couple days." He leveled a look at her. "Not because of... of this," she hastened to explain, gesturing around the chamber. "It's not that. I've been feeling kind of nauseous since the night before last."

"Are you ill?"

She shook her head. "No. I just... I had a nightmare," she confessed. "One I'd never had before. Not a memory - an actual nightmare. It scared me. Made me feel, just... sick. I've eaten, but it's hard to eat more than a few bites here or there because I've just felt so sickened by it. _And_ I've been worried about you and I haven't slept well, which doesn't help. But I'm not actually sick."

"You will get sick," Nuada said sternly, "if you do not eat properly. You and I will have breakfast in a few moments."

The mortal healer propped her chin on her fist. "Are you allowed to eat yet? You've been unconscious for more than three days."

He shot her a quelling look. "Somhairle has cleared me to eat, yes. As you sometimes say, nice try." Dylan stuck her tongue out at him, and he smiled. She smiled back, but it was tired and pensive. "I will be all right, mo duinne," Nuada added. Shadows faded from her eyes at the words. "I'll not die from these wounds, I promise."

"You better not," she replied, mock-stern, "or I'll off myself just so I can hunt you down and kick your ectoplasmic butt in the afterlife."

Nuada could only laugh, even though it hurt. That was just like her.

**.**

Breakfast was simple fare - soft white bread (Nuada insisted on butter and honey, though Dylan thought the bread was delicious enough by itself), sliced russet apples, and a flat pastry Nuada made her try called a bannock. Nuada's were buttered and sprinkled with just a bit of honey. Hers were dusted with what she realized was powdered sugar. For drink, she got cider. The prince was quite put out to find himself stuck with plain water.

"Give us a sip of that," he ordered, jerking his chin at her cup. She held it away from him. Firegold eyes narrowed in clear warning. "I want some; give it here." Dylan shook her head. "It appears we have forgotten just who wields royal authority around here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to be intimidated?" She asked with a grin. He gave her a fond look before leaning back against the pillows, throwing his uninjured arm across his eyes, and sighing rather melodramatically. "I am so not in the least bit moved to sympathy by your pathetic poses."

He lifted his arm to regard her. "You are a cruel and heartless woman."

"Yeah, I know. I'm so stingy - I won't sleep with you, I won't give you my muffins or my cider. You must be a real masochist to be in love with someone like me."

Nuada rolled his eyes. "My thoughts, exactly," he said with a smile.

Saturday unfurled with Dylan remaining in the healing chamber with the prince. Eimh brought 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di to visit their hero and see for themselves that he was all right. Their visit was short, however; Nuada was still tired. A'du had had the presence of mind to bring _Once Upon a Winter's Night_ with him from where he'd seen it resting on the low table in his mistress's sitting room. So when the children left, Dylan read to Nuada until he fell asleep.

While Nuada slept, the mortal took the time to speak to Ailbho and Uaithne and try and get to know them. Unlike the Butchers she'd met before, these guardsmen were neither taciturn nor contemptuous of humans. In the late afternoon hours while her prince slumbered on, recovering his strength, Dylan learned some fairly interesting things about the two fae as well as the Butcher Guards themselves.

She hadn't realized the Butchers were a separate species - she'd thought they were Elven. The actual name of their race was so complicated Dylan couldn't pronounce it, but it translated into English as "Butcher." Apparently they were matriarchal, as their women were the ones that held political power among their villages. Men were expected to take service with the Bethmooran royal family or, if that wasn't an option, become mercenaries. If a woman became a Butcher, she was considered a failure if she didn't rise quickly through the ranks. It was considered an act of incredible trust for a servicing Butcher Guard to remove their helmet in the presence of someone other than the royal family or their fellow guards. That explained why she'd never seen what they looked like. Outsiders were discouraged from visiting Butcher villages.

And she learned that Ailbho was engaged to the daughter of a baker. They would be married in the spring. Her name was Clodagh, and according to Ailbho, the Butcher maid was the most beautiful faerie to ever walk the earth.

Uaithne had a wife named Ennis and two children, a baby daughter named Aodh and a son named Tadgh. Ennis was known as the best seamstress in their village, and Tadgh wanted to grow up to become a royal guard more than anything. Last time Uaithne had been home on leave, he'd discovered that little Aodh was beginning to "creep," as he put it, crawling her way around a room in an eyeblink and "getting into trouble, just like her brother."

Both Butcher Guards wrote to their families - and in Ailbho's case, his betrothed - every week; the Butcher village was only two days' ride from Findias. Clodagh, it seemed, wrote to Ailbho every day. He had an entire box of letters from his sweetheart back in his room in the guard barracks. The other Butchers in the young guard's company teased him about this, but Ailbho didn't care.

Dylan found she enjoyed talking to both the royal guards. They were just as friendly as Caspar and Nils had been during her first visit to Findias. And when Nuada awoke, they had another simple meal and she read aloud from _Once Upon a Winter's Night_ again until he fell asleep once more.

She didn't want to leave him, but she and the children had church in the morning and she wanted to make sure they were on time, since it would be the cougar cubs' first time attending. She knew how nerve-wracking it could be to walk into a big meeting and have people stare at you - or at least, think people were staring at you - because you were late in arriving. So Dylan leaned down and kissed him lightly. Once again she noted there was something oddly vulnerable about Nuada when he slept like this, something she noticed when her lips touched the warm softness of his.

Then she left the room, escorted by Tsu's'di and the dogs and bidding good night to Uaithne and Ailbho.

**.**

She woke dazed and disoriented around dawn Sunday morning. Rubbed her eyes in a vain attempt to shove aside the fragments of heartbreaking dream, traumatic memory, and sickening nightmare that had mingled together in the night.

Once washed and brushed, dressed and medicated, with her morning prayers and scripture reading taken care of, Dylan decided she'd go down and see if Nuada was awake. On the one hand, he usually woke around or just before dawn normally. On the other hand, he was still recovering from his injuries and might be asleep. If he was, she wouldn't wake him. She'd just go back up to her room and find something to do until it was time to wake the children.

Dylan took her hounds, both for safety and because she didn't know where she was going. The guards standing watch outside the door were not Ailbho and Uaithne, or the other pair Dylan vaguely remembered from before. The Butcher on the left, who seemed around the same age as Ailbho, introduced himself and his partner as Lorcc and Mahon before the senior Mahon turned to him. Though Dylan couldn't see, she was fairly certain the senior guard had shot the younger Butcher a dirty look that silenced Lorcc. For talking to her? Or for talking at all without permission? She wasn't sure.

Nuada _was_ awake. This came as a bit of a surprise, because he seemed to have been awake for awhile, judging by how comfortable the three Dilong Elves seemed to have made themselves and judging by the number of empty bottles in the room. Nuada wasn't drunk. It was hard for her to tell if he was even tipsy. But the Dilong Elves certainly were.

"There she is!" Dylan recognized the speaker as Zhenjin. He saluted her with a bottle of something and said to his two companions with the carefully enunciated words of someone who was actually quite drunk and hoping no one would notice, "Brothers, this human is a jewel among women. Silverlance is a lucky bastard to have her. I don't mind losing the duel since he gets her. _She_ is a true lady. She'll make a splendid princess."

The two strange Elves blinked at her for a moment, then rose unsteadily to their feet. "Prince Gaozu Tilung, second prince of Dilong, at your service, milady," said the taller, broader of the two. The thinner Dilong Elf bowed, rocky on his pins, and nearly fell over before introducing himself as "Prince Hou Junji Tilung, third prince of Dilong."

"Now that my lady is here, I would beg the three of you to remove yourselves ere you embarrass me any further," Nuada said from where he half-reclined on the healing bed, attempting to hide a smile.

"We'll not embarrass you, Silverlance," Gaozu slurred. "On our honor."

"Yes," Hou Junji interjected. "We promise not to tell her about that time underneath Princess Kamaria's window with the jackal-shifters-"

"Or when we drank ourselves under the table with Rennan and then somehow managed to fall in the loch in the middle of summer," Zhenjin interrupted. "Gah, we stank like fish for days. Blasted loch-dwellers are vile beasts. You got waterweed in your hair, Silverlance, remember? Moaned about that for weeks, the vainglorious peacock."

Dylan found a grin stealing over her face despite the very obvious fact that all three Dilong princes were completely snockered. There was just something so... sweet about them. Something silly. She'd known male acquaintances to be this drunk before, and learned from experience that guys usually fell into five categories: mean drunks, sleepy drunks, depressed drunks, sweet and silly drunks, or wanna-lay-anything-with-legs drunks. At this point, she was fairly certain the Dilong princes fell into the sweet and silly category.

"And there was that night with Anterion before his coronation," Gaozu added.

Zhenjin frowned. "You mean that night when... when... something happened. What happened? With Silverlance and the maenads?" His brother nodded and opened his mouth to fill in the fuzzy details when Zhenjin suddenly smiled. "Ah, yes, I remember now. We were looking for maenads, but then he found a-"

"All three of you get out," Nuada growled. The three brothers laughed, but managed to haul themselves to their feet and make it past Dylan without tripping, falling, throwing up, or running into any walls. They even offered her wobbly bows on their way out. She returned the courtesy with a curtsy as graceful as she could make it.

When they were gone, the Bethmooran prince fixed his lady with a baleful glare. "It is not amusing."

Dylan leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. She didn't even bother hiding her grin. "Maybe you should let me judge. I'm curious - what _did_ you find instead of naked Greek dancing girls? And how did you get rid of the fish smell?" She'd ask about the identities of Anterion and Rennan later.

The prince's glare intensified. "None of your business."

She grinned. "Okay, fine. This _is_ my business, though - are you drunk?" Just to be on the safe side.

Nuada snorted. "Even if I was, which I am _not_, I am in no shape to do anything while intoxicated that you might find objectionable. In fact, I am in no shape to do anything you _wouldn't_ object to - more's the pity, as you look quite fetching this morning. Come a bit closer."

She _did_ look quite fetching, in soft heather blue that made her eyes look silvered with mist and turned her hair to a cascade of shadow. He wanted her near, close enough to get the scent of her. Everything seemed so much clearer and sharper since he'd woken the previous morning. Nuada knew it to be a result of his brush with death; knew also that it would fade with a little time. Until it did, he wanted to enjoy it.

Which was why when she came close enough, he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. There was just the faintest whisper of perfume at her wrist - passion flower. He ghosted his lips over the inside of her delicate wrist. Heard her soft gasp. Let his mouth trail a few inches along one of the slightly-curved scars gracing the length of her forearm. She made a tiny, kitten-like sound that had him wishing fervently that he could get out of this stars-cursed bed and kiss other parts of her currently out of reach.

"Are you... are you ever gonna tell me what you meant to say before the duel with Zhenjin?" Each word shivered a little as his mouth moved back down to her wrist, and then to her open palm. He brushed a kiss along the shallow groove of her heart-line. "Because I'm still... still... wondering."

Ivory eyes kissed with firegold slid to her face as dark lips whispered along the lines of her palm. It was suddenly very, very hard to breathe.

"Do you truly wish to know?"

After a long moment, she nodded. Felt his lips curve into a smile against her skin. "Kiss me and I shall tell you."

She scowled at him. Shook her head. "Tell me and I'll kiss you."

His laugh slid over her like velvet. "Well, it seems you shall never know, then - shall you?"

Dylan tried to fight the grin stealing over her face and failed. "Don't make me hit you, Your Highness." It was so _good_ to have him back, to be able to joke with him, tease him, laugh with him. To see his smile.

"I am curious," the Elf prince murmured against her palm. "What do you _think_ I was going to say? Perhaps you may guess right."

What did she think he'd been about to say that day sitting on the edge of his bed, his breath so soft and warm against her skin, his eyes so earnest? _Dylan, you must know that I..._ Love you. He'd been about to say he loved her. He had only said he loved her but once, to Eamonn. That hadn't been a true confession. Eamonn had forced him to say it. Something about "tell her what you told me." Whatever that meant; she was still a bit fuzzy on what had happened that night. But Nuada had never said the word "love" to her of his own volition.

That word, love... it caught in her throat now when she opened her mouth to tell him her theory. Because it _was_ just a theory. She couldn't think of anything else he might have been about to say, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything. And for some reason she couldn't bring herself to admit she'd been thinking, hoping, praying that the Elven warrior caressing her hand had been about to confess his love for her.

"Dylan," Nuada said, gently snagging her attention. Sunlit gold eyes met moonlit blue. His voice was exquisitely soft when he whispered, "You know that I care for you, don't you? Deeply," he added, and kissed her palm again. "I might even say... desperately." Another fervent kiss. "It was _your_ voice that called me back to this world."

Her breathing hitched slightly. She stepped closer, until she could feel the warmth of him. She was vaguely aware of Tsu's'di leaving the room. "I know."

"Dylan. My lady. Mo duinne, mo calman gheal, mo cridh." Something intense and vibrant and wonderful thrummed in every word. She felt her heart patter in her chest, felt something warm and soft fizz pleasantly in her stomach. "My Dylan. You must know... I must tell you... you who are worth everything, who _are_ everything... I lo-"

"Am I interrupting?"

The voice was sweet, dulcet, with just the faintest touch of a Russian accent touching on the Irish. Dylan nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned to see a lovely Elven woman - an Elf of Zwezda, a Child of the Stars, jet curls tumbling around her shoulders, clad in a midnight blue velvet gown - standing in the doorway with a hesitant smile on her face.

Dylan wanted to say, "Yes, you are absolutely interrupting, go away," but that would have been indescribably rude. Although hadn't the silver-eyed Elven woman been able to tell that an important conversation was going on and that she ought to come back later?

Nuada's reaction locked the words in her throat.

"Naya," he said. The warmth in his voice had Dylan turning to blink down at him in surprise. He didn't look angry at the interruption. He looked... happy to see this woman. This... Naya. There was an odd tightness around his topaz eyes, but he was smiling, too.

In the next minute, Dylan found out why.

"My lady Dylan of Central Park, allow me to present a very old and dear friend, _Ledi_ Polunochnaya _iz_ Lysaya Gora."

Polunochnaya sank into a graceful curtsy with a rustle of velvet. "Your Highness. Lady Dylan."

Unsure whether to curtsy back or not - she'd curtsied to Zhenjin and his brothers before, but the princes of Dilong didn't fill her with an icy anger that chilled her blood and left her half-bewildered and half-annoyed - Dylan compromised by sticking out her hand. "Please don't curtsy. At least not to me. I'm still trying to get used to the whole idea."

The Zwezdan Elf took the mortal's hand and shook it. The long, manicured nails whispered across Dylan's skin. Lips painted a pale silver that managed to touch on just this side of corpsely curved into a smile that flirted between condescending and amused. "I know my name is hard for English-speakers to pronounce," the dark Elf said in that dulcet voice. "You may call me 'Lady Naya' if you prefer, Lady Dylan."

"Um... sure."

"Has my sister returned?" Nuada asked, settling back against the pillows again. Any thoughts of what he had been seconds away from revealing to Dylan seemed to have dissipated from his mind like night mist in the morning sun now that Polunochnaya had appeared. "That is why you are here in Findias, is it not?"

Polunochnaya inclined her head. The sunlight shone on her night-black hair. "Princess Nuala was exhausted from the journey to the Kingdom of Alaka - it was the furthest away the king could think to send us, and you know the _padishah_ has been longing to see her - but insisted on returning once the danger had passed, that she might be able to see for herself that you were unharmed." A beat of silence that seemed oddly calculated to Dylan. "She has been nearly frantic with worry for you, my prince."

Nuada's surprise was obvious, and made his mortal's heart thump once, hard. "Really?"

The Elven noblewoman nodded. "She sleeps now, exhausted still from our journey home, but she will want to see you when she awakens and has a moment to breathe, I'm sure." Amused silver eyes swept over the room. "In the meantime, early as it is, I would wager you've not eaten yet, Nuada. Would you like me to send for some breakfast for the three of us?"

An unpleasant jolt hit Dylan somewhere in the pit of her stomach. _Nuada._ This woman was allowed to call him Nuada to his face? She supposed she should've expected it - he'd said they were friends, after all. Old friends. Dear friends. But for some reason, the way Polunochnaya said the Elf prince's name sent an odd frisson of nerves whispering down Dylan's spine.

Almost of its own volition, her hand sought out the sturdy support of Sétanta's head. The black dog pressed himself against her legs and regarded her with worried ice-blue eyes, but seemed to understand not to make a sound. Eimh lifted her head from where she'd been lounging near the wall and flicked her honey-gold gaze between her Master, her Master's lady, and the star-Elf before getting to her feet and trotting to stand on Dylan's other side.

Dylan had often gone on dates with her more mundane "friends" in college and med school, more to act as chaperone (aka Law of Chastity Safety Net) for her friends from church who didn't want to be alone with their prospective romantic partners yet. Often on those dates, she'd gotten the feeling of being... not resented, or even purposefully ignored, but more that the two people she was with had forgotten she was there entirely. Francesca called it being the third wheel.

That was exactly how the human woman felt now. For the first time since meeting Nuada, she felt superfluous to his life. As if, had she disappeared in that moment, he wouldn't have even noticed, much less cared. Knowing she was being ridiculous didn't erase that feeling, either. And it did nothing for the feeling of suddenly being unable to draw a full breath.

Well, she had an excuse for escaping, at least.

"You know what, you two go ahead," Dylan said brightly, forcing suddenly cold lips into a cheery smile. "I have to make sure my retinue is up and running; we've got church this morning, and we really don't want to be late."

Startled, Nuada protested, "But Dylan, I-"

"It's the first Sunday of the month," she reminded him. "Fast Sunday, remember? So I can't really eat right now anyway. Don't worry about me, I promise I'll eat when it's all over. I'll be back later, okay?"

Without really waiting for a response, Dylan gave a casual wave to the room's two occupants and left, followed by her hounds. Tsu's'di waited just outside the door. He fell into step behind her without having to be told. He looked unhappy about something. Dylan wondered vaguely what it could possibly be.

Nuada watched Dylan vanish down the hall, escorted by a cougar youth and two hounds, and wondered if he had mistepped somehow. Or had he been imagining the odd tightness in his truelove's silver-washed blue eyes?

"Oh, dear," Naya murmured, nibbling on the edge of her thumb pensively. "I hope I did not offend her in some way."

"Not at all," the prince replied, frowning. Something felt... off. Fates, his wits and instincts were still sluggish from the healing spells and the inherent exhaustion that came with them, or he'd have been able to tell just what had happened a moment ago. Something... "Not at all," he repeated. "She takes her responsibilities, both to the Star Kindler and to her servants, very seriously." Shoving the matter from his mind - he could ask Dylan about it later - he added, forcing cheer he no longer felt into his voice, "You were hoping for breakfast?"

**.**

Despite initial apprehensions on the part of the children when, after Sacrament, they were split up for a time, Dylan knew they'd had a good time when they came back chattering excitedly about the lessons they'd learned, the people they'd met, and the cupcakes they would be allowed to eat once they got back to their mistress's suite. Tsu's'di, by virtue of his position as her bodyguard, had stayed with Dylan for all three hours of church - even following her to the women's meeting in the third hour. No one had batted an eyelash, though. They had recognized the prince's almost-betrothed and known she would go nowhere without protection.

Back in the joint suites, 'Sa'ti and A'du ate their cupcakes (offering a fingerful of frosting each to Eimh and Sétanta) while Dylan went into the bathroom to splash water on her face and figure out where this uneasiness churning in her stomach was coming from.

Was it because of Polunochnaya? That was stupid. So the dark Elf was Nuada's friend. He was allowed to have friends. She certainly had friends; would she begrudge him his? No. So why did the thought of the silver-eyed Elven woman spending time with the prince send frissons of irritation sizzling up and down her spine? Why did it make her fingers clench painfully around the edge of the marble counter? Why did she want to dislike the other woman so much, when she'd been nothing but friendly?

_Am I jealous?_ Dylan wondered. _Is that my problem? Why should I be jealous? They're just friends. Nuada loves me. Why am I so worried? Why would I be jealous of her?_

Or was it more than jealousy? Was it the way he'd looked at the silver-eyed Elf? With more warmth than she'd seen him regard anyone except Wink. Even with Nuala, there was pain in the Elven warrior's eyes. There was no pain in him when he looked at Polunochnaya. Did that warmth in his gaze make Dylan nervous?

_Oh, whatever! This is stupid! I'm not doing this,_ she told herself firmly. Glacial cobalt eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror. _Not a chance. I am not going to twist myself up in knots because Nuada didn't look miserable when he talked to someone. That's just dumb. I don't want him to be unhappy. I'm not going to get upset if he's glad to see someone. I'm being ridiculous._

Feeling a bit better after this mental lecture, she scooted out of the bathroom to talk to the children about how they'd liked going to church. Depending on what they said, she would confirm the meeting she'd set up with Nils for the three ewah to meet with the Elders attached to the castle.

**.**

The rest of Sunday passed with Dylan visiting with Nuada. They had dinner together, the two of them and the cougars, in the healing chamber. A'du and 'Sa'ti talked to him about their first time at church. Their mistress couldn't tell if the prince were really listening or not, though he made the proper responses at the proper times. Dylan was glad when, upon 'Sa'ti telling Nuada that they'd prayed for him to get better, the prince didn't ridicule or scoff at the idea. Instead, he thanked the ewah girl. 'Sa'ti beamed.

When Chief-Healer Somhairle swept into the room, Dylan had Tsu's'di escort his brother and sister back to her suite so they could get ready for bed. She'd follow not too long after, she said, to make sure the children actually got their bedtime story and lullaby. The cougar youth had mentioned that his siblings missed that little tradition, established at the cottage and lost during the madness preceeding their return to Findias.

Dylan hadn't seen Nuada's injuries clearly before: first, her view had been blocked by the bevy of healers as they worked on the prince, fighting to hold him to the world of the living; then, upon waking, the prince had asked her to leave so as not to see the true extent of the damage. But this time Nuada didn't ask her to leave.

Refusing help, the Elven warrior drew off the loose linen shirt he wore to allow Somhairle to inspect his healing injuries. Dylan drew in her breath with a sharp hiss. Nuada's head jerked up and he met her eyes. Canted his head. The mortal drew a bit closer to study the fresh marks on Nuada's body.

The still-healing stab wounds on his chest were the worst. The one from Zhenjin was malformed and thick - half from the Dilong prince's blade and half from the metal bite of Nuada's own armor when Zhenjin had punched through it with his ensorceled sword. Without thinking, Dylan reached out to ghost her fingertips over the rigid perse-colored mark; it wasn't quite a scar yet.

An almost-electric current arced between her fingertips and Nuada's skin. Her heart jumped. Her breath stuttered. Their eyes met.

"Leave us, Somhairle," Nuada ordered abrupty. The Chief-Healer opened his mouth to protest, but one slashing look from feral golden eyes silenced his arguments and the Elven healer scurried from the room.

*We will wait outside,* Sétanta said as he and Eimh trotted out of the half-open door.

There was a very long silence, broken by nothing but the sound of Nuada's breathing as he drew Dylan close. She pressed her forehead to his jaw and leaned against him. Her fingers traced the healing mark on the right side of his chest over and over. Nuada's uninjured arm came around her waist, his hand splaying against her back. Warmth shivered down her spine. Nuada's breath ruffled the curls that hung in her face.

"It looks worse than it is, mo cridh, my heart," he murmured. Her touch moved to the other scar, the one from the assassin; thinner, horizontal instead of vertical, and more jagged than the one Zhenjin had given him. Dylan traced the ragged edge of it with trembling fingers. "I will be all right."

"You nearly died," she whispered. Let her eyes drift closed, the better to savor his nearness. Even with her eyes closed, however, her questing fingertips sought out the mark on his upper arm. "How many times will you court Death before it takes you, Nuada? Before it steals you away from me?"

He skimmed his knuckles along her cheek. "If Death tried to take me, I would fight with all I had to return to you again. I know now that you need me," he added, lifting her chin to force her to meet his eyes. The words were heavy as stone and scorching as a promise when he said, "Just as I need you."

The breath caught in her chest. "You... you need me?"

"Much as it pains me to admit to needing anyone," the feral-eyed warrior confessed with a wry smile, "yes. You have made me need you when I have needed no one before. If I were forced to do without you, I could do it... but I would be nothing but a shadow of the man I once was. I need you, mo duinne."

Her smile was bright and glorious as a sunrise. Then Dylan leaned in and brushed her lips against the scar etched across his cheek. A soft, chaste whisper of a kiss. Nuada caught the fragrance of passion flower from her hair as he nuzzled her temple, the curve of her cheek. Dylan trailed her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, to brush her fingers against where the pulse beat strong at his throat. Nuada closed his eyes when her fingers threaded carefully through the long strands of his hair. Her touch was exquisitely light.

"You need me," she whispered, "and I know I need you. We need each other." He was so close, so warm, so solid. She hadn't realized how scared she'd been for him until she'd seen the evidence of what he'd suffered etched into his chest, two scars so dangerously close to his heart. Dylan brushed another kiss along the royal scar gracing Nuada's cheek. "We could do without each other, I think, but..."

"But why," the Elf prince said, "would we ever want to?"

Dylan smiled. "Exactly." She met eyes of warm honeyed amber. "I love you, you know."

Something flickered in Nuada's eyes, and it filled Dylan with a sudden hollow sense of panic. She didn't know why; only that she was certain what Nuada was about to say was _not_ what he'd intended to say that afternoon before the duel with Zhenjin. This was something else, something... potentially terrifying. Dylan looked away.

"We should probably let Somhairle come back in," the mortal suggested. "To make sure you're healing properly."

"When I am completely healed," Nuada said after a moment of strained silence, "there is somewhere I wish to take you. Something I wish you to see. And after that, someone I want you to meet. Are you willing?" She nodded, and he smiled. Then he shot a scowl at the door. "Very well, then - bring Somhairle back."

**.**

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday went by much as the previous Friday and Thursday had - with Dylan going to work early in the morning and returning via the gold-and-ruby ring in the early evenings. She had dinner with Nuada, who was still not allowed out of bed for more than up to thirty minutes at a time and still became winded by even that much simple exercise. Sometimes they would read _Once Upon a Winter's Night._ They talked, as well, as they had during those first visits Nuada had paid to Dylan's cottage.

But they never spoke of Polunochnaya, or Dylan's reaction to her. As the Zwezda Elf didn't make another appearance, Dylan was willing to just let it go. Jealousy was stupid, anyway, to her way of thinking. Nuada didn't broach the subject of the dark Elf, either. And somehow, Dylan never found the right time to bring up the words Nuada had been so insistent on sharing with her before the duel. She wasn't sure if Nuada had forgotten or what, but she didn't press that issue, either.

When it was time for the cougar cubs to be in bed, Dylan would go to read to them. The bedtime story tradition had taken on another facet - a scripture story and prayers. One of the undercooks who attended the Star Kindler's worship and had children loaned Dylan an illustrated easy-to-read version of the scriptures. So every night before bed, Dylan would read the ewah children a story from the illustrated book before reading them a standard bedtime story (though A'du thought _Rose Petal Place_ was "girly and gross," both cubs thoroughly enjoyed _The Thorn Witch_ and _The Cat in the Hat_).

There would be group prayer (usually at 'Sa'ti's insistence) and then Dylan would sing them to sleep. Despite not being able to hold a tune in a bucket with the lid nailed down, A'du and 'Sa'ti didn't seem to mind. Tsu's'di, however, would often politely excuse himself just before the singing began. Dylan couldn't really blame him.

And after bidding the children goodnight, Dylan would return to visit with Nuada until it was time for her to go to bed as well.

The nightmare that had begun the night she'd slept alone in Nuada's bed persisted, mingling with her more common flashback-nightmares and the happy dream that still broke her heart whenever she woke from it. Just as in Nuada's underground sanctuary almost a year ago, Dylan found herself seeking solace in long, luxurious sessions in the bathtub.

The comfort of routine being established was suddenly shattered Thursday evening when Guardsman Uaithne and Guardsman Ailbho were joined outside the healing chamber by not one or two, but _six_ more Butcher Guards. Since Nuada's injury, the "babysitting detail" had been disbanded until the prince healed. So why were they here now?

A Butcher that Dylan realized a moment later was the young Lorcc came into the room and bowed. His taciturn partner, Mahon, did the same. Somehow Dylan got the impression that while Lorcc was bowing to both her and the prince, Mahon kept that courtesy focused solely on the king's son.

"Forgive the intrusion, Prince Nuada, Lady Dylan, but there is ill news. The Téngshé that attacked the king and so grievously injured you has escaped, Your Highness. His Imperial Majesty Emperor Huizong believes that the Téngshé may make an attempt on the lives of King Balor, Princess Nuala, yourself or your lady. The king has tripled his, your, and Her Highness's guard detail until the coward is once again apprehended."

Nuada swore under his breath and turned to regard Tsu's'di, who stood by the window but had his eyes on Lorcc. The cougar youth's head jerked around to meet his prince's eyes. "Your Highness?"

The Elf prince narrowed his eyes at the boy, considering. Tsu's'di seemed to understand whatever Nuada was thinking, because he nodded once, sharply. Then, to Lorcc, the crown prince of Bethmoora said, "I want Guardswomen Ailís, Gráinne, Onóra, and Fionnlagh brought here, as well as Guardsmen Ríagáin and Odhrán. They are to be assigned to my lady. Tell Captain Phelan to see to arranging a full guard detail for her. Now go and bring them at once."

Mahon and Lorcc bowed again and left, Lorcc to resume his post at the door and Mahon to obey Nuada's order. Dylan turned to Nuada.

"Is that necessary," she asked in a low voice, "or are you just being cautious?"

"Neither," the prince replied in an equally soft voice. "I do not know if the Téngshé means you any harm or not, but there is no such thing as being simply 'cautious' when someone that has tried to kill you and failed escapes their prison. Fortune favors the prepared. I'll not see you harmed by this guard merely for the sake of his mad national pride. And that is assuming Princess Yin-Mei's interrogation yielded accurate results and the coward was not simply lying to her. If he was lying... there is no telling who he may be working for."

Turning serious amber eyes on her, he added, "I want at least two of the female guards with you _at all times_. When you sleep, when you seek solitude, when you escape to say your prayers. Even when you're bathing, do you understand?" Dylan opened her mouth to protest and he ruthlessly cut her off. "The Téngshé are incredibly dangerous. They are not just guards, but assassins and spies as well. I will not lose you to this Elf and his vengeance, Dylan. I will _not_."

Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I need this from you."

She nodded. "Okay. If that's what you need, then okay." Then she had a thought. "I don't suppose I could trade you those other guys you requested for Uaithne and Ailbho, could I?" Nuada blinked. "I like them," Dylan added. "They're nice."

A smile surprised the Elf prince by quirking the corner of his mouth. "Very well. I will take Ríagáin and Odhrán, and you may have Ailbho and Uaithne."

"Thank you."

Nuada inclined his head, but Dylan could tell his thoughts were already a thousand miles away. Thinking, planning for every possibility in dealing with this potential assassin, and trying to determine his target.

Dylan wondered if this had anything to do with the attacks that had precipitated their return to Findias. When ice skittered down her spine like insect legs, she knew for a fact that it most certainly did, and shivered.

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_**Author's Note:**__ so I have one question that isn't a necessary part of the prompt, I'm just wondering. Does Somhairle remind anyone of Nigel from The Devil Wears Prada? For some reason, when I picture Somhairle, I see Nigel but as a Bethmooran Elf. Is that weird?_

_Anyway, everyone should go listen to "Life on the Moon" by David Cook. It was recommended to me by OceanFire9 and it SO FITS for Nuada just in general right now, regarding his feelings for Dylan. I love it. I listen to it all the time now when I write. And everyone head on over (after revewing of course, lol) to chapter 64 because it's awesome!_

_And guys, seriously, go check out_ The Fire's Fuel _by JasperIsAManlyMan - it's amazing. And go check out_ Caves and Rivers _by OceanFire9. And review them! I feel bad because you guys give me all this love and Jasper and Ocean are so much more epic than me. Go give them lovesies! And for fans of serious innovation and happy fics without a lot of angst (so the opposite of the angst that is mine, lol) check out_ The Third Crown Piece _by Ya Nefer Ma'at. That one's awesome, too._

_Now for our review prompt!_

_1) So Nuada trying to work with Dylan about the whole "I abhor weakness and it causes all of our fights" thing - how do we see that working out for the two of them?_

_2) Who forgot Dylan had seen Nuada naked before? Who forgot Nuada had seen Dylan naked before?_

_3) So there was a question in chapter 62 that should have been in here, and that was, what do we think of the 6 new Butcher Guards? Now, granted, there will be more than 6 now that Dylan and Nuada's guard has been tripled (instead of 2, they get 6 each, yay) but the six introduced in this chapter (Ailbho, Uaithne, Lorcc, Mahon, Loen, and Siothrun) as well as the 4 female guards mentioned in this chapter, will be coming back and be fully fleshed-out characters. So... yeah._

_4) Who's figured out what this new nightmare is? This one, from 62, which reappears in 63_. "No, _Dylan thought, sinking to the cool marble floor_. No, no, no! He wouldn't... he would never... _She wrapped her arms around herself and shook. Her fingers bit deep into her arms. She'd have bruises in the morning. Shaking, gasping for breath, she shook her head to rid herself of every last vestige of the nightmare_. Never, never, he would never, he didn't, I didn't, no, he wouldn't, he wouldn't, I-_" That's really all I give you, so you've only got a bit to work with, but I'm curious if anyone has any theories._

_5) Ah, drunken pre-dawn parties with snockered Elven princes. Questions, comments, smart remarks? Gotta love Zhenjin drunk. No, Nuada wasn't drunk. He just woke up from a 4-day coma; the boy's not stupid... most of the time._

_6) Favorites? The standard 17, if you please, in honor of our 3-yr-anniversary and my awesome-sauce immortality_. =D

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _so "Shadows" is this AMAZING song on Youtube. It's an original piece by this girl named Lindsey Stirling. She does (get this) dub-step and hiphop violin pieces. She also does classical violin stuff too (examples are her "Lord of the Rings Medley" and "Zelda Medley" with AWESOME professionally done music videos). But "Shadows" is one of her original compositions and it is SO COOL. Actually, Lindsey Stirling is just cool in general. So... yeah. You guys should go check her out. For totally reals! She rocks! And for fans of_ Skyrim, _she collabed (colabbed? collabbed?) with this guy named Peter Hollens or something and did a "Skyrim Medley" with her playing violin and him singing and it's SO AMAZING and there's a video for it on Youtube. Go check it out. Seriously! She rocks!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- I'm not entirely sure if I was inspired by this or not - I don't think I was - but the scene where Nuada wakes up to Dylan crying and says, "It's all right, don't cry," kinda reminds me in retrospect of a scene in the animated non-Disney-made _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ sequel, _Happily Ever After_. In this one scene, someone is really badly hurt and they think he's dead but he's not, and he reaches up and touches Snow White's cheek and says, "It's all right, Snow White. Don't cry." But I didn't purposely model that part after that scene. Of course, I've seen that movie a _billion times,_ so it's kind of imprinted on my psyche, so who knows?

- So oddly enough, the whole "kiss me and I'll tell you"/"tell me and I'll kiss you" exchange was inspired by a similar dialogue (though the situation was _vastly_ different) in the 1990s film _Batman & Robin_, between Poison Ivy and Robin. Of course it ended with Ivy spilling her evil plans and then Robin kissing her poisonous lips, but he'd done something to his mouth so the poison didn't affect him and she got all mad and blah. Anyways...

- Yes, Dylan saw Nuada naked in... chapter 3? I think. It was after she'd stitched him up and he just took his clothes off and she was like, "Whoa! Dude!"

- I found out about bannocks from the book Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Then I looked them up on Wikipedia. You should too. There's a picture. They look delicious.

- I made up everything about the Butcher culture. I figured they weren't Elves because all the Bethmoora Elves look the same (pasty, blonde) but the Butchers look black-haired and gray-skinned. So I figured they were a separate species. I couldn't think of anything that fit with what I knew off the top of my head about mythology, so I just made something up. Although I did make them Irish.

- The thing about Baby Aodh "creeping" is from the book _Barrayar_ by Lois McMaster-Bujold. This soldier guy has a baby daughter that he's not really raising - he leaves her with the nanny pretty much 24/7 - but when he went to visit at one point, he came back and his boss was like, "So, how's the kid?" And he talked about how she "creeps" - that little crawling-motion babies make that really shouldn't get them anywhere fast, but somehow does, but only when no one is looking. Mothers, you know what I'm talking about, right?

- Princess Kamaria is the crown princess of the Elven kingdom of Nyame (where Aso the Weaver is from).

- Rennan is the current (relatively young) king of Eirc, the third Irish Elven kingdom.

- Anterion is the king of the fae country of Mytikas (the faerie equivalent of Greece; not a purely Elven kingdom).

- For those who forgot, Nuada told Dylan he loved her in chapter 42.

- Padishah is an Indian (as in from India) word for "emperor." However, it's not gender-specific from what I can tell. It's just that there's never been a stand-alone empress of India. However, the padishah of the fae kingdom of Alaka is a woman.

- After the first hour and ten minutes of an LDS church meeting, adults go to Sunday school classes and children 12+ go to kids' Sunday school classes. Children 3 and under go to Nursery, and children 4 and older go to Primary. In the third hour, men and boys 12 and up go to Priesthood Meeting (aka Elders Quorum), girls 12-18/19 go to Young Women's, and women ages 18+ go to Relief Society. So Tsu's'di was the only male in the room during the third hour.

- _The Thorn Witch_ is one of my favorite picture books EVER. I love it. Everyone should read it. Unfortunately, I think it's out of print. But it's AWESOME.

- _Rose Petal Place_ is also one of my favorite picture books EVER. Well, picture book series. My favorite in the series is _A Garden of Love to Share_. Am I sentimental and silly? You betcha. Ya know ya love me, lol.

- Of course the cat-kids enjoyed _The Cat in the Hat_, lol.


	64. Long Have I Loved You

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _omg you guys, I can't wait for you to read this one! I'm sooooo excited, I can't wait! Hey, Chymera, are you still there? Just curious. Anyway, I cannot wait, I'm hyperventilating over here. You guys are gonna LOVE this one, I am almost positive. Of course I could be on mental-acid and not know what I'm talking about but we'll just have to see, won't we? So... yeah. Let's get on with the show, yeah? Love ya!_

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**Chapter Sixty-Four**

**Long Have I Loved You**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of**** an Impressive Cat, Hurt, a Sister's Love, Inexplicable Fear, a Vow, a Confrontation, the Power of the Heir, and a Painful Question**

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_I do not believe this,_ Guardswoman Fionnlagh McTadgh grumbled silently as she and the other thirteen guards attempted to fit themselves in the hallway just beyond the healing chamber that currently housed the crown prince and his mortal. _Babysitting a_ human. _What would the Téngshé want with her, anyway? It's not as if she would make a viable hostage. The Silver Lance is merely playing with her; he'll replace her eventually. So why bother?_

Looking around, she studied the other members of the king's elite that had been summoned to guard either the prince or his lady. She, Ailís, Gráinne, and Onóra were the only women. Not surprising. Female Butchers, rare as they were in the palace, weren't usually given tasks as menial as guarding anyone less than the king himself - and, in certain instances, Her Highness the princess when propriety dictated male guards were inappropriate.

Yet all four of them were here, by request of Prince Nuada and by backing order of the king and Captain Phelan and Captain Sáruit, to protect his mortal toy. Why? Why bother protecting the girl at all? Why not simply allow her to fend for herself?

Besides, she had that... boy. The cat-boy, whatever he was. Fionnlagh had never seen his kind before, but he seemed capable enough of handling whatever might attack a lone human. So why attach six Butch Guards to the woman? And _why_ were the king's elite to answer to that cat-boy?

Granted, that wasn't _precisely_ what Captain Phelan had said. He'd merely said that the youth had more experience with the human, and would know best how to handle her without giving offense to either her or the prince; any questions about the prince's lady should be addressed to her young guard unless otherwise directed.

Fionnlagh wanted to spit. The cub looked to be barely halfway through his seventh century, by Butcher standards. Fionnlagh herself was a warrior in her prime - a few decades past her fifteenth century, she was comparable to the human woman in physical age. She wasn't a Butcher _captain_, or even a lieutenant, but she had served under Captain Oisin mac Conan's female counterpart, Co-Captain Sáruit ingen Chuinn, for nearly a thousand years. Surely she had more experience than this still-wet-behind-the-ears cat-boy.

Gráinne, Fionnlagh's partner, nudged the other guard in the ribs, a silent reminder to keep calm and not lose her temper. Where Fionnlagh was often all internal flash and temper, swift to form prejudices that were then incredibly difficult to knock aside, Gráinne was as calm and serene as a star-gazing pool. She kept her opinions to herself unless asked, kept a sharp eye on everything and everyone around her, and had a good head on her shoulders despite being a few centuries Fionnlagh's junior. Gráinne was quite interested in meeting this faerie boy that had chosen to ally himself with not only the legendary Silverlance, but the mortal woman everyone was talking about.

The door to the healing chamber opened and the youth in question stepped out, followed by a massive black hound with eyes of piercing, glacial blue. Every guard recognized the fey beast as belonging to the prince. They'd heard - and some had even seen - the ivory and night-black pair of hounds that guarded the prince's mortal plaything, though Fionnlagh had not. Was this one of them?

*Who is to guard Master's lady?* The hound demanded. From its - his - voice, and the fact that it only reached the cat-boy's waist, the Butchers knew the beast was young. But young or not, it still had sharp teeth and a warrior instinct bred through the centuries and honed by training. *Step forward.*

Fionnlagh led Ailís, Gráinne and Onóra from their place against the wall to stand before the hound and the cat youth. Guardsman Ailbho and Guardsman Uaithne did the same. When the youth locked eyes with Fionnlagh, she was momentarily non-plussed to see his smoky turquoise eyes were coolly assessing. There was no hint of insecurity or indecision in his gaze or on his leonine face.

"His Highness and my lady have said I should come out and speak to you; introduce myself. I have one question and one question only, and then you may do whatever you like. I know you're more experienced than I am. I'm not going to presume to give out orders to veterans when I'm fairly new at this.

"But you should know - I am Tsu's'di Ka'ta Ewah, of the Children of the Cougar, and I am loyal first and foremost to Lady Dylan of Central Park and secondly to His Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. My question is this: are you also loyal? Will you actually protect Lady Dylan, or will you merely feign sincerity because she is human, or because you don't like the prince? If it's the latter, then get lost. We don't need you. If it's the former, then thanks for the help because I need it. Anyone who has a problem with my lady or her lord, leave. And be sure to send a replacement."

Sétanta could hear the cougar youth's heart pounding hard in his chest. Smell his nervousness. His fur bristled slightly, but the youth managed to keep his ears erect and his whiskers did not quiver. No yowl or snarl rumbled beneath the coolly spoken words. Sétanta knew his mistress's two-legger guard had been thinking up what to say ever since Master had told him that new guards would be coming to help and that Tsu's'di was to "introduce himself" to the king's elite. And Master had known the ewah youth would say something like this. Technically, Tsu's'di was to follow the Butchers' orders, but he was also to be considered their equal.

Sétanta wasn't quite sure how two-leggers managed that sort of thing - among hounds, pack-leader was pack-leader, and what they ordered was obeyed, and no one was the equal of a pack-leader but the pack-leader's mate - but Master understood things about two-leggers that Sétanta did not. As long as it kept Master's lady safe, the hound pup didn't care.

"With all due respect, young guardsman," Uaithne, the oldest of the six Butchers assigned to the Lady Dylan, said into the silence, "you are rather... bold to make such demands of your superiors. What gives you the right, a boy of your tender years, to speak to us this way?"

The youth squared his shoulders. Fionnlagh found herself admiring the cat-boy's refusal to be intimidated by the much larger Uaithne.

"I _am_ young - a couple years shy of my eighth decade. At that time, I shall be considered a man grown by the laws and customs of the ewah. However, I have fought to provide for and protect my family for over thirty years. I understand duty and loyalty.

"And I am Lady Dylan's guardian, hand-chosen by His Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance. While you do not answer to me, _I_ do not answer to _you_, either. I answer to His Highness. As I value my neck - and my lady's - I want to be certain that I'm trusting my mistress to warriors who will actually protect her. I know about the prejudice many fae have against humans. If it's a problem, I don't want you here, and neither does the prince. And I have the prince's ear. That's what gives me the right."

All right, Fionnlagh decided. She could admit it - the cat-boy had guts, for all he was as green as grass and wetter than water behind the ears. And at least he had _some_ experience. Thirty years protecting his family, eh? That explained the cool, hard look in those cat-slitted smoky turquoise eyes when he scanned the assembled Butchers. And he'd admitted the king's elite were more experienced; not an arrogant twit, then. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Uaithne looked down at the cat-faced youth in royal blue and dove gray livery, a blade at each hip and claws half-unsheathed to catch the torchlight. Not even eighty years old. The lad was younger than his son Tadgh. But he'd been fighting for almost half his life. Evidence of that glinted like steel in the depths of his smoky eyes. And his loyalty to his mortal mistress was both surprising and gratifying. Uaithne had grown inexplicably fond of the prince's human lady in the days since Silverlance had been injured. It was good that her guardian obviously loved her.

"Well said, lad," the Butcher replied, clapping Tsu's'di on the shoulder. "I have no problem serving Lady Dylan; I would wager the rest of my company feel the same as I. What say you, Fionnlagh? Ailbho?"

Guardsman Ailbho nodded to the ewah youth. So did Guardswomen Ailís, Gráinne, and Onóra. Fionnlagh folded her arms across her armored chest and leveled her glittering black eyes on the cat-boy. Tsu's'di stared right back, unintimidated.

"If she means what they say to the crown prince, then my loyalty to my king dictates I guard her as dearly as I would His Majesty. And so I shall. But," the guardswoman added, "if the prince and his lady spend most of their time gazing adoringly into each others' eyes, no one blame me for retching."

Tsu's'di grinned. "They do that sometimes. It's terrible. Just sic my little brother on them to make them stop; he's Lady Dylan's page."

Fionnlagh cocked her head. "A little cat-boy? What could he do?"

"Yell 'ew, gross' at the top of his lungs," the ewah replied. "Little brothers make excellent mood-killers."

Fionnlagh laughed. Thinking of her younger brother Loén, who'd been the bane of her love life during her years as a maiden, she said, "Very true." The Butcher clapped the young guard on his other shoulder. "I think you and I will get along, Tsu's'di Ka'ta."

Offering a sardonic smile and a thumbs-up, Tsu's'di said, "Cool."

**.**

"I think they're getting along," Dylan said, eyeing the partially-open door. Concern and amusement had warred within her when Tsu's'di had squared his shoulders, raked his claws through the ragged mane that served him for hair, and marched out into the hall with Sétanta to "introduce himself" to the newly-acquired royal guards. "I heard laughing. Am I supposed to hear laughing?"

"The question you should ask is, do you hear anyone leaving? The answer is no. That means Tsu's'di's little speech had the proper effect."

Dylan slanted her eyes at Nuada. "What speech? What exactly is going on? Lorcc left not even ten minutes ago, and you haven't said a word to Tsu's'di this entire time, other than, 'Go introduce yourself.' What are you two planning?" Suspicious, she narrowed her eyes. "Is there something going on I need to know about?"

Dark lips quirked into an amused smile. "If there was, do you not think I would have told you?"

"Maybe." Moonlit blue met sunlit gold eyes. "Okay, yes, you would. But what speech are you talking about?"

"Your boy informed my father's guards that if they had any issues with your mortality, they could enjoy an extended holiday in Hell. More or less." Nuada grinned when Dylan clapped a hand over her mouth. "They were quite impressed. Butchers respect that sort of brash young arrogance. If his life had been an easier one, they would have been less impressed by him, but the harshness of his world is reflected in his eyes. The king's elite saw that. He's earned their respect."

"So... everything is fine now?" She relaxed when the Elf prince nodded. "Good. Um... I know Uaithne and Ailbho, but who are the other four guards you requested for me? Are they... I feel dumb asking this, but are they nice?"

"They're efficient," Nuada replied. "Guardwoman Ailís has been with the Butcher Guards since I was young. Her mother, Sorcha, was part of the Queen's Guard when I was a boy. Sorcha was the reason..." He paused. Something flickered in his eyes. "Sorcha was the reason my sister and I survived long enough for Wink to save us the day my mother was killed. The day Ailís was accepted into the Butcher Guards, she said her mother was the reason she wanted to protect the king; to make up for her mother's supposed failure in protecting the queen.

"Onóra is young, but I heard good things of her from my father during my exile." Unspoken were the words, _When I would hear from my father at all._ "She was the youngest of her people to make it into the Butcher Guards, and the youngest to be assigned as a royal guard. Apparently she joined to be part of the Prince's Guard."

"I thought everyone knew you'd gone into exile, though."

"Every member of the royal family has the right to a retinue of Butcher Guards. Except when under house-arrest," Nuada added with no little bitterness, "you also have the right to refuse having a plague of royal babysitters." Dylan smiled. The Elf prince sighed and forced the tension out of his body. "Onóra specifically joined the Guard to protect me."

"Oohhh, I see," Dylan said, grinning. Nuada narrowed his eyes. "So she, what? Had a crush on you? You're like... a celebrity to her. That is so cute."

His eyes slashed at her like topaz daggers - ineffectual topaz daggers. "Dylan-"

"I'll trade you," she said. "You can have Onóra and I'll take one of the guys you've already got. That way she can guard you like she's always wanted."

"Absolutely not." Nuada folded his arms across his chest. Winced when the half-healed slice across his upper arm twinged. "If I take Onóra, I also have to take Ailís. I want at least four female guards with you at all times." Leaning back against his pillows, he muttered, "And I'd rather _you_ had to deal with Ailís."

Dylan cocked her head. "What's wrong with Ailís?" Nuada mumbled something. "Huh?" He rolled his eyes and growled under his breath. "Why do I get the feeling that if you were anyone else, you'd be blushing? Just tell me." The Elf prince said five words that made Dylan's jaw drop. "Are you serious? _That's_ your problem?"

Nuada growled, "Woman-"

"Okay, okay. I'll keep Ailís and Onóra, jeez. Wouldn't want you to be tempted, after all."

"_Woman_-"

"All right! Yikes. Don't be embarrassed. It's cute," she said, smiling. Thank the stars she wasn't laughing at him. His pride could only take so much. "And kind of stupid," Dylan added. "But cute."

Nuada scowled at her. "It is not the only reason, as I've said. And though it was a long time ago, she has never forgiven me. She was always one for holding grudges." Noticing the way the corners of Dylan's mouth twitched, he added, "And besides, mo duinne, I would hate for you to be jealous of a mere guard."

"I don't get jealous," she told him with a smirk.

A blond brow winged upward. "Oh? That is not quite how I recall your reaction to Naya when you met _her_."

The good humor sparkling in her eyes faded and her smile slipped away. She slid her gaze to the toes of her sneakers peeking out from under the hems of the jeans she'd worn to work that morning. There it was again - _Naya_. Not Polunochnaya or even Lady Naya, but just Naya. It was close, intimate, the way Nuada said her name. Her nickname, rather. He didn't even speak of Lorelei like that. Didn't call her Lori or Lei-Lei or some other saccharine pet name. But he called the Zwezdan noblewoman "Naya."

_Am I jealous?_ Dylan wondered, not for the first time. Jealousy was a natural reaction, she supposed. Until this point, she'd only had to share Nuada's regard with one other woman - Nuala. And there was no room in Dylan to be jealous of the Elf princess when most of her attention was taken up with just how thoroughly the mortal disliked Nuada's twin sister for being a stuck-up, unfeeling witch to the prince. So it would make sense for Dylan to resent Nuada's... feelings for Polunochnaya.

It didn't really matter if she was jealous, though. What mattered was that Nuada was making fun of her about it. Maybe he thought it amusing that seeing him and the lady-in-waiting together tied Dylan up in knots of anxiety, nerves, hurt, irritation, and uncertainty... but it wasn't funny. She opened her mouth to say so. Tasted hot anger in the back of her throat. Closed her mouth again.

She didn't want to fight with him. She _wouldn't_ fight with him. Not over something so stupid. Either she didn't have a reason to be jealous, and Polunochnaya wasn't trying to make a move on the prince, and so Dylan would be in the wrong for getting this upset - or the Zwezdan Elf _was_ trying to stir up trouble between Dylan and Nuada, and getting angry and fighting with the Elven warrior would play right into Polunochnaya's hands.

"Dylan?" Nuada frowned, studying her suddenly solemn expression and downcast eyes. Why had she gone so quiet? He had only been teasing... "Dylan, are you well?"

The mortal shook her head as if to bring herself back to reality. Focused on the amber-eyed prince. "Yeah, I'm fine." She forced her mouth into a smile that felt as if it would crack her face in half. "Sorry, I zoned out for a minute. Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, right. Jealousy. I don't get jealous, Your Highness, unless I have a reason to be. Anyway, it's late, so I'm going to bed, okay? Good night."

Before he could even rally his thoughts to respond, she'd bounced out of the chair and slipped from the room. Slightly stunned, Nuada sat back and tried to figure out what just happened. She hadn't even kissed him goodnight. In fact, he realized he had not kissed her since before the duel. What was going on with her?

_I don't get jealous unless I have a reason to be._

A reason? What in the world did that mean? And why had there been such hurt in her eyes?

**.**

Tsu's'di made the introductions as Dylan moved down the hall, surrounded by six Butchers, two faerie hounds, and a cougar youth. Though the Butchers all wore their beaked iron helmets, Dylan found she could tell them apart by certain little details.

Uaithne and Ailbho, whom Dylan had already gotten to know over the last few days, had more masculine shoulders. Ailbho was the more slender of the two, having not quite finished filling out just yet. Guardswoman Ailís was tall and wore her long, dark hair in a thick braid that fell nearly to her waist from beneath her helmet. Guardswoman Onóra wore her hair in a braid as well, but it only reached the middle of her back; a black scar cut across the left side of her neck and down over her collarbone. Gráinne, whom Tsu's'di said was the one of the youngest female Butchers, was missing the little finger of her left hand, made visible by the fingerless leather gloves she wore. And Fionnlagh, her senior partner, wore her hair in seven long warrior's braids and bore burn scars all along the exposed portions of her arms.

All six guards gave Dylan the fist-to-chest salute, the same one she'd received every time she'd walked into Nuada's healing chamber over the last week, before falling into formation around her. After introducing them all, Tsu's'di fell into step beside her. He wanted to ask his mistress if everything was all right - saying she looked "upset" would have been an understatement - but he knew intuitively that she wouldn't answer with strangers around.

Once in her suite, Ailbho and Uaithne took up position in the sitting room. If anything was going to attempt to get in through the front door of Lady Dylan's suite, it would have to go through them first. Tsu's'di went to bed. Dylan had already put A'du and 'Sa'ti to bed, so she told Eimh and Sétanta she was going to have a bath. Then she remembered the four Butcher women who were supposed to guard her.

"Um... if it's all right with you four," she said in Gaelic. "Or are you tired? I can wait for a bath, I guess. Until tomorrow. If you'd rather sleep. Or..." She puffed a lock of hair out of her face. "I don't really know how this whole guard thing works. I don't want to be an inconvenience."

One of the guards - from the long single braid, Dylan recognized Ailís - said, "If my lady pleases, we will take shifts. Two of us will watch over you while two of us rest. That way we will be at our best. Onóra and I will take the first shift, if it pleases you. Gráinne and Fionnlagh will take the second. So it will be our duty to stand watch while you have your bath. You need not worry about us, milady."

Comforting words, if they hadn't been spoken so... tonelessly. There was no malice or disdain in Ailís's voice, but neither was there any warmth or kindness. The Butcher didn't dislike Dylan, but she didn't _like_ her, either.

"Thank you," Dylan murmured, and went to see if Eimh had managed to draw yet another miraculously perfect bath for her.

Having Ailís and Onóra actually _in_ the bathroom with her while she soaked in the tub made the experience less than satisfying. At least they didn't look. Instead, they kept their backs turned, watching Sétanta chasing his tail just beyond the bathroom door. Eimh lounged by the edge of the tub while Dylan tried to enjoy the deliciously hot water and the fragrant steam misting off the water's surface. But the presence of the two Butchers was impossible to ignore.

With a surreptitious glance their way, Dylan took a breath and ducked beneath the surface. Floating weightless, suspended in the water, she forced herself to relax. To just calm down. It was all right that she had bodyguards. Invasive bodyguards. It wasn't their fault, and she certainly didn't hold it against them. It was just... awkward. It was okay, though. Nuada needed to know she was safe. Hurt as he was, he couldn't ensure her safety himself, so he was doing the next best thing. It was a small price to pay to ensure harmony between them.

Dylan blew the air in her lungs out with a whoosh that surrounded her with bubbles. She almost smiled. This was almost like being back at the sanctuary. While she and Nuada hadn't exactly gotten along back in those days, she had never felt safer than in the enchanted underground haven - except when Nuada held her in his arms.

Unbidden came the question, _Does Naya feel safe when he holds_ her _in his arms?_ Dylan nearly choked. Breaking the surface, she drew a deep breath and ducked under again. No. No, she was not going to do this to herself. She was not going to freak out about "the other woman." Whatever the Zwezdan Elf had had with Nuada was ancient history and there was no reason for Dylan to be twisting herself up into knots over it.

_It's just the Adversary screwing with me,_ she told herself firmly. A flare of heat warmed her chest, but ice trickled down her spine. _Great. And I'm so tired and worn out from everything, I'm getting my spiritual wires crossed. I think it's the Adversary, and then get both a confirmation and a negation at the same time. Whatever that means. I'll figure it out after I get out of the bathtub and say my prayers._

Once out of the tub, dried off and dressed in another pair of pajama pants and one of Nuada's shirts - he'd said she could have her pick - Dylan found herself nodding off over her nightly scripture study. Realizing she would soon be passed out sprawled across her scriptures, she slipped a bookmark into place and went to her knees at her bedside to say her prayers.

And ran face-first into a mental wall in the form of Ailís, Onóra, Gráinne and Fionnlagh. To her surprise, Dylan found it nearly impossible to concentrate properly while silently saying her prayers. Forming the words wasn't an issue, but the warmth and peace Dylan normally managed to find during this time eluded her. Prayer wasn't just a one-sided conversation; it was supposed to be a two-way path of communication between a person and God. She'd never had trouble establishing that pathway... until now. She was just too distracted by the presence of other people _watching her_ while she tried to pray.

All right, they weren't exactly staring at her. But she knew that Ailís and Onóra were well aware that their new "mistress" was on her knees with her head bowed, and she had no doubt they knew she was praying.

For some reason, that silent awareness made the spot between Dylan's shoulderblades itch. She just wasn't sure why. It was different from the nerves that coiled in her stomach when she saw Polunochnaya, or that Fomorian prince and his friend, or the chamberlain; not as urgent, but still distracting.

_Excuse me for a moment, Gracious Heavenly Father_, Dylan murmured silently, and quickly closed her prayer. Getting to her feet, she brushed herself off and scanned the room for a place she could briefly escape the scrutiny of her bodyguards. Her eyes alighted on the door of her walk-in closet.

"Um... excuse me a second, everyone. I need to go in my closet."

She couldn't tell if the Butcher Guards were staring at her or not, but she would've imagined they were. Fionnlagh ventured, "You... need to go into... your closet?"

"Yeah, I'll be back in a few minutes. Hang on."

Feeling their eyes on her back, she darted into the massive walk-in closet and closed the door so she could kneel and finish her prayer.

_Dear Heavenly Father, I'm sorry about the interruption. I was having a hard time focusing. Please excuse me. And please help me to concentrate more readily in the future, Heavenly Father,_ Dylan prayed, trying to ignore the knowledge that the Butchers were waiting for her just beyond the doors. _And please bless me with a softer, more forgiving heart. I need to stop snapping at Nuada and getting angry with him when he doesn't do anything. I can tell he's trying to keep his temper. When he's yelling at me, that's one thing - although I know I'm not supposed to let that get to me, either. But it's worse if he's not even yelling or being mean. If he can keep his temper, I should be able to as well. Please help me to do that. And please help me to not be jealous of Polunochnaya. I know Nuada loves me. At least... I think he does. And help me to have a more open heart and mind so that I might feel Thy Spirit more easily. I thank Thee for listening. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen._

Usually reading scriptures and praying helped Dylan to fall asleep, but not tonight. After she went back into the room and laid in bed, sleepiness stealing over her, she was still intensely aware of the watchful presence of Ailís and Onóra at her bedroom door, and Gráinne and Fionnlagh dozing ever so lightly at her window. Ailbho and Uaithne were shadows at the edges of Dylan's awareness even though they remained in her sitting room.

And even though she was exhausted, it took her a very long time to fall into troubled sleep.

**.**

It wasn't hard to convince Nuada she didn't need guards in the mortal world. For one thing, her ring enabled her to disappear almost in the blink of an eye. For another, no one outside of King Balor, Prince Nuada, and Dylan herself knew just where the ensorceled ring was taking her.

And there was no way anyone could hop from Findias, which was in the part of Faerie that corresponded to mortal Ireland, all the way to Elphame, the part of Faerie that corresponded to mortal America - where Nuada's sanctuary happened to be. Not in the same time she could. Never mind hopping from Bethmoora to Elphame to New York in the space of a few heartbeats and then back again.

Nuada didn't like it, but he conceded during the next morning's conversation that she had a point. So Dylan managed to get to work without having to cart along six glamored royal guards, two glamored dogs, and a glamored teenage cougar. Even glamored to invisibility, such a large entourage would've been a problem in her rather small office.

Dylan found herself luxuriating in the solitude her office afforded during the snatched moments between therapy sessions. Checking her calendar, she found that Jared and Simon Grace were scheduled to see her after her lunch hour. Excellent. Instead of eating, she reveled in an hour of sleeping all by herself. True, it was on a dinky little sofa, but she was alone. Blessedly alone. No Butchers, no Tsu's'di, no dogs, no one. Just her and the sofa and a pillow.

Ariel woke her up when the Graces arrived. Jared and Simon would let her snack during their session; they always did.

**.**

Tsu's'di glanced up from his bowl of porridge when Fionnlagh plopped down across the table. After a moment of uncertain silence, the cougar youth offered an insolent two-fingered salute. "Yo. S'up." A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti waved before lifting bowls of cream-doused porridge to their mouths and slurping it down.

"Why did she go into her closet last night?" The Butcher Guard asked. "And this morning? Is it a human thing?"

The ewah blinked. "_A'ge'lv_ Dylan? She... went into her closet?"

"Yes, for about five or ten minutes both times. Each time, she emerged looking as if some great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. What was she doing?"

Tsu's'di's whiskers quivered. "Um... I don't... know?"

"Bleh vush zing her pears," A'du'la'di garbled from behind his porridge bowl. 'Sa'ti nodded, licking cream off her whiskers.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," his brother admonished. The cougar cub pulled his head out of the porridge bowl long enough to stick his tongue out at his brother and lick his lips before snaking his furry head forward again to continue where he'd left off with breakfast. Tsu's'di snagged him by the back of the neck. "Hold up; what was it you said?"

The boy shrugged. "_A'ge'lv_ Dylan was saying her prayers. You're supposed to say them by yourself if you can. Remember? She told us when she taught us about praying. That way you can really com... com... com-ni-cat with the Star Kindler."

"Communicate," his brother corrected automatically. "Why her closet, though?"

"She's by herself," A'du replied. "No diss-tack-shuns."

"Distractions," Tsu's'di said. The cub always struggled with words of more than two syllables. Especially if he'd only heard them a few times. His little brother sighed and mumbled under his breath, "Sorry, yeah. Distractions."

"And it's really huge," 'Sa'ti added. "So her feet won't fall asleep."

Fionnlagh stared at the three cougar-shifters. "Let me see if I understand this," she said, while the cubs went back to their breakfast. "The prince's lady went into her closet to pray?"

Tsu's'di shrugged. "Apparently. I just kick these two out when I take a crack at this praying stuff. It's nice to feel that connection to Someone like the High King of the World. And it's done these guys a world of good. When the _a'ge'lv_ prays, it helps her deal with whatever crazy stuff is going on. The rule is, you say your wake-up and before-bed prayers by yourself. She probably just couldn't concentrate in her room with you guys there. You can't leave her alone in a place with windows, but the only way in and out of her closet is the door, so she can go in there by herself if she needs to. No big deal."

The Butcher Guard shook her head. "Humans make no sense."

Tsu's'di merely shrugged, then sighed and commanded, "A'du'la'di, use a spoon. You're not a barbarian."

"Can _I_ be a barbarian?" 'Sa'ti piped up.

"Sure you can."

"What?" A'du yelped. He stared up at Tsu's'di with a look of utter betrayal on his face. "No fair!"

Excited, 'Sa'ti asked, "Really?"

Completely straight-faced, their older brother replied, "No."

**.**

After work but before going back to Findias, Dylan met up with Francesca to go to the local used bookstore. She needed more picture books for A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti, and apparently Cesca needed a new source for her crack addiction - cheap, trashy romance novels.

"What is _that_?" The thirty-one-year-old waitress demanded, eyeing the book in her younger sister's hands. It had some curly-haired girl in bright orange and magenta on the cover holding some kind of dessert. "_Who_ is that?"

"What, this?" Dylan smiled fondly at the book. "It's one of the _Strawberry Shortcake_ books. That's Raspberry Tart."

Dylan placed it in her basket. This store, Threads-N-Things, was the only thrift store in New York that sold children's books for less than five dollars. Most of them were in reasonable condition, too. She plucked another book off the packed shelf. Inhaled the pleasant scent of well-dusted and well-loved old books.

"Oh, a _Masters of the Universe_ book." A'du'la'di would like that one. Although he'd probably wonder why the hero wore nothing but leather straps, boots, and furry underpants. Well, whatever. She'd figure out a way to explain eighties' hero fashion somehow. Dylan snagged a different book. Grinned. "And _The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything_. Perfect. And do _not_ start singing the theme song-"

"_We are the pirates who don't do anything_," Francesca sang cheerily. She even did a little hip-wiggle dance in the aisle that had Dylan laughing. "_We just stay at home and lie around! And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you_-"

"_We don't do anything_," Dylan finished, giving in and smiling. Shaking her head, she said, "You're ridiculous, Cesca."

Her sister shrugged. One black-gloved hand snaked out and tugged a slim little book with a purple spine off the shelf she perused. "You know you love me that way. Oooh, I don't have this one." She flashed Dylan the cover - a spectacularly well-built guy with long black hair, fangs, and snake-slitted golden eyes gazing down adoringly at a dreamy-eyed woman in a skimpy, diaphanous dress. "Yay, I found it!"

Dylan shook her head. "Another vampire romance novel, Francesca? How many different ways can some guy with fangs bite a girl's neck before it gets boring?"

"That's why they alternate between necks, thighs, and other romantic body parts," the older woman replied with a haughty toss of her curly black hair. "And besides, he's not a vampire. He's an Egyptian crocodile shapeshifter or something, cursed to guard the tomb of an evil pharaoh, and she's an anthropologist who wants to study the tomb. You can tell by the title it's not about vampires - _Rivers of Desire in the Desert Night._"

"Right," Dylan replied with a straight face. "That totally clears it up for me. How could I have been so silly? The word 'night' doesn't scream 'vampires' at all." Watching her sister grab ten more of the little romance novels, Dylan asked, "Why do you read that stuff, anyway? There's so much..." She trailed off, realizing she'd been about to say "sex," one of Francesca's buzz words.

Francesca shrugged again. "The guys in these books are nice. Most of the time. I don't read the books with the douchey heroes or the stupid heroines. But these books remind me of the stories you used to tell when we were kids." Seeing Dylan's shock, she hastened to add, "You know, the ones about handsome princes and stuff. The nice stories. Not the ones Mom and Dad would get mad about. You always talked about falling in love like it was this great... great thing. Like finding El Dorado or Shambala or something. Like it was this super wonderful thing that everyone should strive for. I've wanted that for a long time." Now she scowled at nothing. "I just haven't had much luck finding Prince Charming, that's all. So I settle for reading about him until I find him." Then Cesca smiled. "Speaking of true love, how are you and your smexy, smexy hunk of burnin' man-stuff?"

Grabbing the last two books she wanted - _The Star-Bellied Sneeches_ by Dr. Seuss for the children and an illustrated copy of the original _Beauty and the Beast_ for herself - Dylan quirked a brow at her big sister while they ambled toward the store counter. "I don't know who you're talking about, hon."

"Oh, yes you do!" Francesca poked her in the arm with an elbow. "You tell me about this boyfriend right now. I've been dying of curiosity. Tell me, tell me, tell me! Is he good?"

The psychiatrist sighed. "Yes, he's good to me." _Most of the time,_ she added silently. "But he's not my boy-"

"No, no, no. I _meant_, is he good _in bed_, you lucky duck? I mean, he must be phenomenal if you guys are dancing the horizontal monster-mash, you're such a prude about that kind of thing, but I could be wrong about that. So - is he?"

Dylan glared at her. "We're not having sex."

Francesca pouted. "You are seriously no fun. Don't be such a stingy bit-" She cut herself off when she caught sight of a pair of toddlers in a double-stroller near the entrance to the store with their mom. "Don't be stingy. Come _on_, Dylan! I promise I won't tell Petra and the others. Not even Tori. I _promise_."

"Shush."

Another haughty toss of jet-black curls. "Fine. I'm not taking you out for dessert at Coldstone's, then. You can just forget it."

"Such a hardship; no ice cream that will make me horrendously fat if I keep eating it." Dylan smiled at her sister's crestfallen expression. "John took me to Coldstone not even a week ago, Cesca. Sorry. But," she added, feeling generous, "I'll work on trying to get a picture of him for you. I make no promises," she reminded her sister when Francesca perked up, "but I will _try_."

Maybe she could talk to Dean Nails, the Erlkin Kaye and Val had mentioned who'd made the charm for her phone to work inside of Faerie. If he could do that, he could probably make a charm that allowed her phone to pick up projected glamor in a photo.

"Shirtless?" Francesca chirped.

Sigh. "I'll try for shirtless- _geh_!" Dylan nearly choked on her own saliva when Francesca threw her arms around her younger sister and squeezed her breathless.

**.**

Once back in Findias, Dylan had Tsu's'di take the newly-bought books to her suite for 'Sa'ti and A'du to look over while she and her six guards went to see Nuada. It was later than she'd intended to be back - after sundown - and she wanted him to know she was all right. But just as she made it to the main corridor of the Healers' Wing, she was intercepted by none other than the bane of her existence.

"Lady Dylan!" Polunochnaya beamed and offered a truncated curtsy. Dylan pasted a smile onto her face. "I am sorry to interrupt - you must be going to see Nuada - but the princess requests your presence in her sitting room to discuss something of great importance. If you'll please follow me?"

_Somehow I doubt I have a choice,_ the mortal thought, and nodded to the Elf of Zwezda to lead the way.

Nuala's suite was actually in the same wing of the palace as Nuada's; Dylan hadn't known that. The Elf princess was seated on a little white sofa in what Dylan realized was the princess's formal sitting room. Nuala smiled when her lady-in-waiting arrived with the mortal in tow. At Nuala's insistence, Dylan took a seat in a chair at an angle from the sofa. Polunochnaya sat beside the princess. Dylan's guards arrayed themselves along the sitting room wall. Princess Nuala, the mortal saw, also had six Butcher Guards in attendance.

"Dylan, thank you for coming to see me," Nuada's twin said. Her eyes were warm amber and her smile was genuinely happy. When Nuala _wasn't_ around her brother, sometimes Dylan had a hard time remembering why she didn't like the princess.

_I'm supposed to love everyone,_ she reminded herself. _I can start with Nuala. And when I finally manage to like Polunochnaya, the Catholic Church will canonize me for sainthood._ A smile quirked the corner of her mouth. _Yeah, okay, that was mean of me. I need to be nicer._

"It's not a problem, Your Highness."

"Are you hungry, Dylan? Or thirsty? I was just about to sit down to tea."

Pasting on her blandest smile, Dylan said, "No, thank you, Your Highness. Latter-Day Saints aren't allowed to drink tea."

"Cider, then?"

The mortal shook her head. "But thank you for thinking of me. What can I do for you?"

Nuala took a dainty sip from a delicate porcelain cup. "Is my brother expecting you back soon?"

Dylan inclined her head. "He worries when I don't arrive back from work on time." Acting on a sudden impulse, she added, "Have you been to see him since your return from... Alaka, was it?"

Alaka was the fae kingdom that corresponded to mortal India and a few surrounding countries. She'd never learned much about it, other than it was a non-Elven kingdom ruled by a sovereign called a _padishah_. She also knew it was a long distance away. Dylan could understand Nuala being tired from a trip like that - did Elves suffer from jet-lag? - but the princess had been back since Sunday at least. Five days later and as far as Dylan knew, the princess hadn't been to see her twin once.

The twin, Dylan thought with a smattering of irritation slowly morphing into icy anger, who had nearly died defending the father that Nuada said hadn't been to see him even once, either. What was wrong with this family?

The princess had the grace to look ashamed. "No, I haven't. Is he much recovered?"

Merciless, the mortal said with false cheer and an empty smile, "You could always visit him and find out yourself. I'm sure it would make him really happy to see you."

Amber eyes locked with blue. "I shall endeavor to return you to my brother before he begins to miss your company, Lady Dylan, have no fear. I'm sure he would much rather spend time in your presence than in mine."

_Gee, I wonder why?_ Dylan thought, but didn't dare say.

"Do you think my brother loves you?" Nuala asked suddenly. "Look me in the eye, Lady Dylan, and tell me my brother loves you."

"Um... okay. Nuada loves me."

"Liar," Nuala said gently, and fury iced Dylan's blood. "Oh, I do not doubt his feelings for you. Not at all. It is quite clear he cares for you more than even our father thought possible. Nuada loves you very much. No, it is _your faith_ in his love that I doubt. _You_ do not believe he loves you as he says he does. For some reason, you have lost faith in him. What has he done to make you doubt him?"

"What? Nothing."

Nuala's smile was gentle, and held all the bite of a whip. "Come now; there must have been something. Or is it simply human doubt? It is hard for mortals to believe in things without constant proof. Do you doubt yourself? Your worthiness of him? Is that where the shadows in your eyes come from? Or is it that you fear my brother doubts _your_ affections? He refuses to trust so many others; why should he trust in you, a human, a member of the race he despises with his entire being?"

"He doesn't doubt me and I don't doubt him," Dylan snapped. In the furthest corner of her mind, Dylan had the feeling the princess was actually trying to be... helplful. Maybe nice, even, after her own fey fashion. But the mortal was so sick and tired of Nuada's pain in the face of his sister's doubts; she wasn't going to let Nuala cast aspersions on the prince without at least some token resistance. "Okay? I'm not _you._ I'm not blind to what makes him so special and wonderful like you are. Now is this actually going anywhere? Or can I leave? I'm going to be late for my date with the prince."

"The Midwinter Ball will be held on the night of the winter solstice," the princess said coolly after a moment. Reeling from mental whiplash, Dylan merely blinked at her. "Your presence is required by my father; both yours and Nuada's. You will be expected to grace his arm and be charming and ladylike. I know you can be both, so that is no concern. However, you will also be expected to dance. Do you know how?"

Dylan gaped at her, previous ire forgotten in the face of this new horror. "What? No! No, I do not know how to dance! And what does that _even_ have to do with what we were talking about?"

"Well, you have a little less than two weeks to learn. Your first lesson is tomorrow."

"_What_? Says who?" And _with_ who? She'd thought Nuada would be teaching her when the time came, but he was in no shape to do much of anything right now. He probably couldn't dance his way out of a wet paper bag. And how was Dylan supposed to hide her busted leg in a dance lesson without Nuada present?

"My father the king, of course," Nuala replied with aggravating calm. "And I know you will do your best to learn quickly; after all, you do not want to embarrass my brother, do you?"

The mortal stared at her for a long moment of silence. Finally she said, "I do not know why Nuada loves you so dearly, but the fact that he does and the fact that I'm a Latter-Day Saint are the only reasons I don't loathe you entirely. Now are you done talking? Because I have something to say. So can I have a couple minutes without interruptions, Your Highness?"

Cool amber eyes blinked at her over the rim of the teacup. "As you wish."

"Okay. I don't know what your problem with me and Nuada is, but-"

"I have no problem with-"

"Shut up," Dylan snapped. Nuala's mouth fell open. "You said you wouldn't interrupt. Anyway, I don't know what your problem is, and I don't care. I don't know what kind of political games you're playing, either, and again, _I don't care_. Here's how this is going to go. You are going to stop screwing with me and just spit out whatever it is you want to say in plain freaking English.

"You said at that stupid welcome-home banquet that you wanted to be friends. Well you're not exactly acting like we're friends. You're acting like we're enemies, and right now, I'm actually kind of okay with you being my enemy because I don't trust you as far as I can spit. So if you really _do_ want to be friends, you'd better start acting like it. Now what the heck was all that crud about me doubting Nuada supposed to accomplish besides making me really, really mad?"

Nuala stared at the clearly infuriated mortal for a long, tense moment. The princess realized she'd miscalculated. She sipped her tea to buy herself a little time to marshal her thoughts. Finally, she set the cup on the table and leaned back. Met Dylan's eyes.

"First, as you do not trust me, I will make this oath - I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that what I am about to tell you is the truth. I very much want us to be friends, Dylan. What I have seen of you is admirable. You may be a little reckless at times, but I suppose that to someone who has lived as long as I have, most of the shorter-lived races seem so. I think you are good for my brother. When he is with you, for a time he forgets his anger and his hatred for humanity. He is happier with you than I have seen him in a very long time. For that, you have my gratitude."

The princess closed her eyes and drew a breath. Let it out slowly. "I love my brother. Very much." Amber eyes opened to pin Dylan with the Elven woman's stare. "But he is not a good man... except, sometimes, when he is with you. Nuada is poisoned by his hatred and his need for revenge against the humans. You know he wants your people dead; we have spoken of this before. That hate has made him cold. He cares for few, and trusts even fewer. For the most part he trusts you. I know that you trust in him. But something has brought doubt into your heart."

Dylan opened her mouth to protest. Nuala held up a hand.

"Please believe me, I am saying this as a friend would. I am not trying to hurt you or Nuada. Dylan, if _I_ can see this doubt, so can others. It can be used against you. Against _him_. You cannot afford to doubt each other. You cannot afford to doubt him, and you cannot afford to give him a reason to doubt you. The two of you _must_ stand strong before the court or risk losing everything - including each other.

"I know you are inexperienced when it comes to politics. I am trying to help you prevent others from exploiting this weakness. I want you to trust me, Dylan. I want to help you. To help Nuada." The princess studied the human. "Do you believe me?"

After an interminable silence, Dylan nodded. "Okay. Okay, I'll give this friendship thing a shot. And I'll take you up on that offer of cider if it's still on the table." The mortal sipped meditatively from her cup of cool, sweet cider for a moment before saying, "Can I ask you a question?" Nuala canted her head. "Why haven't you been to see him? It really would make him happy."

"It... would be best if I did not," Nuala murmured. "He is happier in your presence than he is in mine, as I said."

"Your Highness... he misses you."

A smile trembled on Nuala's mouth, and she looked away. "I miss him. But it is for the best if I do not see him just yet. I know he is alive, and I know he is as well as can be expected. That is enough. At any rate," the princess added with false cheer, "I am glad we had this talk, Dylan. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. And please, when we are in private, I would like it if you called me Nuala."

Well, that was a clear - if polite - dismissal if she'd ever heard one. After the proper farewells, Dylan and her guards vacated the room and made their way to the Healers' Wing. She had a lot to think about, and a lot to discuss with Nuada.

Dylan froze in the doorway to the healing chamber, an ice-cold dread trailing fingers down her neck and back and frosting her blood. In the room talking to Nuada was the golden-haired Fomorian prince, Bres, and his friend - the darkly handsome Lord Ciaran macAengus. The moment she appeared in the doorway, all three Elves looked up.

Crown Prince Bres flashed a charming smile that revealed he had a dimple in one cheek. The sight of his smile sent something frigid coiling like a poisonous snake in the pit of her stomach. His sky-blue eyes gleamed.

Ciaran didn't smile. He merely pinned her with his nearly-emotionless green gaze, trapping her like a butterfly pinned with a long needle to a board. There was something terrifying about his eyes. They were empty of almost everything except a detached sort of curiosity. She'd seen that look before, in very dangerous fae who thought of humans as nothing but playthings. But that curiosity sharpened to a lethal razor's edge when Ciaran looked her in the eye. His gaze found hers, somehow a subtle threat, before sliding down her body and back up again. Dylan found she was intensely grateful she wore mostly mundane clothes instead of a dress. She had a feeling the sensation of being undressed by Ciaran's coldly detached eyes would've been a hundred times worse if she hadn't been in jeans. And looking at him sent wicked pain spiking through her temples.

It was Nuada's welcoming smile that shoved down the fear enough for her to think. The brief pause of shock and fear had taken perhaps five seconds. Dylan hastily covered it by pretending she'd been trying to remember the names of the two Fomori in the room. She got the feeling that if they knew how uncomfortable their presence made her, things would get very dangerous very quickly. She just wasn't sure why.

"Prince Bres? And Lord Ciaran?" The two Fomorians inclined their heads in courtly acknowledgment. Dylan offered a short curtsy. Thanks to an extra dose of painkillers earlier that day, she didn't wobble at all. She forced herself to smile. "Plotting the hostile takeover of the human world, Prince Nuada?"

Bres laughed aloud. Ciaran smiled. So did Nuada, but there was something tight in his expression. Something that tightened further when Bres, still laughing, replied, "Something like that, my lady. Something like that." He offered her a charming smile. "I suppose you'll want Silverlance to yourself for an hour or two, milady?" Dylan's cheeks flamed; she wasn't sure why. "I'll not begrudge you," the Fomorian prince added. "Come on, Ciaran - let's leave the young lovers alone."

Only when the door was shut and Dylan and Nuada were alone did amber eyes meet Dylan's. "Are you all right?" Nuada asked softly. Gentle fingers brushed back a lock of her hair. Touched her temple. Cool soothing magic eased the dull throbbing pain. "When you came in, for a moment you looked as if you had seen your own death. Or mine. Are you all right? Did something happen at work?"

"I..." She tugged on the medallion at her throat. Drew a breath into lungs suddenly gone impossibly tight. "Okay, you have to promise not to get mad, all right? Or at least to try not to get mad." Dylan waited for his nod before continuing. "Those two... Bres and Ciaran? They... well, they..."

"Did they hurt you?" The icy words were so at odds with the molten bronze suddenly firing Nuada's gaze. He grabbed the hand playing with Dylan's medallion, shackling her wrist with firm but careful fingers. "If either of them have hurt you, tell me now. I swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things that I will-"

"Whoa, whoa. Relax." Raking a trembling hand through her hair, she let out a shaky laugh. "You can't even get out of bed for more than an hour yet without damaging something or getting winded. Calm down. And they didn't hurt me, though it's nice to know you'll defend me if they do."

He scowled. "You doubted this?"

Dylan shrugged, not looking at him. "There's a saying in the mortal world - 'bro's before ho's.'" Nuada frowned. Made a questioning noise. "It means brothers - or guy friends - before whores."

"You are _not_ my whore," Nuada snapped. Didn't see her flinch at the fury smoldering in his voice. "Do not _ever_ think that. And I do not care _who_ does it; if anyone hurts you I will hunt them down, as I did Westenra, and kill them. Slowly. Now, what is it about Bres and Ciaran?"

"They just... they scare me. A lot. I don't know why, but they scare me to death. I know Bres is your friend, but I just..." She found herself tearing up. Started in surprise. Sighing in exasperation at herself, she swiped at her eyes. "They really, really scare me. The way Westenra scared me. The way Eamonn scared me. And I know they would never... well, _I_ don't know, but obviously _you_ know, because you would've warned me otherwise, so I know they would never do something like _that_." At this point, the Elf prince wondered how women followed such circumlocutious logic pathways. "So I know I'm not in any real danger from them - not that they're not dangerous, but you know what I mean - but the Spirit and my instincts are both saying to stay far away from them, and they just really scare-"

A callused hand cupped her cheek. She realized she'd been staring at her knees for the last however many minutes it had taken to explain all of this, and looked up to meet Nuada's gaze. His thumb smoothed over her skin in a soft caress. "I will never let anything happen to you, mo duinne. I promise you that."

Dylan felt compelled to point out, "In the state you're in, there really isn't much you could do."

"I would crawl on hands and knees over broken glass and iron if I had to," Nuada said. "I would walk barefoot through Hell if that was what was necessary. Do you believe that?" She nodded, unsure if she could speak around the emotion thick in her throat. "No matter where you are, no matter what stands between us, if you need me, I will always find you. Always. I... I swear it."

He'd been about to say words better left unsaid, he thought. Words that should not be said until he had her answer to the king's second condition for saving Zhenjin. No matter how those thrice-cursed words weighed on his heart, scorching his tongue with the need to be spoken, he would swallow them back as often as necessary, even though doing so was like swallowing glass. Saying them before he could fulfill the king's condition, Nuada had realized only a few days past, would be unfair of him. He did not want to pressure her...

Nuada skimmed his knuckles along the slashing scar gracing her cheek. "Since we are on the subject, was there anything else bothering you? You seem... uneasy, the last several days. Is there anything I can do?"

"Well..." She would not feel stupid for talking to him about this. Would not feel embarrassed or immature for bringing this up. Whether the feelings had a valid cause or not, they needed to be addressed. All her training as a psychiatrist told her that communication was key in any relationship. And every time they fought, it was because the lines of communication had broken down somehow. "It's about... about Polunochnaya."

The Elf prince forced himself to stay relaxed. He'd been expecting something of the sort, after the conversation the night before and the initial introduction to the lady-in-waiting. "All right."

"Actually, it's kind of about Lorelei, too."

He blinked. "All right. What about her?"

_Just ask,_ Dylan commanded herself. _You're being stupid and juvenile; just ask._ Aloud, she managed to say, "You two... you two used to date, right?" Nuada blinked again and made a noise somewhere between a cough and a cat with its tail in an electrical socket. "Well, you did, didn't you?"

"No." Now it was Dylan's turn to blink. "What on earth gave you that idea?" The prince asked. Dylan's mouth opened, closed. She shrugged. "I will admit, Lorelei is very beautiful - as are all rhinemaidens. It is part of what they are, to be so alluring. Speaking of such," eyeing his mortal lady speculatively, "_you_ would not happen to be part rhinemaiden... would you?"

Dylan laughed. "Oh, you're very good. Very smooth. But I am so onto you. So you and Lorelei never dated?"

"No. I have known her since she was barely old enough to walk; that is why we are so close. And she is also friends with my sister. While I will admit there was some... casual interest on my part some decades ago, it was never serious, and I am... how do humans say it? Not her type."

The mortal stared at him. "How could you ever _not_ be someone's type?"

His smile warmed some of the ice that had crept into her bones when she'd walked in to see him with Bres and Ciaran. "You do wonders for my ego, a chumann. And to elaborate, Lorelei's type has always been a bit... exotic." Dylan cocked her head. "There is a reason she was with Wink at Midnight Fest." Nuada grinned when Dylan's jaw dropped. "Exactly so."

"Oh." She tried to wrap her mind around logistics and gave up after her brain started throbbing. "But... you and Naya used to date." Tension strung tight as wire between them. Nuada nodded. Dylan bit her lip. "How serious was it?" He hesitated, and her heart gave an odd lurch in her chest. "I see. Did you break up with her? Or did she do the stupid thing and break up with you?"

"It was... mutual. We were not what the other wanted. And it would not have worked out between us even if we had not been growing apart for awhile. She is my sister's lady-in-waiting. I am the crown prince. Friendship is one thing, but love..." He shrugged. "It was nothing truly serious, Dylan, I promise you. A 'fling,' as humans say." Nuada took her hand. Brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "I was merely teasing yesterday when I said you were jealous. You have no need to be concerned about Naya."

"Why didn't you ever tell me about her?"

Nuada shrugged again. "It did not seem relevant. Why do you rarely speak of your past relationships?"

"Because I've only had one," she said sharply, "and he was a creep. We never even made it to consensual kissing. I don't actually consider him a boyfriend, but Cesca says that if you go on more than five dates, just you and another person, it counts, so..." She shrugged. "But as far as I'm concerned, you're my first real boyfriend."

_Such a tender heart,_ he thought. _This explains much; how she sometimes seems to flounder, unsure of how to proceed. Her skills as a mind-healer give her what surety she does possess when it comes to such matters._ Nuada thought of how, as a youth first entering the world of courtship and romance, he'd made an idiot of himself regularly. Only Wink's guidance - and the rare bit of advice from Nuala - had prevented utter failure. _She is so uncertain of herself now. Is that why she is concerned about Naya?_

He pressed her fingers, a silent reassurance. "You need not worry over Naya, Dylan. I have no regrets about that relationship, or about ours. I am happiest as I am - with you." The Elf prince raised her hand to his lips and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. "I will never play you false, Dylan. I will never play games with you. Surely you know this."

She nodded. "I know; I just... maybe I was a little jealous. Which makes me feel like an idiot, so don't rub it in."

Nuada kissed her hand again. "I would never so much as dream of it. Now, I actually have Somhairle's gracious permission to get out of bed - thank the gods - and go where I've been meaning to take you these past few days. Will you come with me?"

Dylan grinned. "An adventure with His Royal Highness? Absolutely. Do I need to change, though? Like, into a dress?" He shook his head. "Okay, then. Where are we going?"

"Oh! Are you two going somewhere?"

Dislike, burning cold and toxic as poison, bubbled up in Dylan's stomach as her eyes slashed to where _Ledi_ Polunochnaya _iz_ Lysaya Gora herself stood in the doorway with another fae woman, her smile bright and cheerful.

Nuada bit back a vicious oath. Naya was a dear friend, but her timing left _much_ to be desired. He opened his mouth to politely but firmly tell his old friend to go away - _far_ away - when the prince noticed the woman standing with her. Blistering invectives scorched his throat. The prince just barely managed to hold them back. Not her. Why was _she_ here?

_Because Nuala wants something,_ Nuada thought. Irritation simmered just beneath his skin. _Sister, you are making an error in sending_ her _here._

Fighting down the malicious anger that suddenly swamped her, Dylan pasted a smile on her face and focused on the other woman standing with her rival. _What? She's not my rival. Oh, for pity's sake, I'm too old for this. Focus on the other woman._

The humanoid fae woman standing beside Polunochnaya was shorter than the Zwezdan Elf, barely reaching her shoulders. Coppery skin told the mortal this fae was probably of Native American or Inuit origin. Instead of hair, the faerie woman sported long glossy onyx, ivory, and golden feathers. Two curled, white horns peeped out from the feathers at the top of her head. Instead of nails, wicked black talons glinted at the ends of her fingers. Intricate snakelike tattoos spiraled from the tips of her fingers over her hands to disappear beneath her sleeves. A beaded, knee-length leather vest covered a loose blue linen shirt and tailored trousers. Her feet were bare. Electric yellow eyes fixed on Dylan with raptor-like intensity. The woman cocked her head and studied the mortal with obvious curiosity.

"Unfortunately," the feathered woman said, "your plans, whatever they are, will have to be put on hold. Her Royal Highness the Princess Nuala requests Lady Dylan's presence in her suite this night." She smiled, and Dylan saw her teeth were numerous and jagged. "I would hate to report back to the princess that her brother was so unobliging as to refuse such a simple request."

Nuada opened his mouth, but Polunochnaya beat him to it. "Oh, Ko, do not be so formal. Lady Dylan will be happy to see the princess again, I'm sure, won't you, Dylan? Oh, and allow me to make the introductions. Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park, this is _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma _Wakį́yą_ of _Kw'Uhnx'Wa_, Princess Nuala's second lady-in-waiting."

"You are wondering what I am," Na'ko'ma said.

"Actually, I was wondering that and why Nuala wants to see me again. I just talked to her."

"That is the princess's business. As for me, I am a _wakį́yą_ - what the Native Americans call a thunderbird." She smiled again, flashing those jagged teeth, when Dylan's mouth fell open. "You are impressed, as you should be."

"Well, I've... never seen anyone like you before."

"_I_ have," Nuada interjected. His face was deliberately blank. Only his eyes glittered topaz with dislike. "And I am _not_ impressed. My sister can wait. My business with Lady Dylan cannot."

Na'ko'ma and Polunochnaya exchanged a glance. The Elven woman shook her head vehemently, but the thunderbird said, "I am sure you can keep your loins in check for the time it takes your lady to speak to Nuala, brother. Besides, you have barely recovered from your bout with Prince Zhenjin; you should not be sporting with pretty maidens anyway."

Dylan blushed and fought to keep her mouth from falling open. Nuada ground out from between clenched teeth, "You may have been fostered here, Na'ko'ma, but you are no more my sister than Naya is. Remember your place."

"And you still lose your temper whenever someone interrupts your attempts at charming one of your... ladies," the thunderbird replied, unruffled. "Really, Your Highness, one would think you'd learn to control your temper eventually. Not to mention, your time in exile should have taught you to appreciate what consideration you are capable of offering your sister, as your selfishness distresses her-"

"_Na'ko'ma!_" Polunochnaya snapped. "Enough. We are not here to insult Nuada; think shame to yourself for such words. We are here to invite Dylan to-"

"No," Nuada growled.

Dylan glanced at her prince, whose eyes constantly shifted between hot copper and topaz as he glared at the thunderbird. Leave with Nuala's two ladies-in-waiting and keep this Na'ko'ma from insulting him and upsetting him further... but have to deal with Nuala again, when she was still trying to sort out their previous meeting. Did she _really_ want to deal with the princess right then? Especially when Polunochnaya was also going to be there? Except she'd have to do it eventually anyway...

She shifted her grip on Nuada's hand to touch her fingertips to his palm.

_Will you be mad if I go with them?_ Dylan asked. _I might as well get this out of the way now, although I don't really want to. Since it's Friday, I don't have work tomorrow, so we can do... whatever you were planning when I come back from talking to your sister. Does that sound okay?_

_I will be __**furious**__,_ the prince informed her succinctly. Blue eyes widened. _I would not give up this time with you for Nuala anyway; I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance. But I certainly will_ not _give you up to my sister if she dares to send_ that woman _here to fetch you. My sister knows I despise Na'ko'ma._

_Oh. Okay..._

"Your Highness," Na'ko'ma began in a deliberately casual voice, "whatever you deem so 'important' can surely wait-"

"In case you have forgotten who wields power here," the crown prince of Bethmoora said, every word crackling with ice, "allow me to remind you. I am crown prince in Bethmoora. Much as it may displease you, Na'ko'ma, I outrank Princess Nuala. If I say my business cannot wait, then it cannot wait. And I will not stand for your disrespect." In a voice sharp enough to make air bleed, he added, "Now get out."

The thunderbird's eyes widened and she hissed, "The princess demands-"

"Guards," the prince said with exaggerated calm. The _wakį́yą_ stiffened. Polunochnaya, to Dylan's eye, looked as if she wanted to smack herself in the forehead. Silver eyes glared at Na'ko'ma, who ignored the Elven lady in favor of glaring at Nuada. Behind the two faerie nobles, the chamber door opened and a Butcher Dylan recognized as Mahon poked his head inside. "Please escort _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma and _Ledi_ Polunochnaya back to my sister's suite and inform the princess that the crown prince forbid their presence in this chamber - and in my presence - for the foreseeable future."

"But, Nuada-" the Zwezdan Elf began.

"You and I will speak later, _Ledi_ Polunochnaya, when I summon you. Until then, go with _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma." Unspoken were the words, _Before I do something the three of us may regret._ Silver eyes widened, and the Elven woman nodded before gripping the thunderbird's arm and pulling her out of the room. The guard nodded to the prince and shut the door.

"That was kind of... I don't know... harsh," Dylan ventured into the sudden silence. Nuada slashed her with a look. "What?"

"I am the crown prince," Nuada said in deliberately spaced words. "I am the king's heir. Yet that... _vulture_ often chooses to treat me as if I am nothing but a boy with delusions of grandeur. I despise her. She is one of my sister's dearest friends, and she loves Nuala. That is the only reason I bear her presence in this castle. But I will not sit by and allow her to insult me, to my face or to yours. And I will not allow her to imply insult to you, either."

Dylan took his hand in hers. "Okay. Thank you - for explaining, and for getting rid of them both. I really do want to go... wherever you're going to take me. So I'm glad I don't have to go see Nuala right now. Thanks. Can I have fifteen minutes?" Thinking about travel-time from this room to her suite and back, she added, "Actually, more like twenty minutes."

He scowled. "I just said-"

"It's important," she interrupted. "I... I have a thing I need to do first. Before we go out. Just real quick. I mean, I know twenty minutes isn't real quick, but my leg kinda hurts and there's three flights of stairs between here and my room. So it'll take me a bit to get up there and back down again. But I'll make it as quick as I can."

Intrigued despite himself, Nuada asked, "What do you need to do?"

She smiled. "It's a surprise. So I'll be right back. Okay?" Receiving his grumbled acquiescence, Dylan darted forward and brushed her lips over the royal scar on his cheek. "Thank you. Back in a bit."

She didn't race to her suite, but only because her knee was a bit stiff from the long day. Snagging her phone out of her purse, she darted into the bathroom. Eimh, Fionnlagh, and Gráinne followed her. Her phone beeped as Dylan tried to access the internet. Kaye had said her phone would work in Faerie with the lapis lazuli charm. Could she get internet?

Dylan grinned when Youtube popped up on her phone screen. Now to find that Michelle Phan tutorial. She just wanted to add a little bit of makeup. Maybe brush her hair or add a dab of perfume. Okay, so Nuada had said jeans would be all right for whatever he had planned. Makeup and jeans went together. Although she was changing out of her plain cotton button-down work shirt. But she'd keep the changes simple. Just in case.

**.**

"Forgive me for disturbing you, Silverlance, but I have someone who desperately wished to meet you."

Nuada had been up and dressed for the last ten minutes, and now sat in the chair recently vacated by his mortal lady to preserve his strength. The strange unease in his belly at the thought of what he meant to do when Dylan returned, and the odd mixture of irritation and remorse coming through his link with Nuala, made him want to growl at Bres for returning uninvited so late, but the prince bit it back and forced himself to nod in courtly acknowledgment of the crown prince of Cíocal and the figure behind him.

"Of course." Hopefully the use of his bland court voice would hasten this meeting a little and the Fomorian would be gone when Dylan came back. The Elf prince didn't fault her for being afraid of Bres. The other prince despised humans with the same fire Nuada did. Bres had been polite enough to Dylan the couple times they'd met, but Nuada didn't fool himself into thinking that the Fomorian prince would be as accepting as Zhenjin had been after that initial confrontation. "I am at your disposal."

Stepping to one side, Bres bowed and said in the regal voice of a prince, "Your Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance, it is my deepest pleasure to introduce a dear friend, Lady Dierdre macAengus of Caer Ibormeith."

Shock stole the breath from Nuada's lungs. Bittersweet pain was a taloned hand squeezing his heart. Naya had warned him about Lady Dierdre, and he'd thought he'd been prepared for the sight of a scarlet Fomori in the halls of Findias once again.

He'd been a fool.

Nuada rose to his feet and offered the Elven noblewoman a formal bow from the waist. She sank into a graceful curtsy with a rustle of skirts that formed an emerald pool of velvet around her. Lamplight gilded the feral arch of pale brow and cheekbone as Dierdre lifted her head to meet Nuada's gaze. Eyes of rich green pierced him to the marrow. He swallowed hard. Drew a breath that seared his throat.

"It is my deepest pleasure and privilege to meet such an honorable warrior as the legendary Nuada Silverlance," Dierdre murmured, dropping her gaze demurely to the floor and folding her hands in front of her. Nuada noticed her garnet-spun hair fell in graceful waves to her shoulders. Just like... just like...

"I... the pleasure is mine, mo mhuire," the Elf prince replied. He extended his hand. His fingers curled around Dierdre's slim fingers almost convulsively when she placed her hand in his. Intangible sparks tingled up the length of his arm. Nuada raised her hand to his lips and brushed a whisper of a courtly kiss across those delicate fingers. A flicker of odd heat licked down his spine.

"You honor me, Your Highness," she said. Coral lips curled into a shy smile. Nuada closed his eyes to hide the shifting torrent of emotions they would reveal. Inclined his head a fraction. Dierdre added, "I wanted to meet you before your court duties made you too busy once you'd recovered from your injuries. Prince Bres has told me so much about you. And your mortal lady - I had hoped to meet her as well. Is she here in Findias?"

There was an odd sensation ghosting up and down Nuada's spine, almost like being touched by feather-light fingertips. A strange, intense awareness of the woman in front of him. It wasn't Dierdre; Fomorians had no such power.

Yet Nuada found his eyes drawn to the curve of her lips as she smiled for him, to the arch of slender brow and the way her rich auburn hair framed a face as pale as alabaster before cascading down to caress bare ivory shoulders. She looked so much like Cethlenn, and yet different enough that Nuada found an odd heat - that same heat that had first traced the length of his spine - blooming in his belly. Was it... lust?

"She is here, but is unfortunately unavailable. I do beg your pardon, Lady Dierdre. Perhaps you may meet her some other time."

"Yes," Dierdre said, a wistful note in her voice. "Perhaps. How strange that she is not always at your side. If _I_ were lucky enough to receive the consideration and affections of a prince, I would do all in my power to secure them. She must be very sure of you."

Thinking of Dylan, her bright smiles and fond glances, Nuada nodded. "She has every reason to be sure of me, as I am sure of her. I am lucky to have her."

Dierdre sighed. "That is dreadfully romantic," she said with a dreamy smile. "Prince Bres was right, then - you love her. How wonderful. It is rare for the fae to find real love among mortals. Rare for a human to be able to love as deeply and fully as the Fair Folk do. I know it cannot be easy for the two of you, when so many of the Kindly Ones loathe mortals as they do. I am glad for your happiness, Your Highness."

Nuada smiled. "Thank you, my lady. I appreciate your kind words very much."

She dipped a curtsy. "We will take our leave now, Sire. It is late, and no doubt you wish rest and solitude. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Until next time."

The Elf prince bestowed another courtly kiss to the back of the Fomorian woman's hand. Felt that odd frisson of awareness down his spine. He shoved it away and nodded to Bres, who inclined his head before escorting Dierdre out of the healing chamber. The door swung shut behind them.

Nuada sank back into the chair and sighed. The ache of old sorrows mingled in the pit of his belly with anticipation, dread, nerves, and now an odd desire to see Lady Dierdre again. It was so strange - when Nuada looked at her, and saw the phantom of his mother in Dierdre's shadow, there was a dull pain in his chest that was his grief for Cethlenn. At the same time, the sight of the scarlet Fomori eased that pain a little as well.

But there was that odd tingle of awareness when the prince touched her. That was problematic. A mere glimmer of physical attraction, easily dismissed, but even that small weakness could be exploited by anyone dangerous who might become aware of it. And if Dylan found out... he did not want to give her another reason to doubt him. Did not want her to look at another noblewoman and see someone who might steal him away.

The very idea was laughable. A sizzle of lust was nothing compared to the burning that had taken root inside him some time ago and flared to life whenever he saw his truelove. No one had ever fired his blood as Dylan did, with nothing but a brush of fingers or the velvet of her laugh.

Yet somehow she doubted him still. Doubted the depths of his need for her in his life, the strength of his love. Perhaps because he still had not said the actual words. It would not have been fair of him to say them. Not yet, when he needed to ask her something equally vital. His father had made it clear that this was the price of sparing Zhenjin's life. Nuada didn't want to make Dylan feel as if she _had_ to say yes simply because he'd confessed to loving her. He wanted her to agree for no other reason than because it was what she wanted. Because _he_ was what she wanted.

And he _was_ what she wanted. She had made that clear to him every day, every moment they were together. Dierdre was right in that it was hard for a fae to find the same love among humans that was to be found among the Kindly Folk. Until Dylan, Nuada would have declared it impossible for anyone but a faerie to feel so strongly. Yet Dylan's heart loved as deeply as any fae. And she had gifted her heart to him. That knowledge helped ease the nerves over the question he meant to ask her.

Really, it was a small price to pay for the life and livelihood of his friend. The king could have driven a sterner bargain. Demanded that Nuada and Dylan marry in exchange for the Dilong prince's life. Nuada was nothing if not grateful that his father had not demanded such a thing of him. Being forced into such a union... what would that do to Dylan? To her spirit, her heart?

"Hey," a familiar voice called as the door cracked open. "Knock, knock."

Looking into Dylan's eyes, Nuada found himself smiling more openly than he had in a long while. "What kept you?"

She lifted a shoulder in that elegant half-shrug he adored. "Oh, this and that." She grimaced. Leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, I forgot to tell you before I left - apparently I have a dancing lesson tomorrow. Shoot me now. It's going to really suck without you there."

"Send one of your guards to me tomorrow at the start of the lesson, and I will be there," he said.

"But you... you need to rest."

"Nearly a week of bed-rest is not something I've enjoyed, mo duinne. I want to be _out_ of this blasted chamber. Dancing is simple enough. It will not hurt me. As you are a beginner, it will have to be something simple anyway. Do not worry so much." When she still looked pensive, he added, "I will clear it with Somhairle first. You have my word."

Dylan nodded. "Okay. That's all I ask. So are you sure jeans are okay for whatever you're planning? Because you look all spiffy."

He arched a brow. "Spiffy?"

"You _know_," she said. His brow winged higher. Dylan sighed. "Spiffy. It's human slang. It's like... you look nice. Handsome. Sharp. Dressed-up." Blushing, she added, "Hot. I mean, you always look hot. Well, almost always. But you look extra hot." She gestured to the white silk shirt, royal blue tunic and black trews; some of his best "informal" attire. He'd even had one of the hob-maids polish his black boots earlier that day. "Are you sure I'm not underdressed for... whatever this is?"

Gold-kissed ivory eyes swept over her from toe to crown, taking in everything that had changed since last he'd seen her: the subtle blush of soft color to her cheeks, just a touch of something to her mouth to make it fuller and even more enticing, something that made her eyes seem dreamy and starlit. She'd grabbed her leather coat, but beneath it he saw a pearl-white silk blouse; she hadn't been wearing that before. And a different pair of jeans, slim and black and touched with glitter. They did wonderful things to her hips. To her lovely, incredibly long legs.

Nuada's fingers twitched. He curled them into a fist behind his back. Forced his mind to more innocent matters, like the fact that his lady had dressed up for him. The thought sent warmth curling around his heart and a sudden skitter of nerves shivering down his spine.

"You look lovely, Dylan - as you always do..." Then her words fully registered. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, I _almost_ always look hot? When have I ever _not_ looked hot?"

She laughed. "Okay, my life is complete. I never thought I would hear you ask that question. Now that I have, I can die happy. So c'mon, let's go." She took his hand and tugged him to his feet. "I don't know where we're going, but this should be exciting, so let's hop to it."

"You have not answered my question, Dylan."

Grinning, she quipped, "And I'm not gonna. The mystery of it will drive you mad. Now let's go! The night's not getting any younger."

"Insolent chit," he mock-grumbled, but smiled and offered his arm to his lady.

**.**

The garden Nuada brought her to slept beneath a glittering blanket of winter snow that glistened like diamonds in the moonlight. Dylan had thought he would take her to his mother's garden again, but this one was just as beautiful in its own way. A hawthorne tree stood in the center of the garden, autumnal leaves still clinging like a cloak of russet and gold edged with frost. Even beneath their dusting of powdery snow Dylan recognized slender arbutus trees and mallow bushes, lilacs and primroses and forget-me-nots. In spring, this garden would be a riot of blue and violet and white and pale pink blossoms. She could imagine it if she closed her eyes.

Nuada had somehow convinced the Butcher Guards to wait at a distance, near the entrance. Unlike the Queen's Garden, this one was ringed by low snow-dusted hedges to mark its boundaries. So the guards could see them and rush to their defense if anything happened. And Nuada still had his sword. Dylan and Nuada had a little privacy as well. She didn't know what he'd said to get the king's elite to grant them that privacy, but she was grateful nonetheless.

Dylan kept her gloved hands in the pockets of her leather coat to protect them from the nocturnal chill. As she and Nuada walked toward the hawthorne tree, the snow crunched pleasantly under their boots. Her breath curled into steam in the winter air. Moonlight shone down on the snow and on Nuada, who came to rest beneath the boughs of the hawthorne tree and stood like a guardian shadow, watching her traverse the last few steps.

"Where are we, exactly?" Dylan asked. There was a hushed sort of expectancy all around them, as if the very world held its breath. Despite the bite of winter, the air just beside the tree felt warmer. Not summer warm, but not winter cold, either. Magic seemed to hum beneath the surface of everything. "What is this place? It's amazing."

The Elf prince drew a breath. Hesitated. Blew it out again. "One of the royal gardens. One of the few closed to the public."

She cocked her head and studied him. The moon shone nearly as bright as candlelight on the wintry world below. She could read Nuada's expression when he turned his head just right; he was nervous. "So... it's special, then." He inclined his head a fraction. "It's beautiful."

"It sleeps," the prince murmured, reaching out to touch his fingers to the hawthorne tree. "It has slept since... since..." He closed his eyes. Swallowed. "Since my mother died and my father's heart turned cold." Silvery light caressed his face when he turned to her. "You know the royal line is tied to the land and to the people. Nothing reflects that more strongly than this garden. When the monarch's heart beats for the kingdom, the garden lives and sometimes even thrives. When the monarch's heart grows cold... it sleeps until another heart can awaken it."

Nuada pulled his fingertips away from the trunk of the tree. Dylan saw that some of the ice that had coated the trunk had melted beneath the warmth of Nuada's touch. With wide eyes, she watched cracks appear in the thick shield of ice. Shards of winter crystal broke off with a sound like tinkling windchimes and fell to the snow. Beneath the ice curled thin, leafless vines that appeared to be dead and brown. As she watched, however, the vines flushed with green life and a few leaf-buds appeared.

"Oh. My. Gosh." Dylan stared at a single tiny bud that swelled, darkened to nearly black in the moonlight, and burst into tiny fragile bloom. A miniature wild Irish rose. "How did you... I didn't know you could... Nuada, that's amazing. Can you do that because you're the heir?"

He canted his head. "Because I am the heir... and for one other reason." He paused. Dylan could almost feel his nervousness. Wondered what could be the cause. "Do you remember the night we first went before the court? It was more than a moon ago. Do you remember what my sister said before we entered the King's Hall?"

Baffled, she frowned. "Um... she said a lot of stuff. There was stuff about politics and you two were snarling at each other in Gaelic. What else? Um... I vaguely recall something about you getting in trouble if we tried to pass me off as your slave and me getting in trouble if we tried to pass me off as your lover. Jeez, that was a long time ago. I mean, not chronologically, but it feels like forever ago. She said something about how we could either go in pretending to be courting or as if we were engaged, I remember that."

"Do you remember anything else?"

She racked her brains, trying to think. Something about Bethmoora rejoicing... _Oh! "And all in Bethmoora know that the prince is not married. If any of the royal family marries - at least, if they wed for love and not for politics - Bethmoora itself rejoices."_ Triumphant, she repeated the words for Nuada, who smiled fondly.

"They say that when my father first became king, this garden did well, but it did not thrive. Not really. But when my parents met, it was as if someone had cast a spell upon it. And when they married, it flourished as it had not done in centuries. So I have heard it said."

"But when your mother died... the garden died, too."

"Yes. My father... my father has not the strength or the heart to keep the land strong. This is proof of it. And for the longest time, nothing here responded to my touch or my power, despite the fact that I was the king's heir and bore a strong connection to the kingdom and the people. Yet the garden awakens for me now."

Dylan found herself suddenly trapped by Nuada's gaze, a rich amber with glints of carnelian and bits of sunfire glimmering in their depths, warming her despite the chill winter night. His fingertips came up to caress her cheek. Her breath hitched in her chest. It was suddenly very hard to breathe evenly. There was something so... intense in his gaze. Something that stole her very breath. "Why... why now? Do you know?" He had never looked at her quite this way before.

"Because of you." Nuada swallowed back the sudden nerves that threatened to take him. He did not let his voice shake or his hands tremble. He only looked into those moonlit blue eyes of hers and tried to remember his courage. "Dylan... do I make you happy?"

"Of course. I mean," she added, scrupulously honest, "not when we're growling at each other. Then I just want us to kiss and make up. But other than that, yeah. You make me happier than I've ever been in my life." She smiled, feeling suddenly oddly shy. "You're always there for me. I mean, we fight and stuff, but... when I need you, when I _really_ need you, you're always there. I've never had that before. You make me feel safe and beautiful and happy. You're so good to me. That's why I love you so much." A brief moment of hesitation. "Do I make _you_ happy?"

Nuada leaned in until his forehead touched hers. He cupped her cheek, savoring the warmth of her skin against his palm. "Yes, mo duinne." His voice was a mere breath, soft as a kiss against her mouth. "Oh, yes. You make me very happy. Happier than I ever thought possible. I..."

The words were on the tip of his tongue. They burned within him, aching to be said. He couldn't, he realized, not say them. His other hand came up so he could frame her face. Leaning in, he brushed his lips across hers. Tasted her sigh. Her arms twined about his neck and she pressed close as his mouth settled over hers. Her lips were hot silk and fire as he kissed her. This kiss was different - a slow, feather-light exploration that left her trembling in his arms. Nuada let his mouth linger against hers, a whisper of promise soft as early morning sunlight. Dylan made a sound as Nuada ever so gently nipped her bottom lip. Shivers raced down her spine. Her knees went weak.

"Nuada," she whispered. He barely managed to bite back a groan at the way she said his name. "Nuada..."

_Say it now_, he commanded himself. _Say it now. Take your courage in hand and just say it_.

In a breath against her mouth, that exquisitely soft mouth, the crown prince of Bethmoora whispered, "I love you." It was soft when he confessed it. So soft he was not sure she heard him. But soft as the words were, they held all the weight of iron chains and centuries of grief and everything inside him that yearned for her.

Louder, pulling back, he murmured, "I love you, Dylan." Her eyes widened. "I do not know where it began," he confessed. "Only that, when I saw you that summer day at the faire, the world grew still beneath my feet and all was quiet but for the thunder of my heart. I had thought since you left my sanctuary that I could escape you, escape thoughts of you. Then I saw you, and you looked so lovely and so much a part of my world in a way no one else ever had. I think I wanted even then to make you a true part of that world, to be with you in some way outside the poison of mortality. I knew I had to see you again.

"Even now I cannot explain it. I only know that I needed to see you again. Mo chroí glaoch amach duit. Mo leat a líonadh gach nóiméad airdeallach. Shiúlann tú mo aisling gach oíche. Ba mhaith liom tú. Is gá dom duit. Le do thoil nach cas dom ar shiúl. Tabhair dom síochána." _My heart cried out for you. You filled my every waking moment. You walked my dreams each night. I want you. I need you. Please do not turn me away. Give me peace._

Dylan gazed up at him in shock, into eyes of brilliant honeyed amber. She'd never thought she would hear such a confession. Never thought that Nuada would unwrap his heart enough to show her so much. She was startled to realize that for all his bravado and his strength, for all his years and all his warrior's courage, he was just as scared and uncertain of what was between them as she was. And despite what she'd told him, he was just as unsure of her as she was of him.

Perhaps even moreso. She thought of Ethine and the half-Elf's cruel words. Thought of Nuala and Balor, who saw nothing but a monster when they looked at the honorable prince holding her now. How many others had hurt Nuada that way in the Elven warrior's four-thousand-odd years? How many others had rejected him? Put scars on his heart? Of course he would be unsure of Dylan. Had there ever been anyone - besides Wink and, it seemed, Polunochnaya - that he cared deeply for who had not hurt him in some way?

Nuada cradled her face between his hands and said in a voice of soft longing, "Dylan, I love you. I never thought it possible, never thought I would find... and I know I have said and done cruel things and that I do not deserve you after all the ways I have hurt you, but you must know that I love you. So much. I cannot resist this. It never stops - the longing simply to be near you, to see your face. You captured me long ago, mo duinne." He closed his eyes for a brief moment and let his forehead touch hers once more. "It seems I have fallen completely under your spell."

A tear spilled down her cheek. A half-incredulous smile spread across her face. "Grá agat dom?" _You love me?_ Oh, he had hinted at it often in the last few days. Talked about how he cared for her, how he needed her. But this was different. This was... this was something so much more... she didn't even know. All she knew was that she had never seen Nuada so vulnerable, so open, so uncertain. So utterly sincere. "You love me."

"Tá," he murmured in Gaelic. "Tá grá agam duit, Dylan."

_Yes. I love you, Dylan._

After a breathless moment, she managed to whisper, "I am really, really happy right now. Like, ecstatic. I just... I... I love you, too." She pressed her face into his chest and clung to him, murmuring over and over, "I love you, too, Nuada. I love you, too. I love you so much." He loved her. Nuada _loved_ her.

"Dylan. Mo duinne," Nuada murmured. Stroked a hand along her dark hair and felt her breath warm as a lover's sigh against his throat. "I need to ask you something."

Dread traipsed cold fingers down her spine and she suddenly couldn't catch her breath. The happiness faded away. Whatever Nuada was going to ask her, her instincts were telling her she didn't want to hear it. She didn't know why, but it was going to be bad, whatever it was. But he looked so earnest. Nervous again. Almost... shy all of a sudden. She couldn't say no. "Okay."

The feral-eyed Elven warrior drew a breath that shuddered out of him. Where had his courage gone? It was just a simple question. And she would say yes. After everything they had been through, everything they had talked about... after nearly losing each other... surely she would say yes. So why was it so hard for him to find the right words? Why did this sudden doubt assail him?

The Elf prince took her hands in his. Wished he could feel the softness of her skin and the delicate press of her fingers without her gloves in the way. Feel the cool, slim band of the ring he'd made for her gracing her finger. Nuada closed his eyes. Drew a long breath. Mingling with the bite of snow and winter chill came the sweet fragrance of Dylan's perfume - the richness of passion fruit and the sweet scent of primroses. Desire and love. It steadied him.

He could do this. He had already told her he loved her. This next step would not be so difficult, surely. This was what _he_ wanted. Never mind that his father had forced him into asking. Nuada wanted this more than nearly anything, and surely Dylan wanted it just as much if not more.

So he drew another steadying breath and let it out slowly. Met her eyes. Those lovely, fey-like eyes of beautiful, impossible blue.

"Dylan. My Dylan. A ghrá mo chroí... will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

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_**Author's Note:**__ omg right? What will she SAY? That is question one of the review prompt. But omg! Who saw that coming? Who's excited? Who squee-ed? Anyone? Anyone? And he confessed his love! With the word "love" actually IN the confession! About time, huh? Woot, woot! Everyone do a happy dance. Come on, I promise I won't take any pictures, lol._

_1) So... the proposal. *evil laughter of devious glee* What will Dylan say?_

_2) We have new friends! Yay! Initial impressions of Dylan's new bodyguards? We'll see more of them as we go along through the fic._

_3) Ah, the children. Useful literary tools as always. Good for levity, yes? And Francesca reappears! Good to see Dylan getting along with her sisters, yeah? It_ has _been known to happen. Odds Dylan can actually get a picture of Nuada shirtless? Place your bets here! Not that I'm condoning gambling, because I'm totally not._

_4) Nuala and Dylan's meeting. Thoughts? Questions? Comments?_

_5) Speaking of meetings - what on earth could Nuada, Bres, and Ciaran possibly have been talking about? Hrm?_

_6) Sigh. Na'ko'ma. What do we think of her? And gack! Dierdre and Nuada have met! Dun-dun-DUN! Double-witch alert! We've got two witches! Eeek! What do we do now, boss?_

_7) The confession and proposal - what did you guys think? I am so very curious. Did you guys like it? Was it romantic? Who liked it? Or was it hokey? Tell me it wasn't hokey! I can't live with hokey! I know this sort of ties in with question 1, but it's more about the confession/proposal itself, not what Dylan will say._

_8) And of course, 17 favorites_. =)

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ "Lady, long have I loved you" is a line from the beautiful faerie romance ballad by Heather Dale, "The Maiden and the Selkie." I was racking my brains for a title for this chapter that wouldn't give too much away and then this song played on my Media Player. I was like, "Oooh."_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Butcher Guards age one year of maturity for every 50 calendrical years.

- Sáruit ingen Chuinn, in mythology, is the sister of Sadb ingen Chuinn, and a daughter of Conn of the Hundred Battles, a High King of Ireland. Her brother was Art mac Cuinn, also a High King of Ireland. Sáruit married Conaire Cóem of the Érainn, who was High King before Art mac Cuinn. Her sister Sadb married Macnia mac Lugdach, prince of the Dáirine or Corcu Loígde, and was mother of Lugaid Mac Con, High King of Ireland; upon the death of Macnia, she married secondly Ailill Aulom, king of southern Ireland, and was mother of Éogan Mór, ancestor of the Eóganachta.

- Yes, actually, it does say to go into your closet to pray in the scriptures. Now, I seem to recall that actually means your bedroom, but it's true that in the Church, if you're in a busy house and can't find a quiet, alone place to say your prayers, you can go in your closet. I actually know a girl who's mom does that because she's got, like, 6 kids or something.

- Yes, I love Strawberry Shortcake, too. That book Dylan buys with Raspberry Tart on the cover - I used to have it. And it's one of the OLD ones from like, the 80s or something. It was old and out of print when I had it in the early 90s, so... yeah.

- Threads-N-Things is a real store somewhere, but the one here is based on an actual thriftstore by a different name in my city. I get most of my kids' books (or got, before I went broke, blurgh) from there. Kids' books for 50 cents, yo. Good prices.

- My brother owned a series of books about He-Man and the Masters of the Universe when I was very little, and then he gave them to me, and like an IDIOT I sold them over a decade ago. But they were awesome. I've never seen a children's book written and illustrated the way they were. Sigh. I miss them.

- Seriously, go look up The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything on Youtube. They appear in the Jonah movie from Veggie Tales, as well as their own movie, and there's a song done by the Veggie Tales vegetables, as well as a rock version of the song done by Relient K. =D Serious happy-hilarious awesome right there.

- _The Star-Bellied Sneeches_ by Dr. Seuss is a book that my 8th grade teacher read to us when we did our unit on the Holocaust. I was told (though I've never verified this myself) that the book is supposed to be commentary on the Holocaust and how it started and about discrimination. I can see it, but I don't know if Dr. Seuss did that on purpose or what.

- Across many North America indigenous cultures, the Thunderbird carries many of the same characteristics. It is described as a large bird, capable of creating storms and thundering while it flies. Clouds are pulled together by its wingbeats, the sound of thunder made by its wings clapping, sheet lightning is the light flashing from its eyes when it blinks, and individual lightning bolts are made by the glowing snakes that it carries around with it. In masks, it is depicted as many-colored, with two curling horns, and, often, teeth within its beak. The Native Americans believed that the giant Thunderbird could shoot lightning from its eyes.

Depending on the people telling the story, the Thunderbird is either a singular entity or a species. In both cases, it is intelligent, powerful, and wrathful. All agree one should go out of one's way to keep from getting thunderbirds angry. The singular Thunderbird (as the Nuu-chah-nulth thought of him) was said to reside on the top of a mountain, and was the servant of the Great Spirit. The Thunderbird only flew about to carry messages from one spirit to another. It was also told that the thunderbird controlled rainfall.

The plural thunderbirds (as the Kwakwaka'wakw and Cowichan tribes believed) could shapeshift into human form by tilting back their beaks like a mask, and by removing their feathers as if it were a feather-covered blanket. There are stories of thunderbirds in human form marrying into human families; some families may trace their lineage to such an event. Families of thunderbirds who kept to themselves but wore human form were said to have lived along the northern tip of Vancouver Island. The story goes that other tribes soon forgot the nature of one of these thunderbird families, and when one tribe tried to take them as slaves the thunderbirds put on their feather blankets and transformed to take vengeance upon their foolish captors. The Sioux believed that in "old times" the Thunderbirds destroyed dangerous reptilian monsters called the Unktehila.

- Na'ko'ma is named after the best friend of Pocahontas in the Disney film (the one in the two-piece dress and the shorter hair).

- Michelle Phan is awesome. Seriously. Google her. Watch her tutorials. Subscribe to her network. I don't even LIKE makeup, but she's just crazy amazing. Her and her sister-in-law do transformation tutorials, too, that are crazy awesome. Seriously, go check her out on Youtube.

- The flowers in the garden all have a meaning to do with love. Arbutus flowers (which grow on arbutus trees) mean "You're the only one I love." Mallow blossoms mean "consumed by love." Lilacs represent the first blushes of love (like, "I'm beginning to fall for you" kind of thing). Primroses are for eternal love, and forget-me-nots stand for true love.


	65. Where My Heart Should Be

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
A Challenge of Surrender  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter  
Suggested Reading List_

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_**VERY IMPORTANT**__**:**__ everyone go and read and review "Caves and Rivers." Why? Because OceanFire9 deserves some love, and I'm lonely over there. And everyone review The Fire's Fuel, too, by JasperIsAManlyMan. It's awesome._

_**Sandra/Lylabeth:**__ Where you goed? *sniffle* Why you go away?_ =(

_**Author's Note:**_ _So... all I can ask is that no one kills me. Please. I love all of you. To quote Heather Dale, that love, and my "service past should earn of you some mercy." Just saying. So please don't hurt me. And happy July 1st. Even thought it's June still. July 1st is a Sunday, so... yeah. I don't normally post on the Sabbath. Anyways, here's chapter 65, and Dylan's answer to the awesome question of 64._

_Oh, and Erin, I would love to write a response back to you if you wanna log in with an account or something. I do email responses too for those who don't wanna make an account on here. I'm glad you like Once Upon a Time so much. =) Yay, me! *London-Tipton-Clap*_

_**Important News About This Fic:**__ Hey, guess what, everybody? I have a __**COVER**__ for_ Once Upon a Time _now. It should be up within 24 hours of this chapter being posted. This wonderful girl named_ LeafOfSteel-d313tl1 _off of DeviantArt did this __**GORGEOUS**__ hand-drawn illustration a couple years back of Nuada and I found it like, a week ago, and it __**TOTALLY**__ fits! My beta messaged her asking for permission to use it and _LeafOfSteel-d313tl1 _said I could! So the original piece is my new avatar-pic, and the cover with the title should be up above this author's note. It takes time for these changes to take effect, though, so if it's not up when you read this, blame laggy internet. Sigh. But it's so awesome! Seriously, go to DeviantArt and type in_ "Nuada in Exile" _into the search and it's one of the first 10 images to pop up. It's gorgeous!_

_Onward to the chapter!_

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**Chapter Sixty-Five**

**Where My Heart Should Be**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of**** an Answer, a Frightened Child, a King and Queen Dancing, an Overture of Friendship, a Dance Lesson, a Challenge, and a Threat**

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"Dylan. My Dylan. A ghrá mo chroí... will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

The shock of that question hit her low in the pit of the stomach, driving the breath from her without mercy. Hollow weakness flooded her body. As if from a great distance, she heard the blood roaring in her ears and wondered vaguely if she were about to faint. Her heart pounded against her ribcage almost hard enough to bruise the fragile bones. Had the king said something to Nuada while she was in her room? Or before that?

"I... did your father..." Dylan could scarcely get the words out around the thickening emotion in her throat, but the prince knew what she was trying to ask.

"No, mo duinne. My father has not ordered me to wed you. He... encouraged me to ask, but I am asking for myself. I am asking because I want to be with you." Nuada skimmed his knuckles down the length of the slashing scar on her cool, satin-soft cheek that he loved to touch. After everything that had happened, he could understand why she should doubt him. They would work through her doubts and he would prove his sincerity. "I am asking you to marry me, Dylan, because I want you for my wife."

She stared at him, unable to speak. Joy, bitter as wormwood and sweet as temptation, curled like ice-cold fingers around her heart. He loved her. Wanted her. This was just like... just like in her dreams. Dreams that had ripped her from sleep and left her desolate in the harsh face of reality. Unless she was dreaming now.

"Am I... I'm dreaming, aren't I?" She managed to whisper the words. A dark mouth quirked at the corners and Nuada shook his head. "I have to be dreaming. You wouldn't... you would never... would you? Why would you... but you can't want me. Not like that. Not for... I'm just... I'm nothing but-"

"You are everything I have ever wanted." Each word a caressing whisper as he drew her close. "I was simply too blind to realize it for a long while. I _do_ want you. I want the mortal with the fey eyes and the angel's heart. I want the woman who stands ever at my side, who sees the man I wish to be and always strives to help me become him. The woman who makes me smile when I thought there was no true joy left in the world. I want _you. _No one else. I beg you to allow me the privilege of taking your hand in marriage." He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Marry me, Dylan."

_Taking your hand..._ And she suddenly remembered that first night coming before the fae court of Bethmoora...

_King Balor had asked, "Pray, tell Us, Prince Nuada - have you asked for the Lady Dylan's hand?"_

_"I-" Nuada had begun, but then it seemed that his quick wits had failed him, because he'd paused for just a moment too long. Dylan had seen the swift spark of irritation and triumph in the king's eyes and known she and the prince were heading for hot water very quickly. Only at the last possible moment, the Holy Ghost guiding her tongue and soothing her nerves, had the mortal come up with a valid reason as to why she and Nuada weren't engaged._

_"We've discussed it, but... a lot would have to happen first. You see, Your Majesty, I am a Latter-Day Saint, a follower of the High King of the World. My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn. And though I may love Prince Nuada with everything I am, I have loved and will always love my God more than any other, and strive always to obey His laws and edicts._

_"His Highness and I have talked often of the Star Kindler and of faith, but he has not covenanted with the High King to follow Him. I know that my God would not wish the prince to be forced to become a Latter-Day Saint - in truth, such a thing would offend Him. But until His Highness chooses of his own free will to follow the High King, marriage to him is something I cannot consider agreeing to, even if all the kings of this world were to command it. I am loyal to my God first._

_"But," and at that moment Dylan had turned to lay her palm against Nuada's chest, over his heart, "married or not, betrothed or not, my feelings for the prince remain unchanged."_

_My feelings remain unchanged..._

It wasn't fair, she thought now, bringing her mind back to the present; to the half-slumbering Elven garden that had begun to awaken because Nuada loved her; to the chill winter night so bitterly cold; and the amber eyes watching her, waiting for her answer with equal parts trepidation and hope. It wasn't fair.

Dylan squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of tears. Felt them roll hot and wet down her cheeks to drop off the end of her chin. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Drew a breath that was nearly a sob. He was going to... he would... Nuada would... dammit, it wasn't _fair._

"No," she gasped out. Wrenched back from him. Shook her head. "No."

Nuada reached for her. "Dylan-"

"_No_," she repeated. She didn't _want_ to do this. Didn't want to hurt him. Not like this. Did not want to be another in a long line of those who'd cruelly rejected him, broken his heart. But she had no choice. "I can't. I can't marry you, I can't. No."

The hand reaching toward her fell back to the Elf prince's side. He stared at her, and she could see the bewildered pain in eyes that looked almost gray now. "No?"

She shook her head again. Wrapped her arms around herself as if chilled. Her fingers bit into her arms hard enough that she knew she'd have bruises in the morning. Tears glittered like diamonds in the moonlight. "No." Pain, actual physical pain, squeezed her chest until she could scarcely draw breath. Her knees shook; she wondered distantly how long it would be before they buckled and she fell to the snow. Would she be able to get up again?

Something black and cold flooded Nuada's body with ice as the full import of what his lady was saying registered. It took him several long moments to remember how to breathe around the sudden knifing pain in his chest.

When his mother had died, he'd thought his heart would always remain frozen, iced over by that pain and that loss. Eventually the chill inside him had begun to fade, thawed little by little under the warmth of Nuala and Wink and Polunochnaya and a very few others. Slowly, he'd begun to let go of the grief.

Then he'd gone into battle for the first time, and the frost of cold terror and remorseless slaughter had frozen his heart again. The weight of countless lives ended without mercy had dragged him down even further. The truce between the humans and the fae had hardened that ice, blackened it. That first step into exile had left him numb with the bitter cold. There had been those who could slip past the walls of ice - Lorelei, Aso, Erik, Yang, and a few others over the centuries - but the ice had always been there.

It had only begun to thaw again, he realized, after meeting Dylan. The pain had only begun fading once he'd allowed her to begin healing him from the soul outward. But this pain... this pain was a thousand times worse than nearly any grief he had suffered before, because _she_ was the one... because Dylan was the one who...

"Why not?" He whispered, watching her tremble as if she might shake apart. Every tear streaming down her cheeks was another blade in his heart. Her hand came up to cover her mouth in a vain attempt at muffling a sob. "Why will you not even consider... I thought... I thought that you-"

He could not continue, but the words beat against her mercilessly nonetheless. _I thought that you loved me_.

"I can't," she sobbed. "I can't marry you, I can't." She let herself lean backwards until her back hit the icy trunk of the hawthorn tree. Her legs finally buckled and Dylan slid to the ground in a graceless heap. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I _can't_. Why did you have to ask me this?" In a trembling voice that was merely a breath of sound, she whispered, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why am _I_..." And the first sparks of anger flared up, burning cold in the very depths of him. "You rip the heart from my chest with but one word and without a second thought and then are cruel enough to ask why _I_ am doing this to _you_? You reject me without even considering for a moment-"

"I can't," Dylan said in a hollow voice. "You _know_ I can't marry you just because you asked. Why would you ask this when you _knew _I couldn't... when you _knew_ how much I wanted..."

He knotted his hands into fists at his sides to keep them from shaking. "I knew nothing of the kind. What fool leaves himself vulnerable in such a way, knowing an attack looms on the horizon? I had thought... I thought..." Thought her love for him would be enough. Clearly, he had been wrong. "_Why_ can't you marry me?" Forcing away the shards of icy fury in his voice, he murmured, "Is it because we fought?" Her head came up and she stared at him with heartbreaking eyes. "Is it because of what I said in the sanctuary before the duel with Zhenjin? Dylan, I know I have a swift temper, I know I can be cruel, but I swear to you, I will do better. I promise I am trying. Give me but one more chance and I _swear_-"

"It's not that." Dylan dropped her head into her hands. Sighed. The frigid bite of the snow was slowly creeping through her jeans and her coat to numb her legs and back. She wished that numbness would spread to the rest of her. Sniffling, she said, "Don't you remember what I told your father our first night before the court?"

_My God has commanded His followers to wed only those who follow Him in turn_. The words echoed in his skull like the harsh crack of something precious and fragile breaking into pieces. Nuada stared at her. "I do not... do not understand. I thought that was merely an excuse to put him off so he would not press us about marrying. I did not think-" Her glance, when she looked up at him, stilled the words in his throat.

Dylan drew a shuddering breath. Pressed her folded arms more tightly against her stomach. Narrow shoulders hunched defensively. "You know that dream I've been having? The one where I always wake up crying even though it's so wonderful?" After a tense silence, the amber-eyed prince nodded. Rainswept eyes met his. The trembling smile that curved a corner of her mouth left his heart bleeding. "_This_ was my dream. You asking... me saying yes. Our life together. Getting married. Being together. No danger, no stupid political games. No one trying to kill us. Just a simple, happy life together. There was even..." She blinked, hard, but it didn't stop two fresh teardrops from escaping her fragmenting control. "In my dream we even have children. Can you imagine that? Everything I've ever wanted for myself - _everything - _offered to me in a dream and snatched away when I wake up, over and over again, night after night."

Yes, he could imagine that. How often had he woken from dreams of a desperately wished-for future? The humans gone, the fae thriving once more. His father at peace and proud of him. His sister no longer afraid of him. And recently, a life just as Dylan had described. A life with the mortal that had somehow captured him. No wonder she had wept so bitterly when he'd woken her in his mother's garden.

"Now imagine that I can have it in the real world... if I turn my back on everything I believe in and everything I stand for. I can be with you if I basically forfeit my soul. My morals. What would _you_ do?" And she dropped her head into her hands once more.

What would _he_ do? Exactly as he had done in the same situation. Didn't she understand? He had faced the same choice twice before. Once during the final war against the humans, and once when he'd realized just what he felt for the impossible mortal currently weeping in the snow.

Sell his soul and accept seventy-times-seventy unforgivable sins upon it in exchange for the safety of the Fair Folk. Sell his soul and accept that he had fallen in love with one of the despised children of Adam. Both instances, he had turned his back on what he had always believed to be right to preserve something he deemed worth the sacrifice. His people's lives and livelihood; his lady's continued safety and happiness. Was he not worth the same sacrifice in her eyes? If not him, then who? Who was worthy of such a thing in Dylan's eyes?

_Nuada doesn't even have the priesthood_. The words came back to him suddenly with startling clarity. _He's not a follower of the High King of the World, and without those two things, we could never get married in His temple_. And as if from somewhere far away, he heard her voice during one of the many conversations they'd had about religion and faith and the Star Kindler. _My children - if I ever have any - deserve a father with the power of the priesthood. If I'm going to curse them with the Sight, they deserve at least that much from me by way of blessing_.

And there was something more. Something he could not grasp, something he could not remember with his thoughts clamoring in his skull. Something about honor...

"Then..." Nuada's hands convulsed into knotted fists. He had to swallow once before continuing. "Then there is no chance of a better answer? This is all the answer I am to receive? There is nothing that could convince you to accept my proposal?"

Rainswept blue eyes met a xanthous-tinted gray gaze like dingy, dusty gold. A tear glittered on her cheek. "If the king orders you to marry me, I'll agree then, because I know if I don't, he'll do something horrible to you. If that happens, my answer is yes."

Centuries of iron self-control allowed him to hide his flinch. So she would wed him if his father ordered? Not if _he_ asked, not if Prince Nuada made an idiot of himself by practically begging her to marry him... but if _Balor_ commanded it? As she had promised weeks ago, before he had realized just what she was to him. Before she had confessed how much he supposedly meant to her. Well enough. He had no choice but to accept that.

By now Dylan's sobs had subsided into sniffles and the occasional hiccup. She shivered in the snow despite her thick leather coat. He was fairly certain her bad knee had stiffened up. When she tried to get to her feet, it would send wicked knives of pain shooting up and down her leg. Focusing on that instead of the dull ache squeezing his heart, Nuada went to her and, before she could even think to protest, lifted her into his arms, ignoring the flash of pain through his arm and the sudden throbbing in his chest. Dylan's damp clothes made her shiver. He tightened his grip.

Dazed, disoriented from crying and the cold and the abrupt movement, she stared up at him with furrowed brows and mumbled, "What... what are you... what?"

"We are going inside." Nuada did not look at her - could not look into those stardust eyes of fey-like blue. Could not think of how he had thought... hoped... yearned for... He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Ground out, "It is too cold for this conversation to continue here."

Thinking of his still-healing wounds, Dylan protested, "But... but you're hurt."

The irony of her words seemed to be lost on her, but Nuada laughed with bitter humor. "It is nothing for you to be concerned over."

After a moment, she whispered, "Gráin agat dom anois, nach tú?" _You hate me now, don't you_? He had asked her that once upon a time, after the fight where he had stabbed her with a verbal knife edged with contempt and honed by fury. "Of course you do," she mumbled, voice empty. "Why wouldn't you?"

It took him several long seconds to find the strength to reply, but reply he finally did. Though he struggled to make his voice as toneless as possible, he couldn't quite manage it. "Because I love you."

She made a small sound, and tucked her face against his chest. He felt her tears soaking his shirt. Said nothing about that, or the taste of her pain on the air, mingling with his own hurt. Made no explanation to the dozen Butchers who eyed the prince dubiously, but followed him when he began to make his way back to the palace carrying his silently weeping mortal lady. There was no sound made, except for the clanking of the Butchers' hob-nail boots and the quiet chatter of the castle at night, until Nuada stepped into their joint suites and carried Dylan into her bedroom.

As soon as he'd set her on her feet, he pulled away from her. The Butchers waited just beyond the half-open door, offering a semblance of privacy; Uaithne had taken one look at Lady Dylan's tear-stained face and made sure that while his fellow guards did their job, they gave the prince and the mortal some space.

Nuada watched her in silence. Silence that threatened to crush her with the weight of it. She didn't know what to say to him; didn't know what to say to erase that awful, brittle look in shadowed eyes. Her hands shook. She hid them behind her back. Met his eyes and fought not to flinch. What could she say, that she hadn't said already, to explain why she couldn't give him what he wanted? What they both wanted so much?

Dylan took a step toward him. He jerked back. "Nuada, please-"

"You should get to bed," the prince said softly. She flinched. "And you are half-chilled from the snow. You'll catch your death if you do not change clothes and get warm. The princess would have my head-" _My_ _heart_, she was almost certain was what he meant to say, somehow, "on a spike if you were unwell for your dance lesson tomorrow. Good night, Lady Dylan."

She wanted to call out to him, to beg him to come back, but why would she? How could she? Nothing would change. She would still have been one of the many to break Nuada's heart. He would still look at her as if she were some sort of haunting dream raking his heart with cruel and merciless claws.

For just a moment, a single split-second, Dylan thought about making the absolutely _wrong_ choice. Wondered what would happen if she threw away everything, everything she stood for - her morals, her faith, her responsibilities, her vows, everything - just threw it all away... for him. Wondered wildly what would happen if she followed him into his bedroom, told the guards to get out, and just surrendered to what he wanted. To _everything_ he wanted. Because, she had to face it, if she was willing to compromise once, if she was willing to give up on what she believed in once, why not twice? Thrice? Over and over again? If she was willing to break one oath, why not another? And Dylan knew that would be exactly what would happen if she followed her prince and gave herself to him as completely as her heart wanted her to.

There would be joy, yes, and the pain would fade from his eyes. That guilt would be assuaged. She would have the husband, the lover, the prince she had always wanted. The handsome prince out of a faerie tale. But a deeper guilt would twist her heart, knot in the pit of her stomach, circle constantly in her mind like a hungry shark. And she could never be certain that that guilt wouldn't destroy what she'd surrendered so much to achieve in the first place.

So she watched Nuada go back to his room, though her eyes saw nothing as her guards came in to take their posts throughout her room. Fionnlagh, Ailís, Gráinne, and Onóra took up positions at windows and bedroom door. Uaithne and Ailbho moved to go back into her sitting room, but Ailbho stopped a few feet from the mortal and cleared his throat. It echoed strangely from inside his iron helmet.

"My lady?" The young guard ventured. Dylan started in surprise; she hadn't realized he was so close. "Lady Dylan? Are you... are you all right? Do you need anything? I... um, I don't have much experience with humans, but my Clodagh says that sometimes the best thing for sorrow is simple joy. Is there anything at all I can get for you? To cheer you up, I mean? I'd be happy to," he added when she blinked at him. "Honestly. It's no trouble."

Uaithne wondered if he ought to stop the boy - because Ailbho _was_ a boy, barely into his ninth century and just old enough to be in the royal guard, and so often put his foot in his mouth - but his somewhat clumsy attempts at trying to chase away the mortal's sadness seemed almost to be working. One corner of the scarred mouth quirked up a little. She shook her head.

"No, thank you, Ailbho. I'm fine. Um... is Eimh nearby? I think... I think I'd like a bath."

The faerie hounds had been waiting in the sitting room with the children, who'd been waiting for their mistress to come back in time for the bedtime story, family prayer, scripture reading and lullaby. Once again, Dylan realized she'd forgotten about A'du and 'Sa'ti. She'd have to take a bath - she was shivering hard now from sitting in the snow - and then come back for the bedtime ritual.

Dylan bit the inside of her cheek to steady herself and pasted on a smile for the children. A'du'la'di saw through it in a second.

He cocked his head and studied Dylan with bright gray eyes. Sniffed almost delicately before opening his mouth just a little. Frowned. His tail began to lash back and forth and his ears twitched. Then he marched toward the door that joined Dylan's sitting room with the front room of Nuada's suite.

"A'du'la'di-" Dylan began, startled, but the ewah boy darted through the door and closed it firmly behind him before she could even attempt to stop him.

"Where's he going?" Tsu's'di asked to no one in particular.

Dylan thought she had a fairly good idea, and knew the worst that could happen was A'du being escorted back to the sitting room by one of the Butchers at Nuada's order. She sincerely doubted the prince wanted to speak to anyone just now, much less a cougar child. As for herself, she was going to take that bath before she turned into an icicle.

**.**

A knock rapped smartly on Nuada's study door. He glanced up, then dropped his gaze back to the just-opened bottle and half-full glass of whiskey on his desk. It was not Dylan on the other side of the door - he would have felt her - and so it was no one of consequence. He lifted the glass. Took a swallow. The taste failed to cleanse the sour taste from his mouth, but the whiskey burned through him.

The knock came again, harder this time. The Elf prince scowled. "Who is it?"

"A'du'la'di," came the shocking reply. "Lemme in. I need to talk to you. It's really important."

He had no patience for children right now. "Begone."

To his consternation, the door popped open and the cougar boy darted through before closing the door behind him. Large gray eyes, wary and worried, found Nuada across the vast expanse of study floor. The ewah child came forward until he stood fairly close to Nuada's large ebony desk. Bowed smartly.

"I _told_ you-" The feral-eyed Elven warrior began with a snarl.

"Why does _A'ge'lv _Dylan smell weird?" A'du demanded, folding his arms in defiance across his skinny chest.

Caught completely off-guard, Nuada blinked. "What?"

The cougar boy licked the fur on one hand before scrubbing at his cheek with it. Composure grooming, Nuada recalled. The faerie page tugged nervously on the hem of his gray shirt. Swiped at his whiskers.

"She smells weird. Like... like... I dunno. Ice in summer. The really bad, cold kind that makes you fall asleep and never wake up. Like rain, but not how rain in the spring smells when the grass is all green and stuff. More like... like when the rain comes down really hard, and washes everything away, and nothing grows anymore." A'du'la'di growled in frustration and raked his claws through his tufty mane. His fur stood on end, bristling. "I don't _know_! All of her good smells are really little and far away now. Something's _wrong_ with her."

He turned glistening eyes on his prince. Nuada realized the boy was... scared.

"Is she sick? That's what happened to my mama after my dad died and 'Sa'ti was born - she smelled like that and got sick and... and she went away and we never saw her again. Is Dylan sick? Is she okay? Why does she smell weird?"

It took Nuada a moment to process everything the boy had said. The slow burn of the whiskey had helped to dull the sharpest edges of his thoughts, but that and the exhaustion of the day and the pain of his half-healed injuries all combined to make the child's explanation difficult to decipher. "No," the prince said finally. "She is not sick."

"_Then what's wrong with her_?" A'du'la'di demanded. "It's like she's sad, but... but she's been sad before, and she didn't smell like this. She has bad dreams; I know she does. She doesn't think I know because I don't say nothing, but that's 'cause Tsu's'di said not to, and maybe I should've said something, or given her a hug, or... or... I don't know! But she didn't want us to know, so... so I didn't. But she always smelled sad when she woke up, but this is worse." The boy didn't see Nuada's wince. "It's like... it's like how she smelled when you were hurt, and you wouldn't wake up, and she was scared all the time about it, and she always looked like she was gonna cry, but it's worse than that, too. A lot worse." He scrubbed at his face with a furry hand again. In a voice that trembled, the boy asked plaintively, "What's the matter with her?"

The prince wondered if he'd gone mad when he said softly, gently to the little boy, "Come here, A'du'la'di." Nuada got to his feet and came around the desk to kneel before the boy to make eye contact. Perhaps it was the alcohol burning through his veins that made him say what he did next, that made his tongue so loose, but Nuada wasn't certain. "I asked Lady Dylan to marry me."

A'du frowned. "But... but she loves you. A lot. Why would she be sad if you wanna get married? Girls always wanna get married and have babies and stuff."

Nuada hid the second wince. _Get married and have babies. Two mutually exclusive options for Dylan and I_. "Because we cannot marry. I did not know that before I asked her; my asking upset her."

Furry hands smoothed over the gray canvas shirt. Claws snagged briefly in the heavy material. "So... is she mad at you? She didn't smell mad." Nuada found that he couldn't answer. Dylan hadn't _sounded_ angry when they'd spoken in the garden. Only hurt, betrayed, grief-stricken. Tortured. The prince wasn't sure how A'du'la'di interpreted his silence, but the ewah child did not press him. Only asked, "Why can't you guys get married?"

The Elf sighed. "I am not a follower of the Star Kindler, and Dylan says-"

"You guys can't get married in the temple," the boy concluded. Nuada blinked at him. How did he...? "Well... why don't you just follow the Star Kindler, then? I mean, you wanna marry _A'ge'lv_ Dylan, don't you? You love her, don't you? Like, a whole lot. And 'cause she's mortal, so she's not gonna live as long as you, so when she's an old lady and dies, if you guys get married in the temple you'll be married forever instead of just when she's alive. You wanna be married to her forever, right?"

Nuada refused to admit that half of that hadn't made sense. Instead, he merely replied, "It is not that simple, A'du'la'di."

Indignant, the little boy replied, "It's not that complisticated, either!" The cougar noted the corner of Nuada's mouth twitch. "I know that's not how I'm s'posed to say it. I suck at talking with big words. That's not the point! You're making her sad! Why not just try it? Even if you just try, it'll make her happy. I know it! Please?"

"A'du'la'di-"

"Please, Your Highness? Please? I don't want her to be sad like this. You can come hear the bedtime story like before, and maybe just listen to family prayer. You don't even have to say anything. You can just listen. _Please_?"

No. No, he could not see Dylan tonight. Not when he could still feel the knife of her refusal driving deep into his chest. Not when the alcohol had loosened his tongue to the point that he was pouring out his romantic woes to a little boy. Nuada sighed. "No, A'du'la'di." The boy drew back from him, confusion and accusation and hurt in his eyes. His bottom lip quivered ominously. "At least... not tonight," the prince amended.

"Tomorrow night?"

After a long silence, Nuada inclined his head. "Perhaps."

"That means no."

"It means," the prince of Bethmoora said firmly, "perhaps. Now, go along with you." When the boy opened his mouth as if to protest, the last of Nuada's patience disintegrated, and he said sharply, "_Out._"

A'du sighed. "Yes, sir."

Nuada waited until the boy had gone and closed the door behind him before taking the seat behind his desk again. Things were so simple to children. _You love her, don't you_? Yes. Shades of Annwn, yes, he did, and he hoped the gods - or the Star Kindler - would have pity on him for it. What was he supposed to do? Feign acceptance of a God he did not dare trust and could not understand, lie to Dylan and break his honor with subtle untruth and deliberate falsehood, lie to everyone around him, and all for the sake of...

The scent of summer flowers in deepest winter. Hot chocolate in a cozy little kitchen while a soft voice brought the words in a book to vivid life. Eyes like the moon over Bethmoora. Deft, elegant fingers coaxing melodies from a piano. The comfort of an embrace that offered everything and demanded nothing. Scarred lips curving into a smile. The touch of her hand at just the right moment, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her laughter.

_It is better to break your own heart than to break your honor_, Nuada reminded himself. His words to A'du'la'di merely a couple weeks ago. His father's words to a young prince centuries past. _Better to break my own heart; I have done so often enough ere now. What is one more heartbreak_?

The words echoed hollowly in his mind. He knocked back the last of the whiskey in his glass. After a moment's hesitation, wishing fiercely for Wink, he poured himself another drink and took a long swallow.

**.**

A long time ago, trapped in the isolation room at Saint Vincent's, knowing that even though the lights had been shut off and all was pitch dark, the eyes always watched and the monsters were always listening... that was when Dylan had learned to cry in utter silence. She had learned to force her hitching breath to almost calm stillness, though it made her chest ache as if someone had punched through her ribs. She'd learned to silence every sniffle, every sob. It hurt physically to do it - throbbing in her skull, dull pain through her chest, a burn like salt searing an open wound in her throat - so she almost never did it now. Hadn't needed to for a very long time.

But she couldn't hold back the tears after she'd had a quick bath, put the children to bed and said her prayers. Only biting her tongue until she tasted blood had allowed her to make it through her prayers and a few verses of scripture without breaking. Now, curled up under the blankets and scrunched so no one could really see her, she soaked her pillow tear by tear.

She didn't have her dolls this time. Didn't let Eimh or Sétanta sleep on the bed with her. Instead they'd been told to sleep out in her sitting room. She missed their warmth, and the comfort of their big furry bodies that she'd gotten used to in the nearly-two-weeks she'd been in Findias, but knew also that if they came into the bedroom they'd know she was crying. Then the guards would know. And then... then one of them would go and tell Nuada - if he were still awake - and then...

Then what? What would be worse: Nuada coming to comfort her, but still with that horrible look in his eyes... or Nuada not coming at all?

And why should he come? He had trusted her with something that she'd _known_ was of tremendous importance. How often had he fallen so in love that he would even consider marriage, much less actually pursue the idea? Especially marriage to _her_ - a human. A member of the race he despised more than any other. It was nothing short of miraculous that he loved her in the first place, and now... now that she had hurt him, betrayed him yet again... now he would...

He didn't hate her now, but would he grow to hate her eventually? That thought and that fear chased her into restless, shadowed sleep.

Dylan dozed fitfully off and on through the night. Though she didn't remember dreaming, every time she woke it was to the phantom touch of fingers biting into her skin and hot breath on her face that stank of faerie and mortal blood. Terror was ice in her veins. It choked back any cry she might have made.

Which, she acknowledged when she woke for the last time in the wee hours of the morning, was probably for the best, since her guards would have more than likely panicked at the sound of her petrified screaming. Fear-sweat had soaked her thin pajama top. Dylan sat up and shoved at sweat-dampened hair. She thought she caught the faintest odor of blood, sweat, and the thick stench of musk. _What_ had she been dreaming? Something about... about darkness and silver, and cruel hands.

"My lady?" Fionnlagh queried from where the guard sat on the windowseat, legs stretched out in front of her. "Are you well?"

"Yes," Dylan croaked. Cleared her throat. "Thank you, Fionnlagh." But she wasn't. Her eyes were gritty from crying and from broken sleep. Her head throbbed dully, and she wondered if she really was getting sick, like Nuada had predicted. And her skin itched, prickled, crawled. The echo of dream-memory. Dylan threw back the blankets and got to her feet.

"My lady?"

"Taking a bath," she mumbled. Desperation to get rid of that itchy-prickly-crawly feeling had her stumbling towards the bathroom.

Without Eimh's help, the mortal drew the hottest bath she could possibly stand. She didn't add any of the fripperies Eimh usually did, bubble-bath and such. The only thing Dylan took out of its cabinet was shampoo and conditioner, and the soap that smelled of delicate greenery. The soap that carried a more feminine version of the wildwood scent that always seemed to cling to Nuada. Then she scrubbed every centimeter of skin to within an inch of its life - twice. Washed and rinsed her hair at least that often. And if Fionnlagh and Gráinne thought her ragged breathing sounded quite a bit like sobbing, they said nothing about it.

**.**

Out of the tub, dressed for the day in black jeans and a black sweater, she went to the little nook-room off the sitting room - the one with the glittering chess set. The room had no windows, so she could be in here mostly alone. Her guards remained just beyond the nearly-closed doors.

The room was cozy enough. Tall, chestnut- and ashwood shelves lined with books covered the walls. Someone had replaced the cushy buff-colored armchair Tsu's'di had dragged out several days ago. Dylan sank into it and stared at the polished marble and gold chessboard with its white and yellow diamond armies eager to do battle. Hesitant fingers touched the king of amber diamonds - a six-inch tall, expertly crafted warrior bearing a small sword and shield and wearing a crown.

A glint of silver caught her eye and she looked down at the large chestnut-wood table. Noted that it actually looked more like a desk than a table, with five silver-handled drawers fitted into the wood. Curious despite herself, Dylan pulled open one of the drawers.

Inside were quills edged with a faint shimmer of gold, bottles of different-colored ink, slender candles for creating wax seals, and a small knife she vaguely recognized as being used to sharpen quill pens. In another drawer she found a stack of soft white vellum stationary. Dylan realized with a start that the stylized silver and metallic blue crest at the top of the stationary-heading was the one Nuada had designed for her. In yet another drawer she found regular white writing paper, with merely her initials in a sort of gold-gilt monogram at the top, meant for more personal correspondence; rough paper for initial drafts; and envelopes. One of the drawers was empty except for a large letter-sorter.

But the final drawer held a royal blue velvet ring-box a little bit larger than the standard box. With shaking hands, Dylan drew it out. Her heart seemed intent on pounding right out of her chest. She opened the velvet box. Nestled inside gleamed a signet ring of white gold. Her personal crest glinted in the amber glow of the lamplight. When she slipped the ring on with fingers that trembled, she found it settled nicely on the middle finger of her right hand.

She closed her eyes. A sob rose up in her throat, thick and salty. Dylan just barely managed to swallow it. She yanked the ring off her finger, carefully put it back in the box, and put the box back in the drawer. Let her eyes settle once more on the chess set.

"You know, if you wind the kings and queens, they dance," said a soft voice from the doorway. Dylan's head whipped around to see one of the female Butchers standing there at loose attention. From the single thick braid draped over one shoulder that fell to her waist, Dylan knew it was Ailís. "The prince is quite skilled with clockwork. I think all of the pieces move, though I am not certain about that. But I have seen the king and queen dance when wound properly."

Dylan swallowed, unsure where her sudden hesitation came from. Maybe it was that, for the first time in two days, Ailís was speaking in a voice that was not empty and toneless. "Would... would you show me how to do it?" The mortal asked.

Ailís stepped into the room and lifted the white king. Ran the very tip of her forefinger around the two-inch base of the chess piece with the faintest _click_-_click_-_click_ sound. A _tick_-_tocking_ followed as she placed it in the middle of the marble and gold chessboard. She did the same to the queen, but not the white queen. Instead, she wound the slender queen of aurulent diamonds and set it in the very center of the board. And as Dylan watched with bated breath, the two chess pieces came together and began to dance.

To her surprise, Dylan recognized the Old Word dance. Heartsease. It involved a lot of touching of the palms and turning, side-stepping and barely-a-breath-away closeness. It was her favorite dance to participate in at the Ren-Faires. And although it was a bit complicated - though nowhere near as difficult as the Entwine - it was also easy on her bad leg. Heartsease possessed an intimacy and a breathless sort of innocent romance that a lot of contemporary dancing lacked. And unlike "modern" classical dancing, like the waltz, it didn't demand more than she could give. And now her thoughts were drawn once more to Nuada, and her eyes stung and burned, and she dropped her face into her hands.

She'd forgotten about Ailís until the Butcher Guard laid a tentative hand on Dylan's shoulder. She jumped in surprise and looked up to see dark eyes watching her from behind the slitted visor of the iron helmet. "If I may... what troubles you, milady?"

A sigh shuddered out of her on a ragged exhale. She shook her head. "Nothing." Then, as if her tongue had run off without her, she blurted, "Everything. I... I don't think I can talk about it. But thank you for asking. Really."

"Should I fetch the prince? I think he is still awake. Or woke early; I am not quite sure which. At any rate, he is in his study."

Dylan frowned. It was five in the morning. What was he doing awake at five in the morning again? And when had he moved back into his own suite? Had Chief-Healer Somhairle said he could do that?

But she shook her head. For one thing, if she asked him anything he would brush off her concern as he had the night before. What had he said? _It is nothing for you to be concerned over_. "That's all right; thank you."

"Do you wish to be alone?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. "No, actually. If you don't mind staying, maybe we could talk or something. I'd like to get to know you, if that's okay."

Ailís inclined her head. "As my lady wishes. Perhaps you would care for a game of chess?"

"I'm not very good." To Dylan's surprise, Ailís laughed.

"Nor am I," said the guardswoman. "Together we shall make a fair job of it, then."

**.**

By the time a servant came to tell Dylan it was time for her dancing lesson with the princess, the mortal healer and the faerie warrior had played ten games, and won an equal share of each. At Ailís's pointed suggestion during the third match, Dylan had remembered she hadn't had breakfast, and Ailís had sent a young page to the kitchens for the morning meal - warm raspberry and vanilla-cream pocket pies and boiled eggs sliced on buttered toast.

To Dylan's surprise, it had come on a tray with a nosegay of white poppies in a small crystal vase. The kitchen boy who'd brought it, Rórdán, had offered the tray with a bow and a shy smile before scuttling off with a diffident tug of his curly brown forelock. Dylan hadn't known if whoever put the poppies on the tray knew they stood for consolation, but it hadn't mattered. It was the thought that warmed her.

Before the dancing lesson she changed into a simple black _leine_ and soft, supple boots. Lady's slippers probably would've been better for learning a waltz or something, but considering she'd learned Heartsease and the Entwine in sneakers, she wasn't too concerned. Besides, wearing slippers made her feet sweat. And unlike with boots, she wouldn't have been able to wear socks.

'Sa'ti and A'du were awake at this point, and begged to come with their mistress and maybe learn how to dance, too. A'du'la'di even offered to be her partner if the dance instructor couldn't find another guy. Looking at their excited faces, Dylan decided, _What_ _the_ _heck_? And made them promise to be on their best behavior. They made quite the entourage moving down the palace corridors - six Butcher Guards, three cougar-shifters, and one scarred and slender mortal woman. Ailís knew where the lesson was to be held, and led the way.

At the door, a sudden spill of chill dread down Dylan's spine made her pause. She remembered what Nuada had said the night before - to send for him when the lesson was to start and that he would come. She wondered if the prince really would come if she sent for him now. Didn't want to try calling for him, only to have him refuse. Not unless she absolutely had to. And why would she?

The door swung open and her heart stilled in her chest. Standing with Nuala and a redhaired Elven woman was none other than the golden-haired Prince Bres. And beside him, thin lips curving into a smile as eyes of dark malachite slid over Dylan from toes to crown in a violating caress, stood Lord Ciaran.

"Good morning, Lady Dylan," the Fomorian lord murmured. "You cannot imagine what a pleasure it is to see you."

_I am in_ big _trouble_ were the only words she could force through her brain. She didn't notice when Tsu's'di slipped back out the door and padded silently down the corridor.

**.**

Nuada studied the scribbled message that had been waiting on his desk. It was brief, the handwriting crabbed and a bit sloppy, but the sight of it filled him with such intense relief he barely managed to make it to his chair before he collapsed into it.

_Attacked by Butcher Guards. Am all right.  
Will be in Findias before Midwinter.  
Bringing Lorelei and Erik. Be careful.  
Beware the king. Stay out of trouble.  
Take care of the lassling.  
- W_

Wink. Wink, safe and alive and soon to be on his way here. Shades of Annwn, what he would not give to have Wink here at this very moment. To counsel with, or to simply unburden himself to. Even knowing that the moment the burly cave troll found out what all had transpired in the last two weeks, he would give his prince and brother-in-soul a good smack alongside the head for so many reasons: getting attacked by dipsa serpents, nearly getting killed in a rather foolish duel, falling in love with and proposing marriage to a human...

That last thought had Nuada's hands closing convulsively around the edge of his desk. What would his old friend say when the Elf prince told him what had transpired between the amber-eyed warrior and the mortal woman? Would Wink understand, or condemn him for betraying his people and his birthright? Would the troll advise him on what to do... or turn away from him for the treachery in his heart?

_Wink, I wish I knew what to do. My father approves of a union with my lady, but I know most of my people do not. I doubt you would, either, for all you are fond of Dylan. And she... she will not have me. She will not have me, and it seems I need her more than I ever imagined. And then there is my father. Is he my enemy or no? I wish you were here, old friend._

Pounding at his study door jolted Nuada from his thoughts. Slipping Wink's note into a drawer in his desk and locking it, he called, "Enter."

Tsu's'di burst into the room fast enough that the Elven warrior's hand was on his sword and had it half-drawn from the sheath before Nuada truly registered who had entered the room. The cougar youth practically skidded to a halt a few feet from Nuada's desk. Nearly fell face-first into the ebony.

"I will say this once and only once - _never_ rush into a room where an armed warrior is waiting. I could have had the head from your shoulders before you could blink. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sire, I'm sorry, but it's Dylan, she-"

Nuada was on his feet in an instant. "Where is she? Is she hurt?"

"No. She's fine. I mean, she's not fine, but she's not hurt. She... they...! Them!" The ewah took a deep breath and tried again. "We went to her lesson, and they were waiting for her, those Elves!"

The prince eyed the nearly frantic youth before sinking back into his chair again. "What Elves?"

"I don't know their names, I can't remember them. They're from that kingdom. The one near here. I heard _A'ge'lv_ Dylan talking about them to you last night..." He trailed off when the feral-eyed warrior jerked upright and pinned him with a molten gaze. "I... I heard her say they scared her. And when she saw them just now, I could smell her fear. It was stronger even than when she faced off against Cuan and Conri. I remembered you saying you would come to her lesson if she sent for you, so I... came to... get you?"

Nuada was already through the door and striding past his guards before the boy had finished. Tsu's'di hastened after the prince. The cougar youth had to sprint to keep up with the prince's long stride as Nuada left his room and moved down the hall. One pale hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The other was clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

The closer he drew to where Dylan was, the faster his heart hammered against his breastbone. A strange and terrible but distant panic - Dylan's growing fear - pulsed just under his skin. It fueled the sparks of anger that had been smoldering inside him since the previous night. Fed on the savage hurt that had yet to fade, turning that and the anger into a fiercely driving need to protect.

He didn't wait for his guards or for Tsu's'di to open the door. Taking a moment to put all of his court masks in place, he pushed the door open and strode into the room.

**.**

Dylan had done everything short of begging Nuala in order to avoid having to partner with Bres or Ciaran. The princess had insisted that no one could teach Dylan one of the three dances she would more than likely have to perform with Nuada at the Midwinter Ball better than the dark-haired Fomorian lord, who smiled and canted his head in a show of modesty before taking Dylan's hand and pulling her into a position that she recognized from television as the beginning form for the waltz.

She didn't have the presence of mind to appreciate anything about the dance itself. Only knee-jerk reactions to Ciaran's instructions - "Step back on your left foot, follow my lead; do not be so tense, milady. It does you no credit to move so stiffly" - kept her from tripping over her own feet more than once or twice.

Fear-sweat trickled down the back of her neck and along her spine. There was something so alien about the way the Fomorian lord looked at her. Even glancing into his eyes like midnight malachite made pain spike through her temples and sent her skin crawling. And his voice slid over her like something primordial and dark. She bit her tongue until copper blood stung the inside of her mouth to steady herself.

"You seem... tense, milady," Lord Ciaran murmured, leaning in so he could speak softly. Her eyes darted to his before dropping down to fixate on the pale expanse of his throat above the collar of his white tunic. Weren't Fomorians supposed to be tanned, like Prince Bres? "Relax. I'll not hurt you... today." Eyes wide, she tried to pull back from him. His hand against her back held her in place. His touch was icy against her hand and through her dress. "Now, now. Do not be rude. I mean no harm to you this day, but no fae is foolish enough to make a promise he cannot be sure of keeping. One day we may find ourselves enemies. Then again, we may not. I suppose it depends on what the Fates have in store for us, no?"

Those thin, pale lips curved into a smile. "Besides, as His Highness Prince Nuada has surely warned you, I despise humans. So while hospitality forbids me from taking you apart piece by bloody piece, I must confess that if I found you somewhere without your protectors - say, in the mortal world, perhaps, once Silverlance had tired of bedding you and thus would not begrudge me the sport - and the opportunity safely presented itself, I would enjoy breaking you to pieces, drinking your hot mortal blood, and then killing you very, very slowly."

She jerked away from him, stumbling back, and smacked into a very solid someone standing a couple feet behind her. Whipping around, she looked up into a pair of hot copper eyes set in a pale, emotionless face. Dylan couldn't decide whether to cry or bury her face in Nuada's chest until Ciaran left. Or until Nuada killed him. Something. _Anything_. She didn't care.

The prince must have seen something in her expression because he pulled her a touch closer and then fixed his eyes on the Fomorian lord. "Perhaps I did not make myself quite clear last night when we spoke, Lord Ciaran. I thought Bres and I were explicit, but it seems not. Let me try this again. Lady Dylan is to be left completely alone."

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but when Her Highness the princess asked me to help teach Lady Dylan the waltz-"

"You should have declined," Nuada replied, all iciness. "You are declining now. Take your leave."

"But, Brother-"

One slashing look from that molten bronze glare silenced Nuala and had her going pale. Bres merely inclined his head to Nuada before gesturing with a lift of his chin towards the door, a clear sign to his friend to precede him from the room.

Ciaran should have bowed and left. Instead, he arched a knife-thin black brow and smirked. "You guard your toys so jealously, Silverlance. It was merely a bit of good fun. You have staked your claim on the human; well enough. I meant no disrespect to Your Highness." The Fomorian lord's eyes settled on Dylan. She fought against the urge to show fear by backing up. She knew Ciaran would only enjoy that kind of display. "I merely intended to..." A gaze of midnight emerald slid over her in a lazy caress that made her skin crawl; sudden tension thrummed through Nuada's body. "Teach the _lady_ a few things about being... handled by a man. On the dance floor."

Sunlight flashed on silver. Dylan yelped as Nuada jerked her by the arm to one side and flicked the notched tip of his sword just under Ciaran's chin. She hadn't even seen him draw it from its sheath.

"You go too far, Lord Ciaran macAengus. I suggest you guard your tongue more carefully or lose it. Now apologize."

"I am sorry if I offended you, Your Highness."

Nuada didn't _seem_ to really move at all, but the edge of the sword dimpled the flesh at Ciaran's throat, just above his Adam's apple. A paper-thin line of amber blood slid down his neck to stain the collar of the white tunic he wore. Nuala made some sound. Nuada spared her but a glance before returning his molten gaze to the Fomorian.

"Do _not_ test me, Ciaran. Apologize to my lady _now_, or I will face the sad task of explaining to my father the king why I cut off the head of one our guests; that _would_ be a shame, would it not?" Those feral eyes narrowed. "Now get down on your knees and beg my lady's forgiveness."

That dark, slender brow winged higher. "On my knees? To a common mortal? To the Silverlance's latest whore? I think not. Even what sweetness there is to be had between her thighs is not worth _that._" Ciaran made as if to reach forward, possibly toward the human woman at Nuada's side.

A flash of brutal heat pierced Dylan's chest as she felt Nuada tense beside her. Without quite thinking why, only that she _had_ to do it and do it _now_, she twisted out of his grip. Drew her dirk from its sheath at her hip and, bracing it with the palm of her other hand, smashed it down on the blade of Nuada's sword as he moved to attack Ciaran, just beneath the crossguard.

The shock reverberated up her arms. The sharp edge of the dirk cut a shallow line across her fingers. As the Fomorian dodged backwards, only her interceding strike and Nuada's lightning-swift reaction to it kept the sword blade from drawing across Ciaran's throat.

"Dylan-" Nuada began, voice like thunder.

"Not for this," she whispered. "He's part of the envoy. You _can't_."

The hot copper fury in his eyes was all for her now. "Oh?" His voice was dangerously low, so low she had to strain to hear it over the distant roaring in her ears and the pounding of her heart. He spared her one more glance before fixing his gaze on Ciaran a few feet behind her. Everyone else, Dylan included, watched Nuada. "Can't I?" Nuada hissed. The anger lashed out like a whip. "Can't. That seems to be a word you enjoy employing of late. I _can't_ do this. You _can't_ do that. A convenient word, _can't_." She opened her mouth, unsure what to say, and the fae warrior snarled, "Now step back and stay out of the way, by order of the crown prince."

"Your Highness, I am asking... I am _begging_ you not to do this. The king may get angry-"

There was no sneer on his moon-pale face, but there was something hotter and more venomous than that in his eyes. "As I have begged a recent request of you and you have denied me, I feel no shame in denying you this much smaller request." The hurt in her eyes dulled the sharpest edge of his temper, but the smirk curving Ciaran's mouth kept the embers of his rage stoked. "Get out of my way."

Dylan hesitated. Nuada's gaze hardened.

"Lord Ciaran," a sharp voice snapped through the tension, catching everyone's attention. Bres stepped forward. His usually summer-sky blue eyes were glacial sapphires. "You shame our kingdom with your behavior towards Prince Nuada, who is your friend and mine, and your behavior towards his esteemed lady." Dylan almost felt sorry for the Fomorian lord when his mouth dropped open and he stared at his coldly furious prince. "You further shame me, your prince and friend, by behaving so in front of Her Royal Highness Princess Nuala and your sister, Lady Dierdre. Enough. Apologize on bended knee to Lady Dylan at once."

"Y-Your Highness... Bres, you must be joking-"

"On your knees, Lord macAengus," the glacial-eyed prince commanded in a voice that brooked no argument. "_Now._"

Dylan watched, trying to keep her jaw from dropping, as Ciaran sank to one knee. His eyes burned into hers with a savagery that froze the breath in her throat. With an expressionless face that was all the more terrifying because she couldn't read it, the fae noble recited a bland apology that Dylan accepted with a stammer. All the while, those eyes burned with a tenebrous fire. A promise of retribution soon to come.

When it was over, Bres hauled his "friend" up by the scruff of the neck and walked with him out the door, stopping only to nod to Nuada and Nuala. The redheaded woman that was with them blinked large, silvered green eyes at Nuada and swept into a deep curtsy before following the Fomorian prince.

Nuala opened her mouth, and Nuada snarled, "Not a _word_, Princess. Get out."

"I most certainly will no-"

"_Get out_!" The crown prince roared.

Nuala went whiter than milk and backed out of the still-open door, followed by her guards. A vicious look from the prince had his retinue of guards following their comrades. Only Dylan's guard and the children remained. 'Sa'ti was pale and shaking, her fur bristling and her face pressed into A'du's chest. A'du'la'di had one arm around his sister and his free hand on a sheathed knife at his side. He, too, was pale. Tsu's'di glanced at Dylan, then at Nuada.

In a voice like a rumble of thunder, Nuada snarled, "_All_ of you."

They left at a nod from Dylan. The door clicked shut behind A'du's retreating form bringing up the rear.

Feral eyes landed on Dylan's face. She swallowed hard. She wasn't quite sure who she was dealing with right now - an angry Nuada, an angry Silverlance, or an angry Crown Prince Nuada. To hide her nerves, she wiped the edge of her dirk on her skirt to clean it and sheathed it again before meeting his gaze.

"If you ever step in the way of one of my strikes against an enemy again, you will be punished," he said without inflection. "Severely."

She folded her arms and tried not to shiver. "Don't make promises you can't keep." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "What would you do if I did, anyway? You're not the kind of man who would hit a woman."

"Sometimes," he growled, "you tempt me with more than that."

She arched a brow. "Not impressed, Your Highness. Even at your worst, you've never hit me."

"You have not seen my worst."

"I'm sorry," she said, catching him off-guard. He stared at her. "Could you sheathe the sword, please? And I'm sorry I stepped between you and Ciaran. That probably freaked you out, but I had to. I felt a prompting from the Spirit that if I didn't intervene something really bad would happen. At least I didn't literally get between him and your sword, though. Not like last time, with Oisin. Does that earn me any points?" His glare did not lessen by an iota. "Guess not. Look, I'm sorry if I upset you, but if you'd actually attacked Ciaran, even if it was warranted, something really bad would've happened."

Nuada raised a slender, mocking brow. "Indeed? And what, pray tell, would that have been?"

A shaking hand raked through her hair. Reaching into her pocket - unlike a real _leine_, this one had been bought at a faire a couple years back and possessed the modern luxury of pockets - she yanked out a scrunchie and twisted her hair into a ponytail. "I don't know," she muttered as she tamed her hair. "But you trust that 'innate warning system' I have enough that you let us stay in the forest after the dipsa attack when I said it was safe; enough that when I said Wink wasn't dead, you believed me. So you should trust it enough that when I say you were about to make a huge mistake, you believe me."

The Elven warrior muttered something savage under his breath. Sheathed his sword with a hiss of edged silver against leather. "Very well; say that I do believe you. What, then, would you have me do in the face of such blatant disrespect? He called you a whore."

"So you try to cut his head off?" She demanded, exasperated. "Who _cares_ if he calls me that? It's just a word! And everyone and their dog seems to think it, anyway! Zhenjin even called me your whore. Who _cares_?"

"_I_ do!" He snapped. "You are _not_ my whore."

Baffled, Dylan protested, "But you know that's what at least some of them all think-"

"I do not give a damn what they think, Dylan. You are _not_ my whore, do you hear me? You are _my_ _lady_, and the stars as my witness, I'll not stand by and hear slander against you." In his mind's eye he glimpsed the memory John had shown him, the wreck of Dylan's spirit after Nuada had been the one to say such things to her. "I'll not hear it. And anyone else who thinks to use that word against you had better guard their tongue or lose it. Ciaran was warned to treat you as he would a noblewoman of the Fair Folk. He agreed. He broke faith by frightening you - and do not tell me you were not frightened, I could see it in your face. He further broke his word by insulting you. Such disrespect cannot and will not go unpunished."

Dylan opened her mouth to protest again, and the prince snarled, "I am the crown prince of Bethmoora. I am the king's heir. I am the second most powerful political entity in this kingdom. I demand respect from those subordinate to me and I will have it. And knowing what I know of Lord Ciaran macAengus, he frightened you with threats, didn't he?" She hesitated. Nuada snapped, "_Didn't he_?"

"_Yes_!" Dylan cried. "Okay, yes, he did, sort of, but... if you'd attacked him, hurt him, wouldn't it have caused problems between you and Bres? Between your two kingdoms? I mean, he's dangerous, I know, but he didn't say he was going to hurt me _now_. He said he might if he ran into me after you dumped me. It was rude and creepy and fairly psychotic and terrifying, yeah, but not enough to risk going to war over. You've got enough problems. Not that I don't think he's a problem, because he is, and he's dangerous, but he's not a _royal_ problem. I've got guards, okay? You don't have to deal with this."

"Do not attempt to dictate to me," Nuada said, though there was little heat in the words.

"I'm not _trying_ to," she said. "I promise, I'm not. But you're already under house-arrest, your dad can't be trusted as far as either of us can spit, and I am terrified of anything else happening to you just because the people who should have been backing you up suddenly won't!"

The prince sighed. "Come here." Her wariness when she approached was like a slap. He showed nothing. Only lifted Dylan's left hand and turned it palm-up to reveal the thin cuts across the base of her fingers. The wounds were shallow, only lightly beaded with scarlet blood. Insignificant enough that instead of touching them to take away the pain, he raised her palm near to his mouth and blew a warm, shallow breath on the cuts. A mere flick of power shivered along Dylan's skin. Her breath caught. As she watched, the shallow cuts sealed themselves, leaving thin pink lines in their place.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Nuada inclined his head a fraction before curling an arm around Dylan's waist and pulling her against him. "Milady, you are trembling," Nuada murmured, forcing gentility into his voice. "I give you my word, you have no cause to fear me."

"Nothing you could ever do would make me afraid of you," she mumbled. "It's this place. The situation. We're in way over our heads. And I'm scared that... that..." _That you'll hate me because I rejected you_, Dylan thought, but refused to say. _Just like everyone else has_. Instead, she whispered, "Ciaran really scared me. No one's ever... no one has ever said stuff like that to me as if we were talking about the weather. Just matter-of-fact and... I mean... he's a psychopath. Well, okay, by human standards, most of the Fae are, but... but he just... even by fey standards, he..."

"What did he say to you?"

She opened her mouth. Tried to force the words out past the fear still choking her. She had never been so afraid in her life. Not of Patrick and Xander, not of Westenra, not of the wolves that had ripped her apart in the subway, not even of Eamonn. Why Ciaran frightened her so badly, she didn't know, and she honestly couldn't have cared less. There was something about him. Something worse than any and all of the monsters that had hurt her before. Something that made him more dangerous to her than anyone else ever had been.

But she couldn't get the words out. Only curled her hands in Nuada's shirt.

The Elven warrior muttered something savage under his breath and lifted Dylan's chin with thumb and forefinger. "Are you all right?" He demanded. After a moment, Dylan nodded. "Are you certain? You're pale."

A laugh half-squeaked out of her. "I'm always pale. I'm Caucasian and it's winter time."

He didn't smile. Merely studied her for a while in silence. His gaze slowly cooled from molten copper to warm honeyed gold. "You need to be more careful in how you speak to me in public, Dylan." She frowned. "You disrespected me in front of my sister, a visiting prince, and more than a dozen royal guards. With you, when we are alone, I am simply Nuada, but I must be more than that when we are with others."

"Then how am I supposed to stop you from doing something that might get you in trouble?"

"There are... rules of royal protocol for such things." Now that his rage had cooled, now that he wasn't distracted by the glitter of fear in her eyes or the sting of mortal blood on the air, the ache that had taken up residence in his chest the night before had begun throbbing anew. He had to get away from her. Now. Get away, before he found himself on his knees, begging her... "We can go over them later."

"I'd like to go over them now, please," she said. Nuada clenched his teeth. "If you're about to do something and the Spirit tells me to stop you, I have to stop you, rules of protocol or not. You know me - the Lord commands and I obey. Wouldn't it be best if-"

"And of course _you_ would know what is best!" The prince snapped, and Dylan fell quiet. "I need no reminder of how devout you are to your Christian God, my lady. You made it quite apparent last night."

She jerked back as if he'd slapped her. "I am _not_ going to apologize for my faith. Not to my parents, not to my sisters, and not to you."

Nuada's laugh was without humor. "Your faith. I would not ask you to, for that faith is one of the things I admire most about you. But it seems that which I admire has come back to haunt me." His smile was brittle and made her eyes sting. "My father warned me once that love is a two-edged sword. It can be your best weapon, your staunchest ally... or it can cut you down without mercy in seconds, a terrible and bloodless death. What say you to that, my lady?"

"I... Nuada, I..." She reached for him, desperate to take away his pain.

He pulled away, as he had the night before. "Do not touch me," Nuada whispered. "I cannot bear it when you touch me."

Her hand fell back to her side. Her eyes were dry of tears; he might have preferred it had she wept. Did she feel the pain he felt? Did humans feel as deeply as the fae did? He had thought so before last night. This human, at least. But if she did... if Dylan felt the heartache... how could she resist acquiescing? How had she possessed the strength to deny him the previous night?

"I... I'm so sorry. For hurting you," she whispered. He jolted. She was staring hard at the floor now, her hands clenched at her sides. "I wouldn't wish what I'm feeling right now on anyone, least of all you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Not ever. If I could do anything to ease... to erase..." She bit her lip until a tiny drop of blood welled up, glistening in the morning sunlight. "I would rather have you hate me than hurt you. But I _can't_ marry you, Nuada. I'm sorry."

And before he could say anything, do anything, Dylan practically fled the room. She hurried back to her suite, followed by her guards and her children. The hounds were waiting in the sitting room. The moment they saw her, their pricked ears drooped and they hunched their shoulders.

*Are we in trouble?* Eimh quavered.

"No," Dylan mumbled. She absently patted their heads. "No one's in trouble." _Except me_, she thought. _Ugh. I need to be alone. I need to think. Need to figure out what to do about Nuada_. Yet where could she possibly go where the Butchers didn't need to follow her?

The chess-room. No windows, she realized. No need for guards. Relief swept through her as Dylan got up and went into the room. The relief was tempered when the dogs followed her. Everyone else stayed out in the sitting room except 'Sa'ti, who came in and sat on the floor with a picture book. Dylan opened her mouth to kick them out, but the dogs merely flopped down on the floor and hunched up, doing their best to look unobtrusive. 'Sa'ti stretched out on her tummy and opened the book. None of them paid the least bit of attention to the mortal.

Dylan closed her mouth. _What the heck, why not_?

She sank into her chair and stared in the direction of the chess set, wondering just what she was going to do.

A glint of silver caught her eye. She glanced down at the desk drawers. Remembered their contents. An idea popped into her head. Maybe it wouldn't work. Maybe she would just drive the wedge that was between them even deeper, widening the chasm that had opened up between her and Nuada.

But maybe, just maybe, it would work. After all, Nuada writing her a letter had worked. Maybe if she wrote him one, a letter explaining everything, then maybe it would heal some of the damage. Maybe it would ease some of the hurt. Maybe she'd be able to get it all out without bursting into tears or hurting him further.

Maybe.

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_**Author's Note:**__ okay, so here's the deal. I used to do chapters that were about 20k words, or thereabouts. My beta told me to stop that. Not because it's bad writing or anything, but because it's hard for her to beta the chaps when they're that long. So I've started breaking my chapters up differently than I used to. Now they end between 12000-15000 words, which means they're shorter, which means less happens per chapter, so some things might take longer update-wise to be resolved. Just a head's up. Sorry about this._

_On the flip side, I love all of you. Huggles! And onto our lovely review prompt!_

_1) Oh, the refusal. Sigh. Who saw that coming? I suppose everyone hates Dylan now for breaking Nuada's heart. *cringe* Don't hurt me._

_2) Nuada and A'du'la'di's talk. Thoughts on that, and their relationship in general?_

_3) __Ailís__ - isn't she nice? Or is she secretly evil? What do you think?_

_4) Wink! Wink's alive! Who's happy about this? *narrows eyes* Everyone should be happy. Is anyone not happy?_

_5) Ahhh, Ciaran. And Bres. Who thinks that whole thing was a set-up? Who thinks Ciaran just lost his temper? Possible repercussions?_

_6) 17 favorite things, in honor of my "enduring immortality," to quote one of my readers._

_7) Nuada and Dylan's interactions throughout this chapter in the aftermath of her refusal. How am I doing? Is the prince in character? Do they make sense? Anyone have any questions?_

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_**A Challenge of Surrender:**__ so I know it's been... jeez, 30 chapters or so since we've had a challenge. Lol. But I've curious about one thing. This part._

_"For just a moment, a single split-second, Dylan thought about making the absolutely wrong choice. Wondered what would happen if she threw away everything, everything she stood for - her morals, her faith, her responsibilities, her vows, everything - just threw it all away... for him. Wondered wildly what would happen if she followed him into his bedroom, told the guards to get out, and just surrendered to what he wanted. To everything he wanted. Because, she had to face it, if she was willing to compromise once, if she was willing to give up on what she believed in once, why not twice? Thrice? Over and over again? If she was willing to break one oath, why not another? And Dylan knew that would be exactly what would happen if she followed her prince and gave herself to him as completely as her heart wanted her to."_

_What would happen if she did? Would she panic at the last minute? Would Nuada refuse her? Would it ruin everything that stands between them? What would happen if she went to him? If she agreed to marry him? Agreed to be his lover? Agreed to everything? How would that affect their relationship, affect them? I'd love to see what you guys do with that_. =)

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ this title comes from the song "Breath" by Breaking Benjamin, from the chorus. "You took the breath right out of me. You left a hole where my heart should be. Gotta fight just to make it through, 'cause I will be the death of you." I love that song. A lot. _

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Dylan's flashback in the first scene, the one in italics, is a slightly modified scene from chapter 14.

- I love Ailbho. I know that's not a reference, I just had to say it. =)

- I got the word "complisticated" from Changes: Book 3 of the Collegium Chronicles by Mercedes Lackey.

- "It's not that simple."/"It's not that complicated, either" is a quote from the movie The Other Side of Heaven, which is based on a true story of a young LDS missionary in the Tongan Islands during the 1950s.

- I dunno if anyone remembers me saying this, but I'll remind everyone - "It is better to break your own heart than to break your honor" is a quote from Shalador's Lady by Anne Bishop.

- I was reminded that Dylan would have been given an escritoire (a fancy desk) with letter-writing materials, crested paper, blah-blah, while reading Once Upon a Winter's Night by Dennis L. McKiernan.

- I was told about the medieval dance Heartsease by the amazing EcnelisEsion. You can see the more up-tempo version of the dance on Youtube.

- The Entwine is a made-up dance from the novel Entwine by Heather Dixon. "The Entwine, also known as the Gentleman's Catch, is an amusing and challenging redowa suitable for accomplished partners. Of Eathesburian origin, it dates to circa 1635, when Chevalier De Eathe (also known as the High King D'eathe) reigned. As magic was common in this time period, the High King would catch and 'entwine' people's souls after they had died, and subject them to the darkest of magic.

"Over the years, the Entwine has evolved to a simple charade of this concept. Similar to a trois-temps waltz, it is danced in open position with a long sash. The lady and gentleman each take ends of the sash, which their hands must not leave. In a series of quick steps, the gentleman either twists the sash around the lady's wrists, pinning them (also known as the Catch), or the lady eludes capture within three minutes' time."

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_**Suggested Reading List:**_

- _Caves and Rivers_ by OceanFire9  
- _Changes: Book 3 of the Collegium Chronicles_ by Mercedes Lackey  
- Disney's _The Other Side of Heaven_  
- _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon  
- _The Fire's Fuel_ by JasperIsAManlyMan  
- _Shalador's Lady_ by Anne Bishop


	66. Don't Walk Away

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**VERY IMPORTANT**__**:**_ _so apparently the Createspace website is really frustrating/annoying/confusing. And apparently you can't order both my books together? Which is dumb. So I've decided, if you guys would rather just get them on Amazon, totally go for it. At least they're being bought, right? You should be able to just type in the titles or my author's name into the search bar. Hopefully that makes your lives easier. Sorry for the hullaballoo - cripes. Why do things have to be so complicated? I hate complicated. My life's complicated enough. Blergh. But yeah, we're strapped for rent AGAIN, so for those who haven't bought my books because the website was being a pain in the butt, try Amazon and I will love you forever. Shipping is cheaper, too. I think it's like, $3.99 or something._

_**So just type in "Glass LA Knight" or "Their Forever Family LA Knight" into the Amazon search bar and it should be fine. My mom already did it. =D**_

_**Sandra/Lylabeth:**_ _I keep meaning to ask you, because I forgot - what is The Thirteenth Rider a fanfic for? And who is it by again? So I can find it._

_**Author's Note:**_ _So here we are, with the latest chapter in Once Upon a Time. Danger looms. A few things get explained. Some sneaky kitties prove their worth, lol. And we meet a new friend! Well, not so new. He was mentioned in "A Hero Comes Home," one of the Once Upon a Time separate one-shots. But still - new friend. Yay. _

_And ow, I hurt myself. Cripes. July is my anti-happy month, I think. All kinds of crud is going on. I hate life. Well, no, I love life. And fanfiction. And you guys. Hearing from you makes me very happy when I would otherwise want to be squished by a bus. I hate everything else. Like corn. Do you know how boring it is to eat corn out of a can? And it's sweet corn. Ew. I hate sweet corn. Sweet corn is a misnomer - that stuff tastes like starchy water. It should be called... um... watery corn. Corny H2O? I don't know. Something. Misnomer! For real. And the sound fork-tines make when they scrape on tin... eeek. It's like nails on a chalkboard. Or the inside of a washing machine. Anyone ever done that? Bleh. Painful._

_Sorry, I am so done ranting now. Enjoy this chapter. There is funny stuff, sweet stuff, scary stuff, sad stuff, and "oh my gosh I can't believe that" stuff, so I hope you all like it. I love all of you._

_Huggles,_

_LA_

_**PS - Guest**__... you are an anonymous person. Are you the same Anonymous from chapter 60? Or are you a different anonymous person? I can't tell. I'm just curious so I know kinda who you are. =)_

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**Chapter Sixty-Six**

**Don't Walk Away**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of** **an Explanation from an Unexpected Source, a Missing Page, Lambs to the Slaughter, Playing False, a Bribe and a Boon, a Walk, and a Ride**

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Nuada was in no mood to put up with childish admonishments when A'du'la'di poked his head into the study later that morning. "Get out," the prince growled.

"Maybe you could send her flowers," the boy began.

"_Out_." The word was a low snarl. A'du'la'di swallowed hard, but came all the way into the room and closed the door. Nuada felt a headache beginning just behind his left eye. "Boy, if you do not get out of this study by the time I am on my feet, I will thrash-"

"You said it was better to break your own heart than to break your honor," the cougar boy interrupted hurriedly. "So... so it's prob'ly better to break your own bones than break your honor, too. So I don't care if you thrash me. I mean, I _do_ care, 'cause it'll hurt, but you said fear can't stand in the way of what you owe to a vassal, and it wouldn't be fair if a lord or lady owed stuff to a vassal but the vassal didn't owe stuff back. So I owe the _a'ge'lv_ and I have to help her with... um... you. I guess. 'Cause boy, you guys need it."

Hearing his own words turned back on him should have infuriated him, but the cub looked so earnest and nervous and it was clear to the prince the child was perilously close to tears. Yet here he stood, in defiance of Nuada's orders. A little impressed and more than a little mollified despite himself, the crown prince settled back in his chair and regarded A'du'la'di with cool appraisal.

"When a vassal wishes to speak to a noble on behalf of his master or mistress, and he does not wish to give offense, protocol dictates he knock first."

Whiskers pricked forward. Cat-like ears swiveled. "If I leave, you're gonna lock the door and then I won't know how to get back in."

"Knowing you, you would raise such a ruckus that I would not dare," the prince replied dryly. "Step out, and knock." Unsure, the boy still complied. "Enter." A'du'la'di came back in and bowed. "Very good. Now, what is it you wished to speak to me about? Be brief."

"Um... so, okay. Um. I think, Your Highness, that we should have a man-talk."

Nuada fought not to choke on a sudden tickle in his throat. It felt an awful lot like laughter. As this was the first time he'd felt like laughing since proposing to Dylan, the Elven warrior decided to let the interview unfold. "Oh?"

"Yeah. So I kinda know a secret, because 'Sa'ti told me, and I can't tell you, because it's a secret, but if I tell you something else, then it'll help _A'ge'lv_ Dylan, and it'll be a good idea, and then everything will be better with you guys. And 'Sa'ti said I should explain about the temple 'cause you don't know about it, and maybe then you won't be so mad." Folding his arms, Nuada raised his eyebrows and watched the little boy without saying a word. A'du swallowed. "Was that brief?"

"You know a secret," Nuada said. "One of Lady Dylan's secrets." The child nodded. "And you cannot tell me the secret."

A'du shook his head. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."

"I see. Yet you can give me another piece of information separate from this secret, and if you do, it will help the current situation." The boy nodded again. "And I take it part of this comes with advice of some sort, that I would be remiss in ignoring."

"What's 'amiss' mean?"

"Remiss," Nuada corrected. "It would be a bad idea if I ignored this advice."

The ewah child nodded vehemently. "Uh-huh. Bad idea. Really bad idea."

"I see." The tickle in his throat threatened to expand as he murmured, "And this is what will comprise our... man-talk?" He honestly felt a bit foolish even using the somewhat silly child's phrase.

"Uh-huh."

Leaning forward to prop his elbows on his desk, the prince steepled his fingers. "Have a seat, A'du'la'di." There was one chair, situated at a bit of a cockeyed angle to the desk. The cougar pushed it into the proper place and hopped into it. His bright gray eyes barely peeped above the desk. The corner of Nuada's mouth twitched. "You may sit on those books, if it will help."

He gestured to a thick atlas and an even thicker book with no title on spine or cover, resting on their sides on a low bookshelf. Both were bound in sturdy leather. A'du poked at the bigger book with a ginger fingertip. Opened it. Inside were words in a language that he didn't know, but the letters were in English. He flipped a couple pages, intrigued. On the third page were two lists. He didn't know those words, either.

_Acacia - A ghrá mo chroí... Aloe - Sosanna... Arbutus - Chailleann tú mé... Asphodel - Gráin agat dom, nach tú?_

"What's this?"

"A compendium," the prince murmured. "Of various flora and their meanings and uses, both as a language and for other things." The child blinked, clearly confused. "It is a list of the meanings of various flowers and other plants," Nuada clarified. "Now close it and bring it here." They were so heavy that A'du had to carry them separately from the shelf to the chair. Once situated on top of the massive books, A'du's shoulders and head were easier to see.

"All right. Let us commence with our man-talk."

"Okay. So here's the deal, Your Highness. So _A'ge'lv_ Dylan is doing something right now, but I can't tell you what, because it's a secret. But it's for you. And once she's done, you need to be really, really nice to her because she's sad and she knows you're mad and she's trying to make you not mad anymore. And maybe you should get her flowers. And give her a hug."

One brow quirked. "A hug?"

A'du made a face. "I guess you guys could kiss. You've had your cootie shots, right?"

Nuada closed his eyes. "Let us say that I have," the legendary Elven warrior replied. "Pray tell, what sort of flowers do you suggest?"

The cougar child scrunched up his face in thought. Absently flexed his claws. Nuada eyed the sharp little crescents, making sure they stayed far away from his polished ebony desk.

"Um... I dunno. Roses, maybe. Girls like roses, right? They're romantic and stuff, right? Oh, but I forgot, I have to tell you about the temple, and why it's so important to the _a'ge'lv_. Then you won't be mad at her anymore."

Sighing, Nuada said, "I am not angry with her, A'du'la'di."

"Um... well... you kinda _sounded_ like it before, at the dance lesson. But I'm on your side about that Lord Cíaran guy. I think you should've chopped his ugly head off. After thrashing him, 'cause you're good at that kind of thing. He called _A'ge'lv_ Dylan a whore." A'du paused. "Your Highness... what's a whore?"

Amusement at the question and irritation at the reminder twined together in Nuada's belly. "A whore is a woman who has sex with someone for money."

Righteous indignation flashed across the child's face. "_A'ge'lv_ Dylan wouldn't do that!" Another pause. "Um... what's sex?"

Nuada bit his tongue and wished fiercely for Dylan to come to his rescue. "Sex is how children are made."

"Oh. People pay girls to make babies? That's kinda weird. What do they want the babies for? Why don't they just make babies on their own?"

"Ask your mistress." When A'du'la'di opened his mouth to protest, Nuada added, "Healers are always best to ask about that sort of thing." After a moment's thought, the boy nodded. The prince prompted, "You wished to speak to me about the Star Kindler's temple."

A'du smiled. "Yeah. Um, hang on, I gotta thingy..." The child pulled a small illustrated card out of his trouser pocket. "Got it. Oh, it bent. Oops." He gently unfolded the bent corner and put it on Nuada's desk. "So at church last week, someone mentioned the temple, and me and 'Sa'ti-"

"'Sa'ti and I," the prince corrected automatically. He scanned the picture on the card. It looked more like a palace than a temple. Then again, the Star Kindler _was_ also called the High King of the World.

"Yeah, 'Sa'ti and I, we asked _A'ge'lv_ Dylan all about it, and why it's so important, and she told us all kinds of stuff. But the important thing for you guys is that she really wants to get married in the temple, but she can't if she marries you, because you can't get in."

The prince's brows shot upward. "Oh? Can I not? I _am_ crown prince of Bethmoora."

Shaking his head, A'du explained, "Nuh-uh. No one can get in the High King's temple without His permission, which you get by following His rules. You can go into the... the... the thingy-place. Um... the visitor's center! But not _in_ the temple. Even if you follow the Star Kindler, sometimes you can't even get into the temple then. There's all kinds of things you have to do, like make sure you go to church all the time and follow the Word of Wisdom - I don't know what that is, I forgot to ask - and lotsa stuff. But she really wants to get married there. 'Specially if she marries _you_, Your Highness."

Nuada blinked. "Why especially if she marries me?"

The child's excitement dimmed. "'Cause she's a human, and you're one of the People. So you'll live a really, really long time, but she won't. We're all gonna live a lot longer than she will. And so if you guys don't get married in the temple, it's just until one of you dies, right? Uaithne talked to me about it when I asked. He said the words you say if you guys get married are... um... mé a thabhairt... um..."

"'Mé a thabhairt duit mo chroi beidh ár saol a dhéanamh.' I give you my heart till our life shall be done," Nuada murmured in English, staring off into the distance. That was not the whole of the vow, not by a long road, but... but it _would_ be the part that caught Dylan's attention. The disparity in their lifespans. The fact that she would grow old and die, while he... until she died, he would remain as she saw him now, but she... but Dylan would...

"What has that to do with marrying in the temple?" Nuada demanded to chase away his morbid thoughts. "It would still be until one of us-"

"No it wouldn't," A'du'la'di contradicted. "That's what the temple's for. That's why she wants it so much. Er, part of why. She wants to be married to you for always and always. Tsu's'di explained it to me after I talked to you yesterday. If you get married in the temple, then when she... when she dies, she'll still be your wife. And when _you_ die, you can find her in Heaven and be married to her still. See?"

Stunned, Nuada sat back. Wedded beyond death? His not just until mortality snatched her away, but his for all eternity. The two of them together until the end of all things. Until the stars fell to earth and the sun turned to dust. He would have to say goodbye to her, yes, but only for a little space. Only for a single lifetime. And once that lifetime was over, he could... he could see her again. Be with her again. Always. For a thousand lifetimes. For a hundred-thousand. For forever. No wonder she wanted it so badly for herself; never mind every other unselfish reason she had for wanting it.

But that was a dream obtainable - if the Star Kindler's people could be believed - if one followed that royal God. And Nuada did not. Could not. Not after thousands of years of bloodshed and darkness and death. Not after thousands of years of despair and futile prayers to any god that would listen to save his people from the slow death at the hands of the humans. How could he follow any god, much less a God that had ignored his pleas all that time?

"Um... Your Highness?" The Elven prince wrenched himself from his thoughts and focused on the child watching him with nervousness in every line of his body. "Um... am I... am I in trouble? Your face looks kinda funny. Not funny-haha. Funny-weird. Am I in trouble?"

He shook his head. "No, A'du'la'di. It is simply... simply that you have given me much to think over. I thank you for this talk. It has been most informative."

"Is that good?"

A small smile surprised Nuada by tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, A'du. It is. Off with you, now. I need to think."

"Real quick, I got something else for you, too." The boy pulled a small, leather-bound book out of his shirt pocket. "You gotta take real good care of it, 'cause it's _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's, but it's important. I dunno why, exactly, but I just felt I oughtta show it to you. You should read it. It's her favorite story ever. You should read it before you talk to her or anything. Just... just 'cause."

Feral eyes glanced at the cover. _Beauty and the Beast_ glinted in delicate gold plate across the green leather above a gold-embossed rose. Nuada carefully opened the book. Tiny detailed watercolor illustrations graced every other page. The dark script danced elegantly across the fragile paper. The book was small, perhaps a hundred pages in total. Dylan's favorite story?

The cougar cub scootched off the chair and went to the door. He stopped before opening it. Bowed. With his hand on the doorknob, the child tossed back over his shoulder, "Don't forget, Your Highness - roses are romantic. Girls love 'em." A'du practically skipped out of the room, beaming.

Nuada sighed. The boy had forgotten to close the door.

**.**

Lunch was brought to Dylan sometime later by Fiona, one of the hob-maids. Someone had thought to tell the kitchen staff to include a meal on the tray for 'Sa'ti. Dylan wondered absently who might have thought of that. She ate absently as she pored over the letter-in-progress. It had to be... well, she doubted she could make it perfect. Nuada had had centuries of practice to write such a perfect apology as the one he'd given her after their first big fight. But it had to be as good as Dylan could get it.

The day passed. She kept working. 'Sa'ti left the room a couple times to replace a picture book with another story to study. Her little whiskers and ears were pricked forward in concentration. Sometimes her tail would lash back and forth. Other times she would smile and purr to herself, pleased with something.

Dylan sat back and studied the rought draft of her letter to Nuada. It was full of cross-outs and word-inserts. It was clumsy and it sounded a lot like she was making excuses to him. She wished she had the prince's skill with words. He'd come up with that beautiful letter so easily. Dylan blamed that incredibly useful talent on the prince lessons he must've had as a kid.

Dinner came and went; with it came a formal missive from the king's secretary informing her that Wednesday night was the formal dinner reception for the Midwinter guests. She could only be grateful it wasn't sooner. Wednesday was her last real day of work before her two-week vacation. Since she dealt with teenagers and school kids, who often took winter break to go traveling, she didn't work much during the winter holidays, except with her juvie kids and the kids at Saint Vincent's. Her workload would be cut down almost to a third of what it had been. She'd have more time for Nuala and her "princess lessons."

Hopefully she and Nuada would be back together, but without this pain between them, by then.

As a psychiatrist, Dylan knew that the prince had taken a huge risk in asking her to marry him. Not so much politically, since the king had been encouraging their union, but a great emotional risk. Had Nuada ever asked someone else to marry him before? He'd been in love before, yes, but... but marriage was a whole step farther. And for a king's heir, it was an even bigger step.

It was an act of trust, in a way. Nuada had offered her his heart on a silver plate and she'd had to throw it away. At least, that must have been how it seemed to him. He'd willingly surrendered control to her - the next chapter of his life, dictated by _her_ answer - and then it had gone in a way he'd not only failed to anticipate, but in a direction that hurt. It must have hurt so much...

She was still thinking about that, and the letter, and the fact that despite his pain he'd come to save her from Cíaran, when Dylan went to bed that night and fell into fitful sleep. Confused and sleep-jumbled thoughts chased her through flickering nightmares of silver, ebony, and bruising hands.

She woke groggy just as the sun peeped in through her bedroom window. Stifling a yawn, she got up to get ready for the Sabbath.

**.**

Taking what Eimh called "a happy bath" - a bath with jonquil-scented oil and Elven bubblebath that carried the fragrance of morning glory - Dylan drew a deep breath and sank under the wondrously hot water. She'd smell like flowers when she got out. That would be nice. The scent of flowers always cheered her up.

When she surfaced, it was to see Eimh carefully carrying a crystal bottle tucked under her chin. The contents were a transparent, jewel-like cerise. The white hound set the bottle onto the tiled floor with a small _tink_ beside two other containers she must've brought while her person was beneath the water. Golden-brown eyes met Dylan's and the dog gave her a puppy grin.

*You will smell pretty. Master likes it when you smell pretty. And I made sure these were pretty flowers. I read the labels.*

Dylan started in surprise and nearly inhaled some of the pale blue bubbles foaming atop the bath water. "You can _read_?"

*A little bit. Not as much as Mother. Only all the letters and some words. There are pictures on the labels, so it was not hard.*

Eimh touched the tip of her nose to the top of the red-filled bottle. Sure enough, etched into the thick crystal stopper was a picture of a sprig of long, slender, bell-like flowers and the word _aloe_ underneath. Dylan stared at it, then at the other two bottles. Their contents glittered violet and lilac behind the crystal. On the tops were the symbols of two flowers. Beneath the flowers were the words _Mallow_ and _Bellflower._

The mortal blinked. Glanced at the hound. Frowned. Eimh seemed to be trying to give her person a very innocent puppy look. Now why, Dylan wondered, would her dog be trying to give her the innocent "I'm not plotting anything" look?

"Why these?" Dylan asked casually.

Eimh flopped down beside the bathtub and lolled onto her back. *Because I love them a lot, and I get to go with you to your worship today. So I will always be able to smell you easy.*

Faeries - except royal faeries, and some shapeshifters - couldn't lie. So Dylan knew Eimh was telling the truth. And she didn't think the hound was old enough to have the skill to manipulate the truth to her advantage, the way a lot of fae could. So that had to be the reason. But for some reason, Dylan wasn't entirely convinced. But the hound was now eyeing her with such pleading in those big, honey-gold eyes that Dylan sighed and took the aloe-scented soap in hand. Why not? Using the wildwood soap only depressed her, anyway.

An ice-blue eye peeked out from a black, furry face to meet Eimh's gaze from beside the bathtub. Sétanta grinned a doggy grin. Eimh grinned back. Step one of their mission: success. Perhaps their mistress's little cat-boy-puppy knew what he was doing after all.

**.**

Once out of the bath and dressed, Dylan went to go wake up the children. A frisson of panic swept down her spine when she found A'du'la'di's bed empty. The panic faded when she found him sprawled on one of the sitting room sofas with a very large book under his body, snoring away. Uaithne, who sat in a chair by the sofa, got to his feet and bowed to the mortal when she came into the room.

"My apologies, my lady," the Butcher murmured, head still bowed. "The young page came out of his room early this morning and said he'd had an ill dream. I told him he might stay out here with Ailbho and me for a little while, and we lost track of time." The guard straightened. Glanced at the sleeping child. "He looks to be the same age as Tadgh," Uaithne said softly.

It took her a moment to remember that Tadgh was Uaithne's young son, whom the royal guard rarely had the opportunity to see. She smiled at the guard. "No problem. Were you worried about waking the others?"

Uaithne inclined his head. "Butcher armor is not exactly the stealthiest thing to wear. It is why we are not assassins or spies like other royal guards from some other kingdoms. And my wife keeps cats, to deal with the village mice; I know felines are easy to wake and hard to get to sleep on a good night. I did not wish to wake your little maid."

"Understood. Thanks. Well, time for the little munchkin to wake up, anyway," she said, and went to rouse her page.

**.**

"I cannot believe you made me get on my knees and apologize to that... that... _human_," Cíaran snarled. His sister sank down beside him on the settee in Bres's rooms and placed a cold washcloth to the bruise swiftly darkening over his left eye, courtesy of the crown prince. The disguised gancanaugh hissed at the pain. "And then you attacked me-"

"You _did_ make a move without his permission," Dierdre murmured to her brother. "Oh, hold still. You're bleeding again." With her free hand, she plucked a handkerchief from where she kept a few hidden in her sleeves and touched it ever so gently to the cut dripping amber blood from Cíaran's split eyebrow. "There. Now, Brother, you should know better than to move without our prince's leave-"

"_You_ have done it, Sister," Cíaran replied. "Why does he allow you such freedom? Merely because he enjoys sporting with you?"

Stung, she drew back from him. "Brother... His Highness punished me for acting without his leave." She let the glamour slip just a little, to reveal the scar gracing her cheekbone where the Fomorian prince had backhanded her while wearing his signet ring. "As he punished you. Now be still. I must make sure your ribs are not broken."

Bres lounged in an armchair, watching the two gancanaugh. Every so often, Dierdre would shoot him a nervous glance. Good. She, at least, had learned her lesson about respecting her prince and master. But it seemed Cíaran had not figured it out quite yet. Not even after the very thorough beating he had received at the hands - or rather, hooves - of Arrachd on Bres's order.

The Fomorian prince glanced at the skinless, centaur-like nuckelavee, who grinned at Dierdre while the female gancanaugh tended to her brother's fresh injuries. Dierdre bared her teeth in a silent hiss at the one-eyed bogle. Arrachd rolled his eye and went into his own room after bowing to his prince.

Cíaran had spent the majority of the previous day lying in bed after his punishment, his sister hovering over him and murmuring soothing nonsense while his superior fae healing knitted most of the broken bones back together. Only at midnight, when Bres had summoned Dierdre to see to _his_ needs instead of the Fomorian lord's injuries, had the disguised gancanaugh been left alone. When Dierdre had been allowed to leave the prince's bed, she'd gone straight back to her brother.

Upon rising Sunday morning, Bres had inquired as to Cíaran's recovery. The faerie lord had replied he was recovering quite well. Bres had informed his friend that that was good. Wonderful, in fact. Then the Fomorian crown prince had proceeded to deliver his own beating to his old friend.

Dierdre's good morning kiss that morning had been a little cold, Bres reflected, thinking of that well-earned trouncing. It wasn't as if he'd done even half as much damage as Arrachd. Cíaran hadn't needed to be carried to bed after the prince was through him. And the gancanaugh had only blacked out once from the pain.

"You nearly ruined everything," Bres said into the tense silence between the gancanaugh siblings. "If you had succeeded in goading Silverlance into attacking you, what do you think would have happened?" The prince had to give his friend credit; Cíaran actually had the grace to look sheepish. "He would have tried to kill you and _I_ would have been obliged to kill the princess in order to protect you. All the work you and I and Bírog have put into fogging Nuala's mind and powers, wasted. And then we would've had a bloodbath on our hands, because we would have had to silence all the guards, as well as those cat children and the human, and then figure out a way to escape not only the castle, but the bloody country."

Cíaran hissed at the mention of the mortal. "I apologize, Your Highness. I overreacted. It is hard not to, when you forbid me from... indulging, and then dangle live bait right in front of my face."

"Brother, she's not even pretty."

The gancanaugh snorted, then winced when pain lanced his side. "Beggars cannot be choosers, my sister. She is _female._ I am a gancanaugh male, and I have had no one to play with, to feed on, since we left home." He slanted a look at Bres from the corner of his eye. Allowed the glamour masking him as Fomorian to drop, revealing his crimson-slitted, sclera-less black eyes. "I am _hungry._"

Dierdre sighed. Slumped against her brother's side, dropping her head to his shoulder. Cíaran grunted, but didn't tell her to get off. "As am I, Brother. As am I. I feel your suffering. Bres will not even let us play with the servants," she added as if lamenting to herself, but she surreptitiously eyed the prince. Bres seemed utterly indifferent. "Everything is moving so slowly," Dierdre sighed. "When will I have my turn with the prince? At least then I will have something to _do_."

Bres smiled. That brought both Dierdre and Cíaran to attention in an instant. Malevolence dripped like sweet venom from his voice when the Fomorian crown prince said, "I mean to ask for Princess Nuala's hand at the Midwinter Ball. Bírog's spells and your help, Cíaran, should ensure a positive answer. Dierdre," and there was a fond look in his blue eyes when he glanced at her. "As my apology gift to you, my sweet, since I know it will vex you to see me with her, you may move on the prince then. _After_ the ball. As for you, Cíaran... Nuada will want you gone for what you did yesterday. _That_ is why I gave you some very impressive bruises. He will see that I have dealt with the problem. More importantly, the king will see. So if Nuada does not accept what punishment I haved meted out, King Balor will be less likely to insist on you leaving. But be very careful, my friend. If either Silverlance or the king demand an oath of you, you will have to word it very carefully."

Cíaran snorted again. Winced. Snarled when his little sister smacked him on the arm. "All I must say is that I do not intend any harm to the human."

Dierdre arched one delicate, garnet brow. "Would that not be lying, my brother?"

"I do not mean her any true harm," Cíaran replied. "I mean to watch, and enjoy myself, while you take her apart, Sister. I will not be doing anything. Merely sitting back and enjoying my sister having fun. I know you've been quite bored. I'll not begrudge you your sport. You can even have all of her internal organs."

"How very generous. Thank you, Brother."

"In the meantime," Prince Bres interrupted, still smiling, "I have a surprise for you, Cíaran. An apology, as it were, for keeping you on such a short leash thus far. Perhaps it will make things easier for you. It should be arriving right... now." A hesitant knock sounded at the door to the prince's suite. Bres's smile turned thin and feral. Cíaran's eyes widened as he caught the scent of hob maiden. Bres called, "Enter."

They were both skinny, Cíaran thought a little critically. That was the problem with hobs - they never developed _real_ curves. Not like Elves or wood sprites or river faeries. Nowhere near as curvaceous and lush as human females. But they were young, just stepping into full adulthood, and pretty. And nervous. Now why, he wondered with a cruel smile, would the poor little things be nervous?

"Beggin' Yer Highness's pardon, sir," the taller of the two hob maids murmured, bobbing a curtsy, "but ye sent fer one of the maids, didn' ye?" Cíaran noted with delight that her seven-fingered hands were shaking as they tangled in her dark skirts. And she had very long, curly hair. Cíaran _liked_ curly hair.

The other maid curtsied as well. She kept her eyes on the floor and said nothing. A shy little thing. Her hair fell to her shoulders; unlike most hobs, who had black hair, hers was a lovely chestnut brown. It, too, was curly. Points in their favor.

"Yes," the prince replied in a voice as smooth as poisoned honey. "Lord Cíaran's room is not quite to his liking, is that not correct, Cíaran?" The gancanaugh, all of his masks back in place, inclined his head. Putting a little ice into the words, Bres added, "Fix it."

"Yes, Yer Highness. O-of course. W-what is it yer wantin' us to do, exactly?"

With liquid grace, Cíaran rose to his feet. Tilted his head just a little. A lock of dark hair fell across one eye. "Come with me and I will show you."

The hobs paled. Swallowed. Glanced at each other. "V-very good, m'lord." They trailed behind the Fomorian lord as he made his way toward the door that led to his own bedroom. Hesitated just on the threshold of the bedchamber. But they were together. That was why maids always went to a lord's room in pairs - to protect them in case the noble tried to interfere with them. That way at least one of them could run for help if needed. They would be all right.

"What are your names?" Cíaran asked suddenly, fixing them with his dark jade stare.

"Lilé," said the black-haired hob, ducking her head shyly. A jet curl fell across her cheek. Cíaran's fingers twitched. He could feel the slickness of Branwen's Tears seeping from his skin. "Lilé Hob, if it pleases ye, m'lord."

"F-F-Fiona," stammered the other. "Fiona Hob. If it p-pleases you, m-my lord."

A smile sharply edged with cruelty bloomed across Cíaran's mouth. He lifted both hands and pressed them against the hob maids' cheeks. Their mouths dropped open. Their eyes went wide, then glassy. He drew his fingers down over their cheeks, alongside their necks, before tangling both hands in the soft thickness of black and chestnut curls.

"It pleases me very much, Lilé and Fiona," Cíaran murmured, and kicked his bedroom door closed.

Still in the front room, Bres settled back in his chair and smiled benevolently. Dierdre sighed. "And what about me, my love? Where shall I go to indulge myself?" Affecting a pout, she lamented, "You are so busy with Her Highness, you have almost no time for me anymore. And I must wait nearly two weeks before I can have the prince all to myself? You are too cruel, my prince. Too cruel by half."

Bres rose to his feet and offered a hand to the gancanaugh woman. "But dearest, I am not busy now. I'll not be needed until Cíaran finishes with his toys, since someone of royal blood will have to glamour their memories. I have time now to indulge you."

Dierdre smiled and took the prince's hand.

**.**

Nuada bit back a growl as the door to the king's study opened and the chamberlain ushered him inside. He had been summoned by his father and then been left waiting on the doorstep like a wayward child interrupting the adults' business with playtime. Nuada forced his eyes to remain a blank and emotionless topaz instead of simmering hot molten copper as he approached his father's desk and bowed.

"You have played me false, Crown Prince," the king said without preamble.

The Elven prince stiffened. Thought of the brief message from Wink, delivered by a young and quite clever jack-o-lantern from the East Village. Had someone seen the swift and silent faerie messenger? Did Nuada's father know he'd had word from Wink? That message, and all that it contained... could the king attempt to use it against him? He thought of sneak attacks by dipsa serpents, child-murdering dullahan, the corpsely shandymen hungering for human lives, and violet-winged nocs.

His voice was toneless when he said, "Sire?"

"Our bargain was that I would allow you to spare Crown Prince Zhenjin Azurefire and that my healers would rectify whatever damage done to him if you asked the Lady Dylan to be your wife. You have not done so. You have broken the terms of our agreement... Nuada?"

Balor straightened in his chair as his son's face went pale and the topaz eyes turned a xanthous-tinted gray, like dingy gold. He had only seen that color in his son's eyes a few times before: during the first weeks and months after Cethlenn's death, during the beginning of the first war with the humans, and more often during the tail-end of the final war with the children of Adam. Though then, the sickly gray-gold of despair and sorrow had often shifted as swift as quicksilver to the sanguine, molten bronze of nearly-insane rage.

Not so now. There was only pain in the prince's gaze. Balor wondered if Nuada were even bothering to try and hide the depths of his sorrow even as the king got to his feet and went to his son, guiding him gently to the visitor's chair beside the large hawthorn desk.

"What is it, my son? What has happened?"

"She refused me," Nuada whispered. Bit his tongue until the sweetness of his own blood flooded his mouth. He had not said the words aloud until now. Had not given voice to the fact that one of only two people who had never rejected him had finally done so. Not in so many words.

"I kept my word," the prince managed from between clenched teeth. "I asked her. I took her to where the hawthorn tree sleeps. I asked her to be my wife. She refused me." Nuada met his father's worried gaze. "Did you know she would?"

Bewildered and concerned for the hollowness in Nuada's voice, for the color of his son's eyes, Balor murmured, "No, my son. I had not thought... I would not have had you ask her if I thought she would refuse you. Why should I?"

"To teach me a lesson," the prince said without inflection. Balor reached out on impulse to lay a hand on Nuada's shoulder, but drew it back at the last moment. "To break my spirit. What better way to do it, than to show me that even the woman I love thinks me nothing but a soulless monster?"

"My son-"

"It does not matter," the crown prince said suddenly. His voice was empty, his eyes now a glittering topaz without even a spark of life. No sadness, no anger, no hurt. There was nothing but a court mask. He got to his feet. "Forgive me, Majesty. I do not know what came over me. Was that all you wished to speak to me about?"

A choice stood before the king in that moment - to allow his son to put up the walls of court and rank between them, to refuse to pursue the undercurrent of grief in his son's voice... or refuse to let Nuada walk away once more. Balor still remembered that first night's meeting. The sentence of house-arrest. Taking the Silver Lance. Trying to show, with a less formal goodnight, that while the king was unhappy, the father was glad of his son's return. He remembered Nuada refusing to acknowledge his father. Refusing to acknowledge Balor as anyone but king.

Balor cleared his throat. "It has been a long time since I could catch you in a lie," he murmured. Saw the way his son tensed, but did not remark on it. "Not since you were a little boy, I think. Before you came into your full power. But I have caught you in one now." Nuada opened his mouth. Balor beat him to the mark. "This _does_ matter to you, my son. I can see it plainly. You wear your court masks nearly every moment, yet I can see your hurt now."

Nuada flicked his gaze to a spot somewhere over Balor's shoulder. "It is nothing to concern yourself over, Majesty. This... distraction will not interfere with my duties as crown prince, I can assure you. There is no need for you to be concerned."

"My son-"

"_At all_," the prince added sharply. "If that is all, Sire?"

"What happened when you asked Lady Dylan to wed you?" Balor insisted. "Perhaps you said or did something that-"

"Of course," Nuada spat. "Of course it was _I_ who drove _her_ away. It could not possibly be that _she_ is the one at fault. She must be the angel, the Star Kindler's pet, and incapable of any sins. She must be the innocent maiden who, out of the goodness of her heart, deigns to bestow her love upon the heartless beast! Of course I was mad to hope that someone as good and kind and beautiful and gentle and..."

With a visible effort, he reigned in his fury and hurt. Cast a cold glance on the king. "Very clever, Majesty, but I'll not bare my soul for your amusement or your vindication. Monster I may be, but _she_ does not know it. If you want to know why she rejected my suit," Nuada snarled, "ask the lady yourself."

After a moment, the king murmured, "I could command you to tell me, Nuada. By the power of your name."

Feral eyes widened. Nuada stepped back. "You swore to _Mathair_ that you would never command Nuala or I that way. Not ever. You swore on the Darkness that you would never reveal my true name, or use it against me in any way. You swore, Father! On the Darkness, and on your throne! On your crown! On Mother's _life_!"

"Yes, well, your mother is dead, isn't she?" Balor snapped. Nuada flinched. "And you seek to take my throne and my crown."

"I took a sword for you! What more do you want of me? What other way can I prove my loyalty to you?"

To Nuada's shock, his father merely waved the words away and said in a cold and regal voice, "If you did anything to that innocent girl to turn her devotion to you into something that allowed her to refuse-"

"I did _nothing_ to her! She..." Nuada drew a sharp, hissing breath between clenched teeth. Fought for calm. "As an oath on the Darkness does not seem to satisfy you where I am concerned, _Father,_ I then swear _on Mother's grave_ that I have not harmed Lady Dylan, nor even so much as frightened her. If you seek enemies of hers, look to Prince Bres and Lord Cíaran, not to me. I suggest you send them home ere long."

Aged amber eyes regarded the prince for a long moment, as if weighing something. "Prince Bres has asked permission to wed your sister. I have no reason to believe her answer would be unfavorable. I cannot exactly send him packing."

Nuada felt the jolt of shock and betrayal low in his stomach. Nuala had said nothing of this to him. No one had. Not Nuala, not his father, not Bres. The prince struggled to wrap his mind around this news while the king watched him with a merciless gaze. "Nuala... and Bres?" Nuada shook his head as if to clear it of confusion. "Send Cíaran home, then. He is a greater threat to Dylan than I. He-"

"Prince Bres himself informed me as to what Lord macAengus said and did yesterday morning. He also informed me that Lord macAengus had been suitably punished. Judging by the bruises I saw and Healer Conn's report, I would agree. Your request is denied, Crown Prince. Was there anything else?"

"No, Majesty," the prince said icily. "Nothing else. If I am dismissed?"

Balor watched his son walk out and sighed, sinking back into his chair. How did their conversations always end up going this way? And why? For the first time it occurred to the king to ask why it was so difficult to even have a simple conversation with his son anymore.

If only he knew the answer.

**.**

When his retinue of guards moved to approach him to fall into formation, Nuada sent them such a look of vicious loathing that they actually paused for a moment. Only two small shadows detaching from a wall softened the look by even the tiniest increment.

The Elven warrior folded his arms and glared at the two ewah cubs that approached him with something hidden behind their backs. Unlike the guards, this didn't phase the children at all. They stopped a couple feet from their prince.

"I thought the pair of you had church," Nuada said.

'Sa'ti nodded. "We already went. It was fun." She offered him the thing she'd been keeping behind her back - a blue-frosted pastry. "Brought you a cupcake."

A'du'la'di held up a similar treat. "Me, too. Rórdán from the kitchens had a birthday so we had cupcakes in Share Time, but me and 'Sa'ti... I mean, 'Sa'ti and I thought maybe we should give them to you instead as a bribe."

A golden brow arched. Despite himself, the childish chatter - and the sentiment behind the pastries - soothed some of the raw ache in Nuada's chest from the meeting with his father. "Oh? A bribe? I regret disappointing you, but princes do not take bribes."

The cubs exchanged glances. A'du grinned. "Okay, not a bribe. It's an act of service."

"I beg your pardon?"

A'du's grin grew even wider. "When a vassal does a service for their lord or lady, they can ask a boon, right? That's what it said in _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's etiquette book that Tsu's'di was reading before we left for church. And since the _a'ge'lv_ is our lady, but you're her lord, it counts when we do stuff for you, too."

"And what boon would you ask of the crown prince of Bethmoora?" Nuada wondered with no little incredulity.

Each child clasped one of his hands. "Will you play with us?"

"I... what?"

"Play a game with us," 'Sa'ti pleaded, tugging on his hand. "Please, Your Highness? Please? We know you're sad, but maybe if you play with us, you'll have fun, and maybe then you'll be happy."

"Or at least, happier than right now," A'du added. "So will you? Please? We'll even let you pick the game. Since you're a prince and all. Or maybe you could show us something."

"Show you something," Nuada echoed. "Such as?"

A'du scrunched up his face in studious concentration. "Um... well... you could teach us how to dance. Or how to beat up bad guys who want to hurt _A'ge'lv_ Dylan. Or you could take us to the stables. I was talking to Rórdán before, during Primary, and he said you're the best rider in the whole kingdom. Maybe you could show us?"

"After you eat the cupcakes," 'Sa'ti said. "They'll make you happy, too."

Nuada looked down at them, conscious of the Butcher Guards' eyes on him and the two children. 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di gazed up at him beseechingly, hopeful smiles on their earnest little faces.

Take them to the stables. And what else would he do this day if not that? Get drunk in his study? Practice alone with his sword in the salle? Finish making the arrangements he'd begun for Dylan's birthday, which was the day before the Solstice? Sit in on a council meeting that would be sure to send his blood boiling because none of the councilors truly cared about the people and so nothing of any use was ever done? Attack the paperwork that comprised much of the royal business attended to by the crown prince? Did not even the crown prince deserve a rest at some point?

And if he _did_ take them to the stables, they would not be able to run around and screech and act like rabid cats the way they had at Dylan's cottage. The horses and other mounts would not abide them. Nor would the Master of the Stables. And Nuada could take them to meet Lóman, which would give _him_ an excuse to visit with his old friend. He'd missed the arion stallion who'd been his companion and shield-brother during the wars. The prince's exile had given him little opportunity over the centuries to counsel as often as he wished with Lóman.

The Elven prince sighed and gave both cubs a stern look. "Very well. The stables it is. I expect you both to be on your very best behavior. Am I understood?"

'Sa'ti squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! We will, we promise!"

"Yeah, we promise!" A'du'la'di agreed, nodding so fast his hair flew all around his head. "We'll be really good, we swear. Thanks, Your Highness!"

Nuada ignored the guards as he extracted his hands from the children's grasps. Escorting them to the stables was one thing. Holding their hands as if he were their father was something else entirely. And he did not accept the so-called "bribe" of cupcakes. Perhaps if his lady had been there, she might have coaxed the prince into sharing one with her.

Just the thought made something hot burn in his already-tight chest. Nuada knew himself well enough to know it was not anger; with the memory of Dylan's sorrow fresh in his mind, and after hearing what A'du'la'di had scented on her, the prince could not find it in himself to be angry.

As the Butchers followed the prince, both to guard him and to prevent him from possibly slipping the bonds of house-arrest, the young Guardsman Lorcc leaned over and whispered to his partner, "Those children are either incredibly brave, or utterly mad."

Mahon growled, "They're cat-folk. Like as not, they're both."

**.**

A knock at Dylan's sitting room door roused her from where she sat on the sofa working on the letter to Nuada. She nodded to Fionnlagh, who answered the door with one hand hovering near her claymore. Sharp blue eyes noticed immediately when the guard stiffened, then backed up while bowing to whoever waited outside the door.

"His Majesty King Balor One-Arm to see you, milady," Fionnlagh said, and Dylan's blood turned to ice.

She jumped to her feet as the king entered the sitting room. Sank into the most graceful curtsy she could manage while nerves skittered up and down her spine like insect legs and a very inconsiderate flock of butterflies threw a party in her stomach. Was she allowed to straighten up before the king spoke? Or did she have to stay like this? Tremors already shivered through her bad leg; no way could she stay this way any longer.

Dylan straightened and said, "Your Majesty... what can I do for you?"

The king smiled. Perhaps it was meant to be reassuring. But _the king_ was here. In her sitting room. And Nuada was nowhere to be found. What if Balor wanted something from her? She had some training in dealing with the fae, from Roiben and a few others, but monarchs were in a league of their own. What did Balor want?

To her surprise, the old king offered his arm. "Would you care to take a walk with an old man, Lady Dylan? I find the winter air quite invigorating in the afternoons."

She probably didn't have a choice.

Excusing herself, she went to change out of her long church dress in anticipation of the snow and possible slush. Tsu's'di brought Dylan her leather coat and her gloves, and with some reluctance she took the king's proffered arm of flesh.

The king led her out into the corridor. Her guards followed them, mingling with the king's retinue of protectors. Tsu's'di and the hounds brought up the rear. The cougar youth wondered with more than a touch of panic if Prince Nuada was going to wring his neck for allowing _A'ge'lv_ Dylan to go with Balor.

With the guards far enough away to offer at least a semblance of privacy, Balor studied the mortal on his arm from the corner of his eye. He had not had a chance to truly study the mortal up close until now. Average height for a human woman, but thin. A little too thin. And oddly pale. An almost unhealthy pallor. Her shadowed sapphire eyes and the slashing scars marring her features were the only real color to her face. Even her mouth appeared rather bloodless, save where a small cut touched her bottom lip with a bit of darkness.

Philosophically, Balor gave her a surreptitious once-over. Crooked nose, Balor noted, broken at least twice. One eye pulled at by a thin scar running from the corner of it to just underneath the human's ear. Good hips, but rather bony because she was so thin. Small breasts compared to an Elven woman, although that too might have been because she was thin. It looked as if she'd dropped the weight rather quickly. He did not remember her being so thin when he had seen her in Findias over a month ago.

But there was really nothing in the way of physical beauty to show just what had captured Nuada's attention at first. Where was the attraction, the king wondered? His son could have any woman he wanted, and more than likely had, in four-thousand years. So why this girl?

"My son proposed to you," Balor said into the silence. Felt the girl instinctively begin to pull away from him before remembering just who he was. He saw, from the corner of his eye, her teeth sink into her bottom lip. That explained the small cut. A nervous habit? For some reason, the king got the impression it was more than that. A defensive tactic of some sort, perhaps. "My lady?"

Dylan drew in several short breaths through clenched teeth and barely-parted lips before she could be sure of answering without stammering. "Yes, he did."

"You refused him."

She tried to make her voice glacial. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I fail to see what business it is of yours."

"I thought you loved him."

"I do."

Balor raised an eyebrow. "And yet you turned down his offer of marriage. What is the matter, little mortal? Is my son good enough for you to bed, but not good enough for you to wed, as the saying goes? Or were you frightened away by the political responsibilities of becoming a princess?"

"Neither."

When the mortal said nothing further, the king laid his wooden hand on hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow. "Is that all you have to say, Lady Dylan?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

They were approaching the doors that would take them to the path to the stables. Good. The king wanted to take the human to see something out by the smallish riding paddock nestled against one side of the stables. Wanted to gauge both her opinion of what she saw, and her reaction to the prince.

"Lady Dylan, forgive me, but that is not good enough. Will you not indulge an old man his curiosity regarding his son and heir?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Why did you refuse Nuada's suit? Did you take offense at how he worded his proposal?"

"I'm not that shallow, Your Majesty."

The king wondered if "shallow" was human slang describing someone with, as Nuala had once said, the emotional depth of a teaspoon. But he only asked, "Then why would a common-born woman refuse an offer of marriage from a prince? One she claims to love, who is clearly besotted with her?"

"You wouldn't understand."

In a voice with just the faintest bite of winter, Nuada's father replied, "Try me."

She swallowed. Sighed. "What I told you that first night before the court holds true. The Star Kindler commands His followers to wed only those who follow Him. Nuada doesn't. That's what I told him when he proposed." Dylan shivered as they stepped out into the open air. The sun still shone high in the pale blue sky, but the light was brittle and held little warmth. She hunched her shoulders against the chill. Wondered if the king would be all right in his thick velvet cloak. "Why am I here, Majesty?"

The king glanced at her before scanning the path ahead of them. Winding between a couple public gardens and past the smithy, it would lead directly to the stables - and the snow-blanketed riding paddock. "On this walk with me? Because I wanted to better acquaint myself with the woman who has ensnared my son's heart and yet handles it so casually, taking so little care with it."

"Oh, don't even start with that," Dylan snapped, yanking her hand away from Balor. When the Butchers shifted restlessly, she whipped away from the king and kept walking down the path, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. Balor easily kept pace with her.

"Explain, Lady Dylan," Balor commanded. The mortal merely shook her head and stared resolutely at the ice and snow on the ground. "You may speak freely to me in this moment, my lady. I am not King Balor here and now. I am only Nuada's father. Speak from your heart. Explain what you meant, telling me 'not to start.'"

"Fine. You have the gall to challenge my supposed handling of Nuada's heart when you rip it out and stomp on it every time you talk to him without even batting an eyelash? With all due respect, King Balor, you can just bite me."

"I handle my son as I must," he replied, drawing his cloak more tightly about him. They would have to hurry with this. His old bones did not do well in such frigid weather. "I am a king, and a king must deal with his subjects before a father may deal with his children." The mortal made a sound of derision. "And what is _your_ excuse for ripping out my son's heart?"

She whirled on him. "You think I _wanted_ to turn him down? You think I _wanted_ to do what you and Nuala and everyone else have done to him - reject him? You think I _wanted_ that? You idiot! _I hate myself_! I hate that now he sees me the same way he sees you - as someone who hurt him, nothing more."

The Butcher Guards started forward, an odd hissing sound echoing from inside their helmets. That this commoner, this mortal, dared to speak so to their king! But Balor held up a hand and gestured them back. He had promised the human lady she could speak freely. He would allow it.

For now.

Nuada's father inclined his head and gestured for the human to continue.

"I haven't even seen Nuada all day," the mortal snapped. "Haven't seen him since yesterday morning, and that was for all of ten minutes. You think I want him out of my life? I'm not like you! I didn't just use him and then throw him away when I got bored! You talk about ripping out his heart; I ripped out my own at the exact same time. With Wink gone, _I am the only one he has,_ and I had to... I had to..." She stopped and closed her eyes. Passed her gloved hands over her face. Drew a deep breath. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I'm... unwell. I think I should go back inside."

More than a little stunned, Balor still managed to recover quickly. "I think not, Lady Dylan. Come - I still want to finish our walk."

The human stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Consider it recompense for calling me an idiot."

Dylan scowled, but had to admit that he could've done a lot worse for an insult like that. "Fine. I'm grateful for your mercy." She started walking once the king resumed his stride. For a while there was silence. Then Balor pointed at something.

"Do you know what those are?"

She glanced at where he pointed. Tiny white flowers in a small patch of green, glistening with a coat of frost, stood bright against the lee of a garden stone, where the snow had not been able to blanket the grass. Dylan swallowed. The flowers seemed so small and fragile against the bone-white snow all around. "They're snowdrops. They're one of my favorite flowers. I thought they only bloomed in February."

"That is usually true. Do you know what snowdrops represent in the language of flowers?" Balor asked.

The mortal nodded. "Sorrow."

"They also mean consolation, my dear," Nuada's father said gently. She stiffened. "And they represent hope." He paused for effect before adding, "The Star Kindler's teachings counsel against despair. Yet it seems as if you've given up hope of being able to be with my son as you both wish. Perhaps things are not as bleak as you believe."

She shook her head. "You and I both know that's highly unlikely. Did you bring me out here just to torture me emotionally or did you have a point to this?"

"Watch your tongue, young lady," the king said mildly. "I am feeling generous today. Do not abuse that generosity." After a moment, he asked, "Does my son know how much this has hurt you, as well?"

She sighed. "I don't know, Majesty, I haven't talked to him. Maybe. I told him. Or tried. You'll notice I get a little emotional sometimes."

Balor actually chuckled. "I did notice it."

Dylan wanted to hit him for laughing. Instead she curled her hands, which ached with the cold despite her gloves, into fists in her pockets. "Can we just cut through all the faerie games and political stuff and you just tell me why I'm out here with you freezing my cute little toes off? I mean, I know from Nuada that your ears are probably really cold."

They were near enough to the paddock by now that he could gesture to it with one hand. "I wanted to show you something. Look there."

Dylan turned to look and her mouth dropped open.

An Elf, tall and proud, galloped across the snow on a beautiful black stallion. The midnight viridian mane and tail streamed out behind the racing horse like malachite silk banners, the mane mingling with the Elf's star-blond hair as the rider leaned against the stallion's neck. From the color of the mane and tail, Dylan thought the animal might have been an arion - one of the faerie horses native to Shahbaz and Mytikas, said to be able to outrace the wind and possessing the power of human speech.

The horse's breath steamed in the cold air as he galloped across the white ground, sending snow flying with every thundering step. Even without the black and red clothes, Dylan would have recognized Nuada in an instant. And she watched, unable to shut her mouth, as he galloped toward something hopping up and down near the far end of the paddock fence. She didn't even notice when the king and his guards left.

She couldn't get a syllable out of her mouth in the split-second between realizing the hopping thing was A'du'la'di and the moment the prince scooped up the ewah child and settled A'du in the saddle in front of him. The cougar boy whooped in utter exhilaration as he and Nuada thundered across the vast expanse of white snow. Dylan covered her mouth with both hands to keep in the squeak that threatened to wiggle out of her.

"I want another turn next," a high voice called from the far end of the paddock. 'Sa'ti perched on the fence, balancing artfully as she traversed the topmost rail of the wooden fence with her arms stretched out on either side of her little body. "Pretty please, Your Highness? Me next again, me next again!" Then the child caught sight of Dylan. "_A'ge'lv!_"

Dylan blinked. Turned to look behind her. Had 'Sa'ti not seen the king? But no, the king was now far off and away, along the path down which he and the mortal had come. He'd merely brought her here to see Nuada with the children. Why?

Prickles suddenly tingled along the back of Dylan's neck. She glanced back at the horse with its double burden. Met Nuada's eyes. Closed her own, unable to meet his gaze. All thoughts of the king fled her mind.

The prince rode up to where his lady waited, almost seeming to race 'Sa'ti as she scampered along the fence to reach the same destination. Prince, cougar boy, and cougar girl arrived nearly at the same time, with the young handmaiden sliding to a halt only a few breathless seconds after Nuada's horse had come to a full stop.

Nuada dismounted before helping A'du'la'di down from the saddle. The ewah boy ran up to Dylan, scrambling up onto the fence as he cried, "_A'ge'lv_, it was amazing, we went so fast, it was so awesome, and Lòman can _talk_, it was so cool, and the prince is the best rider ever and he said maybe if I'm really good I can start lessons and it'll be so great!"

"Me too, me too!" 'Sa'ti cried. "Can we, _A'ge'lv_? Can we? It was really fun! Please? I wanna learn to ride a horse! I wanna..." The little girl trailed off when she got a good look at her mistress's face. "_A'ge'lv_?"

A'du blinked. Glanced at Prince Nuada before looking back at his mistress. Uh-oh. The prince and the _a'ge'lv_ were looking at each other again. And they both looked sad. He had to do something, quick.

"Um... oh, know what?" He tugged on Dylan's coat sleeve. "You should get a ride, too, _A'ge'lv_." That got the mortal's attention. She stared at the little boy in bewildered shock. "It'll be fun. And you can see how good a rider the prince is."

"Yeah," 'Sa'ti chimed in. "He's so neat! You should get a ride, too. It's only scary for a little teensy bit, and then it's so much fun!"

"I... I don't think... I don't think that's such a good idea, guys," Dylan protested. Thoughts of Nuada, of being pressed up against him, his arm around her, his chest against her back, made heat flush her cheeks and a shiver traipse down her spine. "I just... I don't think it's a good idea. And it's the Sabbath, anyway."

Something flickered in feral topaz eyes. Nuada opened his mouth.

"But we're spending time with family," 'Sa'ti said softly, taking the prince's hand. "Right? We're a family, like you said. We're a team."

"Yeah." A'du draped an arm around Dylan's neck and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder. "And we're s'posed to spend time with family on the Sabbath. So get a ride with the prince. C'mon, c'mon! Please? You'll like it. It's fun."

"It's so fun, _A'ge'lv_. You'll like it."

Flustered, surprised at the sudden warmth blossoming in her chest, Dylan mumbled, "I dunno, you guys. I just don't think it's the best idea." The warmth dimmed.

"What's the matter, my lady?" Nuada asked suddenly. Rainswept blue eyes met glittering topaz. Nuada folded his arms across his chest. His breath curled like white smoke on the winter air. "Do you not trust me?"

_Is this some kind of test?_ She wondered. The warmth in her chest intensified. _Is he testing me on purpose? Or is it subconscious? I think it's subconscious. Why would he... stupid question. I need to do this, don't I? Or it will damage something between us, even more than everything else already has_. Her chest was almost hot now. _Okay_. And aloud, Dylan replied with a forced smile, "Okay. Sure. I'd love a ride."

Getting on the horse was easy. Because of the cold and the snow, she'd worn leggings and a knee-length skirt for the walk with the king instead of a dress. That made sitting in a saddle much easier than her normal ankle-length skirts. The horse's sides were almost hot against her legs. It shifted under the sudden weight of her, then settled.

Then Nuada leapt with feral grace into the saddle behind her. His arm slid carefully around her waist, as if giving her time to protest, before pulling her tight against him. He leaned forward a little, forcing her to lean, too. His cheek touched her temple. She could feel the warmth of his breath ruffling her hair. Without conscious thought, Dylan covered the strong arm holding her against the prince with her own. Covered his hand with hers. With the hand that wore the gold-and-ruby ring, which could be felt even through her glove. She thought it might have been her imagination, but when her fingers laid along the back of Nuada's hand, she thought his breathing hitched.

"Are you ready?" He whispered in her ear. She shivered. Nodded. "Hold on tight to me and do not let go." There was just enough time to comply with the "hold tight" part before Nuada kicked the stallion into a gallop and they took off like a shot.

Dylan would happily admit - she squealed like a girl.

Nuada wondered idly if he'd gone mad as he allowed Lòman to gallop across the paddock. Dylan, for all she was tense with equal parts fear and exhilaration, was still so soft against him. If he closed his eyes, he could smell her perfume, her shampoo. Delicate jonquil, mallow, bellflower, heady morning glory, aloe. A mixture of floral scents that all carried the same message - _come back to me_. Had she done that on purpose? Did she mean to torture him? And beneath it all, there was the scent of her skin and the faintest touch of sorrow. He tightened his grip, and she gasped. The wind whipping by tore the sound from her mouth.

The prince didn't bother to stop Lòman as the stallion made his way toward the paddock fence. Dylan had her eyes tightly shut, so she didn't know the faerie stallion meant to leap the fence until they were already mid-jump. All the mortal managed was a terrified squeak. Nuada found the corner of his mouth quirking in amusement as they landed easily on the snow and took off towards the gardens. No doubt Lòman had a destination in mind.

"Where are we going?" Dylan yelped. "I did _not_ sign up for this! Where are we going?"

Catching sight of the castle's small apple orchard coming up on their left, the russet fruit glittering with a coat of ice in the sun, Nuada said, "Somewhere that affords some privacy."

"Are you gonna get in trouble for this?"

"Perhaps." Then, closing his eyes and pressing his face against the warmth of her neck, feeling her shiver in his arms, he allowed Lòman to take them where the arion stallion wanted to go.

Which turned out to be one of the orchards.

The stallion slowed to a canter, then to a walk as they entered the plum orchard that was furthest away from the castle, on the outermost edges of the gardens. Finally Lòman stopped and sighed. Then he looked over his shoulder at his rider. *Get off,* the stallion said. Flicked his long midnight green tail. *You're heavy.*

Nuada actually found himself smiling as he dismounted.

It took him a moment to convince Dylan to relax her grip on the pommel of the saddle so that he could guide her hands to his shoulders, giving her something to brace against as she dismounted. She nearly fell when her feet touched the snow. Only his arms around her held her upright. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Drew a shuddering breath. Let it out slowly. And then, to his shock, she slid her arms up to curve around his neck and simply clung to him.

Too much. This was too much. He had not expected to feel this jolt in his belly, as if he'd been struck. Had not expected this tightness in his throat when he tried to speak, this sudden clutching ache in his chest. Despised the desperate need for her arms to stay twined around his neck that nearly drove the Elven warrior to his knees.

He must have made some sound, tensed a little, because she sucked in a sharp breath. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't go away. Please don't go away." She pressed close. Slender fingers tangled in his shirt. "I can't do this anymore. I can't... I... just don't... please, please don't go away anymore."

It was madness that had his arms slipping around her to hold her tightly. Madness that compelled him to kiss her temple and whisper against the soft wealth of her dark hair, "I am here, beloved. I am right here."

"I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to, I don't want to hurt you, I'm so sorry," and she was struggling not to cry now, he could hear it in the quaver of her voice, but somehow she managed to hold onto her control, "please, just stop, just don't shut me out anymore. Please. I know I'm so pathetic, but this is just too much, I can't... I need you. It's... I can't take it, you being so close but so far away. Not after everything. I hate it. I just want you back, please. I miss you, I miss you so much."

"Shhh, beloved. There, now." He stroked her hair, hating himself for hurting her, hating that something - anything - stood between them. "There, now. Shhh. You think I do not miss you, my love? Gods, Dylan, I miss you the way I would miss my own heartbeat." But her refusal still spread icy poison through his veins when he thought of it. "I simply... it hurts to be with you," he confessed in a rough whisper. She went very, very still. She seemed even to stop breathing. "Hurts, knowing you do not want me as much as I-"

"But I do," the mortal protested. She pulled back to pin him with those lovely blue eyes. "Nuada, I do. I do, I want to be with you so much. I can't... I feel... everything's so hard now with you gone. I can barely eat or sleep or think." And he realized with a jolt that she looked pale, paler than she had before, and she was thinner still. "My nightmares are worse and I wake up exhausted and then I remember... I remember your face, your eyes, when I said... and I hate myself. I think of everyone who's hurt you, and how now I have, too, and I can't stand it knowing I've hurt you."

The madness grabbed him then with merciless claws. Forced the words from his throat, though they cut like jagged glass. "Then marry me, Dylan. Be my wife." He framed her face between his hands. Hated the pain he saw in her eyes. "Marry me. Would it be such a terrible thing, to be wedded to me?"

Dylan shook her head. Laid her cheek against his chest where the Elven heart pounded like a drum. "It would be wonderful. It would be so wonderful." The breath she drew threatened to strangle her. "But I can't, Nuada. I can't."

"Why? Why is it so important that I follow your God? The fact that I did not has not stopped you from loving me. Or at least claiming to love me. Is it because of your mortality?" When she blinked up at him, he lightly touched her cheek. "A'du'la'di spoke to me of how one is married in the Star Kindler's temple. Is that why this matters so much to you? Because you are mortal?"

"No, I... well, partly. A little. Okay, a lot, actually. But it's not just that. I... how do I explain?" She ran her hands through her hair and sighed. "You fought in the army, right? During the war against the humans ages and ages ago? Right?" Puzzled, he nodded. "When you joined up, when you first joined the army, you worked hard, right? You did your very best to be an honor and a credit to your company and your kingdom, didn't you?" The prince frowned, but nodded. "Why try so hard? Why give your best?"

Nuada frowned more fiercely. "Because to give less than your best once you have committed to a cause is dishonorable."

Her smile was melancholy. "That's what I have to do. Think of it like this: if your king was waiting for you somewhere, and you had sworn an oath that you would make your way back to your king, wouldn't you do everything you had to in order to keep that promise? I committed to the High King. I swore I would go back to Him when this life is over. I can't do that if I do what you ask. We are to marry in the High King's temple. That is His edict. I can't knowingly disobey with the idea that I can just ask for forgiveness later. It doesn't work like that.

"Marrying you... being your wife... would be like... it would be like a beautiful, perfect dream. But eventually reality would come knocking, and I'd wake up from that dream, and I'd have consequences to deal with."

She sighed. Shoved at her hair again. He saw that her hands trembled. "You remember how you once told me that your life isn't your own? That what you want and what you must do are rarely the same thing?"

It took a supreme effort on his part, but Nuada managed a short nod.

"I didn't really understand that when you told me, but I think I do now. Your honor compels you to do things sometimes that you don't want to do. Mine prevents me from doing things I _do_ want to do. I made a promise. I swore an oath. I can't go back on that. Does that make sense? Or do you still hate me?"

"I do not hate you." Nuada closed his eyes. Fought with himself. Opened them again. "I could never hate you, mo duinne." Sharp amber eyes noticed the way her composure threatened to break beneath the gentle onslaught of the tenderly spoken endearment. "I think... I think that I finally understand a little."

He had focused on that which he had sacrificed for the greater good of others - his soul and his honor, for the Golden Army's protection of his people and for her. But now, suddenly, he was reminded of the one thing that she'd said the night he'd proposed that had hurt too much to truly contemplate. _In my dream, we even had children._ The one thing she wanted most. The one thing he could not give her. And she knew, and she'd accepted, without anger or malice or resentment toward him. Dylan's promise to marry him if the king commanded would rob her of that fondest dream, but she would still abandon that hope for him. For Nuada, for her prince. She carried that pain, that despair, without ever having said a word to him. He had forgotten that.

Could he give her less than she was willing to give him? Even though it hurt to be near her, to be with her, knowing that she was beyond his reach without the king's merciless command... his honor, if nothing else, forbade him from meeting Dylan less than halfway. It was not the weakness of her heart that separated them. It was the strength of her honor. Hadn't he always admired that strength and that honor? Could he truly, honorably, hold it against her now?

"Come here," Nuada murmured. Sudden exhaustion dragged at him. He opened his arms to Dylan, and she slipped into them like a slender shadow, pressing close, her own arms wrapped tight around him. "It is all right," he whispered, nuzzling his cheek against her soft hair. "It is all right. We are all right."

"I love you," she said, the words muffled against his shoulder. "Don't ever doubt that, okay? No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, don't ever doubt that I love you, Nuada. Okay? Never doubt it."

"I would be a fool to doubt you, mo cridh." He tilted her chin up. Feral eyes caressed her face. There was pain in his gaze, but no anger. "I will never doubt you. I would be foolish to do so when you have proven yourself so many times." Her mouth was soft and warm when he brushed his thumb across the fullness of her bottom lip. "I love you, Dylan." Delicate tendrils of white mist curled between them from the heat of their mingling breath as Nuada leaned in to touch that sweet mouth with his.

Something snapped behind them; a sound like someone stepping on a branch. It shattered the icy stillness and broke the kiss before it could even begin. Dylan jumped. Nuada yanked her behind him and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. He scanned the empty, snowbound orchard with feral eyes. Cast out with his senses in an attempt to detect anyone but the two of them and Lòman, who was around somewhere. Nuada's mind raced through the possibilities of who might be there.

Not Butchers; they would make themselves known from the outset. Not dipsa, or any sort of reptilian fae; it was too cold for them. Corpse-drinkers of any kind - dullahan, shandymen, nightjars - all carried the stench of rot. He would have been able to smell them. Yet someone, he was almost certain, was here. Who? The children? They knew better than to try and sneak up on him this way.

A shadow darted between two trees, just at the edge of the Elven warrior's vision. Sunlight gleamed on silver as he drew his sword from its sheath.

"Draw your dirk," he said in a low voice, "and stay behind me, but close. Not a sound." She didn't speak. Merely obeyed. The Elf could feel Dylan's unease, the tension in her, but there was no fear. Because he was with her?

Only the gleam of light on silver warned him. He had just enough time to shove Dylan back, and twist aside. Something flashed by him. A sharp pain slashed across his upper arm.

_Probably not an arrow_, he thought with deadly calm, not daring to glance at whatever had cut him. He kept his eyes on his surroundings. _No place for an archer to hide. Only something skilled in subterfuge would be able to hide here. Something like_... Something like a Téngshé. _I should not have brought her here without guards_, he berated himself, and swore silently. His fingers twitched when Dylan lightly touched his palm.

_Behind us,_ she whispered through their link. _I don't know who or what, but they're behind us and off to our left a ways. Can you find them? Or do we run?_

_You cannot run with all the snow; your leg cannot manage it._

Without warning, Nuada put two fingers to his lips and whistled. From a ways off, Lòman called back. Nuada listened for any telltale rustling, another snapping branch, anything. _Someone_ had taken that shot. Warm blood soaking his sleeve proved it hadn't been his imagination.

A hot copper gaze raked across the too-quiet orchard. Psychic senses touched on more than a handful of oddly blank spots scattered through the plum trees. The blank spots steadily approached the prince and his lady. Six potential enemies. Could he handle six, still somewhat weak from his wounds, half-preoccupied with Dylan's safety? Where in hellfire was Lòman?

Something flickered several feet away. Shadows, there and gone. glamour. Tension wound tight through Nuada's body. Adrenaline burned through his veins. He almost wanted to laugh. As if a simple "don't look at me" glamour would fool a crown prince of Faerie. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Narrowed his eyes. Waited.

The glamour dropped when the approaching faerie was perhaps a dozen paces away. A Téngshé, as he'd thought, though this one did not move as if he'd taken a sword through the gut less than a moon ago. The black-clad Dilong Elf eyed the prince warily. Smirked.

"No guards, Your Royal Highness?" The Elf asked in Chinese. "A bit dangerous to wander alone." Then his eyes alighted on the mortal at Nuada's side. In Gaelic, he added, "And with such a precious treasure at your side."

Dylan barely managed to swallow the sharp retort of "bite me." She flexed her fingers around the hilt of her dirk and tried to remember everything Nuada had taught her about fighting that day in the royal forest. Nuada remained tense and still, a living shield between the mortal and the Dilong Elf. Dylan kept her eyes on the dark-clad Elf. Time hung suspended. She could feel her heart beating against her ribs. Swallowed.

A spill of ice down her back was the only warning. She jerked around to see a flickering shadow lunge for them both.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _of course I ended it there. Of course. Hehehehe. Have you noticed a lot of my chapters are cliffies? I love to keep you guys hanging. I hope it draws out and enhances the experience for all of you. If not, feel free to pelt me with cyber-veggies. *cringes in anticipation* But I do love all of you!_

_And now for our review prompt! Yay!_

_1) Who loves A'du'la'di? I love A'du'la'di. How he hero-worships Nuada, and thus has everything he's ever said memorized. He's so cute. I wanna cuddle him. What do we think of his conversation with Nuada?_

_2) Eimh and Setanta's plan. Well, their plan which has apparently been orchestrated by A'du'la'di. What do we think is going on there?_

_3) Ciaran and the rest of Team Bres. Thoughts?_

_4) So I tried to show Balor as more sympathetic in this chapter. My beta says that basically whenever Nuada or Balor tries to be nice, the other rebuffs them, thus causing the reverse-rebuffing the next time they run into each other. So... what do you guys think?_

_5) A'du and 'Sa'ti with Nuada - thoughts? I personally think they're clever little fluffballs, but I might be biased. So... yeah?_

_6) Balor and Dylan. Sigh. Think any sort of progress was made with either of them? Thoughts on Balor's thoughts?_

_7) Dylan and Nuada... no, the situation isn't resolved quite yet. But they are taking steps. Who wants those steps to stumble? Who wants them to come to some kind of agreement? Who thinks they're doing okay right now?_

_8) And of course, favorite things, pwease?_

_I love you all!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"Don't Walk Away" is one of my __**FAVORITE**_ _songs, and it's from the movie_ Xanadu, _set during the animated part (the entire movie is live-action except for that one part). The animated portion was done by Don Bluth, master of such films as_ Once Upon a Forest, A Troll in Central Park, The Pebble and the Penguin, Rock-a-Doodle, The Secret of Nimh, _and_ The Land Before Time _(the original and maybe the second one)_.

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Everything A'du'la'di says about the temple and eternal marriage is true.

- The card A'du has is what's called a pass-along card. Some of them have pictures of the Salt Lake City Temple on them.

- I do in fact have the Bethmooran wedding vows written out in Gaelic and English. =)

- A'du gave Nuada _Beauty and the Beast_ because in the original story, Beast would ask Beauty to marry him every day for the entire time she was at his castle, and she always said no, but he never gave up until she finally said yes.

- Yes, Ciaran and Dierdre actually do love each other. In a purely brother-sister way.

- Fiona is the hob maid who escorted the kids to their room that first night in Findias and is the one who brought Dylan her meals while Nuada was unconscious in the Healers' Wing. Lilé is from chapter 28, I think.

- Despite the colourful legends, the term jack-o'-lantern originally meant a night watchman, or man with a lantern, with the earliest known use in the 1660s in East Anglia; and later, meaning an ignis fatuus or will-o'-the-wisp. In Newfoundland and Labrador, both names "Jacky Lantern" and "Jack the Lantern" refer to the will-o'-the-wisp. Among European rural people, especially in Gaelic and Slavic folk cultures, the will-o'-the-wisps are held to be mischievous spirits of the dead or other supernatural beings attempting to lead travellers astray.

- Commanding a fae by the power of their name means they cannot refuse to do what you order. This is a big plot point in _Tithe_ by Holly Black and in parts of _Ironside_, where the male MC, Roiben, has to do horrible things - or almost does horrible things - to people he cares about because someone commands him by the power of his name.

- So Arion is actually a famous stallion from Greek myth, apparently, who had a green mane and tail and possessed the power of human speech and was super-super fast. In this fanfic, an arion is a faerie horse of similar coloring, that can talk, and are super fast. They're bred in Mytikas, the fae-equivalent of Greece, and in Shahbaz, the fae-equivalent of Persia.

- "The emotional depth of a teaspoon" is a quote from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_.

- The prince giving the children rides might have been inspired by _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon (the MC's dad gives her and her 11 sisters rides on his horse, Dickens) but I'm not sure. I've also seen that in _Kate and Leopold_, and it's in _Lothiriel_ by JunoMagic. So... yeah.


	67. No Cure for the Pain

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**VERY IMPORTANT**__**:**__ for those of you who haven't bought my books yet, they __**ARE**__ available on Amazon, we __**DO**__ need the help, and in case anyone's wondering, no_ Glass _is not inspirational like_ Once Upon a Time. _It's purely YA urban fantasy. Talk to Merina and other buyers to find out if it's any good_. Glass _is sort of my baby. You guys will like it. It's $10.50 on Amazon. Please buy it. *desperate shameless begging*_

_**Author's Note:**_ _So this chapter is up early to bribe OceanFire9 to update her Once Upon a Time fic, Caves and Rivers. She's dragging it out and killing me. Hopefully this will inspire her to write faster. I'm so desperate for my favorite Wink-fic. Ocean, I'm DYING! Please! *more desperate shameless begging*_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ The title of this chapter, by the way, comes from the HIM song, "In Joy and Sorrow." I am actually very fond of their (his) music. "There's no cure for the pain, no shelter from the rain. All our prayers seem to fail. In joy and sorrow, my home's in your arms." And the lead singer's kind of hot. Sometimes. It depends on how he does his hair, believe it or not._

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**Chapter Sixty-Seven**

**No Cure for the Pain**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of**** a Clever Plan, Merits of the Color Blue, a Monster, Poison, Accusations, a Long Ordeal, One Reason or Another, a Vigil, and a Prayer**

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A'du'la'di grinned as the incredible black horse leapt over the fence with all the grace of a hunting cougar, carrying the prince and the _a'ge'lv_ somewhere they could talk about stuff. He'd been really smart, coming up with this plan. It wasn't done yet - he had backup ideas, just in case this didn't work - but so far it was working pretty good.

Early-early this morning, after he'd calmed down from a nightmare about headless monsters in black and he'd armwrestled Ailbho a couple times, he'd asked Guardsman Uaithne if _A'ge'lv_ Dylan had any books in her library about flowers. Uaithne had sent Ailbho to take a quick look in the little room with all the books and the younger guard had pulled out a huge leather-bound tome with no title on the spine or the cover - only a tiny symbol at the top of the spine, of a rosebud and a feather (whatever that was supposed to mean). Ailbho had helped the cougar boy leaf through the book for a while. Unlike the prince's book, that one had been in English _and_ that other language. Best of all, it had _pictures_. And A'du had finally figured out what the words in the prince's book had meant.

_Acacia - A ghrá mo chroí - My heart's beloved... Aloe - Sosanna - Grief... Arbutus - Chailleann tú mé - I miss you... Asphodel - Gráin agat dom, nach tú? - You hate me, don't you?_

There'd been pictures of all the different kinds of flowers, too. A'du'la'di had a good memory, so he'd put a list together in his head of the different flowers that would help with his plan. Aloe, for grief, because _A'ge'lv_ Dylan was really sad. Morning glory and mallow - the book had said they meant "love in vain" and "consumed by love." He'd had to ask what "in vain" and "consumed by" meant, but Uaithne had been really nice about explaining. If the _a'ge'lv_ smelled like bellflower, it would mean she was thinking about the prince. His Highness would like that. And the final flower, something called a jonquil, was supposed to mean "return my affection." That had seemed to fit.

So A'du'la'di had put it all together and then gotten Eimh and Sétanta to look at the pictures, too. The dogs had good memories - for dogs - and A'du knew he could trust them to help with his plan. Just like 'Sa'ti had been telling him all the day before about how _A'ge'lv_ Dylan was having a lot of trouble writing her letter to the prince; that had helped with the plan, too.

The cougar boy didn't get why the _a'ge'lv_ didn't just _talk_ to the prince, but maybe it was a grownup thing. Maybe she was worried she'd start crying. She still smelled sad and far away, and he knew she didn't like to cry, so maybe that was it.

At church during Share Time, talking to Rórdán, one of the kitchen boys, A'du'la'di had come up with two other ideas to help with his big idea. One was to see if maybe Rórdán could cheer up Dylan when he brought her food. Sometimes when his mama had been sad, A'du remembered his dad bringing her breakfast with a flower on a tray. Maybe if Rórdán put a flower on the tray for _A'ge'lv_ Dylan, she'd be cheered up. She might even think the flower was from the prince. Maybe A'du'la'di could even convince the prince to do it himself. He'd figure that out later.

The second idea had been the horseback ride. The ewah boy hadn't expected to see his mistress. This particular outing with the prince had been so he and 'Sa'ti could get intel (that's what Ailbho had called it, anyway; he'd thought the horseback ride had been a great idea, but wasn't sure how amenable the prince would be to riding double). And because being with Prince Nuada was nice. A'du knew the prince was sad, too, and he and 'Sa'ti had wanted to cheer the prince up if they could. That was why they'd saved their cupcakes. Why His Highness hadn't eaten them, A'du'la'di would never understand. Cupcakes could fix anything. So could chocolate chunk cookies. Maybe the prince didn't get it because he was a grownup.

_A'ge'lv_ Dylan showing up had just been a bonus.

Luckily, while His Highness had been in the stables earlier talking to Nils, A'du had talked to Lóman, the prince's horse, and told him all about what was going on with the prince and his lady. About how they wanted to get married, but couldn't because of a bunch of stuff, and how now they were both really sad. How A'du and his sister wanted to make them happy again, and how A'du had a plan to make them make up and not be mad or sad at each other anymore. It had been Lóman's idea that if A'du'la'di could get Prince Nuada to give _A'ge'lv_ Dylan a ride, the stallion would make sure they went somewhere they could talk and get things sorted.

Now A'du stared after the dwindling sight of the black stallion, the prince, and the human, and grinned. 'Sa'ti plopped onto the fence next to him and sighed at how romantical it all was. Behind the pair, the Butchers assigned to His Highness grumbled and growled and went racing after their charge. A'du could've told them not to bother. Lóman wasn't gonna let them catch up to the prince. No way, no how. He was an arion; he could outrace the wind.

His mistress's guards groaned and sighed. The cougar cubs thought they heard Uaithne chuckle and Fionnlagh make a noise halfway between a laugh and someone coughing up a furball before she led the guardswomen off to go follow the prince and human - at a discreet distance. Ailbho and Uaithne remained behind for a moment.

Tsu's'di dropped his hands on top of 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di's heads. "Clever," their older brother said, torn between admiration and annoyance. The little cougar boy beamed up at his big brother and purred. 'Sa'ti daintily licked her fingers and scrubbed at her cheek as if she had no idea what Tsu's'di was talking about. "You could've given me a head's up, you know."

The pageboy shrugged. "Didn't know _that_ was gonna happen. But at least they're not staring at each other like someone stole their cupcakes."

'Sa'ti paused in grooming herself. "Um... _we_ stole the prince's cupcakes."

A'du sniffed haughtily. "We did not. He gave them back to us. It was fair and square. If he can't appre... appre... appree-shum-mate real vanilla frosting, he's crazy." He glanced up at Tsu's'di and confided in a horrified whisper, "His Highness didn't even want a bite. Not even a lick. Who doesn't like frosting?"

"Appreciate," Ailbho corrected gently.

"Yeah, that."

"Maybe 'cause it was blue," 'Sa'ti replied. "Maybe it made him sad. Blue's the _a'ge'lv_'s favorite color. She wears it all the time."

"If she likes blue, he should eat the blue frosting!" A'du said, as if that was obvious to an imbecile. "Maybe it would turn his tongue blue. It turned my tongue blue. See?" He stuck out a decidedly indigo tongue. "Then _A'ge'lv_ Dylan would see he had a blue tongue and it would make her smile." Uaithne made a choked noise behind them. A'du twisted around. Eyed the guardsman quizzically. "What? It would."

"But then if they kiss, _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's mouth and tongue might turn blue," Tsu's'di said with a shrug.

A'du'la'di stared at his older brother in absolute horror. "What? People kiss with their tongues? That is _gross!_" He licked his fingers and scrubbed his face to demonstrate how absolutely revolting the idea was, then hopped off the fence. "I'm gonna go make sure they don't do that."

"A'du'la'di-" Tsu's'di began sternly.

"I'm not gonna let 'em see me. Just gotta make sure the plan's going how it's s'posed to. I'll be real quiet. And if they catch me, I'll take my punishment like a man." He thumped himself on the chest, reminding Uaithne suddenly once again of his son Tadgh. Then the ewah boy set off at a brisk little jog towards where he'd last seen the horse. Maybe a dozen paces away, he dropped into full cougar shape on the fly, loping across the snow, following Lóman's tracks.

"I feel like we shouldn't let him do that," Ailbho murmured. "What if he interrupts?"

Uaithne stared after the ewah boy. "He's a lot cleverer than you might think," the older guardsman said. Tsu's'di made an aggrieved sound, concurring with that statement. "And I feel as if we should not stop him. I just do not know why."

"Because he's a nosy pest?" Tsu's'di hazarded. "Sometimes, anyway."

The guardsman laughed. "Perhaps. And it _is_ his plan. Let him see it come to fruition, if it will. The prince will not mind too much, I think."

'Sa'ti sighed again. "It's just all so romantical, isn't it?"

**.**

Ice spilling down Dylan's back was the only warning. She whipped around to see a flickering shadow lunge for them both.

"Nuada!"

Dylan ducked aside. The Elf prince spun to meet the attack, bringing up his sword to block the weapon that had been aimed at his back. Shock from the impact sang through his arms. Flash of pain from the fresh cut on his arm. The sudden throbbing in his chest worried him more.

Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain and blocked a second strike. The Téngshé's fist connected with the side of his jaw with bone-jarring force. Pain flared. He ignored it, too. Lunged. Somersaulted easily over the Téngshé. Thrust back with his sword. Cloth and flesh feebly attempted to resist Elven silver. There was the punch of blade piercing body. Nuada smelled the raw, hot reek of lifeblood. The Téngshé choked and dropped to the snow. Dark amber pooled beneath the newly-made corpse.

Nuada spun, deflecting a blow from a second opponent just before it could slice across his spine. A dangerous strike, as he wore no armor; he'd been too distracted by the children and their request to "play." Too confident that with guards and so many others all around, no assassin would be able to get close to him.

He'd been an idiot, he thought with savage grimness.

The Elven warrior ducked under the outstretched arm of his enemy. Dragged his sword across the Téngshé's unarmored belly. Elven silver met silver with a bell-like _clang_. Hot golden blood spattered the snow and steamed. _Belly-wound_, he thought. Not deep enough or long enough to kill or even bring down the Dilong Elf. _Hell's teeth._

Nuada thrust the blade through the Téngshé's foot. The other Elf howled and staggered. Fell to one knee before dropping to the ground, clutching his gushing foot. Knowing the enemy would not be getting up anytime soon, knowing they would need to interrogate at least one of the assassins, Nuada left him to bleed onto the snow.

Flash of sunlight on metal. Nuada whipped around. Paused a fraction of a second as a third Téngshé stopped mid-swing. Dropped his sword. Staggered and fell, the hilt of a knife in his back. A hand-carved dragon's head of dark jade gleamed in the pommel.

The Elf prince looked up into familiar jade eyes. Frowned.

"What are you doing out here?"

Zhenjin growled, "Looking for my sister; she escaped her keepers during her nap. She likes plums and snow. I though I might find her- _knife!_" He shouted.

Nuada ducked. Dodged left. A throwing knife sailed past to embed itself in the trunk of an ice-coated plum tree. Before the Bethmooran prince could even attempt to counterattack, the enraged cry of a war stallion split the air. The sound of breaking bone followed. The Téngshé that had thrown the knife hurtled through the air, smashing into the thick trunk of a tree with an audible _crunch_. When he attempted to climb to his feet, murderous obsidian hooves kicked out and caved in his chest.

Lòman snorted. Stared down at the Téngshé lying in the snow, choking on his own blood. The stallion reared with an infuriated scream of challenge. The lethal hooves plunged downward again. There was a second, wet _crunch_. The gurgling sounds stopped.

Lòman pinned his rider with a single dark eye. *Are you hurt?*

Nuada shook his head. Sweat trickled down his neck, dampening his shirt. He adjusted his grip on his sword as Zhenjin drew abreast of him. Although the Dilong prince did not carry his normal blade, he'd retrieved the knife with the jade pommel.

There were at least two Téngshé left, but neither prince could spot them, or the weak glamor they'd attempted to use to hide themselves.

"They got away," Zhenjin spat, and swore. "There are more snakes in the dragon's nest than my father or my aunt suspected. They... Nuada?"

"Where is Dylan?" Nuada demanded, eyes raking across the orchard. "She should have been-"

"_Bitch!_" The low snarl wrenched both princes' attention. Behind them, a blurry darkness wrestled with a very familiar mortal shape. "I'll kill you for that, human bitch, I'll- _gah!_"

Nuada lunged toward the Elf wrestling with the human. A blade slicing toward his side arrested him. His sword caught the blade with enough force to make the cut on his arm burn. His chest throbbed. From the corner of his eye, Nuada caught sight of Zhenjin attempting to fight _something_. Whatever it was, it was _not_ an Elf. The Bethmooran prince didn't have time to study it further as he crossed swords with yet another Dilong Elf intent on his blood.

Dylan slammed her foot down on her captor's instep. Tried and failed to wriggle out of his clutching grasp. Gasped for breath, twisted this way and that. Rammed the blade of her dirk between the Dilong Elf's legs. The Elf screamed. Dylan twisted the blade so it slashed the length of the assassin's inner thigh.

The Téngshé fell, still screaming weakly. Elf blood fountained onto the snow. The human staggered away from him. Her bad leg buckled. She fell to the snow as well, unable to support herself any longer.

Nuada tried to reach her. He could see a long cut slashing her cheek, dripping scarlet onto pale skin and ivory snow. Tiny spatters of crimson gleamed against the white ground. Raw red marks circled her throat. A cut above her left eye and a cut on her lip both leaked blood. The assassin chopped downward with his sword, preventing the Elf prince from reaching his lady.

Dylan panted for breath, shivering with cold and with reaction to her narrow escape. She let go of her dirk to shove her hair out of her face. Caught sight of Nuada plunging his sword into his opponent's chest and savagely twisting the blade. The Téngshé dropped to the snow.

Her eyes slid past her prince to see Zhenjin and Nuada's horse struggling against what looked like a bulbous mass of black, gelatinous slime. With more than two dozen razor-tipped, fangy tentacles. As she watched with horrified eyes, a fanged mouth sprouted on the end of one tentacle. Whipped toward the prince of Dilong. Eyes blinked open amidst the rot-black slime. Rolled wildly before they fixed on the two Elves, the faerie stallion, and the mortal woman.

The mortal stared at the all-too-familiar monster sprawled across the snow that smashed ropy tentacles into the Dilong prince, knocking him back. The horse attempted to trample it. Thick tentacles smacked into the stallion's legs, sending him crashing to the ground. Nuada started forward.

"No!" Dylan yelled, struggling to climb to her feet. She stumbled and fell again. "No, Nuada, don't! It's a shoggoth, stay away from it!"

The warrior paused, studying the grotesque creature with feral eyes. A shoggoth? He'd heard of them in stories. Never seen one. They were not native to Faerie, nor to the mortal world. Those that dwelt in either were said to die before they ever grew this large. And _none_ of the stories spoke of how to kill one.

Zhenjin staggered back from the beast. Lòman managed to get to all four feet. Barely managed to dance backward in order to avoid the flailing tentacles. "Is it a corpse-drinker?" Zhenjin demanded. "If it is, I can probably dispatch it."

"_Don't touch it!_" Dylan cried. She managed to get to her feet, panting. One arm pressed tight to her side. "Didn't you see what it did? It can sprout mouths and eyes anywhere on its body. Its bite is incredibly poisonous, especially to faeries! You can't kill them except with a whole lot of fire or molten iron."

"Then it is fey," the Dilong prince said, taking a step toward the creature. The shoggoth's tentacles snapped toward the prince. Zhenjin leapt back. Glared. "No common fae can stand against two royal heirs-"

"It's not fey!" The mortal contradicted with a flash of irritation. "It's an Elder... _thing_. Like the Deep Ones, or the ice-bringers. You can't just hack the thing to death. You have to set it on fire and melt it down completely. Nuada, what do we do?"

The Elven prince narrowly regarded the heaving mass of foulness as it sludged over to the corpse of the Téngshé Lòman had trampled. Thick black ooze slurped over the crushed skull. Something crunched with a glottal, wet sound. Dylan fell to her knees and covered her mouth.

Zhenjin snarled and darted forward, only to be brought up short by Lòman's massive bulk shoving between Elf and shoggoth. "Stars curse you, that creature is _eating_ one of my father's soldiers!" The Dilong prince snapped. "Traitor or not, he deserves better than-"

*Lady Dylan has said it cannot be killed by ordinary means,* the stallion interrupted. Shoved the prince back a pace. *You are a dragon-Elf. Can you not burn it? Turn it to ash as she said.*

"Only the Dragon and Phoenix Emperors have that sort of power," Zhenjin growled. "Not a mere crown prince."

"Why is it here?" Nuada still watched the grisly creature feast on the corpse. "How does anyone coerce such a thing into even a semblance of obedience? It has no... no mind, no thoughts. It is nothing but appetite."

Dylan shivered, thinking back to a few half-fae she knew or had heard about from her less mundane acquaintances. "It has a mind," she whispered. "Just not one anyone from your world or mine can understand. I don't know what it's doing here, but if it's working with anyone who's trying to kill us, we're in a lot of trouble. I don't know anything that can _control_ a shoggoth except one of the- _hey!_"

It was then that a final Téngshé, hidden and waiting for the perfect moment, struck. Swift as a serpent, darkness snaked out and wrenched Dylan to her feet. She stumbled. Tripped. Was yanked up again. Nuada spun toward the captive mortal and lunged forward, teeth bared, eyes molten copper and feral.

"Hold, Silverlance!" The assassin snapped. "Or she's dead." A silver knife gleamed against the smooth expanse of Dylan's bruised throat. She swallowed reflexively. A thin rivulet of scarlet trickled down her neck. Nuada froze. Rage, black and lethal, whispered coldly vicious promises in the back of his skull as a few drops of mortal blood stained the knife blade. "That's it," the Téngshé snarled in Old Gaelic. "No sudden moves, now. We would not wish for any harm to come to the lady."

"Where," Dylan muttered, the cut on her neck stinging and beginning to itch, "do you get your I'm-gonna-take-a-hostage material? Bad movies?"

The assassin tightened his grip. "Shut up," he hissed. She grimaced as a fleck of spittle hit her cheek. "That spineless cur that calls himself a warrior will do nothing so long as I keep this knife at your throat, you filthy human tramp, so shut your mouth."

"Dylan-" Nuada began, warning clear in his eyes, but a look from her cut him off. She was trying to tell him something, with her wide-eyed look. _Trust me,_ she seemed to say. _Just trust me._ She closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. Swallowed, ignoring the fresh trickle of blood from a second shallo cut. Looked at Nuada again. _Trust me. Please._

The Elven warrior shifted his weight just a bit. Turned his head slightly, as if he were glancing off to his right, but he kept his eyes fixed on his captive lady. _Message received and acknowledged, milady._

She blinked at him hard._ Thank you, my prince_.

If she had a plan, he would trust in it. Just as he had to trust Zhenjin and Lòman to keep their eyes on the shoggoth at Nuada's back.

"You should probably let me go," Dylan said, every word coated in frost and sharp with ice. "You're only making things worse for yourself."

The Téngshé flicked the tip of the knife against her throat, just under her chin. Another spill of blood warmed her skin before cooling quickly in the winter air. He pressed the point against her jaw, drawing more blood. Dylan hissed at the sudden burning as silver scraped bone. Couldn't bite back a sound of pain.

"_Stop,_" Nuada commanded. His eyes burned with promises of pain. "One more drop of her blood and you die."

"You will do nothing to me so long as I hold this blade to your whore's throat, little prince. Your cowardice makes you easy to control."

"Do not insult my prince," the mortal said. She kept her eyes on Nuada's face. On the icy fury in his gaze. She wondered if she ought to feel sorry for this Elven assassin who didn't realize that he was going to die. "Just a tip."

"You are so confident that the mighty Silverlance will be able to defeat me, but I have news for you, little whore." The Téngshé leaned in and whispered, "My master's ally has a keen interest in you. He told me if I gave you a message, you would know who he is. And I will tell you, just because I'm feeling generous, that your enemies have a very special punishment in store for interfering human sluts that do not know their place."

Fighting the dryness in her throat and ignoring the pain sizzling through her bad leg, Dylan said in a loud voice, making sure Nuada heard every word, "Okay, you've got a message for me from your master's new buddy. Deliver it and stop breathing on me; your breath's worse than my brother's gym socks. I mean- _glk_."

The Téngshé's hand clamped hard around her throat. His fingers bit into the necklace of raw bruises. For a minute it was all she could do to suck in air while the assassin's grip tightened around her neck. His thumb pressed hard into the bone-deep cut on her jaw. Sparks of pain bit deep beneath the skin. She choked on a cry of pain.

A muscle flexed in Nuada's jaw.

The knife drew a caressing trail from just under the Téngshé's hand over her skin, between her collarbones, to the neckline of her lace-up Old World blouse. The silver point caught on the knotted rawhide laces. Sliced through the knot without even a token of resistance. Cold air blew against the newly-exposed topmost part of the scar that covered her heart.

_Doesn't matter,_ Dylan told herself. _Just ignore it. Panic later. Just gotta keep him from taking me anywhere. Gotta keep him distracted._

She knew this enemy wanted to take her somewhere. Knew she couldn't let that happen. And she knew, by the heat nearly searing her chest and beating back the frigid chill of sheer terror, if she kept the Téngshé talking long enough, she and Nuada would survive this.

Icy silver touched the raised edge of the scar over her heart. Pricked the pale, sensitive flesh. Dylan barely bit back a whimper.

She tried not to cry out when the knife sliced into the unscarred flesh near her shoulder, then ripped across the top of the sensitive scar tissue, drawing a long line of crimson from one side of her chest to the other. Blood flowed hot and bright, soaking her shirt. Dylan choked on a scream as the knife touched her again.

_Not there. Not there, not there, not there_. Anywhere _but there_.

Dylan could barely think the words over the thunder of her pulse. Those five scars - at her inner thighs and the insides of her elbows and just above her heart - were surrounded by flesh almost brutally sensitive to pain. A red-hot iron brand pressed against her chest where the knife-point had drawn blood.

"Bastard," Nuada snarled. Every muscle strained to launch an attack. Fury iced his blood. His eyes had shifted to enraged scarlet.

He saw the sudden spike of fear in Dylan's eyes. She hadn't been afraid, not really, until now. And that choked scream of pain... he would kill the bastard for that. Slowly. Perhaps feed him to the shoggoth before dispatching the elder creature. And this assailant had a message for _her_, specifically? Why? Who was this Elf working for?

"The message," the Téngshé hissed, "is five simple words." He seemed to almost croon them in her ear, so low the prince couldn't hear them. But Nuada saw Dylan's eyes widen. Go glassy with shock and terror. Saw every last drop of blood drain from her face. Then the Téngshé flipped the knife blade so the back-edge rested against Dylan's throat, just above her carotid artery.

"This knife was given to me by my master." A fine line of crimson welled up and spilled down the side of Dylan's neck. She gasped. Made a small sound of absolute terror. The Téngshé smiled. "Yes, little whore, it is poisoned... in a way."

Nuada's heart stopped. Fury gave way to fear.

"You recognize this particular poison?" The assassin asked gently. Tears welled up and spilled down Dylan's cheeks. She bit her lip, uncaring of the cut still seeping blood. "My master did not think you would, but our mutual acquaintance thought you just might." Another slender scarlet thread graced the pale column of her throat. "It appears he was correct."

"Stop it," Dylan pleaded. Nuada's control nearly snapped. That frightened child's voice... he'd never heard it from her in the waking world before. "Stop, stop, please, stop. Please don't, please don't, please."

The Téngshé smiled. "It is true, then. This particular poison will break even your defiant spirit. Will it break your prince's pride?"

She tried to jerk away from the knife, but the assassin's steely grip gave her nowhere to run. He sliced a shallow line along the length of the thick, slashing scar Nuada so often caressed. Dylan whimpered. "Nuada, make him stop, please. Please, it's..." She cried out when the knife cut her again.

"Enough!" The Elven warrior snarled. Something caught his eye. A brief glimpse of tawny streaking silently across white snow. The prince focused once more on the Téngshé holding Dylan. "What do you want? What is your price for her life?"

"My price? An oath that none will attempt to stop me from escaping. Swear it on the Darkness That Eats All Things, or I'll stain the ground with her lifeblood. And since you asked so nicely about my price, get on your knees and beg like the whipped dog you- _gah!_" He jerked to look down at his leg, releasing Dylan as he brought the blade down in an arc of silver towards the deer-sized mass of snarling fur clamped hard on his leg from calf to thigh.

The snarling mass yowled in pain and feline rage. The assassin's other hand smashed down on the beast. Whatever it was shrieked and snarled, but did not stop shredding with claws and wicked fangs.

Dylan hit the snow. Instantly, she was on hands and knees, scrambling for her dirk. She slashed back in a wild blow even as Nuada raced forward. Sunlight shone blindingly bright on Elven silver as Dylan's dirk severed the big vein in the Téngshé's leg and Nuada's sword parted the Elf's head from his shoulders. It tumbled to the snow, followed swiftly by the beheaded corpse.

Nuada knelt beside Dylan, ignoring the body of the assassin. He reached for her. She recoiled. "Don't, don't touch me, please, you can't." She gasped, dragging the icy air into lungs gone horribly tight. "It's Branwen's Tears," she panted.

Nuada went very still.

"It was on the knife, it's in my blood. Don't touch me. You can't touch me. I can't breathe, I can't..." She clutched at her still-bleeding throat. Squeezed her eyes shut. Gritted her teeth. Every muscle in her body tensed until Nuada's ached in sympathy. "Stop it," she snarled at herself from between clenched teeth, though each word was quavery and breathless. "Stop, stop, stop. Snap out of it. Get a grip. Stop it. Take a breath. Just breathe." Dylan gulped air. Shook her head hard as if to clear it of fog. "It hurts," she whispered. There was a muffled thump as she punched the snowy ground. "Work through it. Gotta work through it."

Swallowing audibly, Dylan sat back. Blew out a breath. "I think I'll be okay for now," she whispered. "But it's just going to get worse until it passes. The shoggoth... we've gotta... wait. The thing that attacked the Téngshé, what was it?"

The mass of fur that had been tangled up in the assassin's legs finally struggled free and slumped over in the snow. Tear-blurred blue eyes blinked, bringing the massive cougar cub into focus. When dull, pain-filled gray eyes that were slightly out of focus locked with Dylan's, she gasped and lunged forward to scoop up the large cat in her arms.

"A'du'la'di! For heaven's sake, what were you _thinking?_ Are you hurt? Are you hurt, honey?"

The ewah cub lifted a spotted foreleg nearly the size of Dylan's arm. A long slice from shoulder to paw bled dark amber into the fur. Another slash along his side bled sluggishly onto the snow. The cub purred and butted his head against his mistress's shoulder. Then he twisted out of her arms and stumbled a couple feet to where Nuada crouched beside the human. A'du rubbed his cheek against the prince's boot before flopping onto the snow. A trickle of blood wet the fur at the base of one ear. He tried to lick the wound on his foreleg. Mewled.

"He needs a healer," Dylan whispered. "This is serious bleeding. Baby," to the ewah boy, "what were you _thinking?_"

"You also need a healer," the prince muttered, thinking of poisoned blades and mortal blood spilled in violence. Thinking of how much worse the pain flowing through her body was going to become before the poison ran its course. "Zhenjin, do you-"

"I am fine and will stay here until Butchers come to deal with the corpses. Tend to your lady, my friend. Have a servant fetch my father and he will deal with this... shoggoth. My brothers will find my sister."

Lòman approached and actually knelt in the snow beside the shaking mortal. Nuada knew it was the effort of ignoring the venom coursing through her veins and not fear that made Dylan tremble as she cradled the large lump of fur that was A'du'la'di to her chest. Moving like a woman afraid of bleeding to death, Dylan managed to clamber into the black saddle. Lòman slowly rose to all four feet and stamped the cold snow from his legs.

The Elf prince vaulted into the saddle behind the human, careful to touch her as little as possible. She still drew a sharp breath when his arms came around her to take the reins.

"Can you make it?" Nuada asked as Lòman leapt into a gallop. "Until we get to the healers? Will A'du'la'di make it?"

A single sharp nod. "I'll be fine," she gritted between clenched teeth. "And so will he."

_I won't let him be anything_ but _fine_ was the unspoken sentiment behind her words. And though the mortal shivered violently in the prince's arms, shivers born from more than the winter cold, she didn't seem afraid for the child. She simply hugged him closer to her chest to keep Lòman's hoofbeats from jarring the small furry body.

**.**

Tsu's'di raced ahead of Fionnlagh and the other guards in _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's entourage, sliding down the polished stone floor of the Healer's Wing with 'Sa'ti in cougar form jogging at his heels in order to keep up with his longer stride. The guards allowed the pair of ewah to run. They were only stopped by a pair of Butchers when they reached the end of one short corridor bearing four doors. Tsu's'di stuck his leg in front of 'Sa'ti so she didn't try to dart beneath the guards' crossed swords. She promptly smacked into his calf and tumbled backward.

The young bodyguard saw with staggering relief that Prince Nuada stood in one of the doorways, face expressionless, watching the activities within the room. Topaz eyes flicked to where the cougar youth stood, his way barred by the two Butchers.

"Let him pass," the prince commanded.

The moment the guards' claymores no longer blocked his path, the youth darted forward, his little sister scrambling after him. Tsu's'di only stopped a few feet from Nuada to offer the prince a short bow. "Where is he? A'du'la'di, is he all right?"

Nuada said nothing; he merely gestured to the room he almost seemed to be guarding.

Tsu's'di turned to see A'du, stretched out in cougar form on a healing bed. Amber blood seeped from a long, deep cut from his shoulder to his paw and from a gash along his heaving side. Blood stained the fur at the base of one ear. Two Elven healers were muttering over him. The youth could see they were frustrated; no doubt because they couldn't get the barely-conscious ewah child to shift back into bipedal form. Well, _he_ could take care of that.

The young bodyguard strode into the room. Immediately, one of the healers pounced on him, demanding to know if there was a way to force-change the boy back into humanoid shape. Tsu's'di nodded and went to his little brother, gently lifting the furry head in one hand and stroking the snow-dampened fur along his side with the other.

"Come on," the young guard murmured. "Don't be a brat. You're probably scaring the _a'ge'lv_ to death." Smoky turquoise eyes slid closed as Tsu's'di drew a slow breath. Let it out. Drew another. Let it out. "Come on, A'du. I know it's hard." Power, warm as a summer breeze and soft as a wildcat's pelt, spread across the ewah child's body as his older brother gently petted from the base of the feline skull to the base of the limp tail. "It's okay. You don't need to fight anymore. Relax."

From the doorway, the prince watched the older cougar stroke along the damp fur and murmur gently to the shapeshifted little boy. After a few tense moments, the fur began to ruffle and shiver, as if blown upon by an invisible wind.

A'du'la'di mewed softly. Flexed his claws. Then the fur seemed almost to melt away from his body into thin air, leaving a bloodied little boy in formal livery shivering on the healing bed. Bleary gray eyes fluttered open. A'du met his brother's eyes. Swallowed.

"My arm hurts. And my stomach kinda hurts. And my head _really_ hurts."

Tsu's'di laughed weakly. "I'll bet. You doin' okay, though?" The little boy nodded. Then his eyes widened and he flailed, trying to sit up. "Whoa, whoa! Easy, kiddo. Calm down before you hurt yourself."

"_A'ge'lv_ Dylan," A'du'la'di yowled. "There was a bad man, he was _hurting_ her, is she okay? Where is she?" Nearly frantic, the child tried to slide off the bed to the floor. Only his brother's arm wrapped around his chest kept him from managing it. The healers grabbed his arms. "Ow, lemme go! She might be in big trouble! There was a monster and a bad guy had her and she was _bleeding_, lemme _go_, Tsu's'di, I gotta-"

"A'du'la'di."

The flailing subsided as Nuada stepped into the room. The little boy swallowed hard. Tears of pain, frustration, and panic flowed down his cheeks, but he manfully sniffed them back and met the prince's jewel-like gaze. He said nothing as the Elf prince approached him. Barely managed not to flinch when Nuada lifted a hand. Shut his eyes tight.

Opened them again when Prince Nuada laid a very gentle hand on the boy's uninjured shoulder.

A'du gazed up at his hero, mouth slightly agape, as the prince inclined his head and murmured, "You did very well, A'du'la'di. I thank you. Lady Dylan is safe. It would not have been so if not for you. You have my gratitude."

A'du sniffled. Blinked to bring the prince back into focus. "She's okay?"

"She is safe, and her wounds have been seen to," the prince said. Tsu's'di narrowed his eyes. That wasn't exactly what A'du had asked, the youth thought, but didn't say anything out loud. "As for you," Nuada continued, "you have done a warrior's work today. I expect you to act the warrior now and allow the healers to tend you."

The boy nodded solemnly. "Yes, Your Highness."

"Good lad."

Nuada started to turn away, but felt something bump against his leg. He looked down to see a small cougar cub - barely more than a kitten, complete with spotted fur and pale, bright blue eyes - twining between his ankles and bumping its head against his boots, crying plaintively.

The prince bent down and lifted the bundle of mewing fur. "'Sa'ti," he said, setting her on the bed beside A'du. "Stay with your brothers." The cub bumped her head against Nuada's hand before sprawling across A'du'la'di's legs.

The prince walked out of the healing chamber.

"You have much to explain, Crown Prince," said a voice as cold as the oncoming winter night beyond the castle walls. "I tell you that you are not to go anywhere without guards; you yourself request a guard detail for your lady; you claim that though you proposed marriage in earnest, your lady has refused you. Yet you abscond with her on horseback like an impetuous young idiot and nearly get both of you and your lady's young page killed. You can imagine I am quite puzzled by this."

Nuada refused to so much as twitch as he met the king's eyes. Instead, he shifted to rigid military attention. His face was a blank mask, his eyes glittering and empty as they gazed at Balor. "You require my report, Your Majesty?"

"I do. Give it, then, Crown Prince. And be thorough."

So the Elven warrior relayed to the king exactly what had happened out in the castle orchard. Informed Balor that he'd pulled up on Lòman's back and handed an injured A'du'la'di off to young Guardsman Ailbho and pressed Dylan into the care of Guardswoman Fionnlagh with the express order that _no one_ was to touch Her Ladyship except Fionnlagh until Dylan said otherwise. Nuada had then sent a page to the guest suite housing the emperor of Dilong with the message that Crown Prince Zhenjin requested the August Emperor's presence _at once_ in the plum orchard at the edge of Findias's gardens to deal with an enemy that could not be dispatched without the power of the Jade Dragon Emperor. The Bethmooran prince had then informed Butcher Lieutenants Jarlath mac Rón and Muirne ingen Óenfer of the attack by the Téngshé and the presence of the shoggoth before making his way to the Healers' Wing in order to ascertain the well-being of Lady Dylan and her pageboy, A'du'la'di Ewah.

"And how _is_ your lady?" The king demanded. "I am curious as to how this attack has affected her. The healers tell me she allowed only Healer Táebfada to tend her, and that if any _male_ healer comes into the room, she becomes hysterical. That she only tolerated Táebfada until the superficial wounds were seen to, but then threw _her_ out, as well. Now Lady Dylan simply paces the healing chamber. She is agitated, restless. Táebfada said she appeared to be on the verge of tears."

Nuada did not flinch or wince at this recitation. He did not even bat an eyelash. "Forgive me, Majesty, but was there an actual question requiring an answer in all of that? You ask me how Dylan is, yet you seem to know as much as I."

Balor's eyes fired molten bronze as they leveled on his son. "What did you do to that girl?"

The prince raised a brow. His gaze held all the warmth of topaz ice. "What makes you think I did anything to her?"

"A man, even an honorable one, might do drastic things when pushed too far. And you are far from honorable, Crown Prince. Son of mine or no, heir of mine or no, if you forced yourself on that girl because she refused to marry-"

"_How dare you?_" Nuada's voice was low, vicious and savage. The ice shattered, leaving hot bronze rage in its place. "I would _never_ hurt Dylan, would _never_ force her to-"

The door at the end of the corridor slammed open, cutting off his words. Two pairs of copper eyes slashed to the open door. Healer Táebfada, looking rather timid, nevertheless scuttled forward to poke her head through the entryway. Then she turned to the king and the prince.

"Her Ladyship requests His Highness's presence in the healing chamber with her," Táebfada murmured. She hesitated, glancing again into the room. Whatever she saw must have decided her doubts, because she nodded to the room's occupant and then said, "And Lady Dylan says if His Majesty pleases, she would prefer to be alone with the crown prince for the time being."

Balor opened his mouth. Closed it again. Glanced at his son.

Each word chiseled from frigidly cold stone, Nuada demanded, "Does that sound like a woman who has only just been raped, Majesty? Why call for me, if I have wronged her so? Now, if you'll excuse me, my lady requires my presence."

Without waiting for a dismissal, Nuada stalked into the room and slammed the door closed.

The king closed his eyes and sighed. Then he looked down to see a tawny cat - a kitten? - staring up at him from the floor, bright sky-blue eyes blinking with something like curiosity twinkling in their depths.

The cat blinked at the king. The king raised his eyebrows at the cat.

The cat popped up on its hind legs and sank razor-sharp claws into his hand of flesh before sprinting down the corridor. Balor swore, watching the cat scuttle away.

Little beast. And he'd done _nothing_ to deserve that.

**.**

Feral eyes watched Dylan pace the length of the room. Her hands were clamped so tightly around her arms that Nuada knew she would have more bruises come morning.

She'd shed the long blue tunic and black skirt she'd worn during their ride, leaving her in a black undertunic and black leggings. She'd kicked off her boots, as well. Stripped off her socks and tossed them atop the folded knit coverlet on the healing bed. Laid her medallion, her ruby ring, and the leather belt that held her sheathed dirk on the bedside table. Thrown her gloves and coat in a corner. Even twisted up her hair in a loose bun to keep it off her neck.

But he could tell she was in pain. See it in the feverish glitter of her eyes, in the grim set of her jaw. In the way she chewed her bottom lip until two thin lines of crimson trickled down her chin. Dylan swiped almost angrily at the blood with her hand. Kept pacing.

"A'du?"

"He is with the healers," Nuada replied. "He will be fine."

"I hate your dad," she muttered between clenched teeth. Nuada said nothing. Only leaned against the wall and watched her struggle to outrun the pain searing her body. "I _hate_ him. He doesn't appreciate you _at all._ I heard what he said to you. I heard what he accused you of. I hate him. You didn't do anything." He answered her with silence. "Dammit, Nuada, this is _not_ your fault!"

"Isn't it?" He asked tonelessly.

She shook her head. When a thin lock of hair fell loose and brushed her neck, she raked it back up into the loose knot. Four parallel scratches on her neck, left by her nails, oozed blood onto the violet bruises. She didn't seem to notice.

"If I had not behaved so recklessly-"

"Shut up!" Dylan snapped. Stopped to lean heavily against one of the bedposts, gasping for breath. "Cripes," she rasped. Groaned. "Oh, _cripes_."

"Do you need me to leave?" It was the only thing he could do. Dylan could not even wash the poison off, as it was not on her skin, but already mingling with her blood. He could do nothing for her. Not even soothing magic would help. And surely having a male in the room was not helping her at all.

But she shook her head violently before clutching at the bedpost with both hands, so hard that her knuckles turned white. Her legs trembled. She briefly locked her bad knee to keep it from buckling. A shudder ripped through her. A whimper managed to escape.

Nuada took an involuntary step toward her. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He dared not touch her. It would only make things worse for her.

"Are you certain? You need not seek to guard me from my father-"

"Don't leave me," she gasped. "Please don't leave me. _Hn_." She sank to her knees and pressed her forehead against the wooden frame of the bed. Smacked her head against it with more than a little force. "_Jeez_. This sucks, this sucks, this _sucks_." She let out a sound halfway between a scream and a growl and lunged to her feet to start pacing again. Nearly stumbled. Without warning, she slammed her fist against the wall. Winced. Half-curled against the icy stone, cradling her hand to her chest. Blood welled up and dripped tiny crimson droplets onto the floor.

"I hate gancanaugh," she snarled. "I hate Branwen's Tears. I hate Aengus's Sweat. I hate this stupid poison. I hate pain." Sucking in a strangled breath, Dylan slammed her back against the stone wall and slid to the floor. She laid her cheek against the cool stone. Lamplight made the sweat on her face gleam. Or perhaps those were tears. "Oh, that's nice," she sighed. "_Oh_. That's cold. I _like_ cold. Cold is good. Cold makes me happy."

The relief would not last long, he knew. A few minutes at most. Then she would be on her feet again, pacing, struggling against the agony ripping through her that would only be eased by violent bloodshed or carnal union. Time would, of course, ease the pain. Eventually the poison would fade from her blood. But how much suffering would she endure in that time?

He watched her lick the blood from her ragged knuckles. The sting of salt and pain on her tongue would help a little, as well... for a moment or two. Then the pain would return. Surely, in a case like this, the High King's laws did not prohibit what was necessary to ease her pain? Surely she was allowed to-

"I know what you're thinking," Dylan mumbled as she staggered past him on weak legs. On the bedside table was a pitcher of water and a clear drinking glass. The water was so cold that slivers of ice floated in the glass the mortal poured for herself. She downed it in one long gulp before sinking onto the bed. "You think I should give in."

"I would never make the mistake of dictating should or shouldn't to you in such a situation. I do think you would suffer less if you did give in, however."

Dylan shook her head before dropping it into her hands. Her knuckles, Nuada saw, had been scraped bloody. So had the delicate bones that protruded at her wrists. Bruises shadowed her slender fingers. Shallow scrapes marred the skin from punching the stone walls.

"No," she said. "No, I'm not gonna do that to you."

He blinked. "To me?"

She poured herself another glass of ice water. Drained it. Pressed the chilled glass to her flushed face. "You think I don't know how you want it to be, if we ever get to that point? You're not the love-'em-and-leave-'em type, Nuada. If we ever were that intimate, you'd want it to be for keeps. Not just some medicinal fling. I get that. Sex shouldn't be something you do to pass the time. It's sacred. It should mean something. And I don't want our first time together to be poisoned by all this."

"Dylan, that does not matter now," he replied, exasperated. "You are in so much pain-"

"Yes it does." She set the glass down with the care of someone who actually would've rather thrown it across the room. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how to simply breathe for a moment. "Yes, it does matter. It matters to _you_. I know it does. It's one of the reasons you don't push me about being your lover."

When he started in surprise, Dylan actually managed a ghost of a smile. "You're so silly. You think I don't know you're secretly a hopeless romantic? I know you, Nuada. You respect me. You respect how I feel about things. How I see things. What my life has been like. And so if it ever happened, you would want it to be... just so. For me. You're picky that way. And sweet. And wonderful. But also picky."

He forced himself to mock-scowl at her. "I most certainly am not 'picky,' as you call it, my lady. I am a prince and am accustomed to certain things being as I dictate. That is all."

Nuada could scarcely admit how good it was to see her smile at him. She even laughed.

"Riiiiight. Uh-huh- _gah!_" She pressed her arms against her body, one hand clutching at her throat as she hunched against the pain. A trembling fist smacked against the mattress over and over again as Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She hardly seemed even to breathe as the pain gripped her like an unrelenting fist. Only when that fist released her for a momentary reprieve did she suck in great gulps of air. Breathed, "Not picky, sure."

"Your courage would frighten a lesser man than myself. Your love... it humbles me. But I beg you to think of yourself. Be a little selfish."

She looked up to meet his eyes. "This is hard for you, isn't it? Seeing me like this?" A fresh wave of pain knifed through her; her shoulders hunched and her spine bowed as she sucked in a sharp whistling breath. Her fists thumped down on her legs hard enough to leave bruises. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "You don't have to stay."

"You think I would abandon you if you needed me?"

For a moment all she could do was breathe as the shards of pain slowly faded. "I know what it is, to have to stand by while someone you love is hurting and you can't do anything. I'm sorry, I'm being selfish, keeping you here. If you need to step out, I won't get upset. I promise."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Nuada said, "I will not leave you."

A brief respite followed, where the pain actually allowed Dylan to curl up atop the bedclothes and shut her eyes. For several minutes she merely seemed to doze in silence, but Nuada knew she did not truly sleep. Her body was braced for the next onslaught of agony. It would come - soon.

"Do the Star Kindler's laws prohibit relieving your pain?" Nuada asked into the silence a while later. He'd slid to the floor and sat with his back braced against the wall, his spread knees drawn up so he could rest his arms on them. Topaz eyes watched her chest rise and fall. Nuada wished fiercely that he'd had the ability to break that Téngshé's legs in so many places the Dilong Elf would not have even been able to crawl, then strung him up by his heels and skinned him alive with an iron knife. Or perhaps, Nuada thought with savage hate, he wouldn't have bothered using a knife.

Dylan drew a ragged breath, snaring his attention. She answered without opening her eyes. "No. At least, I don't think it does. I'm not going to die from this, but if, say, the king threatened to inflict this kind of pain on you if I didn't sleep with you, there would be no sin in me agreeing to his demands. He is a God of justice _and_ mercy, after all. That's not why I'm doing this." Her fingers scrunched in the velvet blankets. "I know you wish you could erase all the scars on my heart and give me my innocence back. And I know it hurts you, that you can't."

Dark lashes fluttered and Nuada found himself pinned by that impossible blue gaze. His heart stumbled. Only a hard swallow returned it to its proper rhythm.

"You don't want it to be like this for us. Neither do I. And it would be harder to resist later," she added, "if we'd been that close before. I don't want that burden on you. But mostly, I know that you want me to come to you willingly. That you want to show me how physical love is supposed to be, not the obscenity I've seen."

Truth. More than anything for himself, he wanted Dylan to have firsthand knowledge of what it was supposed to be, to lie with someone who loved her, who cherished her as he did. Who understood the value of the gift of her. And he did want it to be willing. He refused to be the next in a long line of monsters that had used her body for their own twisted pleasure with no thought to the woman within the physical shell. But... "I do not want you to suffer, either."

She shrugged, sighed. He studied her in the lamplight; the way her fingers plucked nervously at the velvet blanket, the way she didn't quite meet his eyes. He remembered how she had killed the dipsa serpents in the royal forest and brought down the Téngshé in the orchard. Was reminded that Dylan possessed great strength, but was also so very fragile in some ways.

"There is another reason, isn't there?" He asked softly, gently. "Equally as important to you." Eyes like stardust flicked to him and then away. An answer in and of itself. "Tell me," he commanded. His voice was still soft, still gentle, but it was a command nonetheless.

"I don't want to hurt you," she confessed in a whisper. "Even with the Tears in my blood, do you think it would be easy for me to... to be intimate with someone? Even someone I love and trust? Even someone I love and trust and want as much as you? Do you think I don't know how much it would hurt you, if I couldn't do it? If I couldn't bear it? If my memories were too strong? I won't do _that_ to you, either. I won't. I don't care what anyone else thinks or says; I won't hurt you like that."

He opened his mouth - to argue with her or to console her, he wasn't sure which - when she suddenly whimpered and pressed her face into the blankets in a desperate attempt to muffle a scream. The respite was over. The pain had returned.

She tried to work through it, breathe around it, move past it. Couldn't. Too much this time. Fire ripping through her stomach and shredding her just under the skin. Charring her bones and boiling the blood in her veins. If she gave in, it would end. It would _end_. But she didn't know if she could. Didn't know if the touch that would ease the awful, brutal pain would also ease the memories of childhood horrors, or rouse them to a fever pitch.

So Dylan pressed against the bed and screamed into the velvet blanket, wishing Nuada would go away and yet so grateful he was still there. When the worst of it abated, she forced herself to slide off the bed. Her legs buckled. She sank to the floor on hands and knees. Panted for breath. Her hair sliding against her skin was unbearable, but she didn't have the strength to redo the loose bun. Her arms shook. Her chest and throat ached. Pressure throbbed at her temples.

Nimble fingers lifted the tendrils of hair from the back of her neck and her shoulders. Dylan gasped. Held her breath. But in the few minutes it took Nuada to twist up her hair again for her, nothing touched her feverish skin: not a wisp of her hair, not a brush of callused knuckle or fingertip. Then the Elf prince laid something blissfully icy against the back of Dylan's neck - a glass of ice water. The biting chill soothed the fever, soothed the pain, soothed the sudden spike of sexual hunger that ripped at her because of his nearness.

Her eyes drifted closed.

"Tell me if I need to move away," the prince whispered.

She shook her head slightly. He was fine for now. That gave her hope. If she could tolerate him being so close, maybe the poison was nearly out of her system. Maybe-

"Get away," she gasped as vicious heat roared to life beneath her skin. Nuada was gone from her side in an eyeblink. Now he was a shadow along the wall at the edge of her blurring vision. She wanted him back. Wanted him out of the room. Wanted him. Wanted the pain to stop. Instead Dylan closed her eyes and waited out the fire.

And when the latest wave ended, she started to cry.

Nuada did not leave as the winter sunset faded to twilight and then to deepest night spangled with ice-white stars. He stood guard as Dylan paced, shivered, stumbled. As she fought to keep from succumbing to the poison in her body.

Táebfada was the only one allowed in the room, and then only briefly to bring the mortal ice water to help soothe the burning. Soft-spoken and gentle-mannered the female healer might have been, but Nuada thanked the gods for her when Táebfada calmly and quietly refused King Balor admittance to the healing chamber.

Sometime after midnight, Dylan sank to the floor and simply sprawled across the icy stone, panting for breath. Dazed blue eyes slid to where the Elf prince stood. Blinked almost sleepily. Nuada held his breath. Was it over? Could it be over so swiftly?

Suddenly Dylan sucked in a hissing breath. Every muscle tensed. Her eyes squeezed shut as her spine bowed with the pain. Her hands flexed against the cold stone of the floor. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to hold back a scream; Nuada knew that even now, she was thinking of A'du'la'di and the other children in the next room.

She collapsed onto the floor with a gasp. Rolled onto her side and merely breathed.

Then she did a remarkable thing. She stretched out a shaking arm and laid her hand palm-up on the floor. Her eyes found him again. "Hold my hand," she whispered. "Please?"

"Are you certain you can bear me?"

Dylan nodded. Swallowed. "I'm too tired to do anything, anyway," she confessed. Her lips, bitten bloody, tried to curve into smile. "Even if I wanted to jump you, I couldn't. I can't even see straight." She curled her fingers. "Please? Please hold my hand, Nuada."

So the crown prince of Bethmoora, the legendary Silverlance, stretched out on the cold stone floor and cradled Dylan's limp hand between his own. Her fingers curled around his. She closed her eyes.

"You should try and sleep if you can, mo duinne."

She shook her head. "Can't sleep. Hurts. Nuada... the message. That the assassin gave me." She was struggling to speak evenly, struggling to keep her thoughts straight, struggling against a fresh wave of pain. "It... it was... He called me 'sweetness.' I think-" The breath escaped her in a wheeze as fire tore through her stomach and chest. She gripped his hand until her fingers nearly creaked from the strain. "I think it's Eamonn. I think he's alive."

"No," he murmured, trying to soothe, "no, sweetheart, he is dead, I killed the wretch myself. He cannot hurt you now."

Dylan bit her lip and shook her head more vehemently. "No, I'm telling you. That's what the assassin was telling me. He said his master had a new ally, one that knew me. One that was sure I would recognize the feel of Branwen's Tears. And then he said... in the message, he asked me, 'Have you missed me, sweetness?' I'm sure, I'm positive that's from Eamonn." Glassy mazzarine eyes fixed on his face. Strained to focus. "Do you believe me? You believe me, right?"

Stars curse it, it _sounded_ like Eamonn. "Sweetness" had been his pet name for Dylan. He should have stayed, Nuada thought with no little fury. Should have stayed and made sure the mangy dog had actually bled out on the snow that night. Should have cut him into little pieces and left them for the carrion-eaters. Should have-

Pale, slender fingers gripped his hand tightly. Dylan scrunched into a quaking ball. The Elf prince focused all his attention on the one who needed him now. He could think on paths not taken and plot his vengeance later.

When she caught her breath, Dylan murmured, "Will you... sing to me, Nuada? Please?" Her voice was nearly gone by now, a mere wisp of sound. Her entire body shook with minute tremors. Dawn was only a few hours away, and she had not yet managed sleep at all. How much more could she take?

He did not ask. Merely stroked his thumb gently across her fingers, careful of her scraped knuckles, and began to sing. The song was not Gaelic; it was one he'd learned some centuries ago from Prince Viðarr of Álfheim during the wars.

"_Blow, northerne wynd;  
Send to me my suetyng.  
Blow, northerne wynd;  
Blow, blow, blow._"

Dylan closed her eyes and tried to focus on the words. She sort of recognized the language, as if she'd heard it long ago, or in a dream. It sounded almost like English... but not quite. She wasn't sure, and was too exhausted to focus on it.

So she drew a breath that seared her throat and made her chest ache, and listened.

"_Ichot a burde in boure bryht,  
That sully semly is on syht,  
Menskful maiden of myht;  
Feir ant fre to fonde;_

_"In al this wurhliche won  
A burde of blod ant of bon  
Never yete y nuste non  
Lussomore in londe._"

He felt her grip begin to slowly, slowly relax. Some of the brutal tension eased out of her body. Her cheek was pressed to the cold floor, but not as if she clung to the stone as if her life depended on it. More as if she were simply resting.

"_Blow, northerne wynd;  
Send to me my suetyng.  
Blow, northerne wynd;  
Blow, blow, blow._"

_I'm so tired,_ she thought, blinking sleepily at Nuada. Though he held her hand, he did not lay beside her. In fact, he lay in the same position they'd fallen asleep in two weeks ago in the Queen's Garden, nearly perpendicular to each other. But Dylan could see his eyes, glacial topaz with worry. See the tightness in his expression. When he caught her gaze, though, he smiled for her. She relaxed.

She was so tired, so terribly tired. Maybe she could sleep in a bit. Maybe her body would finally let her rest. Would she have nightmares brought on by the poison in her blood? She didn't know. It seemed likely, but Nuada was with her. If he was with her, maybe the nightmares would stay away.

Whenever she'd fallen asleep with her hand cradled in the gentle strength of his, the nightmares hadn't come. Only dreamless, restful sleep. Maybe she could actually rest now. Maybe.

"_Hire lure lumes liht,  
Ase a launterne a-nyht,  
Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht,  
So feyr heo is ant fyn._

_"A suetly swyre heo hath to holde,  
With armes, shuldre ase mon wolde,  
Ant fingres feyre for to folde,  
God wolde hue were myn..._"

Time stretched out before them. Dylan clenched her teeth and endured the pain. Nuada continued to sing softly to her in an effort to help her endure. And while he sang, while she bit back hoarse screams and trembled beneath the onslaught of the gancanaugh venom, Nuada prayed.

_I beg Thee,_ the prince prayed silently to the High King of the World, that royal God that Dylan had devoted her life and her soul to, _end this. She is so tired. So very tired. Let her have rest, please. I will do anything, anything that Thou would ask, just give her a moment's rest. Let her sleep. Take her pain. This is my doing. She should not have to suffer for it. I was reckless and foolish to take her somewhere without guards. Please, end this. I beg Thee to end it._

Sometime later - he was not sure how many minutes or hours had passed - Dylan's hand went limp in his. Nuada blinked. Peered at her with eyes gritty from tiredness and the late hour. Was she... could she possibly be...?

She was.

After more than twelve hours in vicious pain, constantly pacing and struggling against that pain, Dylan had finally fallen asleep.

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_**Author's Note:**__ so I had to bring in the shoggoth. Hellboy takes place in a Lovecraftian world; I had to bring in one of HP Lovecraft's big bad scaries. So there it is. And this whole time I've hinted at Branwen's Tears and how it's sooooo horrible and all this stuff, but I've never given a real glimpse of what it can do. So I hope it penetrates - a few cuts from that stuff (not even being slathered/doused with it, as Nuada was in his nightmare in chapter 29/30) and it can cause hellacious pain. Imagine what a lot of it could do. Some dark and disturbing food for thought._

_1) A'du'la'di - a genius, no? Brave or foolhardy? Thoughts?_

_2) So I felt tired of having Dylan cry over emotional stuff. Wanted to give her some more gung-ho moments. Both her and Nuada. I was basically tired of internal conflict and wanted some external. How do you guys feel about how it all went down?_

_3) Who thinks the message is from Eamonn?_

_4) Branwen's Tears. We finally see a clear look at what a small amount can do. Thoughts on its effects? On the interaction between Nuada and Dylan while the Tears were burning through her veins? Any questions?_

_5) I'm always curious about Nuada with A'du'la'di; I always worry I made Nuada too good, or too harsh, or whatever. So... thoughts?_

_6) *sigh* Thoughts on Balor, anyone?_

_7) And of course, 17 favorite things! Woot-woot! Love you all!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- I took a little liberty with the meanings of flowers in this chapter. Some of the ones from the book A'du looks at are made up. However, the meanings of the five flowers A'du picks for Dylan's bath actually mean what I say they mean.

- Share Time is when the kids from ages 3-11 all get together in the same room for an hour. Sometimes they break it in half, so that half the kids have Share Time in the second hour and the other half have it in the third hour. It depends on how large the ward is.

- War horses are trained to trample fallen enemies. Just an fyi.

- The ice-bringers are a creature from this book called _Switchers_. I read it ages and ages and ages ago, when I was like, 7, but I don't remember who wrote it. But it's about two kids, a boy and a girl, who can shapeshift, and they have to defeat these gelatinous masses of frozen crud that are threatening to bring a new ice age.

- Another name for Branwen's Tears is Aengus's Sweat. I don't know why.

- The song Nuada sings is called "Blow Northerne Wynd" and it's awesome! I found out about it from reading "Fallen Star" by Alydia Rackham, and found a gorgeous somewhat modern version of it sung by a girl (Sandra Elflein, I think) on Youtube. For a translation of the words, go read her fanfic. The guy who sings it translates the song afterward.


	68. Don't Wanna Miss a Second

_**Author's Note:**_ _So here's the latest chapter, yay! There's some external development, some internal development, and some external "uh-oh" moments. I hope you guys love them all. I'm currently sick with a fever, so I'm gonna keep this AN short and sweet. Love you all. Reviews are loves. Buy my books - they're on Amazon now. Yay! Huggles. Bye._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ t'is a line from "Never Close Our Eyes" by Adam Lambert, from the chorus: "Forget about the sunrise. Fight the sleep in your eyes. I don't wanna miss a second with you. Let's stay this way forever." I thought it fit._

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**Chapter Sixty-Eight**  
**Don't Wanna Miss a Second**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Thanks, Emo-Bears, a Child's Confession, the Nature of Courage, Boons from Royalty, Lectures, a Letter, a Promise, and Voices**

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Nuada waited for what seemed an eternity for the pain to return; for Dylan to awaken. When she didn't, he got to his knees and ever so slowly lifted her into his arms. When he was sure being held hadn't roused her, Nuada slowly climbed to his feet. Dylan didn't stir. Holding his breath, the prince laid her on the healing bed and drew the dark green knit coverlet over her. Still she didn't wake.

_Thank You,_ the prince thought. He lightly caressed Dylan's cheek. Laid a finger against her bloodied mouth and cooled the hurt there with a touch of magic. _Thank You for this. For giving her some peace._ He took the single chair beside the bed and sank into it with a near-silent sigh of gratitude. _Let this be the end of it._ Nuada leaned his head back. Closed his eyes. _Let this be the end._

When dawn broke through the chamber window, soft and golden, the king and Healer Táebfada found the prince and the mortal asleep, joined by their linked hands.

"This night has been hard on your son, Majesty," Táebfada whispered. "He hasn't left her side. She holds a place deep in his heart, and I both envy and pity him for it. Love can be a cruel master at times."

"Yes," murmured the king. Only a blind man or a fool would have missed the haggard exhaustion on Nuada's face. And King Balor might have been many things, but he hoped he was _not_ a blind fool. "Yes, it can be, at that.

**.**

Sunlight on her face woke Dylan from sleep. She blinked the blurriness from her eyes and tried to remember where she was. The Healers' Wing in Findias… because several Téngshé, the royal guards of Dilong, had attacked her and Nuada. She remembered the shoggoth. Had the Butcher Guards managed to kill it? All the Téngshé were dead, weren't they? She'd killed one. Equal parts luck and knowledge, that. A good groin shot and a lucky slash severing the great saphenous vein. Nuada and Prince Zhenjin had killed the others. Nuada would've made sure they were dead because-

A knife at her throat. Silver cutting through flesh to draw blood and catch on bone. Hot breath against her face. Hands on her body, bruising and grabbing. They would force her down, force her on the ground, and the knife at her face flashing pain-bright and blood, so much blood. The sweet-sour metallic stench of it. Salt in her mouth. They'd cut her face and the wolves, howling in the dark, and Eamonn, and Patrick and Xander and their father and they would catch her and then they-

"Dylan!" Hands on her wrists, gentle. So gentle. "Dylan, it is all right. It's all right. Easy, my love. Be easy." That voice. The lullaby timbre of it, low and soothing. Nuada's voice. "Easy, now. You're safe. I am here and you are safe."

She realized she'd been whimpering. Realized her eyes were squeezed shut and there was blood in her mouth. She'd bitten her knuckles to keep from screaming, the way she often had as a little girl. With effort, she withdrew her teeth from her fingers. She hadn't _really_ bitten herself; her knuckles had been scraped from last night and she'd broken through the fragile, damaged skin.

Last night...

Dylan swallowed back salt and forced herself to be calm before she met Nuada's eyes.

He looked awful: pale, eyes exhausted, the shadows around them deeper than before. A faint bruise colored his jaw. He'd tied his hair back in a horsetail sometime between when she'd miraculously fallen asleep and now. The knuckles of his right hand were bloodied and bruised. Dylan touched his hand.

"You okay?" She murmured, stroking the back of his hand. Nuada caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

"I am well enough," the Elven warrior said. He wanted to shake her. Was _he_ all right? After the night she'd spent, after something had triggered a flashback and forced those terrified sounds from her, she wanted to know if _he_ was all right? He swallowed back anger born from worry. "How do you feel?"

She considered. "Sore. I have a headache. My hands hurt." Dylan flexed her fingers. Studied the bruised, scraped flesh. "Jeez. My hands haven't looked like this since I was in rehab." She bit her lip, realizing what she'd said. But the prince said nothing; merely brushed his fingertips along the abrasions, sending cool magic to soothe the hurt, before he did the same with a light touch at her temples. "Thank you."

"Forgive me," he said. She blinked at him. "This pain, your injuries - they are my doing. I was reckless with your safety and-"

"Oh, shut _up_," Dylan begged in what was almost a whine. "You're such a... what's that phrase my patients use? Oh, right. Emo-bear. You're such an emo-bear! We are _not_ doing this! So we shouldn't have run off like a couple of lovesick, overly emotional teenagers. We'll know better next time. The end. I could've told you to take me back," she added more seriously. "The moment we stopped, I could have. But I didn't. I'm just as much at fault as you are. Which means neither of us is at fault, so there's no harm done." The Elf opened his mouth, and the mortal hastened to say, "Just accept it and move on, Your Highness. It's a fact of life, just like you have cute ears and are hopelessly smitten with me."

Dylan waited with bated breath for the smile that finally spread across Nuada's face. She smiled back. Grinned when he replied, "I will admit to the second one, but my ears are _not_ cute, whatever you may say, my lady."

"I hate to shatter this fragile bubble of denial you live in, but yeah they are. They're adorable. I love them."

"What is an 'emo-bear?'"

She choked. Swallowed the laugh threatening to strangle her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You just called me an 'emo-bear.' I want to know what that means." While she tried to muffle her laughter by covering her mouth with both hands, Nuada growled, "Call me names if you must, Dylan, but I'll not allow you to call me things I cannot answer. Now what does it mean?"

The mortal shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She thumped herself on the chest and managed to choke back the last of the giggles. "I do beg your pardon, Your Highness. I just never thought I'd hear you use that phrase. Okay, an emo-bear is... well, it's another word for someone who's emo. Usually a guy."

The prince raised both eyebrows. "And what is... emo?"

She tried - she _really_ tried - but she couldn't hold back the next batch of giggles. Part of it was exhaustion. Part of it was hearing modern teenybopper slang coming out of Nuada's mouth.

"Ahem. Sorry. Had something stuck in my throat." She coughed. "Emo is short for emotional. Overly emotional. It's a word to describe teenagers and preteens who are overly melodramatic. You know, 'My girlfriend broke up with me so now I'm gonna go drown myself in a bucket and let my rotting heart sing the swansong of our love.' I had a patient write that in a freewrite exercise once, I didn't come up with that. Anyway, so yeah. Emo."

"And this describes me?"

The words were coolly spoken. Dylan squirmed a little. "Um... kinda. I was just kidding. Because you were all, 'Oh, it's all my fault, blah-blah.' Not everything's your fault, you know. Sometimes it's my fault."

"It isn't always your fault, either."

"Hence the use of the word 'sometimes.' And most of the time, it's your dad's fault." She grinned when Nuada choked on a laugh. "A man needs a woman who can make him laugh."

He took her hand. Brushed his thumb over her knuckles in a whisper-light caress. "All jesting aside," the prince said quietly, "are you all right? Truly?"

"Yes. I'm sore because I was so tense and because I was pacing so much. That's all. I'm exhausted, but I'm not... not hurt or anything. I'm really okay. Or I will be fairly quickly. I promise. And if you keep blaming yourself, I will jump out of this bed and kick you."

A ghost of a smile, there and gone. "I do believe I'm shaking."

She smiled. "Darn right." Then her eyes widened. "Oh, my gosh, I _just_ realized, what time is it? Cripes!" She threw back the coverlet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm gonna be late for work, I'm gonna miss my appointments, Gus and Rosie's parents are gonna _kill_ me." Her attempt to pop out of bed was foiled by gentle but firm hands pushing her back down. "Nuada-"

"I contacted your brother early this morning," the prince informed her. In truth, he'd woken from a fitful doze merely an hour after falling asleep and realized with no little irritation that Dylan's mundane life needed to be dealt with now the weekend was over. "He, in turn, contacted your secretary."

"Oh." A pale hand shoved tangles of dark hair from her face. She grasped a long strand and held it in front of her eyes, grimacing. "Well, that's good, because I've got stuff to do today, it looks like. My hair got wet from the snow and I didn't detangle it. Now it's all icky-ful."

He snagged the curl from her grasp. "Your hair is lovely." He rubbed the dark lock between his fingers to feel the silk of it slide along his skin. "I adore your hair. The softness of it. The scent of it. The way it looks tumbling around your shoulders and flowing down your back. It's beautiful. It is certainly _not_... what was the word you used?"

Dylan quirked an eyebrow. "Icky-ful?"

"Yes, 'icky-ful.'" He frowned when she burst out laughing. "What is so amusing?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't get over you using words like 'cooties' and 'spiffy' and 'icky-ful.' It just does _not_ fit with the image I have of the mighty Silverlance. I mean... you're an Elven warrior prince. You can't say 'icky-ful.' That's just weird."

He fixed her with a narrow-eyed look. "Clearly you need more sleep, my lady. Lie back down."

"Yes, Your Highness." She obeyed, and although she was perfectly capable of doing it herself, she let him draw the green knit coverlet over her again. "Nuada," she murmured. "Are we... are we really okay? You and I, I mean. Are you... are you okay?"

Dark lips curved into a tired smile. "I am as I have always been, mo duinne."

The mortal surprised him by growling and thumping her head against the pillow. She reminded him so much of Nuala as a maiden that a laugh surprised its way out of him. "Oh. My. Gosh! Ugh! You are so _fey_ sometimes!" An accusing finger poked him in the chest. "That's not an answer and you know it. Don't make me torture it out of you. You know I will."

Feeling lighter and more relaxed than he had in days, Nuada spread his arms wide to leave himself open to her threatened assault. He raised a sardonic brow. "I am not afraid you."

"That's just 'cause you don't know any better." She propped herself up on one elbow. Grinned. "I'm scary and fierce, remember?"

Her smile was radiant, despite the exhaustion lingering in her eyes. Nuada felt something in his chest loosen a little. She was all right. She would not be able to jest with him if she weren't. With gentle fingers the Elven prince reached out and adjusted her sleeve, which had been tugged down to reveal the dark strap of an undergarment.

She blushed. "Thank you, that always happens when I sleep in my clo-" A Butcher Guard, one Dylan didn't recognize, poked his head into the room. Dylan yelped and yanked the coverlet up to her chin. "Criminy, don't you _knock_? I'm not exactly decent here." She tugged at her other sleeve underneath the blanket to make sure it was where it was supposed to be.

"His Royal Majesty King Balor to see His Royal Highness Crown Prince Nuada," the guard announced, ignoring the human completely. Nuada rose to his feet with liquid grace despite only having had an hour of sleep. Nodded to the guard. Dylan shot him a questioning look, wondering if she ought to get up. The prince shook his head to her once before the door opened further, admitting the king. Dylan hunched beneath the blanket.

'Father," Nuada murmured, offering a truncated bow. "Good morning."

Balor inclined his head. "Good morning, my son. Lady Dylan." The mortal managed to stammer out a greeting. "I am here to remind you, my son, that we've things to discuss this day, once your business with your lady is finished."

Something cold coiled in the pit of Dylan's stomach. Before she could stop herself, she demanded, voice shaking, "W-what are you going to do to him?"

The king blinked, clearly startled. "I... nothing, my dear. No harm will come to him."

A light touch on her arm brought her eyes to Nuada's. His smile was forced, but his eyes were warm honeyed amber. "I'll be all right, mo cridh. You needn't concern yourself. The king is nothing if not a man of his word. Do not fear for me."

"Nuada." She clasped his hand. Fought against the dread shivering down her spine. "Don't go. Stay with me."

Balor watched the tender way his son stroked back the mortal's sleep-mussed hair from her face. The way his thumb swept over the delicate cheekbone and his fingers curled possessively around the back of her neck. Noticed how the human seemed to melt into the caress.

The king narrowed his eyes. She'd refused Nuada's proposal. Both of them had appeared almost devastated by this. Yet now they acted as if it had never happened. As if everything was fine between them. Suspicion slithered down the king's spine. Had his son been lying about the girl's refusal? If so, both he and the human had missed their calling as actors. And why did the girl automatically assume Balor would hurt Nuada?

A knock on the doorframe of the healing chamber pulled all three occupants' attention to Healer Táebfada.

"My deepest apologies for interrupting, Your Majesty, Your Highness, milady, but... the young pageboy wishes to see Lady Dylan. He's most insistent. And his sister wishes to see the prince. She seems concerned, but she won't say why."

Dylan and Nuada exchanged a puzzled glance. Balor eyed them both before saying, "Well, as it happens, I need to speak with this brave young page of yours as well, Lady Dylan." He didn't miss the way her eyes widened, then narrowed. A silent yet obvious warning flashed in their depths. "Let us all pay him a visit."

**.**

A'du'la'di appeared to be staring at the ceiling of his healing chamber, but Tsu's'di wondered if he were in fact contemplating his feet, which currently stuck straight up in the air.

By human and probably Elven standards, the cougar youth knew ewah feet were unusual. Only four toes, for one thing. And ewah feet, like the hind paws of a mundane cougar, were much larger than standard for similar-sized creatures. Still, Tsu's'di couldn't see what was so freaking interesting about his little brother's feet to someone who'd had the same appendages for the last forty-one years. So why was A'du staring at his feet? Or the incredibly boring stone ceiling of the healing room?

"Dude," Tsu's'di finally muttered. "What're you _doing_?"

"Waiting," the little boy replied. "Táebfada said she'd bring the _a'ge'lv_ and the prince."

"Uh-huh." The youth nudged 'Sa'ti with his foot. The sleepy little girl yawned and flopped over on the floor like a marionette with its strings cut, stretching full-out before closing her eyes and settling down for a nap. She'd been up late the night before with A'du'la'di. Tsu's'di couldn't blame his sister for being tired. "And your feet are in the air because?"

"Bored," A'du muttered. His feet dropped down onto the mattress with a _thump_. "What time is it?"

His older brother flattened his ears. "Time for you to stop asking every five minutes."

One of 'Sa'ti's bright blue eyes peeked open. "Somebody's coming."

She darted to the bed and scrambled onto it, curling up atop the green velvet blanket like a sleeping kitten. She tucked her head under her arms and closed her eyes again. The door opened.

A'du'la'di bolted upright. "_A'ge'lv! A'ge'lv!_" He threw his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. His brother's claws hooked into the collar of the loose, pale green tunic the healers had given him and yanked him back down onto the mattress. "Are you okay?" A'du ignored the restraining claws and tried to bounce up again. Tsu's'di pulled him down once more. "That bad man, he was hurting you, I saw him, and there was a monster! Are you okay?"

Dylan stepped into the room and sat down on the edge of A'du'la'di's bed. The child stopped straining to get up.

"I'm fine, honey. Are you all right? How do you feel? You took some pretty good knocks." She gestured to the bandages swathing his arm. He had similar wrappings around his middle, hidden by the sleep-tunic. An ugly bruise mottled the flesh just beneath one feline ear. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said. He looked down at his knees. "M'okay." He flexed his claws. Dylan saw his tail lash back and forth before the little boy stuffed it beneath the blankets.

"A'du'la'di?" Dylan tilted his chin up. He didn't meet her eyes. "What's the matter, sweetie? What's wrong?"

He swallowed hard. "Um... well... um... I think... I mean..." His fur bristled and his ears flattened. "I need to talk to the prince."

"All right." The mortal started to turn toward where Balor and Nuada waited just beyond the doorway to call the Elven warrior inside, but A'du'la'di's next words stopped her.

"By myself," the boy said in a small voice. He'd gone back to staring at his knees.

Dylan frowned. "All right. Is everything okay?" Swift, sharp headshake. "Okay. You wanna tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help." Another headshake. Acting on instinct, the human leaned over to get a brief look into A'du's gray eyes. The misery in their depths surprised her. "Sweetie... what's the matter? You can tell me."

"I just... I just really need to talk to the prince by myself," he said in a rush. "Please can I talk to him?"

"Very well, A'du'la'di," Nuada murmured, stepping into the room. "If you'll excuse us, Tsu's'di, 'Sa'ti. My lady."

Taking her cue from Nuada, Dylan inclined her head and ushered 'Sa'ti and a very confused Tsu's'di into the corridor where Balor waited. Dylan shut the door behind them to give the prince and the pageboy some privacy.

The king asked, "What is the matter with your servant boy?"

Dylan sighed. "No idea. Nuada will fix it." At Balor's skeptical expression, she shot him a flat look and added, "With all due respect, Your Majesty, Prince Nuada's actually very good with A'du'la'di, and A'du adores Nuada. He really looks up to him."

"You may want to curb that before it becomes a problem."

The mortal opened her mouth to bite off a scathing retort, but Tsu's'di's quiet interjection silenced her.

"Prince Nuada saved my little brother and sister's lives. He and Lady Dylan took us into their home. Fed us. Clothed us. Gave us jobs and a warm, safe place to sleep at night. They gave _us_ a home. Of course A'du looks up to the prince. So do I. If I could be half the warrior and half the man Prince Nuada is, that would be pretty cool."

Balor raised an eyebrow at the youth, but didn't chastise him for speaking out or accidentally (possibly on purpose) dropping the honorific of "Majesty." Only said, "I see. Your loyalty does you credit, young guardsman. And you, little maiden? Are you not afraid of the prince?"

'Sa'ti, who stood behind her brother's legs and hid her face with the edge of his royal blue tunic, blinked up at the king with suspicious turquoise eyes and shook her head with surprising vehemence.

Balor blinked. "Oh?"

"The prince is nice," the ewah girl mumbled. "He gave me a ride on Lòman and he brought A'du'la'di back after he broke the snow globe when it was dark and sometimes he sits with us during storytime and he let us have the cupcakes." The little girl fidgeted before blurting, "And you shouldn't say mean things about him. It's not nice."

Dylan started to speak. The king interrupted the single syllable she managed to utter with, "You're quite correct, little maiden. It is impolite to say unkind things of others. I see your mistress has taught you well. Perhaps you would indulge me, little one, and allow me to speak to Lady Dylan alone for a moment?"

At the mortal's nod, the two cougars went to stand with the royal guards arrayed along the short corridor in the Healers' Wing. Balor regarded Dylan with something akin to amusement. "The legendary Silverlance sits with them for storytime?"

"Sometimes," she replied stiffly. "I read them stories before bed. Sometimes His Highness will sit and listen. It makes the children feel safe, knowing he's there. Does that surprise Your Majesty?"

"And you," the king said, ignoring her question. "You feel safe with my son. I find this strange, all things considered." She didn't rise to the bait. "And now I must ask you a question, Lady Dylan. A potentially painful one. Don't lie to me, not even to protect the prince, or things will not go well with you."

"I don't lie."

The king inclined his head. "As you say. My question is this - did Prince Nuada force himself on you yesterday? Or at any time?"

Dylan bit back a profane word that threatened to scorch the inside of her mouth. "Permission to speak freely, Majesty?" At his nod, she said quietly, "Your Majesty, forgive me if I overstep myself, but how dare you ask me that? The prince is a good man. He would never do something like that. He abhors rape. It sickens him. And he would never hurt someone he cares for or loves. You're his father. You raised him to be an honorable warrior, and you succeeded. Why, then, do you insist on thinking the worst of him? He's an honor and a credit to you. Why would you ask me if he'd hurt me? Especially like that? I don't understand."

"Can you blame me for being concerned?" Balor asked softly. "After all that Nuada has done-"

"You mean, how he supposedly butchered a bunch of humans who turned out to be rapists and murderers and it happened that he was actually saving my life, then supposedly used glamour and magic to trick me into bed, thereby constituting rape according to faerie law, even though Nuada and I have never had sex? The crime he was accused of committing, the crime we proved he hadn't committed, and yet he _still_ hasn't been officially pardoned or apologized to even though you whipped the flesh from his back and he nearly died?"

Balor had the grace to look ashamed. "Lady Dylan-"

"Or the crime Nuala accused him of - raping me yet again - when all he'd done was come to my room at _my_ request and comforted me because I'd had a nightmare and was feeling scared? You later accused him of murdering me to get out of our almost-engagement, yet here I am. Is that what you meant? And you insinuated that he'd tried to rape me _again_ while he was staying in my cottage. That's on top of this latest rape attempt."

Balor studied the mortal. The glacial sapphire eyes glittered like ice. The mortal was exhausted, bruised, and clearly infuriated. "Why do my suspicions make you so angry, little mortal?"

Dylan's fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her nails fitted into the crescents she'd dug into her palms the night before. Her voice was soft and strained when she murmured, "Let me tell you something that you may not have figured out about your son, King Balor. He sacrifices daily for those around him. He sacrifices _for me_. Constantly. The knife that cut me yesterday was poisoned with Branwen's Tears."

She saw Balor jolt.

"It would've been the easiest thing in the world for him to seduce me last night. A kiss, a touch. Cripes, if he'd _breathed_ on me, I'd have been helpless to say no to him, _and he knew it_. And do you know what he did? Even though it hurt him, even though it was agony for him to see me in so much pain, he stayed with me, comforted me, _and didn't touch me._ The only thing he did was hold my hand."

Tears thickened her voice when she whispered, "All he did was hold my hand and sing to me to try and help me sleep. He just held my hand. Because I asked him to. He didn't hurt me. He would never hurt me. Why can't you see that? He's a good person. Why can't you see what a good person he is?"

For a long moment, the king didn't speak. Only watched the human struggle for and finally regain her composure. Then he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Lady Dylan... Dylan. I know you love Nuada. I do not doubt that. But one's love for someone else can blind you to their faults-"

She twitched out of his hold. "You are just like my dad. You don't listen to anything you don't want to hear."

"You compare me to your father and expect me to feel insulted? What you've just said is a common complaint among many children regarding their parents."

Her eyes were like shards of ice, her voice brittle and cold as frost when she said, "My parents locked me in a dark hole for eleven years and left me there to rot because I told them I believed in faeries. I only got out because I turned eighteen and they couldn't legally keep me there anymore. Eleven years of being drugged, beaten, starved, tortured, and raped. So yes - when I compare you to my parents, I expect you to be insulted."

Icy rage flashed in Balor's eyes, so at odds with the red-washed hot copper gaze suddenly piercing her like a knife. Dylan fought not to step back. She'd seen those eyes before, but only rarely, and never from Balor. Those were Nuada's eyes when hatred and fury smoldered within him. When the cold, black rage threatened to burn him to ash. Dylan swallowed. Forced herself to meet Balor's infuriated gaze.

"You forget your place, human girl." Quiet the voice may have been, but there was nothing soft or gentle about it. A hard, dark cold coated every word with razor-sharp ice. "You are nothing but the mortal my son is courting. Perhaps he seeks merely to woo you to his bed. Perhaps he truly means to wed you. It matters little. What matters is that you are now a member of my court, a member of my household, and I am your king. This is _my_ kingdom. This is my castle. And you _will_ show me respect, or you will be punished."

In a voice she couldn't keep from trembling, she protested in a hoarse whisper, "You're not my king. I never swore fealty to you-"

"You have sworn fealty to my son, the crown prince of Bethmoora and the heir to my throne. In so doing, you have tithed your loyalty to me, as well. Remember that. Remember that _I_ rule here. And watch your mouth. Disrespect me again, and you will suffer for it. If that doesn't persuade you," the king of Bethmoora added, abyssal fire beneath his frigid words, "I will punish the prince instead."

Dylan's eyes flew wide. "No! No, please, Your Majesty... I'm sorry. Please, I won't... forgive me my disrespect. I am merely concerned for His Highness. I will do better, I promise. Just please, don't hurt him."

Through the crimson haze of fury seething like black poison in his veins, Balor wondered absently just what the mortal thought the old king would do to his son. The king dismissed the thought. Focused on the human. "Very good. Keep my words in mind when next we meet, Lady Dylan, or things will not go well with either you or the prince. And keep this conversation between the two of us; say nothing about this to His Highness. I will tell him what I feel he needs to know. Am I understood?"

Trembling lips mumbled, "Y-yes, Your Majesty. Forgive me. I'm sorry." His nod of dismissal had her curtsying as best she could and turning to move to where 'Sa'ti and Tsu's'di waited, but then she turned back. Her heart thumped hard in her throat, threatening to strangle her. She swallowed back the sharpest edges of panic. Bowed her head. "Your Majesty... may I say one more thing?" At his sharp look, Dylan swallowed again. "I mean no insult. I just... I think that perhaps, maybe, you're under a misapprehension about me. I would like to rectify this."

For several long, tense moments, there was silence between them, broken only by the soft whisper of conversation between Butchers and ewah. Finally, the king inclined his head. "I will allow it. Yet speak carefully, Lady Dylan."

"I know he's killed humans, Majesty," Dylan murmured, still looking at the floor. "I know that. I know he fought them in the wars, too. I've seen his hatred. I've seen his disgust. I've seen his darkness, and how it can consume him when he lets it. I don't want you to think I'm seeing His Highness through rose-tinted glasses. I know he's not always the nicest person. I know he can be harsh, even cruel at times. I know he's terrifyingly lethal all the time. I've seen that. You've seen it, too.

"But I don't think you've seen the rest, if you'll pardon me, Your Majesty. His kindness. His compassion. His courage. His grief. Nuada is a good man. An honorable man, just as you raised him to be. Please believe that. And begging Your Majesty's pardon, I really feel that you owe him an apology, as his father and as his king, for the accusations you make. I know for a fact that they hurt him."

"Have a care, my lady," Balor murmured. The ice in his voice had thinned to a layer of hoarfrost, but his eyes still smoldered with copper anger. "You walk a fine line. Take care not to cross it."

She nodded. He could see the fear in her eyes, the memory of his threat against Nuada. "Yes, Your Majesty. I apologize - I meant no insult."

At his dismissal, the mortal went to stand by her handmaiden and her young guard, and the king let her go. The girl was getting too uppity. Royal patience was wearing quite thin. He would have to speak to the crown prince about her. But, in the back of his mind, Balor also acknowledged that the mortal had given him much to think about.

**.**

Nuada looked down at the cougar boy seated on the healing bed, wondering what could've been so important that the child needed to see him and only him, right that instant. Had he heard something? Seen something that might indicate a danger to his mistress? And 'Sa'ti had wanted to speak to him as well. Why?

A'du'la'di slid off the bed, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. The healers had taken his livery to be laundered, but they'd left the prince's knife, which he wore on his belt at all times except when going to sleep. Now the child picked up the knife. Went to where Nuada stood in front of the closed door and knelt before the prince. He held up the knife. In a voice thick with misery, A'du mumbled, "You should take this back, Your Highness."

One silver-blond brow quirked. "You refuse my trust, and my token thereof?"

The boy shook his head. "No, sir. But... but I have to give it back. I... I don't deserve it."

Nuada folded his arms. Bit back a sigh. Children and their love of theatrics. "Why do you feel you're unworthy to bear my blade?"

The Elven prince blinked in surprise when the boy lifted his head and fixed teary eyes on Nuada's face.

"It's my fault _A'ge'lv_ Dylan got hurt. When you were talking to Nils in the stables yesterday, I talked to Lòman and told him he should take you and the _a'ge'lv_ somewhere you could talk so you guys could make up and you wouldn't be sad anymore. But then he did and you got attacked because you were by yourselves and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan got hurt. That Elf guy hurt her. She... she was crying. She didn't even cry when Conrí clawed up her arm. And... and... and she was bleeding and he made her cry and it's all my fault and now you're not going to like me anymore and I don't have your trust anymore so you should take the knife back."

A'du didn't burst into sobs, but tears rolled silently down his cheeks. He clutched the knife in white-knuckled hands and held it up to Nuada again.

Firegold eyes stared at the sheathed blade. Why was it so hard to breathe? Something about the boy, weeping quiet tears of guilt, struck a chord in him. There was something about this...

He remembered. Centuries upon centuries ago, in the week after his mother's death, after a young Elven princeling had recovered enough from the savage, nearly fatal beating he'd received to get out of bed. Nuada remembered going in search of Balor. He'd needed to explain, needed to know if his father blamed him for not protecting his mother and sister. Nuada was a warrior. Nuada was crown prince. Nuada was to be king one day. It had been his job to keep his _mathair_ and his twin safe. That was what warriors _did._ Yet he'd failed. He'd failed, and Nuala had nearly been killed.

And Cethlenn... his mother... the Elven princeling's nightmares of amber blood and agonized screams, Nuala's sobs and the cruel laughter of human wolves, hadn't given him a single night of peace in the time since he and his twin had been rescued by a passing troll warrior.

Yet when he woke with tears soaking his pillow, and he'd gone to find his father, Balor's study door had always been locked.

Finally, he'd found his father in the Royal Garden beneath the hawthorn tree. The tree beneath which King Balor had married his Fomorian bride centuries past. Found the garden and the vine-wrapped tree, once so vibrant and alive, slumbering beneath snow and ice despite the fact that the spring equinox had passed mere weeks ago. Found his father with bowed shoulders, tears coursing silently down his face.

Nuada had laid a hand on his father's arm. Whispered, "Ata?" Not _Athair_, but _Ata_. Something he hadn't called Balor in many, many years.

He'd yearned for his father to put his arms around him. To tell him that though it wasn't all right yet, it would be. Eventually. That Nuada had done all he could, and more than even the royal guards had anticipated. That one day the nightmares would stop. That he wouldn't awaken in the dark to hear his other half sobbing into her pillows while hot tears burned his own eyes. That his mother was somewhere safe now, where pain couldn't touch her, and that she didn't blame Nuada for being unable to keep her safe. Just to confirm that Balor didn't blame his son for surviving when Cethlenn had not.

And instead, Balor had...

Nuada wrenched himself from the past. Bit his tongue until he tasted sweet faerie blood. The stab of pain helped force him to focus on the here and now, instead of that long ago day when his father had taken the first step away from him.

Balor _had_ blamed him for Cethlenn's death. Not with words, but with silence, with his retreat from the young prince. And why shouldn't he? It had been Nuada's idea to go on that walk with the queen and princess; Nuada's fault that Cethlenn had only taken a few guards - her habit when spending precious private time with her children. And it had been Nuada's fault that the humans had found his mother in the first place, because he'd wanted to show her the Fomorian asphodel plant he'd found, and the humans had seen him there before and been waiting when he arrived with an excited Nuala and a laughing Cethlenn in tow.

His father had blamed him for Cethlenn's death. Nuada knew better than to blame A'du'la'di for what had happened to Dylan. It may have been the boy's idea, for Lòman to gallop off somewhere private so the prince and the mortal could discuss things, but A'du'la'di was a _child._ Lòman and Nuada were both adults. Lòman could've refused to go along with the plan. Nuada could've refused to go along with Lòman's sudden desire to jump the paddock fence. Either were _their_ mistakes, not A'du'la'di's.

"Sit down, A'du'la'di," the prince murmured. The child looked up, confusion clear in his gray eyes, but obeyed. Nuada snagged the chair Tsu's'di had been sitting in and pulled it close to the bed. Took a seat. Propping his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together, he caught and held the little boy's teary gaze. "Now listen to me, and listen well. Don't interrupt. Don't argue. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"What happened yesterday was _not_ your fault. You were in no way responsible. You were only trying to help. Look at me," the prince commanded when the boy dropped his gaze to his knees again. After a moment, A'du obeyed. "I know you would never hurt Lady Dylan. You were simply trying to do something to make her happy. There is no shame in that. Any who say there is," Nuada added with a flash of hot fury in his eyes, "are fools who know nothing of what they speak. Do you understand?"

After a moment's hesitation, the child nodded. "But... but the _a'ge'lv_ got hurt."

Nuada bit back a sigh. "I'm going to tell you a story. Once, Lady Dylan and I quarreled, and I said things that made her very sad. I left her cottage and didn't see her for some time, because I was very angry about our quarrel. When I finally returned, it was to find that she'd been hurt by one of our enemies in my absence."

"But that's not your fault!" The boy protested. "You didn't know she'd get hurt, or you wouldn't've left her alone..." A'du'la'di trailed off as realization dawned in his eyes. "Oh. I get it. So... so, I didn't know either, that there were bad guys, and that monster. So it's not my fault, either. 'Cause I didn't do it on purpose. Right?"

"Exactly so."

The boy nodded, but the misery didn't fade completely from his eyes. "Your Highness? I did something else. Or didn't, I guess. I'm not sure."

Nuada blinked. Sometimes the boy seemed almost to be speaking another language. "Explain."

"When I fought the Elf who was hurting _A'ge'lv_ Dylan, I... I got scared. I tried not to, but I did. Warriors aren't s'posed to get scared. They're s'posed to be brave. But I wasn't. If I'd been braver, maybe the _a'ge'lv_ wouldn't've got sick from that poisoned knife."

A sick jolt hit Nuada in the belly. "Who told you about that?"

Gray eyes widened. "I heard some of the healers talking about it. That the knife had poison on it and the poison got inside _A'ge'lv_ Dylan and was making her sick, but the healers said you'd take care of her. They said that's why you were with her last night - to give her what she needed. That's what they said. 'The prince will give her what she needs.' Medicine, I guess. Or magic or something. You're a prince, so your magic's really strong. But if I hadn't gotten scared, I could've stopped that guy from poisoning her."

Centuries of self-control kept Nuada from clenching his fists or swearing. Medicine or magic, indeed. The healers had meant he would take Dylan to bed, using the excuse of the poison of Branwen's Tears. They'd meant he would take advantage of his lady and use her like a common whore off the street, regardless of what it would do to her mental or emotional state.

The prince shoved down his fury and the thoughts circling in his skull like sharks intent on blood. Focused on the child in front of him. He would deal with the healers and their wagging tongues later.

"A'du'la'di, who told you warriors don't feel fear? Every true warrior knows what fear is. Yes, warriors are supposed to be brave. They're supposed to fight with honor and courage. Yet that does not mean they don't know fear. Courage is not the absence of fear. It's the drive to fight, to defend and protect those you love, in spite of your fear. That is true bravery. Something _you_ have in abundance."

"Yeah?" A'du swiped at his whiskers while mulling this over. "Do... do you get scared, Your Highness?"

Gritting his teeth, Nuada said tonelessly, "Yes. Especially when Lady Dylan is in danger."

"Why?"

"Because she is my lady, and it's my duty to protect her. I do not want to fail in that duty. I don't wish to fail her, and I certainly do not wish her to be hurt."

The short whiskers twitched. The flattened ears slowly perked up again. "'Cause you love her. Right?" Nuada canted his head to the child. "Me, too. I love her, too. I don't want her to get hurt. So... so it's okay to get scared in a fight? It doesn't mean I'm a chicken?"

"No, it doesn't. If I thought you a coward, I would never have given you that blade. I would never have chosen you as my lady's page." Nuada reached out and gripped the shoulder of the boy's uninjured arm. "Now no more of this. Never doubt your own courage, or your own honor. There will be those in the world who doubt you. You cannot afford to doubt yourself. Be strong. Be noble. Be honorable. In effect, be as I already know you to be, and you will do well. Remember the vows you have made, the oaths of loyalty you've sworn. Remember your love for your mistress. That is all anyone can ask of you. That is all I or Lady Dylan will ever ask of you. Understand?"

The boy smiled. "Yes, Your Highness." Then A'du cleared his throat. "Um... can I ask one more question? Not about this. Something else." Receiving Nuada's acquiescence, the ewah asked diffidently, "How come _A'ge'lv_ Dylan doesn't like your dad?"

Nuada frowned. "Did she tell you that?"

A'du shook his head. "I heard Táebfada mention it to... what's his name? Um... Healer Conn. When they came in to check on me last night. They thought I was asleep. Táebfada said the _a'ge'lv_ didn't... didn't..." He screwed up his face in concentration, trying to remember the exact words. "That _A'ge'lv_ Dylan 'didn't care much for the king, and didn't like Prince Nuada's father much, either.' I thought the king was your dad, though. So that didn't make any sense.

"But then Conn said it didn't matter if she liked the king or not, because when the king got fed up with reb... rebel... rebellion, or when you stopped... um... shoot. What did he say? Um... when you stopped thinking with your loins and started caring about Bethmoora again, she'd be gone. That everyone in the king's household was saying so. What did that mean? Why would they say that? And what are loi- Your Highness?"

The cub's ears flattened and he hunched his shoulders at the look of dark rage on the prince's face. Nuada's left hand slowly clenched, then relaxed. He let out a long breath. Forced his eyes to shift from infuriated bronze to empty topaz. Then he gripped A'du's shoulder again.

"Thank you for telling me this, A'du'la'di. Such information may prove important. Can I trust you to keep it to yourself for now? Do not tell 'Sa'ti, or Lady Dylan, or anyone. It is between you and I alone. Can I trust you?"

"Yes, Your Highness. You can trust me. I won't tell nobody."

"Anybody," the prince corrected.

"Yeah. I won't tell anybody." Serious gray eyes locked with Nuada's topaz gaze. "It was bad, wasn't it? What Healer Conn said."

Nuada pursed his lips. His hands itched to hold his lance. "Perhaps. I will look into it. For now, your task is to continue to get better. You've done a great service to me and to your lady. You deserve a rest, and a reward, I think."

A'du cocked his head. "A reward? How come?"

"You yourself told me that when a vassal does an act of service for their lord or lady, they're sometimes allowed to request a boon. For your service in guarding Lady Dylan, you may ask me for such, and if it is in my power to grant it, I will." Seeing the gleam in the child's bright gray eyes, Nuada added, "Within reason."

The child bit his lip. Stared down at his knees again, thinking. Finally he peeked up at the prince from beneath his lashes. In a quiet voice, he asked, "Will you come back for storytime? And for family prayer and the lullaby and everything?" Taken aback, Nuada blinked down at the boy. A'du added softly, "We miss you. 'Sa'ti and me. Tsu's'di, too. And the _a'ge'lv_. Will you start being there for our bedtime story and stuff again? Please?"

He'd been expecting something trivial. A toy, perhaps. A request to play some game, or for another horseback ride. An outing, maybe. Not this quietly desperate plea for Nuada to take up a role he'd filled for a handful of days a few weeks previous before everything had spiraled out of control. _We miss you._ He hadn't thought the children would miss him that way. He'd only sat in on the stories because he'd overheard A'du'la'di say that very first night that stories were for babies, and he'd recognized a child's attempt at appearing older and more mature than he actually was. The prince had never said anything. Never actually taken part in the storytelling. Yet A'du wanted him there more than anything else he could've asked for.

_I'm not the boy's father,_ Nuada thought with some weariness. _I'm not even his liege lord. Dylan is the one who tells stories and gives kisses and hugs to small children, not I. Why does he want_ me _there? Perhaps to make Dylan happy, but that isn't the only reason. He could have requested I attend church with them if that had been his main goal. So why ask for this?_

"Please, Your Highness? Please?"

Nuada sighed. He'd said within reason, and it wasn't an unreasonable request. "Very well, A'du'la'di. As you request, so shall it be." The boy beamed at him. "Now, your lady is no doubt worried about your sudden melancholy, and wishes to see you. My father wishes to speak with you as well." The child's smile slipped away like a ghost. "There's no need to be afraid. Be respectful, and remember to call him 'Your Majesty.' Be honest if he asks you a question, and remember your honor and your oaths."

Panic flashed across the ewah's face and his fur stood on end. "Are you gonna stay with me?"

"Lady Dylan and I will both be here."

Dylan actually sat on the bed beside the ewah child, positioned between A'du seated on the bed and Nuada seated in the bedside chair. The king took a much more comfortable armchair that was brought by a servant. Only Dylan and the prince were allowed in the room with the pageboy and the king. 'Sa'ti and Tsu's'di had been left outside in the hall.

Aged amber eyes studied the little boy who kept sneaking peeks at the king from beneath his lashes. His bandaged left hand clutched a sheathed twin-dagger. Balor recognized the blade from the gold-embossed engravings on the black hilt as Nuada's own weapon. Why did the boy have that? The child's other hand clutched at the mortal woman's black skirt. Dylan kept her arm draped lightly around the child's shoulders.

"Forgive my lady's pageboy, Your Majesty," Nuada said into the silence. "He is wounded yet, and cannot rise or kneel. Bow your head to His Majesty, A'du'la'di." The boy automatically ducked his head. "Your Royal Majesty, allow me to present Lady Dylan's pageboy, A'du'la'di Ewah of the Children of the Cougar. A'du'la'di, this is His Royal Majesty King Balor One-Arm of Bethmoora."

"Good morning, A'du'la'di."

"G-good m-m-morning, sir. Um, Your Majesty."

Balor smiled, trying to put the obviously nervous child at ease. "Prince Nuada tells me you were instrumental yesterday in saving his life and the life of Lady Dylan. That was very brave of you, taking on a full-grown warrior the way you did. Has he offered you some reward for your service?"

The boy nodded. "He said he won't miss the bedtime story anymore. And he'll do family prayer with us. He said I could have anything I wanted, but I asked for that because me and 'Sa'ti - she's my baby sister - think it should be all of us for family time, so the prince said he'd be there."

The king raised an eyebrow at his son. The message was clear. _That's all? The child saves your life and the life of the woman you claim to love, and that is all you offer him in return?_

But aloud, Balor only said, "Well, I am most grateful to you, A'du'la'di, for saving my son's life. I would have been grieved had he come to any harm." For some reason, the little boy opened his mouth, shot a glance at the prince, and closed it again. Balor suddenly had the distinct impression that the cat-boy had been about to contradict the king. Why? "In exchange for defending my son's life," the king added, watching the boy through narrowed eyes, "I offer you a boon. Whatever you ask of me, if it is within my power, I will grant."

A'du's eyes widened. "But... but Prince Nuada already gave me a boon, Your Majesty."

"And now I am offering you one. There is no shame in accepting. There must be something you wish."

"I... um... I don't know." He looked to Dylan for guidance. She offered him a tight smile and nodded, encouraging him to ask for whatever it was he might want.

But he didn't _know_ what he wanted! He had a lot of stuff already. A great job as _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's page; clean clothes without any stains or patches or holes in them; a great place to sleep; new friends, like Ailbho and Rórdán and even Guardswoman Onóra, who was really nice and told funny jokes when the other lady guards weren't looking. There wasn't anything he really wanted. At least, nothing the king would give him. A'du didn't think the prince's dad would take him out for ice cream or anything like that, the way _A'ge'lv_ Dylan would. And he didn't want to ask the king to make the prince do it, either.

Asking for a new toy as a boon was something a stupid little kid would do. Boons were supposed to be important things. The only reason A'du and 'Sa'ti had asked Nuada to play with them as a boon was because they'd been hoping it would cheer the prince up. That wasn't the same thing.

"I... I don't know," the cougar boy repeated a little helplessly. "Um... wait." The idea bloomed in his mind, quick as a lightning strike, and just as brilliant. At least, A'du'la'di thought so. It would be the bestest idea ever! And the king had said "anything." So he couldn't get in trouble. And it would definitely make the prince happy. "Um, Your Majesty? Would it be okay if, for my boon, if His Highness could have the Silverlance back?"

Nuada nearly choked on his tongue. Dylan's mouth dropped open. The king's eyebrows shot toward his hairline as he stared first at the little boy, then shifted his gaze to the prince. The accusation in those ancient topaz eyes was clear. _You put him up to this._ Nuada smoothed his features to blankness and merely raised his eyebrows.

"Is that truly what you wish for yourself, young page?" The king asked in voice devoid of all emotion. A'du'la'di's grip on the sheathed knife tightened. "This boon is meant to fulfill your own desires and reward your courage. Is this truly what you wish to ask me for?"

A'du nodded. "Yes, sir. Your Majesty, I mean. Please?"

The ewah had overheard some people at church whispering about it during the walk from the chapel to the Primary room. He'd asked Rórdán about it before the lesson had started. Yes, Rórdán had admitted, he'd heard the grownups in the kitchen talking about how the prince's lance had been taken away and he'd gotten in trouble with the king for being gone in the mortal world for so long. No, Rórdán didn't know when the prince would get the Silverlance back. The kitchen boy had only known that the prince was really upset, and losing the lance was a sign of great dishonor. To A'du's way of thinking, that was just dumb. No one was as honorable as the prince.

Balor fixed his son and heir with an icy look. Nuada stiffened. Met that look with a bland expression and empty topaz eyes. The king wasn't fooled. This, out of everything the crown prince had done, was simply pathetic. Using a little boy as a tool in the war between monarch and prince? _Pathetic_. Balor let that sentiment show clearly in his eyes.

Still, he inclined his head to the child and said, "I will acquiesce to your request, A'du'la'di Ewah. The prince's lance was taken as punishment and he was placed under house-arrest for disobedience to his king in not returning when called. For this crime, he is forgiven, and his punishment revoked. The Silverlance will be returned to Prince Nuada this very day."

So saying, the king rose to his feet. Dylan and Nuada did the same, the prince bowing and the mortal dipping a truncated curtsy as the king left the room. The chamberlain met Balor just outside. Dylan was glad to see the back of him.

"Is he always like that?" A'du ventured into the sudden silence.

Stone-faced, Nuada turned to the child. "Like what?"

"Grumpy. Maybe he needs a time-out. Or a nap. 'Sa'ti gets grumpy when she misses her naps."

Nuada's lips twitched. "You think a nap would improve my father's mood?"

"Or a chocolate chunk cookie. Becan told me he always make chocolate chunk cookies when the _a'ge'lv_'s in a bad mood."

Dylan sniffed. "I don't have bad moods."

The prince gave her a fond look. "Darling, you should be ashamed to tell such lies. You should set a better example for our boy."

Dylan rolled her eyes, but smiled. At least her prince was in a better frame of mind now. She glanced at A'du when Nuada wasn't looking. Winked. The little boy winked back.

No one remembered that 'Sa'ti had wanted to speak to Nuada.

**.**

The rest of Monday passed without further incident involving either cougar-shifters or the human woman. Dylan agreed to rest in her bedroom, guarded by Onóra and the other female Butchers. More exhausted by the previous night than she cared to admit, she napped throughout the day while her guards chatted amiably amongst themselves. The dogs kept their person company on her bed. The furry warmth of them helped with some of Dylan's residual soreness. Other than dozing, the only two things she did were to finish and then deliver the letter she'd written to Nuada.

Well, deliver was a relative term. She'd left it on his desk while he was somewhere in the castle, and scurried back to bed before he could catch her. She wasn't sure how he'd react, and could admit she was a bit of a chicken about seeing his reactions firsthand.

A'du remained in the Healers' Wing for observation because of a concussion. Because the boy was so young, it was a more delicate process to heal something as tricky as a concussion with magic. The healers worked on it systematically, over the course of the day, combining their power with the child's natural resilience and his innate faerie healing.

'Sa'ti insisted on staying with him. Tsu's'di was excused from guard duty for the same reason. The cougar youth kept his younger siblings entertained by reading some of the picture books _A'ge'lv_ Dylan had bought them, telling stories, and making silly faces that made A'du laugh until the wound in his side forced him to stop.

Nuada was the busiest.

First, he pulled Healer Conn in for a private meeting and demanded to know if what A'du'la'di had reported was true. Of course Nuada kept the child's name out of it. The Elven healer was forced to admit that it _was_ true. The healer's sins were compounded when he was forced to admit that Jenny Hob's reports about the Elf's attitude toward the sick halfling baby were also true. The crown prince delivered a blistering lecture about honor, duty, and keeping a civil tongue in one's head (or risking losing it). The Elven healer walked away pale with fury and humiliation.

Bethmoora's crown prince was in turn lectured by an infuriated king later that day. How dare the prince abuse his authority and the regard of an innocent child by using the ewah boy as a pawn to gain back a bit of lost power? If not for the fact that Balor had promised the child the lance would be returned, the king would've done far more than lecture his son. As it was, he informed the prince in icy tones that he was still forbidden to bear _Claiomh Solais_ or _Sleá Bua_.

Nuada didn't bother attempting to correct the king. Never mind that he hadn't known the child would be offered a boon, and so couldn't have arranged for the boy to ask for the Silverlance back in response. His father was determined to think the worst of him. It mattered little in the long run. Some things changed, and some things stayed the same. Balor believing him a dishonorable bully was one of the things that would never change.

He could admit he felt exponentially better the moment he'd slipped his beloved spear into its sheath on his back. The familiar weight soothed some of the edginess that had plagued him since the first night of their return to Findias.

The last thing the king had to say, however, gave him pause.

"You need to teach your plaything how to speak to a king, Crown Prince. She has at last exhausted my not-inconsiderable patience. Teach her to guard her tongue and speak more respectfully, or things will go ill with her. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Your Majesty," the prince murmured. What had Dylan said to put that cold, glittering fury in his father's eyes? "I will speak to her."

"Good. You're dismissed."

Back in his rooms, Nuada ordered his guards to remain in the front room while he retreated to his study and sank into the comfortable desk-chair with a sigh. He wondered how long his father would insist he play the court game. How long the king would allow him to draw out the courtship charade before coming to some kind of decision.

The Elven prince could admit he was torn now. Part of him yearned for the charade to end so he could be free of Dylan, so he wouldn't be forced day after day to be so torturously close to her. But he could also admit that another part of him would force him to her side no matter if political games demanded it or not. He'd become weak, the fae warrior thought with another sigh. Weak, to need her so much. To become so dependent on someone he could never truly have. Only if his father ordered them to marry could he have her until Time and her mortality stole her away.

And what good was that, truly; to have her, to be with her, to allow her to entwine herself with his life until she was inextricably bound to him in all ways, only to lose her in the end? Why do that to himself?

A slim, ivory envelope bearing familiar handwriting caught his attention. Nuada frowned. Picked up the envelope and studied his name penned in elegant navy blue. Not his title, not a full formal addressage. Simply "Nuada." He flipped it over to study the seal in pale blue wax. Two roses with braided stems, intertwined with the symbol etched into the blade of the Silverlance: Dylan's crest.

Nuada broke the seal and pulled the three-page letter, written on soft white paper with a gold monogram at the top, from the envelope.

This wasn't like her last letter, the little note she'd left him in Roiben's sithen to lift his spirits in the wake of a nightmare. This was a true letter, even longer than his own to her had been; painstakingly scripted, without even so much as a stray spatter of ink anywhere on the paper. She'd gone to great effort.

He settled back in his chair and began to read.

"_Nuada,_

_I'm not very good at writing letters. I'm not very good at writing  
anything, actually. My journal has a lot of scratch-outs and inserted  
words, and it reads a lot like how I sound when I start to babble. I'm  
going to try very, very hard__not__to sound like that in this letter._

_You wrote me a letter once, to apologize for harsh words between us.  
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. Maybe you're used to  
that sort of thing - romantic letters and such - and don't really get how  
much it meant to me to have something like that. I'm not used to that  
sort of thing. It's the little things you do, things you might not even  
realize are a big deal to someone who's never had them before, that  
make me feel so special around you. The letter was just one of them.  
That's why it's one of my most prized possessions._

_You're probably wondering where I'm going with this. What your letter  
did for me, I'm hoping this letter will do for you. It explained a lot, and  
it helped to heal the heart-wounds from that fight. It reassured me  
that even though we'd fought, even though things were messed up  
between us, you still cared about me. That's what I want to do. I want  
to make sure you understand how I feel about everything that's  
happened. But whenever I think about trying to explain it, I get kind  
of weepy and I know you hate that, so I thought a letter would work  
better._

_I know you're hurt by my refusal. I__hate__that I've hurt you. I don't  
know if there are words to explain how much I hate that. You asked  
me once how I could know you so well. I see you, Nuada, and I know you.  
I know you've been hurt so much by the people who claimed to love you.  
I never wanted to be one of those who hurt you. Never wanted to betray  
your trust or wound you that way. I've said I'm sorry, but I know that's  
not enough. I don't know how to make it up to you, or ease the pain I've  
caused. All I can say is, I__never__meant to hurt you. I wanted to be the  
one you could come to when you'd been hurt to feel all right again,  
just like you are for me. I don't know if I've lost that now - the ability  
to comfort you. I hope not._

_Please believe that my refusal has__nothing__to do with how I feel for you.  
It has nothing to do with the strength of my feelings, or a lack of strength.  
In fact, how much I feel only made it that much harder to turn you down.  
Saying no to you was the hardest thing I've ever done. Forcing myself not  
to give up after my attack a year ago, forcing myself to confront Eamonn  
and your father that first night in Findias... they were nothing compared  
to that. It broke my heart to refuse you. Nothing has ever been as hard  
for me as having to say no to the person I love more than anyone else  
in this world._

_I don't know if this is helping. I hope it isn't making things worse. But I  
just want you to understand. I hope that helps you._

_The words "I love you" are said so often by so many, I know.  
Sometimes they're used without any real thought. I remember the  
night you took me to Fafner's Cave, and the waitress brought me rote  
grütze with cream. I told you I loved you then. I meant it - I__did__love  
you, even then - but the reason I said it was because I was grateful for  
something, not because I honestly wanted to convey how I felt about  
you. This time, I'm choosing my words more carefully. I'm using them  
with purpose._

_I love you, Nuada. If you never believe anything I say, if you decided  
every word out of my mouth is a lie, I beg you to believe at least that.  
Believe that I love you with my whole heart. I don't know when it  
started. I don't know how. I only know that it's true, that how I feel  
when I'm with you… it's as if I was never hurt, never broken, never  
scarred. It hurts so much and it's so impossibly wonderful all at the  
same time._

_You know what my life has been like. You know I haven't done well in  
the relationship department. Even though I held out hope of someday  
marrying and having a family, I was pretty sure I'd never find  
anyone I could be with. Never thought I'd find someone I could love  
and respect and feel safe with._

_Then I found you. My honor-bound protector. You scared me to death  
when I first met you... Then I got to know you. I learned who you were:  
the honorable Elven warrior shunned by so many, welcomed by so few.  
You became so much more than just the warrior that saved my life.  
You became everything to me. My white knight, my Prince Charming out  
of a faerie tale. A night of blood and pain and near-death experiences  
brought us together. Your honor kept us connected. A king's cruelty  
bound us closer. Somewhere in all of that, I fell in love with you so  
completely I knew that no matter what happened, it would never stop._

_During the first weeks and months after the attack in the subway, I  
used to think that if I could, I would erase that night from my life.  
Then I realized I would never have met you if not for that night. I  
would never have found the strength and peace and hope I found that  
night when you rescued me and taught me how to live again. No  
matter what pain followed, I knew it had been worth it, to know you.  
You gave me courage. You made me want to be a better person. To  
live up to your expectations. You made me hope that maybe I could  
have the happily ever after I'd always wanted._

_I don't think we're going to get our happily ever after, Nuada. I'm  
sorry. Too much stands in the way. My mortality, your responsibilities,  
just everything. But maybe we can have a happy__now__. I know it will be  
hard when we finally have to go our separate ways, whenever that day  
comes. I honestly don't know if I'll survive it. You're such an integral  
part of my life now. It will really, really suck... but that time won't  
come for a while. We have hours, days, weeks until then. Months.  
Even, if we're lucky, years. And we shouldn't waste what time we  
might have._

_I've__never__been happier than when I've been with you; when we went  
to Fafner's Cave; when we watched the Night Parade from the  
apartment roof; those days in my cottage, just you and me; our time  
in the royal forest and in your mother's garden. Those have been some  
of the happiest moments in my entire life. I think they were happy  
times for you, too. Every moment we have together is precious to me.  
And I'm hoping and praying that we can have more of those moments._

_I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry that honor and vows stand between  
us. I'm sorry about so much. Please forgive me for hurting you like I  
did. Please don't take yourself away from me. Please let things be, if  
not exactly how they were, at least different from how they are now.  
You said it hurts to be with me. I know that, I understand that,  
because it hurts to be with you, knowing that there's so much we can't  
have. It's like a fist around my heart, but you know what? I decided I  
didn't care anymore about when it's all going to come crashing down  
on me. Eventually it will end, I know, but in the meantime we can at  
least be with each other. Comfort and protect each other like we've  
been doing. That's all I want. I just want to be with you in any way my  
vows and your honor allow. We're in this already, and there's no one  
I'd rather be in this with than you. We're a team. Or we were. I want  
us to keep being a team. Since we're in this, I want us to be in it  
together. I want to stand by you and support you in any way I can.  
Please believe that. Please believe that I want us to be together,  
even if it's not possible. Impossible or not, you're the one I want._

_I miss you so much. Being apart from you because you were angry  
when we were fighting before was so hard. Being apart from you  
because I've hurt you is so much worse. If I can, let me make it up to  
you. Let me still be your lady, even if I can't be your wife. You're still  
my prince. I still love you. I will__always__love you, with all my heart and  
soul. You will always be my world. Nothing will ever change that._

_I probably sound really pathetic and lovesick right now, so I'm going to  
end here. I love you, Prince Nuada Silverlance. More than anything.  
Please come back to me. Please don't walk away from me again. I  
don't know if I can take that._

_If you can find it in yourself to forgive me and to let me back in your life,  
or even if you never do, I remain,_

_I gcónaí do mhuire agus a ghrá,_

_Dylan_"

He stared at the letter for a long time in silence, the three pages spread out across his desk so he could study each word, each turn of phrase. It was a good letter, the clinical portion of his brain thought. Especially for a mortal.

The emotion in it... no wonder she hadn't wanted to speak such sentiments aloud. Fear of his anger, fear of ridicule - _I probably sound really pathetic and lovesick right now_... - or fear of breaking down, weeping. She would loathe the idea of crying, loathe even the possibility of using tears to persuade him in this.

_By the stars, beloved..._

He'd known she loved him. Known her love was true, not the flimsy insubstantial thing most mortals professed to. But he hadn't thought a human, not even _this_ human, could feel so strongly.

And the last words of the letter. _I remain always your lady and your love..._ Firegold eyes stared at the letter for heartbeats. For an eternity. Then Nuada was on his feet, striding around the desk and through the study door.

The Butchers assigned to protect him - and keep him in line - glanced up, surprised, as the prince strode from the study door into his bedroom. There was a sharp knock. The sound of a door opening and closing. Then nothing. The king's elite all exchanged a glance. Shrugged. Let the prince do as he would, so long as he didn't try to slip their leash again. He was no longer under house-arrest, but there were still assassins about.

**.**

She was asleep. He hadn't thought it would be so, but there Dylan lay, sprawled atop the blue velvet coverlet, sleeping peacefully.

Firegold eyes faded to intense, honey-kissed ivory as Nuada studied her with the same concentration he'd studied her letter. Her hair spread around her like a dark halo. A few stray tendrils curled enticingly against the paleness of her throat. She wore mundane clothing - a skirt over thin, dark leggings. No socks, he noted with some concern. Lamplight caught on faint silver threads in the blue tunic she wore. _His_ tunic. It sent an odd feeling curling in his belly, to see her so wearing his tunic in sleep.

"Leave us," the prince commanded the four female Butcher Guards without tearing his eyes from the woman on the bed. Uncertain, nevertheless the guards went into Dylan's sitting room, shutting the door behind them.

Nuada sat on the edge of the bed. With trembling fingers, he reached out and brushed back a dark, silky curl. She stirred, making a small "mmm" sound as she nuzzled her cheek against his hand in sleep. His heart stumbled in his chest. Why couldn't she be his wife? He'd never wanted another so much, not in four-thousand years.

_I just want to be with you in any way that my vows and your honor allow._ All right. Danu's mercy, all _right_. He would grit his teeth and bear it. He would stop thinking, for once, of the future. He would simply let himself love her, and beshrew the consequences of it all.

"Wake up, mo duinne." Gentle stroke of his fingertip down the length of the scar on her cheek, along the delicate edge of her jaw. She stirred again. "Wake up now."

Sleepy blue eyes slowly focused on his face. Scarred lips curved into a dreamy smile. Warmth curled around Nuada's heart.

"Hey," the mortal murmured. "What are you doing in here?"

"I came to apologize," he said softly. Her puzzled frown prompted him to add, "For pushing you away when I knew it would hurt you. Pain is no excuse to inflict pain on others, especially those I care about. I broke your heart yet again. I'm so-"

She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I adore you beyond all logic or reason, but shush now, Prince Emo-Bear."

Nuada shot her a mock-scowl. "I am _not_ an emo-bear."

Tired though she was, Dylan caught the twinkle of amusement in his ivory eyes. "Okay, have it your way. Not an emo-bear. Got it. In that case, shush now with the apologies for things you have no need to apologize for, Prince Angsty Panda."

He gave her a look of absolute incredulity. "Angsty _panda_? What in the realm of fire and rain is an angsty panda?"

"I'm not telling you," she said, giggling tiredly. "Just to drive you crazy." She noticed dark lips quirking at the corners, the tension easing out of Nuada's body… the eyebrow arching in silent demand that the mortal explain the human phrase. "Eyebrow-me all you want, Your Highness. I'm not in the least bit intimidated. You will never know, because I'll never ever tell you. So there."

A hint of danger in Nuada's smile. "You should know better than to challenge an Elf, my lady. Especially an Elven warrior."

Without warning, he scooped her up and dragged her close, trapping her against his torso with one arm. Dylan squeaked and squirmed, but couldn't escape. Nuada grinned, surprised he was capable of it.

"I seem to recall you once confessing to some weakness. What was it, again?" The prince affected a ponderous tone. "Chocolate... no. Books? That was not it. Ah, I remember now. I do believe you confessed to being ticklish."

Autumn-blue eyes widened. "That is so totally cheat- _eek!_" The rest of her protest was swallowed by laughter as the prince made good on his implied threat. No matter how she squirmed, Dylan couldn't escape Nuada's one-armed grip. "Wait, wait, wait!" She cried breathlessly. "I deserve a chance to counterattack!"

Nuada paused in his assault. "I am not ticklish."

"I wasn't planning on tickling you," she informed him. "Although I have to ask... why are you being so nice to me? I thought you... I mean, I know we talked, but I thought... why are you being so nice to me?"

He stroked a fingertip over the satin curve of her cheek. "I would see you smile again," he murmured. "Solemnity has its place, but I miss the warmth of your joy. I desire your happiness, mo duinne, and would do all in my power to grant it. Will you not smile for me? Smile truly, without shadows in your eyes?"

"You're wonderful," she whispered, smiling. "You're so wonderful. I'm still going to counterattack, though. But I'll be gentle." His fond look made her smile wider. "C'mere." She crooked her finger. Nuada leaned in, curious despite himself. "Closer." He gave her an exasperated look. Obeyed. "Just a little closer," Dylan laughed. The prince obliged her.

Sliding her hand around the back of his neck, Dylan leaned up and pressed her mouth to Nuada's. Mirth faded away, leaving behind only embers of desire and a soft uncertainty between them both.

The Elven prince broke the kiss first.

"I think this may break one of your rules, milady," he murmured. "Or if not, it may still be unwise. Last time we were both seated on a bed and you kissed me, we nearly forgot ourselves."

"Right." Did she sound just a little out of breath? "Um... we should move." She slid off the bed. Grabbed his hand and tugged him to his feet. She took both his hands in hers and met his eyes. "Before we... maybe get distracted, I need to know... are we all right? Are we really all right? I'd hoped, you know, my letter. You read my letter?" He nodded. "So are we okay?"

Nuada framed her face between both hands.

"I will stay with you, in whatever ways your vows and my honor allow, for as long as I may," he whispered, and captured her mouth with his.

Her arms went around him, her fingers twisting in his shirt; his arms went around her, one about her waist and the other pressing her to him. He tangled his fingers in her thick, silky hair. His lips ghosted over hers, feather-light caresses that sent shivers down her spine and heated his blood. The room faded away. Everything faded under the soft press of Nuada's mouth, the heat of his body against hers. Everything about the kiss was so very gentle. No demand, no pressure, no force. Only softness. Only sweetness. Only the warrior's strength that sheltered and protected, but never dominated or frightened. Only heat like phantom fire under her skin as his lips moved over hers, caressing, exploring, memorizing.

When the kiss broke to allow them to breathe, Dylan laid her forehead against Nuada's chest. Clung to him, trembling. He cradled her head to his chest. His other hand smoothed up and down her back, fingertips whispering along the delicate column of her spine.

"Don't let go," Dylan whispered. Slender fingers scrunched in the silk of his black tunic. Nuada's embrace tightened. "Don't ever let go again."

"Never," he replied. He pressed a fervent kiss to the top of her head. "Never. For as long as I may, I am with you. Until the stars themselves fall to earth and the world turns to dust. Until chains of loyalty and honor drag me from your side, or you from mine. For as long as you'll have me, _I am yours_."

He'd made his decision. He wouldn't regret it. They would be together until Fate dragged them apart. He couldn't make her his wife; he wouldn't force her to be his lover. But she was his lady, his truelove, and that was enough. He would _make_ it be enough.

"Tá grá agam duit, Dylan," Nuada murmured. "I gcónaí."

_I love you. Always._

"I love you, too. We're screwed, aren't we?" Dylan asked, and inexplicably smiled. "We're totally screwed."

Nuada offered her a lazy smile. He knew what she meant, but he also understood the various human colloquialisms of the word. "Was that an invitation?"

Dylan just rolled her eyes and laughed.

**.**

'Sa'ti curled up in cougar form on A'du'la'di's bed and shut her eyes, feigning sleep. Tsu's'di dozed in a chair. A'du lay on the bed under the covers, eyes shut, breathing deeply. 'Sa'ti knew he wasn't asleep. He was waiting, just like she was. Waiting for the voices to return.

She'd tried to get to the prince to tell him about the voices, but then she'd seen them in the hallway while the ewah girl had been standing with Tsu's'di and Fionnlagh and everyone. She'd seen them, the two people she'd heard talking the night before, and everything inside her had gone cold. She couldn't do anything. Couldn't talk or move. Couldn't even get big and bristly to scare them away.

Then one of them, the one with the black eyes, had turned and looked at her. Smiled. It wasn't a mean smile. It was actually nice. And from where she'd been standing, he hadn't smelled scary or bad. But she'd known he _was_ bad, because of what he'd said to the Elf standing with him.

A'du had believed her when she'd told him about the bad men while Tsu's'di was in the bathroom. Tsu's'di wouldn't believe her; he was a really big kid, almost a grownup, and he always said she hadn't grown into her power yet and so didn't take her seriously when she told him stuff she learned with her power. But A'du believed her, because of his power.

All ewah - in fact, most predatory shapeshifters - were born with some sort of talent. The most common was tracking, though sometimes fighting. Tsu's'di, 'Sa'ti knew, had a talent for fighting. He picked up moves quicker than anything, and he could smell weakness a bajillion miles away. A'du'la'di's talent was his sense of smell. Almost all shifters had superior senses, but A'du's was talented. He didn't just smell things; he could taste them, and his smell-tasting was better even than Tsu's'di's. Tsu's'di had said that when their daddy and mama were alive, both adult ewah had said A'du's sense of smell and taste would be "something to reckon with" (whatever "reckon" meant).

'Sa'ti didn't have a fighting or smelling talent, but she had really good ears. Maybe that was a talent. She thought so. Tsu's'di said it was just because she was so little. An ewah's sense of hearing peaked in the first fifteen to twenty years after birth, because for at least the first ten years, ewah cubs were only blind kitten-cubs. The heightened sense of hearing didn't fade until an ewah was in their late twenties or early thirties - like 'Sa'ti.

So maybe she could hear good because she had a powerful talent, and maybe she could hear good because she was still little. Didn't matter. She'd heard the bad people talking last night, and she'd told A'du and he'd said they should stay up and find out more about the bad guys so they could tell the prince.

The bad guys were back now. She could hear them in the other room, even through the wall. Her tail twitched. She grabbed it and curled around it so no one would see and know she wasn't asleep.

"The Téngshé were supposed to abduct the human." That voice belonged to the man with black eyes. "That's what the prince paid them for, isn't it? To abduct the girl and give her to one of the human tribes somewhere in Bethmoora. To make sure they knew she was the Silverlance's whore. They'd destroy her just for that so-called 'betrayal.' Then Silverlance would go back to focusing on his plan to raise the Golden Army, out of a desire for revenge if nothing else."

'Sa'ti scrunched up tighter. The Golden Army? What was that? And there were humans in Bethmoora? Besides _A'ge'lv_ Dylan? Bad humans, it sounded like. Scary humans who wanted to hurt the _a'ge'lv_. Did the prince know?

"I'm sorry, m'lord," the second voice simpered. 'Sa'ti recognized that voice, too. It was an Elf. "They didn't know she could fight. Didn't know Prince Zhenjin would be out there with them. If he hadn't been there, the plan might have succeeded. I don't know why the Téngshé refused to harm Prince Zhenjin."

Contemplative silence. Then, "The Téngshé may not be loyal to the crown, but they're loyal to their employer."

"I... see. Well, m'lord, at least your plan regarding the child is working. She'll not last more than a handful of days. I've made sure of that. No one cares about a halfling child dying of some trifling illness because of the iron in its blood. Your Bethmooran lady and her handmaidens were quite sly to think of the human whore's brat as a potential weakness against the prince."

"Yes. Even if the mother cares nothing for the brat, Nuada does. Jenny made that very clear. And if nothing else, the child's death might make Silverlance think twice about weakening the royal line by siring his heir with that trollop. Halfling children are so very fragile, after all. It would be a shame if the prince's child were to suffer an illness like the one afflicting that whore's spawn. It's such a tragic thing, to lose a child."

"Yes," the second voice agreed. There was a razor's edge of hate to it. "Truly tragic. An even greater tragedy would be if the human were carrying Silverlance's child when we finally get her into the hands of one of the human bands scattered throughout the kingdom. Silverlance will be heartbroken to lose his whore and his child all in one blow."

"And in his moment of weakness, when his grief becomes all-consuming, I have just the lady for the task of convincing him to return his feet to the path he's chosen regarding the Golden Army. His grief and rage will drive him mad, and he will embrace the slaughter as he once did. Then the king will see the truth."

There was no more talking after that. When the ewah children were absolutely positive no one was around, they opened their eyes. A'du sat up in bed and stared at 'Sa'ti. His baby sister crawled from the foot of the bed to curl up next to him, shaking. He put his undamaged arm around her. In the morning, they _had_ to tell Prince Nuada.

.

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.

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_**Author's Note:**__and that's where I'm ending it because I'm evil. Hope you guys liked it. Again, feverish and dying, so this AN is short. I love all of you. Huggles to bits for everyone! Onto review prompt:_

_1) Nuada and A'du's relationship - what do we think of its evolution?_

_2) Nuada and Dylan's happy banter - how am I doing? Is our prince in character? Is it making you smile? Is it fulfilling its purpose?_

_3) Balor & Nuada's relationship. Sigh. Thoughts?_

_4) Dylan's letter, and the resolution of the marriage issue - what do you guys think of that?_

.

_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Later, when I'm not achy and dying and burning up. Huggles.


	69. Book 8 What You Don't Know

_**Author's Note:**_ _hi, everybody! Enjoy the chapter!_

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**Chapter Sixty-Nine**  
**What You Don't Know**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of****Awakening, Thwarted Memories, Talk of Tomorrow, a Word on Respect, the Power of the Star Kindler, a Boon Granted, and a Bargain**

.

.

Darkness and dreams twined ruthlessly around Dylan as she slept through Monday night. Morphean thorns clawed at her, drawing intangible blood, while nightmare visions assaulted her mind. She knew she was dreaming, in that distant lucid way that sometimes came during a nightmare, but she couldn't wake herself up. Could only try to scream herself awake as pale hands bruised and broke her. As a cruel mouth drew blood with every violating kiss. As poison dripped onto her skin and flooded her veins with fiery ice. Stygian blackness and silver threatened to smother her as she flailed. Kicked at the one whose hands burned with icy poison that made her body burn as well.

She bolted awake to a voice softly calling her name. The same voice as that morning. A warm, gentle, coaxing voice calling her out of the darkness. Banishing the nightmare with regal authority. Dylan drew a shuddering breath. Shoved tickling strands of hair off her skin. Swallowed the gritty dryness in her throat. Finally, after she was certain she wouldn't scream or break down, she met worried golden eyes.

"I'm okay," the mortal whispered. She wasn't, not by a long shot, but Nuada didn't need to know that. Didn't need to know that her stomach churned and her heart threatened to shatter her ribcage with its pounding. Didn't need to know her skin crawled and tingled - nearly frantic to be touched, even though the thought of being touched made her almost physically sick. "I'm fine," Dylan added, shifting away from him. "I... what are you doing in here?" Only then did she realize her dogs and her guards weren't in the room. The false light of pre-dawn made it a bit easier to see that only Nuada remained in her bedroom. The door to his room was half-open.

"I felt your distress," he murmured. "It woke me, and I wanted to be certain you were well. I thought you might've been having a nightmare."

"I was," Dylan said. The longer she kept her eyes open, the more awake she felt, and the quicker the sick tingling all over her body faded. "I always have nightmares, unless you're with me or I'm having that dream..." Her eyes flashed to him. She bit her lip. Tasted blood when her teeth found the cut that hadn't yet healed.

"Stop that," Nuada commanded. His voice was soft, but it was a command nonetheless. "You're bleeding," he added, and brushed a drop of blood from just beneath her bottom lip with his thumb. She shivered. "You should have more care, my lady."

A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. "Habit. It helps with... stuff."

He raised both eyebrows. "Stuff."

"You know, not... not giving into my emotions when I'm freaking out or panicking. I learned it in the institution. Physical pain is easier to handle than emotional pain for me."

"Then you're not, as you said, 'okay.' This nightmare hurt you."

Dylan shook her head. "It wasn't the nightmare. Or, it was, but that's not it." The awful crawling feeling, like being covered in maggots, was all but gone now. Legs still covered by the blue velvet blankets, she drew her knees up to her chest. "I mean, I'm all right. Honestly. Now that I'm awake. I was just... thinking."

Nuada sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't touch her; it was almost as if he knew how uncomfortable she was with being touched just then. "And what were you thinking of? Having second thoughts?"

She blinked. Frowned. "Second thoughts about what?" She blinked again when he simply looked at her. "About us, you mean." Nuada canted his head. "Nope. No second thoughts here. Why? Are you having second thoughts? Instead of pining for a lowly human commoner, you'd rather find a gorgeous Elven noblewoman to woo and make into a princess? Because that would be sensible. I'm kind of a long shot."

His tight, rueful smile matched hers. "If you ask my father, he'll tell you I've rarely been sensible. And I am not afraid of long odds." He slowly reached out, the way one moved when attempting to coax a wild thing, and tucked that one rebellious curl behind her ear. "Will you tell me what you were thinking that caused you such sorrow?" Her teeth caught at her lip again. Nuada cupped her chin. "Stop, mo duinne. I can smell the iron and salt in your blood."

Wide-eyed, she covered her mouth. "Oh. I'm sor-"

"Don't apologize. I ask only that you stop. And that you tell me what made you so sad."

"I... I was just thinking... that I always have nightmares, except when you're with me, or when I have that dream. The one about us. And then I was thinking about the dream itself, and about... everything in it. And then I thought about the nightmare again, and... I was just... just thinking."

"Tell me."

A brief headshake. "I... I have to get ready for work. It's probably around seven already. I should-"

He touched one of her hands. "Why will you not tell me?" She started to bite her lip. Stopped herself. "There's something specific you are thinking of," Nuada said. "Something you do not wish me to know. Why?"

Dylan shrugged. "I don't want to upset you." She looked away. "Can this be one of those times where I just keep quiet and you let it go?"

"If that is what you wish. I'll leave you to ready for work."

After he'd gone back into his bedroom and closed the door, while her guards were filing back into the room, Dylan flopped back onto the bed and sighed. _He didn't seem angry, but I think I botched that_.

**.**

A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti woke as the sun peeped through the healing chamber window. They'd cuddled together all night, unable to stop shivering after all that they'd heard the night before. Only near dawn had they finally managed to fall asleep. Tsu's'di was passed out in a chair, snoring. Now the two cubs stared at each other, remembering everything they'd heard whispering through the wall. A'du hugged his baby sister.

"I'm scared," she whispered. "What if we get caught?"

"It'll be okay, 'Sa'ti," he purred. She snagged her claws in his sleep-tunic. "We'll go tell the prince right now. Nobody will catch us. C'mon. Let's go." The ewah boy slid out of bed. His wounds were healed, but he still got dizzy sometimes. Didn't matter, though. He and 'Sa'ti had to get to Prince Nuada and tell him everything. He took 'Sa'ti's hand. Brushed his cheek against the top of her head. "Don't be scared. It's okay."

Moving on cat-quiet feet, the children slipped out of the room, leaving their brother asleep in his chair. They crept down the hallway, trying to look inconspicuous. Every so often they passed a guard, but they were simply children, and recognized as the servants of the prince's lady, and so weren't stopped. Unfortunately, they were too edgy to approach one of the Butchers and ask for directions wherever the prince might've been at that moment. Which meant that before long, A'du and 'Sa'ti were hopelessly lost.

"We're not in the Healers' Wing anymore," 'Sa'ti whispered, looking around. "Where are we?"

"I think we're near the _a'ge'lv_'s rooms," A'du said. "But I'm not sure. Um... maybe we should ask for directions. There's guards and stuff."

'Sa'ti clutched his hand. Her tail lashed furiously. "What if they're bad guys?"

His whiskers twitched. Good point. If either of the two fae they'd overheard talking could be bad guys, then anyone could be a bad guy. Or almost anyone. A'du'la'di wished the prince would just find them. Or Ailbho or Uaithne. But they were probably eating breakfast in the barracks. A'du'la'di didn't know where that was. And he knew _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's lady guards were waiting in her sitting room for when she came back from her job, so they wouldn't find the cubs, either. What were they supposed to do?

"Are you two lost?" A soft, kind voice asked. A'du whipped around, ears flattening against his skull, one hand landing on the prince's knife at his belt. 'Sa'ti bristled and pressed against him. Silver eyes twinkled with amusement and the Elf woman's pale lips curved into a smile. "There's no need to be frightened. I'll not hurt you, little ones. I'm a friend of Prince Nuada's."

Slowly, the ewah cubs' fur laid flat. "You are?" A'du asked. He opened his mouth to taste the air. The Elven lady didn't _smell_ like she was lying. Didn't smell like she meant them any harm. She really _was_ a friend of the prince. "Um... do you know where he is?"

The Elven lady approached with a rustle of full velvet skirts. "Is it truly important? His Highness is a busy man, little one. And he and His Royal Majesty have many things to discuss. The prince may be too busy to see you right now."

A'du nodded. "It is. It's really important."

Those silver eyes studied them. A slender black brow winged upward. "One does not interrupt a private meeting between the king and the crown prince without due cause. Perhaps if you told me what it is you wish to tell the prince, I can determine if it is truly worth risking His Majesty's ire."

"What's ire?"

Another quirk of pale lips in a small smile. "His anger. You do not wish the prince to get in trouble, do you?" A'du and 'Sa'ti shook their heads, wide-eyed. "Tell me what has you so concerned. I promise you, no harm will come to you if you do. You may trust me with this."

A'du opened his mouth. 'Sa'ti tugged his sleeve. When he glanced at her, she shook her head. It was supposed to be a secret. They were only supposed to tell the prince, or the bad guys might find out the cubs had heard them talking. And what if the lady didn't believe them? But A'du twitched his ears at her. They had to tell her. They didn't want His Highness to get in big trouble with the king again. What if the king took the Silver Lance away again? And she was the prince's friend, right?

"Well... it's kind of a secret. You have to promise not to tell anyone."

"I will have to tell the king and the prince if they ask me. I am a member of the court. I cannot refuse His Majesty. He is lord and sovereign here."

Gray eyes met bright turquoise. 'Sa'ti shook her head again, more vehemently this time. A'du slipped an arm around her. "It's _okay,_ 'Sa'ti. She's a friend of the prince. And regular Elves can't lie. She won't hurt us; she said so." To the Elf, he said, "So, okay. You can't tell anyone but the king and the prince. Promise?"

The Elven lady smiled. "I promise that I shall not divulge what you tell me here, save to my sworn lords or at their behest."

"Okay. So, it's like this. Last night, we heard these voices..."

And A'du'la'di told the Elven noblewoman in a voice as whisper-quiet as he could make it all about the two voices they'd heard the previous night, and what 'Sa'ti had heard the night before that. How they had to tell His Highness because _A'ge'lv_ Dylan was in danger and probably the prince was too. And the little boy told the Elven woman the identities of the Elf and the other faerie who'd been plotting behind closed doors.

Polunochnaya bit back a sigh at the end of the child's glamour-induced recitation. Truly, her master needed to be more careful. Contacting one of his minions within earshot of not one, not two, but _three_ cat fae? One of whom had exceptional hearing, even for that species, and all three of whom were in service to the crown prince? Well, nothing to be done about it now, really, except eliminate the problem.

Except they were only children. And not even half-human, like the greenman bairn below stairs that Nuada was taking such an interest in. These were full-blooded fae youngsters, for all they were common-born. She couldn't just _kill_ them. They were only children. And it would draw too much attention to her master if the little ones turned up dead; that ought to convince her master they couldn't be disposed of out of hand.

The Zwezdan Elf knelt before both children. Deliberately caught and held their eyes. After a moment, the children's cat-slitted pupils dilated. Their eyes unfocused. The tension drained from their little bodies.

"What are your names?" Naya asked in a voice like a sere northern wind.

"A'du'la'di," the boy mumbled.

"U'de'ho'sa'ti," whispered the little girl.

"A'du'la'di and U'de'ho'sa'ti, you will forget the plotting you overheard last night and the night before. Forget that we spoke. You will forget you ever saw me. Forget the identities of the conspirators. Forget that you ever meant to report any of this to Prince Nuada. Forget what you learned from Healer Conn last night, as well as what you learned from my master - the fae he spoke to. You will forget that these two men are enemies of the prince and his lady. Do you understand?"

"Yes," A'du said tonelessly. 'Sa'ti, trembling, simply nodded.

"Good. Go back to the healing chamber you came from, crawl back into bed, and fall asleep. When you wake, you will have forgotten all that I commanded you to forget. On your way, you will behave as if nothing is amiss with either of you. Go now."

Without another word, the children turned and walked away.

**.**

Work passed quickly, and Dylan was actually back in Findias before sunset. Eimh and Sétanta hopped off her bed as soon as she appeared in her room and whuffed, pressing against her legs and wagging their tails so hard the large hound pups practically vibrated. They were too well-behaved and too aware of their large size to jump on their person as they would their master.

"Where's His Highness?" Dylan asked as she went into her sitting room. Uaithne and the other guards were waiting for her; all but Tsu's'di, who was still with A'du - who would be allowed back in his own room tonight but was scheduled for one last looking-over by the healers.

*Waiting for you in his study,* the night-black hound replied, nosing his person playfully towards the door bridging Nuada's front room and her sitting room. *He needs to talk to you about important stuff. Alone.*

_Well that sounds ominous,_ she thought, and went to find her prince.

When she knocked, and Nuada bade her enter, she was surprised to find him making notations in a ledger. Every so often he would check a sheet of paper on his desk that seemed to be a list of some kind. Another sheet, full of cramped spidery writing, was on the other side of the ledger. Finally looking up, the prince gestured to a black leather armchair.

"One moment," he mumbled, and blew on a page in the leather-bound volume to dry the ink faster. He set the ledger aside. "How was work?"

Despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach, she smiled. "Fine. What are you working on? Prince stuff?"

Nuada sighed. "This winter has been hard on some of the border villages in the mountains. Blizzards, mostly, and a poor harvest this past autumn. A band of human raiders are preying on them, as well. Oh, yes," he added when she made a sound of surprise. "Humans still reside in Faerie. Not many, and most are outlaws, though a few in Bethmoora are servants or slaves to fae masters. But winter is a time of desperation for all. The humans prey on those who have little enough to begin with, and leave them with even less, if they leave them alive at all. The villages need help, and the Crown is obligated to give it. My father refuses."

"What? Why?"

"He says to do violence against the humans, any humans, would break the truce between our world and theirs." This was spoken with an old, tired bitterness that made Dylan want to reach out to him. He looked and sounded so tired, suddenly. "What humans do is in their nature, he says. And honoring the truce is in ours."

"That's stupid," she replied flatly. "Attacking humans out of nowhere is one thing, but it's the king's job to defend his people. If those villages need help, he's supposed to give it. Can't they... I don't know, mobilize the army or something? Send a company of Butchers to deal with it? That's what they do in books and movies - send trained warriors to deal with bandits while training the villagers how to fend off the enemy."

The prince shook his head. "My father will not hear of sending military aid of any sort. So I am trying to find a way to send aid of another kind." Pale fingers flicked across the ledger page. Satisfied that the ink was dry, he closed the book. "We've tithes and taxes enough that the Crown ought to at least be able to send supplies to feed those who cannot feed themselves. Starving farmers are as nothing against hardened, merciless killers."

Dylan cupped her chin in her hands. "Why are _you_ handling it, though?"

A casual shrug belying the shadows around his eyes. "I am the crown prince. It's my duty to protect and defend my kingdom and my people. And the funds will no doubt come from my own estates if my father proves reluctant to approve of royal funds for my plans."

"So... so you might have to pay for everything? Just you as Nuada, not you as the prince? Can you afford that?"

Another shrug. "I am the crown prince. Whatever my people require, I shall give them. Down to the last breath in my chest. Down to the last drop of blood in my veins. That's what it means to serve." Then he smiled a little. "However, that isn't what I wished to speak to you about. We need to discuss some things."

Dylan settled into her chair and tried not to fidget. Tried not to think of her last conversation with Balor, and the threats he'd made. "That sounds ominous," was all she said.

"For the most part, it is fairly innocuous. By now, nearly all the envoys that mean to attend our Midwinter festivities have arrived. The last handful is scheduled to come tomorrow morning at the latest, if they don't make it tonight. The formal reception is tomorrow evening." A slight pause to study her face and gauge her potential reaction. "As my truelove, you're expected to be at my side when the royal family greets them before the banquet."

She swallowed. "Oh. Um... I..."

"It will not be so bad, mo duinne. You'll like most of them, I think. You'll get along well with Lady Cassandra, especially. She, too, is mortal."

A mortal noble of a faerie kingdom? "Who is she?"

"The queen of Saami, to the north. The wife of Lord Mashkaupeu."

Dylan's eyes were wide in her face. A mortal _queen_ of a faerie kingdom? And Mashkaupeu... she knew that name from Roiben. Mashkaupeu was the Inuit faerie king, the one northern Native Americans called the Great Nanook. "The lord of the northern munaqsri? The White Bear King? He's here?" Excitement shivered up and down her spine; she'd heard stories about Mashkaupeu. She leaned forward. "Who else will be there?"

Most of the people Nuada listed off and described, she'd never heard of before, and others she'd heard of but never seen - the twin _czarishkas_ and the _czarvitch_, or crown prince, of Zwezda; Princess Dinarzadi and Prince Dastan, the second- and third-eldest children of the Sultana of Shahbaz; young Prince Emīru, heir to the Phoenix Throne of Onibi, and his two younger sisters; the Iaran princess many called the Obsidian Butterfly.

Dylan hung on Nuada's every word, especially regarding those he was certain she would get along with - the mortal Lady Cassandra; the young Princess Eilonwy of Annwn; Princess Eir of the Nordic kingdom of Álfheim, whom Nuada insisted would be amicably jealous of Dylan; and Crown Princess Kamaria of Nyame, who would also apparently be jealous of the scarred human woman, and the princess's brother, the Prince Royal Kagiso. Eir, Kamaria, and Kagiso would especially get along with the scarred mortal healer.

"Are you sure... are you sure they'll like me?" She asked. "I don't want to make you look bad, or upset your friends, like what happened with Zhenjin."

"They will love you. Eilonwy especially, and unlike Eir and Kamaria, she will not be jealous of you. Eilonwy is an old friend; Arawn is her father." A smile quirked dark lips. "She and I were betrothed once." The mortal's mouth dropped open. "During my exile, actually. My father approached Arawn about the idea. Arawn wrote to me and asked my opinion."

"And? What happened?"

"With Arawn's letter I received two others - one from Eilonwy and one from her younger brother, Prince Mathonwy. I was well acquainted with their family by this time. Mathonwy's letter begged me to agree to his father's proposal."

"What did Princess Eilonwy say?"

He grinned. "Something along the lines of, if she had to marry someone for political reasons, at least it was me, and not that 'murdering whoremongering lech,' Prince Zeburan of Onibi, nor was it Prince Endymion of Mψτικας, who was apparently 'adorable, but tended to drool.' According to her letter, at any rate. He was only a little thing at the time, so that excused him, she said. And I knew she would grow up to be tolerably lovely, and we were friendly enough, so I agreed." His grin softened to a rueful smile. "Then she fell in love with Prince Henri de Gevaudan. Apparently an old man like me cannot compete with a young half-merman prince who shapeshifts into an albino grizzly bear."

Dylan choked on a laugh. "Wow. _That_ is an interesting combination. How do you even get that? What kind of fae is he? Basically a French mer-bear prince. Is that what they're called? Mer-bears?"

"I don't know," the prince said with a sigh. "As he lacks a discernible fish-tail, I hardly think it matters. But yes, to use your words, I was passed over for a French mer-bear. His father is King Ursus and his mother, Queen Melusine, is a mermaid. Eilonwy's brothers believed it a fair trade - apparently he's just as marvelous as I am at hand-to-hand combat. They're to be married on the summer solstice. Annwn is hosting the Lethe festivities this coming year. And better Henri than Zeburan."

"Who's Prince Zeburan? What's so bad about him?"

Nuada hesitated. "That is a tale for another day. At any rate, we need to go over what's to happen tomorrow night. You'll need to be ready no later than sunset..."

He outlined how the somewhat formal welcoming ceremony would go, and what each person was expected to do. As Nuada's a truelove - not his wife, not his betrothed, but merely the mortal he was courting - little was expected of her but to sit at his side and look pretty, except when introduced to the individual envoys. Then she would be expected to regally incline her head.

Thankfully, her connection to Nuada allowed her to sit with him at the banquet itself, as well, even though the king's table would be crowded with the highest-ranking dignitaries and royals from each envoy and she was just a simple human. Like before, she would be situated between Nuada and Nuala.

The ranking between the three of them was strange, to Dylan's way of thinking. Nuada outranked both the princess and the human, of course, as crown prince and king's heir. It helped that he was the oldest. If Nuala had been eldest, even if she hadn't had the bond with the land that would bestow the title of heir to the throne, Nuada still would've outranked her, but the discrepancy between their political influence and their magical power wouldn't have been so great.

Nuada's ties to Dylan put her, while not on equal footing with Nuala, as close as it was possible to be without being a princess herself. She had the ear of the crown prince; until now, the human woman hadn't realized just what that meant. Nuada was more likely to listen to her than to the princess. Although she lacked overt political power, the mortal possessed a subtle strength that few, if any, recognized. Dylan wondered if the king worried about that.

It had been hard for Dylan to think of Nuada as the crown prince, for some reason. She could feel his authority. Had always admired the regal way he carried himself, and his quiet air of self-possession and power. But that wasn't the same thing. Knowing his responsibilities, seeing him fulfilling them, listening to the way he talked about protecting and defending his people... it was brought home to her in a way it never had been before - he was the crown prince of Bethmoora. One day, he would be king.

"You know something?" Dylan asked suddenly. Nuada raised both eyebrows, inviting her to share. "You are absolutely incredible. Seriously. How did you get to be so amazing?"

He blinked, clearly taken aback. Then he smiled, that slow smile tinged with little-boy mischief. His eyes were warm gold. "Superior Elven breeding."

She rolled her eyes. "Saw that coming. So is there going to be dancing at this banquet? Do they do dancing at banquets? Or is that balls? Or both? Am I gonna have to dance? Not that I won't want to dance with you, but I don't know as many dances as would maybe be expected of a prince's truelove and I don't want to make you look stupid or anything."

"You cannot dance at all?"

"Well..." She blew a lock of hair out of her face. "I can do a few medieval-style dances and a couple of semi-newer ones. Heart's Ease. The Fiddler's Tangle and Twilight's Dawn. Quadrille." Dylan made a face to show just what she thought of _that_ particular dance form. "Morning Mist and the Scarlet Ribbon. The Entwine."

Nuada's brows rose higher. "You can dance the Entwine?"

She grinned. "I've never been caught, either."

That lazy smile came back. "Would that be a challenge, my lady?"

"If you like."

He grinned, and it was as if the shadows from their conversation about the faerie villages had all but disappeared. "You should be able to get by with what you know. Though I forbid you, as crown prince, from dancing the Entwine with anyone but me."

Her eyes lit up. "Wait, so you can actually dance the Entwine?"

Nuada scowled. "Of course. I'm a prince, darling, not a barbarian." Dylan just rolled her eyes and laughed. "Although you will still have lessons in the waltz under my sister's stern eye. Don't worry," he added, seeing the flicker in her eyes. "I will do my best to be there. Or if not me, I'm certain I can enlist Zhenjin or one of the others to be your partner in my absence. The Midwinter Ball _is_ next week."

"Yeah." She sounded positively _thrilled_. "Am I... going to have to dance with your dad?"

A shadow passed over firegold eyes. "My father hasn't danced since my mother's death," he murmured. "I don't even know if he remembers how." That firegold gaze faded a little, graying out until sorrows darkened Bethmooran gold. Then Nuada shook himself and forced his mind back to the present. "Speaking of the king, you and I have something _very_ important to discuss, Lady Dylan."

Dylan looked up, recognizing that he'd just made the transition from simply Nuada to the crown prince addressing not his truelove, but a woman of his household who was under his authority. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about dealing with her prince _as_ the prince. Didn't quite know where she stood with him.

"All right."

"Do you understand your position in the Bethmooran court?" Prince Nuada asked softly.

She immediately shook her head. "Not really. I know I'm your lady, and that gives me some kind of political pull, but I don't know how far that extends or how it applies to court life or anything."

"Your position is... unique. By right of your attachment to the crown prince, you outrank nearly everyone at court because I say so. Without a true title, without magic or wealth or land to give you true standing, your power at court stands on the shoulders of my own power. However, our power isn't equal. There are a few in Bethmoora you do not outrank, a few people around whom _you_ must tread carefully, who are of little consequence to _me_ politically.

"One of them is the chamberlain. You need to be careful with him, because he answers to no one but the king. _I_ may challenge him. _You_ may not. Princess Nuala is another such person. _Ledi_ Polunochnaya and _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma are below you in rank; you may refuse them what you like, and they have no right to compel you. The princess, however, does. Only the king and I may gainsay her. Do you understand?"

She swallowed. Nodded. Prince Nuada locked eyes with her, and there was a seriousness in their depths that made Dylan's stomach tighten. "Am I in trouble?" The words popped out before she could censor them.

Nuada closed his eyes. Sighed.

"Yes."

Silver-washed blue eyes widened. "Oh."

"The king spoke to me yesterday regarding your behavior. Lady Dylan, you _cannot_ disrespect the king. At least, not where anyone but I can hear you. You certainly cannot speak to him as you have been. He is the sovereign in this kingdom. He has complete authority. He could, if he chose, execute you for how you've been speaking to him."

"You would never let him-"

"I would not be able to stop him," Nuada enunciated, each word sharp as a lance blade. "I would try - gods, I would try. I would bare my chest and offer him my own knife to cut out my heart if it would save you from him, but there are no guarantees. He may not kill you if you continue as you have been. He may simply imprison you, or hurt you, or punish you some other way, but I dare not risk it. We dare not risk his anger." Bitterly, the prince added, "There is enough to anger him as it is. Dylan, you must be more careful. You cannot let your temper get the better of you, not even in my defense."

"But he-"

Prince Nuada held up a hand. She fell silent. "It doesn't matter what he did or did not do. What he did or didn't say. It does not matter."

"But it does! It matters to you! I'm not gonna just stand back and let him hurt you-"

"No," the prince said firmly. "No, it does not matter. It cannot. Not where he or his spies can see. Yes, you will simply stand back and allow him to do as he pleases, _because he is the king_. Leave challenging him to me. If he oversteps his rights as the monarch, it is my duty and mine alone to challenge him."

"That's not fair to you."

"It is how things must be. It is how things are." He pinned her with glittering topaz eyes. "I am not asking, Dylan. I am ordering you, as the crown prince of Bethmoora, to whom you have pledged your loyalty. You will respect my father, if only to his face and to the public eye. You will keep your temper. You will do all in your power to avoid angering him. You will speak to him with respect no matter what he says or does. You _will_ do this."

After a long moment, Dylan nodded. Her hands were shaking, she realized; why? She pressed them flat to her legs in an effort to hide her shakes. "O-okay. I mean, yes, Your Highness."

A flicker in topaz eyes, there and gone too swiftly to be identified. "Don't," he murmured, and he was simply Nuada again. "Do not do that, Dylan, please. Not when it's just the two of us."

She nodded. Closed her eyes. "I didn't mean... I'm not upset with you or anything. I just... I don't know..." She opened her eyes. "Did I get you in a trouble?"

Nuada rubbed the bridge of his nose. "When am I not 'in trouble' with my father? He's angry over many things right now. Over A'du'la'di's request. Your disrespect. The attack on Sunday, and that it resulted from my breaking house-arrest. He is most furious about A'du'la'di, however. 'Pathetic' is the word he used for me, I believe. And I seem to recall he insinuated my mother would be ashamed of me."

Eyes sparking, Dylan opened her mouth. Hesitated. Closed it again. Took a deep breath. "Do you think His Majesty was behind the attacks before we came?" An icy chill wrapped around her chest at the idea. She shivered.

Her prince dropped his head into his hands. "I do not know anymore, Dylan. I don't know where to turn or who to fear or trust."

"You can trust me," she murmured, and held out a hand, palm-up. Nuada didn't hesitate. Merely laid his hand over hers. She curled her fingers around his. "And for what it's worth, I think your mother would be very pleased with how you turned out, Nuada. She would think you're wonderful. An honorable warrior, a courageous prince, and a good man. Just like I do."

Nuada brought her fingers to his lips. "You always know what to say."

"Well, our track record with fights would indicate otherwise," she replied, scrupulously honest. "But thank you. So I've got a couple morning appointments tomorrow, a trip to juvenile hall on Thursday, a trip to Saint Vincent's on Friday, and I'm done for the week. So other than the banquet thingy Wednesday, and the Midwinter Ball next Monday, do we have any other issues or events looming in the wings that I need to be concerned about?"

His smile was tired, but at least it was there, and it held just a touch of mischief. "Well, Midwinter festivities aren't limited to the ball, mo duinne. That would be rather a waste of a trip for most of the visiting dignitaries, would you not agree? There will be banquets for the next fortnight at least. Games and contests in the township and here among the courtiers during the day. You'll be expected to attend as many as you are able, standing at my side. For the games, you and my sister will most likely be the ones to give out the prizes."

"What prizes?" She squeaked. "Why do I have to give out prizes? No one's gonna want a prize from me. What prizes?"

"Nothing too despicable, Dylan, I promise you. A kiss for the winner of each contest."

The mortal relaxed. "Oh. Is that all? Well, then, that's not a problem, since nobody's gonna want a kiss from 'the human.' Except you," she added, catching the heat suddenly smoldering in his gaze. "So everyone will lose on purpose and there won't be any problems. No offense to your sister, but she's not pretty enough to tempt someone to accept kisses from her _and_ from me."

"You underestimate your appeal, beloved, and _I_ intend to win all those contests."

"Why? You could just kiss me whenever and wherever you wanted."

His smile lost its edge of exhaustion. "Not quite whenever, mo duinne. Certainly not wherever. Much to my sorrow," he added, eyes gleaming with wicked humor. She just rolled her eyes and pretended she wasn't blushing. "And you may be surprised how much competition I will end up vying with for a kiss from your soft lips. A kiss from you is sweet enough to tempt the hardiest men. Even me."

She grinned. Her heart fluttered against her ribs like bird wings. "Sweet, huh?"

"Oh, yes." Pale fingers reached out and brushed against her lips, tracing the lush contours of her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat as the pad of Nuada's finger slid like rough velvet along her bottom lip. "Sweet as bee pollen in spring. Sweet as strawberry wine or summer apples." His thumb brushed across her mouth, back and forth. Back and forth. "Sweet as starlight on my tongue."

Dylan just barely managed to swallow. "You know, sometimes you say stuff and it's really cheesy. Other times you say stuff, and it totally should be cheesy, but it's not. How do you do that?"

Nuada shrugged, a casual ripple of muscle that made Dylan's heart jump. "I am an Elven prince." He pulled his hand away. Her mouth felt cold with the absence of his touch.

She cleared her throat. "Comes with the territory?"

"Indeed."

Against his will, firegold eyes slid to the paper still sitting on his desk. The crabbed handwriting of the report made his eyes ache. The report itself, from the village headman, was bleak. Very bleak. Something would have to be done, at least about the poor take from the autumn harvest, and soon. Nuada sighed as he slipped the report off his desk and tucked it into a drawer. He would study it out later and see if there was anymore that could be done.

"You'll figure something out," Dylan murmured.

He glanced at her, then away. There was much he could do, but there was more the crown prince could do with the backing of the king, if he could get it. If only his father would deal with the root of the problem, instead of simply trimming back the thorny growth of poisonous weeds whose taproots had burrowed too deep.

Gentle fingertips touched his arm. Dylan offered him an encouraging smile. "You will, Nuada. I believe in you. You're a good prince. You'll think of something."

_I pray it is so,_ he thought, but didn't say. _I truly pray it is so, mo duinne._

"There is something else, though nothing too serious," Nuada added, pulling his thoughts away from dark matters once more. "About the banquet tomorrow. I-" A knock at the door cut him off. Dark-shadowed lips twisted into a scowl. "Enter."

A young boy entered the room and bowed low to the prince. From his golden shirt and sleeveless crimson tunic, embroidered with a golden Eildon tree, Dylan figured he was a royal page. The hem of his tunic was edged with gold ribbon. Antlers peeked through his green-streaked bronze curls.

_A Hunter child_, the mortal thought. One of the anthropomorphic faerie stags, like the one Dylan herself had ridden to Findias the night of Nuada's so-called trial.

"Please excuse me, Your Royal Highness, milady," the boy said in a soft, lisping voice. Dylan saw he was missing one of his front teeth. That, and the fact that his slender antlers only possessed six prongs, told her the page couldn't have been more than seven years old. "His Majesty the king requests Your Highness's presence in his study. His Majesty said that it is most important." The boy bowed again.

Nuada didn't sigh, but he wanted to. What did his father want now? "Tell His Majesty I will be but a few moments."

"Very good, Your Highness." With a final bow, the child left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The Elven prince got to his feet and lifted his sheathed sword and sword-belt from where it rested on a display rack behind the desk and strapped it on. He wasn't wearing his crest, Dylan realized as the prince moved to walk out of the study. Just one of his red silk shirts and a tunic of antique gold.

Dylan followed the prince at his gesture. They walked into the prince's bedroom, where he immediately went to an elegantly carved ebony chest and flipped back the lid. Nuada withdrew a crimson sash and something carefully wrapped in black velvet. Unwrapping the velvet revealed the golden Eildon crest. Noting Dylan's surprise, Nuada smiled. "Did you think I wore this crest every day? It can be quite uncomfortable when one is bent over a desk for hours upon hours, day after day. And when I train with weapons, I generally train without a shirt."

Deft hands slid the crimson sash through the notches at the back of the crest before tying the sash around the prince's waist in such a way that he could still easily get to his sword. "Well? How do I look?"

Despite the sudden nerves dancing in her stomach, Dylan reached up and straightened the collar of Nuada's tunic before smoothing back a stray lock of silvery blond hair. "You look like exactly what you are - an Elven warrior prince." She started to bite her lip, but stopped herself. "Why are you getting all spiffy for this? Are you in trouble?"

"I don't know," he said. "If my father says this is important, I do not doubt it is. I simply don't know if this is a court or family matter. If he wishes to speak with the crown prince or he wishes to speak to his son. And I don't know what could be so important. So I go before him as the crown prince. It is easier to dress the part of the prince and play the son, than to dress the son and play the prince."

"Will you be all right?"

Soft brush of fingertips along her cheek. It sent warmth whispering down her spine. "Do not worry, mo duinne." Nuada leaned in and touched his lips to hers, briefly. "Tell A'du'la'di I will be there for the bedtime story. I know it isn't for at least an hour yet, but I do not want our boy to fret over my absence."

"Okay. See you in a bit. I'll actually be with A'du in the Healers' Wing when you're done. I need to talk to Healer Táebfada, make sure he's good to come back up here. So meet me down there, okay?"

Nuada inclined his head, and they parted ways.

**.**

In his father's study, Nuada went to military attention and focused his eyes on a point somewhere to the right of his father's shoulder. If the grip of his left hand on his right wrist was tighter than normal, neither Elf mentioned it. "What can I do for Your Majesty?"

The king sighed. For once, he didn't have a lecture in mind for his son. Balor strove to speak gently when he said, "Have a seat, my son."

"I prefer to stand, with all due respect, Sire."

Balor bit back a growl. "Sit _down,_ Nuada." When the prince frowned, he added softly, "Please. I have ill news."

"Is it... is it Wink?" Sudden dread chilled the fae warrior to the marrow. "Or the humans - have they attacked another faerie settlement?" His father frowned at this second question, but shook his head. "Is it about the shoggoth? The attack in the orchard?" The king shook his head again. There was something in eyes of aged amber that crystallized the dread into icy fear. Nuada recognized that something as pity. "Father... you're not... tell me you're not sending Dylan away. You're not separating us for what I did on Sunday."

The king, momentarily distracted, raised his brows. Cool curiosity deepened the lines of his weathered face. "And if I was?"

Nuada jerked as if he'd been struck. "No. No, _Áthair_... please. You cannot do that. Please, I beg you. She isn't safe without me. My enemies know she is my greatest weakness, they will turn their sights on her the moment she is no longer under my protection. _Áthair_, you _can't_. It's a death sentence to her if-"

"Calm yourself, my son. That isn't what I wish to speak with you about. It's about the halfling child you brought to Findias this past summer."

Golden brows furrowed in puzzlement. "The halfling child? What of her?"

Balor hesitated. "There have been some... rumors. That you are the child's father." Before Nuada could do more than scoff, the king raised a hand. "Only a fool would believe such talk. One only need look at the child to see she has no Elven blood. But there has been other talk about the girl. How for the daughter of a greenman, her eyes sometimes look oddly... almost blue. How intriguing it is that the babe has brown curls... like your lady."

Firegold eyes widened. "They think _Dylan_ is the child's mother?" A pang struck him squarely behind his heart at the thought of the compassionate mortal with a child of her own. He dismissed the thought immediately. It would do him no good to dwell on impossibilities now. "Ridiculous."

A quirk of the king's brow indicated how Balor felt about _that_. Nuada narrowed his eyes.

"Under normal circumstances, I would simply suggest you question my lady under oath about the matter, but doing so would distress her. I respectfully request that you not bring this to her attention."

"I'm certain one of my councilors could ferret out the information for me without undue stress to Lady Dylan," the king replied. "It is a simple question, really - is the child of her blood or isn't it? Perhaps Lord Finbar. He is soft-spoken and adept at getting those reluctant to speak to open up."

Finbar was also one of Nuada's two - potentially former - anti-human supporters that had publicly snubbed him after that very first night before the court with Dylan on his arm. Nuada settled back in his chair and idly studied the crack he'd put in the king's desk. "If Lord Finbar speaks to my lady regarding this matter, I can guarantee you it will be the last thing he says to anyone."

Balor's brows shot toward his hairline. Nuada merely offered his father a bland court smile.

"If one were to inquire... what is it about this child that you do not want your lady knowing?"

The prince glowered, more at the implications than the question itself. "Nothing. What I don't want is for some feckless moron to rip out her heart by asking her..." He trailed off, realizing he'd revealed too much. Sighed. "Children and motherhood are... delicate subjects with Dylan."

The king propped his elbow on his desk and laid a finger over his lips, thinking. Finally, he said, "She is barren."

"_No_," Nuada snapped. A little too quick to defend, the king thought. And why not? If the mortal _were_ barren, it would bar her completely from ever being able to become the prince's spouse. "She is _not_. Now was this foolishness all you wished to speak to me about? Or was there something more pressing?"

"The child is dying."

It took the Elven warrior a moment to process his father's words. "What?" He lurched to his feet and paced the length of the study. "How? I saw her only a few days past. She was unwell, but not... have healers been to see her? Not that buffoon, Conn. I mean Somhairle or Táebfada. Someone of their caliber."

"Yes."

"Then how... she's only a babe," he muttered. "Fate would not be so cruel, to take a child so young. A mere infant." But Nuada thought of the wars. Of the countless, faceless dead. Young men barely old enough to bear arms. Young mothers, their children as yet unborn. Little ones who should've had no cares but dolls and toys and silly games. Mere babes in arms. And he was reminded that Fate could indeed be that cruel. Then he remembered Jenny, and what he'd told her. His eyes widened. "I need to see Dylan."

The king frowned. "What for? Unless she _is_ the child's mother-"

"She is _not,_" Nuada growled, sudden anger fueled by a hollow stinging pain in his chest that mingled with distant regret. "But she can do something about this, I am certain. She might know a way to save the child."

Balor shook his head. "My son, what can a mortal with no magic do for this child that our healers cannot?"

Nuada hesitated. "I don't know... but she has surprised me often enough that I will discount nothing until it has at least been tested. If that is all, my king?"

The king inclined his head, dismissing his heir. Nuada left the study, leaving his father to wonder just what sort of woman his son had allied himself with.

**.**

Dylan had spoken to Healer Táebfada already, and A'du was nearly finished dressing in clean livery behind a screen when someone knocked on the door to the healing chamber. The knock was too timid to be Nuada. Besides, it came from halfway down the wooden slab of door and not at Nuada's height.

"Come in," the mortal called.

The door swung open and Dylan blinked in surprise. Standing in the entryway was a hob boy, maybe three or four feet tall, his curly black hair tousled and damp and his dark eyes wide with surprise. He wore a plain wool shirt and sleeping-trews. He was barefoot. Dylan could see his fourteen toes peeking out from beneath the hems of his pants.

"Oh! 'Scuse me, m'lady!" The boy bowed low. "I didn' know you was here. I jus' came to see A'du. M'sorry, my 'pologies, I-"

"Rórdán!" A'du popped out from behind the dressing screen and ran to his friend. "Oh, awesome! What's up? What're you doing here? I thought you had chores or something. Oh! _A'ge'lv_," to Dylan, "this is my friend Rórdán Hob. He works in the kitchens. Rórdán, this is _A'ge'lv_ Dylan. She's amazing."

The hob boy bowed again. "I know," he said to A'du'la'di. "I seen her at church before. You looked real pretty, m'lady, if it's all right to say so. Um, could I mebbe visit with A'du for a bit?"

"Yeah, _A'ge'lv_! Can he, please? Please?"

"A'du'la'di," the mortal said, forcing herself to sound stern. "It's nearly your bedtime. And I'd imagine it's nearly _your_ bedtime, too, Rórdán."

Rórdán started to bow again, but A'du'la'di grabbed the back of his shirt and forced him upright. "She doesn't like all the bowing stuff. As long as the king's not here, one time is okay. And I know it's almost my bedtime but couldn't he stay just for a little bit? We'll be quiet. Just 'til the prince gets back. Please? I haven't seen him since Sunday. That's two whole days!"

'Sa'ti chimed in. "And his birthday was Sunday, _A'ge'lv_!" The cougar girl came over to her brother and the hob. Dylan was surprised when the little girl wrapped her arms around the slender hob and the hob dropped an arm on top of the girl's head, using it as an armrest. "It could be like a birthday present. Please?"

A smile tugged at Dylan's lips. "Oh, it was his birthday, was it?" All three children nodded earnestly. "Well, I suppose you guys can hang out until His Highness comes back. But only until then. And only if Rórdán won't get into trouble."

"Thank you, m'lady," the hob cried, starting to bow. A'du yanked him upright. "Sorry, m'lady. I won' get in trouble, m'lady. Thank you-"

"She got it, midget," Tsu's'di drawled from where he stood leaning against the wall. "Now go do midget stuff with my brother and sister. Sheesh."

All three children piled onto the healing bed and began chattering away. Dylan merely smiled while Tsu's'di rolled his eyes in good-natured brotherly annoyance.

Thus Nuada found them. The moment he walked in, the children fell silent. The prince ignored them and went straight to Dylan. Quickly, he explained what the king had told him, as well as what he'd been told by Jenny a few days past. Dylan's face grew solemn, but not grave.

"Is there aught you can do, Dylan? You've cared for the fae and half-fae before and-"

She held up a hand, frowning. Closed her eyes. Her face was tense, as if she were listening hard for something barely audible. Then she opened her eyes.

"Send someone to fetch Nils Fjøsnisse," Dylan said softly, surprising him. What could a tomte do? "There's nothing I can do myself, but have Nils go see the baby. Tell him I asked him to help. And tell him to bring another priesthood-holder to give a Blessing of Healing. He'll take care of everything. It might not work, but then again, it might. We won't know unless we try."

A'du'la'di shot his hand in the air. "I can go get Nils. Me and Rórdán. Um... what do we need him for, exactly?"

A hastily penned note was sent via cougar and hob boy. Dylan took a moment to make sure her dirk was snug in its sheath at her hip before saying, "Okay, let's go."

"You wish to come?" Nuada asked.

"I should've checked on the baby before this. I mean, I brought her to you. I should've thought to look in on her. So I'm going with you. Because of course you're going. Don't even try to look innocent or anything because I know you. You want to check on her, too."

The Elven prince inclined his head. "As you wish, mo mhuire."

They met Nils, A'du'la'di and Rórdán just at the door of the sickroom in the servants' quarters. Nils bowed to Nuada and offered a smile to Dylan. The Elven prince was surprised to see the Stable Master dressed in a fine black tunic instead of his normal rough work attire, but Dylan only smiled back at the tomte.

"I sent for Lieutenant Jarláth, milady," Nils said softly. "He is my home-teaching companion and will be here shortly."

"Wonderful," she replied. "Thank you, Nils."

"It's no trouble. Let us see to this child."

The moment a gray-haired Elven woman in a black homespun dress let them in, Nils went to the glaistig woman holding a squalling baby.

Dylan paused to study the towering glaistig. Her dove-gray skin held a pearlescent celadon sheen that somehow fit with her goat-like eyes of seafoam green and her gunmetal gray lips. Slender goat hooves peeked from beneath her long, moss green dress. Dylan glimpsed delicate ear-points peeping through tumbling locks of ash-blond hair falling to her waist. Sparse ash-gold fur covered the tips of her ears and the backs of the three-fingered hands cradling the crying baby. The glaistig was absolutely stunning, in the way of many faerie women, even though sweat plastered her hair to her flushed face and she looked like she'd been up half the night with the sick child in her arms.

With the gray-haired Elven woman and the glaistig was Jenny Hob, head housekeeper of Findias. The moment she laid eyes on Nuada, a mixture of relief and concern flashed across her face. "Your Highness! Begging your pardon, but what are you doing here?"

"Hopefully saving a very sick bairn," Nils murmured. With a grateful look, the glaistig handed the baby over to the tomte. "Come to Nils now, little _kakushka_, there now. No more tears. We'll set you to rights, never you fear." The baby wailed pitifully. "Lady Dylan, if you would come here. Your Highness, make yourself comfortable. It may take a bit for Jarláth to arrive."

As Dylan made her way to the tomte and the halfling baby, and Nuada sank into a hastily proffered chair, Jenny introduced the two women with her. The older Elven woman was Siobhan Dubh, nursemaid and midwife to the servant children in Findias. The fey goat-woman was Goodwife Cabhán Glaistig, from Findias-township. Both women had been nursing the half-fae bairn whenever she fell ill, and now both women were nearly dead on their feet from fatigue. Jenny ushered them to chairs as well while Nils set the infant in Dylan's arms so the mortal healer could get a better look.

The moment the baby was secure in the human woman's arms, its cries quieted. The three fae women stared in no little surprise. Nothing but sheer exhaustion had silenced those wails before this. Yet they watched - Jenny and Siobhan with a simmer of suspicion - as Dylan shushed to the baby and very, _very_ gently bounced and rocked her. The baby grumbled a little, but didn't scream again. One tiny hand reached up and touched the glimmering gold medallion resting between Dylan's collarbones.

"Well, sweetie, you've got a fever, don't you?" Dylan murmured to the child, who made a fussing sound and squirmed a little. "Uh-uh, no wiggling. I need to check you out, make sure everything else is okay." She bent her head and listened to the baby's breathing. "Hmmm. All that fussing and yelling didn't help that rasp you've got, I bet." A slender fingertip tapped lightly on the baby's cheek, half an inch beneath its eye. The baby gurgled and waved its arms. "Reflexes are good, at least. Your color's not so good, though. And you're too skinny. Has she been eating properly?" This last was directed at the three women.

"No, milady," Cabhán replied. "She'll not eat when the fever comes. That's why she's so terribly thin."

Dylan nibbled on her bottom lip while studying the child in her arms. "Hmmm," she mumbled to herself. "Apples might work. Carrots, maybe. Lots of milk. I bet right now you just hate everything, huh?" She smoothed down a wispy brown baby curl. "That's why you won't eat. You're just mad because you feel icky. I've _so_ been there. Now open your mouth and say, 'Ahhh.' And no biting. Baby teeth hurt." With a gentle fingertip, Dylan popped the baby's mouth open and studied the slightly greenish gums and the scattering of little white teeth. "Green gums. Half-woodman, you ought to have green gums. So there's nothing wrong with you except fever and a rasp in your chest." The mortal bounce-rocked the child a little more. The baby gurgled and smiled at her. "Oh, you like that, huh? I should hope so. It's my best trick."

She looked up from the baby to Nils, who was watching with a half-amused, half-impressed expression. "Well, I know what it's not. It's not influenza, diphtheria, cholera, anything like that. It's not croup or colic. It's not pneumonia. In fact, except for what Prince Nuada's told me - that she keeps getting sick, and magic's not doing spit for it - I'd say it was just a really bad cold. But I don't think so."

"Have you a theory?" The prince asked.

It was the first time he'd spoken in the nearly ten minutes Dylan had had the child in her arms. Watching her with the baby sent a pang echoing through his chest. The absolute focus and adoration on his truelove's face... this was what she loved. Being with children. Helping them. He could see her dream of motherhood in every move she made, every gentle word she cooed to the babe. Nuada swallowed back the whisper of longing that flooded him as Dylan stroked the baby's cheek with a fingertip before tapping the tiny nose ever so lightly. The baby laughed.

"I have a theory," she murmured, never taking her eyes off the baby. "But you're not going to like it, and it doesn't make a lot of sense regarding motive. But it's the only thing I can think of." She slid her eyes to Nuada's face. "I'm thinking poison."

Jenny started violently in her chair. "Who would poison a mere baby?"

Haunted blue eyes met the hob woman's. "Where I come from, people kill lots of different kinds of people for lots of reasons. I don't know why anyone would go after _this_ baby specifically, but it might not be specific. I mean, it might not be target-specific. It might be type-specific. Or non-specific, period." Seeing Nuada's frown, she sighed. "Sorry. What I mean is, it might not be because of who the baby is, but maybe what she is. A good example would be a serial killer we had in New York about ten years back. I had to study him in college. He was killing children, but only children who fit a specific demographic. He didn't know the kids personally, didn't know their parents or families or anyone in their lives, but they fit his victim profile, so he went after them. It could be something like that - she fits the profile of someone's preferred victim. Do the Fair Folk not have serial killers?"

"Oh, they do," Nuada said too softly. She could see he was thinking, turning over and discarding various possibilities. "You've heard King Roiben speak of the glaistig known as Mabry, have you not? The one your friend Val fought for the beating heart of Ravus the Apothecary. She fit the label of serial killer - murdering those who fit her 'profile,' as you call it, and stringing her harp with their hair to force them to sing even in death. But if you're right, who would we be looking for? And who would be the next victim? None of the other children are ill."

"None of the other children are half-human," Cabhán interjected. "Perhaps that is why she's been targeted."

Dylan made an odd burbling sound at the baby to make her laugh before shaking her head. "No. I don't think it's that. Or at least, that's not the whole reason. I don't know. I'm worn out and not thinking as straight as I'd like to be. Nils, what do you think?"

The tomte studied the bairn with his arms folded. "I think... it is both who she is and what she is. Her human blood is part of the reason, I think, but not the whole reason. I think another part is the prince's consideration. The rumors, you know."

"What rumors?"

Jenny said softly, "The rumors that the child is His Highness's bastard daughter."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "Right. Well, last time I checked, Bethmooran Elves weren't green. Last time I checked, humans weren't green, either. So I'd say we can safely rule out His Highness being the daddy. Also last time I checked, your enemies weren't stupid, Your Highness. They were annoying and incredibly dangerous, but they weren't stupid. So surely _they_ realized you weren't the father, either."

"It needn't be an enemy of the prince's for the poisoner to have cause to eliminate this child," Nils said. "Perhaps someone with a daughter eligible for marriage. Bastard or not, regardless of gender, the prince's firstborn is the one who will receive the title of heir unless the connection between the royal line and the land isn't strong enough in their blood. A problem for someone who views themselves as a potential future queen. And while many enemies of the royal family are in fact shrewd and intelligent, many of the scheming nobles of the Bethmooran court are not."

"Be that as it may," said a voice from the doorway, and the assembled group turned to see a tall, well-built Butcher Guard in the silver-embossed black leather ceremonial uniform of a Butcher lieutenant, "politics can wait, I should think. This child cannot." The Butcher offered Nuada the fist-to-chest salute and bow, then gave the same to Dylan. "My lady, forgive the delay. I am Butcher Lieutenant Jarláth mac Rón, under Captain Phelan mac Mannix of the King's Guard." With a self-deprecating tilt of his head, Jarláth added, "And Nils' home-teaching companion as well as the Elders' Quorum Leader, as it happens." Nuada didn't know what the extra title meant, but judging by Dylan's relieved grin, it was something good.

The lieutenant turned back to the prince. "Your Highness, if I might request that everyone but yourself, Lady Dylan, and Master Fjøsnisse leave the room, I would appreciate it."

Nuada glanced at Dylan. She offered a shrug as if to say, _Sure, whatever; can't hurt._ A curt nod from the prince sent the rest of the guards, Jenny, Siobhan, and Cabhán from the room. When the door was closed, Jarláth sighed and slowly took off the iron helmet that hid his face.

The mortal realized she should've expected it. He couldn't give a blessing wearing the thing, for one. For another, the iron being so close to the sick child would've made her even worse. But all coherent thought fled her mind when she finally saw just what the Butchers were hiding beneath their helmets.

Long, jet-black hair hung in warrior braids nearly to Jarláth's waist. Now she could see the ragged locks that hung nearly - but not quite - in his eyes. His _four_ eyes. Two where human eyes normally were, one centered between the two and slightly above, and one centered and slightly below, so that the eyes formed a sort of diamond in the middle of his face. They were a strangely human brown color. Instead of a nose, the Butcher had three long horizontal slits, reminiscent of gills, bisecting his face. A strange black, chitinous stripe slashed down each cheek. His mouth was easily twice the size of a human mouth, lipless as a snake-shifter's, and filled nearly to overflowing with razor-thin black needle teeth.

Jarláth watched his prince's human lady, obviously expecting condemnation for his appearance. Dylan merely let out a low whistle. "You guys," she said, affecting a mock-stern tone, "have been holding out on me. How come no one told me how epically fierce and just plain cool you look?"

The four brown eyes blinked in obvious surprise. The eyelids closed side-to-side instead of up and down. "M-milady?"

"What? Did you think I was going to run screaming or something? Please. I've seen things way less human-looking than you before." Like the flesh-wearing spring-heeled jacks; the slime-covered, fanged, six-limbed orang minyaks; the sea-dwelling Innsmouth folk; or the two-headed, hyena-faced kishi fae. At least she knew the Butchers weren't going to rape and/or eat her. "If I was going to let every little thing bother me, I'd've had a mental breakdown years ago. By the way, is that what you wear to church?"

"It is. It's my best uniform."

"Huh. Cool. So, shall we get to it?"

"Of course, milady," Lieutenant Jarláth replied as soon as he'd recovered from the shock. A human that did not run screaming from his true face? _That_ had _never_ happened before. "As you say, let us 'get to it.' Nils, would you have me give the blessing?"

"Yes," said the tomte. "I shall handle the anointing."

Nuada watched with narrowed eyes as Dylan handed the babe to Jarláth. The moment the infant realized she was being separated from the mortal, the pitiable weeping began afresh. Dylan made a sympathetic face and cooed at the child. "I know, I know. You don't want the lieutenant right now, but don't worry. He's going to hopefully make you feel all better, okay? Just be patient. I know, poor baby."

Dylan watched Nils pull a small bottle from his breeches' pocket. "What is the child's name?"

"She has no name," Nuada murmured. "According to Jenny." When Dylan gave him a puzzled look, he added, "It is considered by some to be... unwise to give a faery child a name not its own by birthright. There is power in names in Faerie."

"Well, you can't give her a blessing without a name," Dylan said. "I mean, you can do the anointing without a name, but you can't actually bless her, can you?"

"No," Jarláth murmured, "we cannot. According to the traditions of the greenmen, the child's mother names the babe. But her mother is dead, correct?" Dylan nodded, trying not to remember that night in the Park and the headlong rush through the subway to find an Elven warrior. "Jenny could do it, as the surrogate mother, but she will not, because she is fae."

"My lady, you should name the child," Nils said softly. Dylan blinked at him. "You saved her life, did you not? In Faerie, that makes you responsible for her, in a way. You've the right to name her if no other will step forward."

Dylan stared at him. "I can't... but a name is a very sacred thing. It's a powerful thing, especially for a fae."

"It is your right, by virtue of the life-debt between you," the tomte replied. "And this isn't a baby-blessing. This isn't necessarily the name that will be recorded in Heaven. You have some leeway. But the child must have a name to receive the second part of the blessing. It is your decision, milady."

Blue eyes flicked to Nuada, who stood still as a statue, offering no hint as to what she should do. _Name her? But I can't... I shouldn't do that. She's not my child. She probably had a name before this. There has to be a way of finding out what it is. Except that would take too long and we don't have that kind of time,_ Dylan reminded herself. _But a name... what name, for a daughter of the forest?_

_Daughter of the forest..._ Fierce warmth, surprising and comforting all at once, filled her chest. The unease she'd felt faded away. She met Nils' eyes.

"Niamh," Dylan murmured. "Her name is Niamh, daughter of a greenman." Jarláth and Nils inclined their heads to the mortal. Dylan blew out a breath. "You two know what to do, right?" Jarláth and Nils both nodded. Dylan settled back against the wall and folded her arms, bowing her head. Somehow feeling as if he should follow suit, Nuada bowed his as well.

Nils laid a drop of the oil in the bottle to the top of the child's head. Almost immediately, her fussing dwindled to soft grumbles. Laying his small hands beside Jarláth's large ones beneath the baby's back, he closed his eyes.

"Niamh Greenman, by the power of the Holy Melchezidek Priesthood which I hold, I anoint you with this oil which has been consecrated and set apart for the healing of the sick and afflicted, and do so in the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

Then Jarláth began to speak, in a voice rather different from the one he'd used until now. This was richer, more regal, with the same quiet authority Nils' voice had possessed while anointing the baby. As he spoke, the baby's soft weeping faded away completely.

"Niamh Greenman, by the power of the Holy Melchezidek Priesthood which we hold, we seal this anointing which has heretofore been performed and give you a blessing. Niamh, you are a choice daughter of the High King. You are blessed with friends and those who love you, who seek to protect you. You have suffered much in your short life, but your Heavenly Father is with you in all your trials and afflictions. He watches over you and He will protect you. He has blessed you that one day you will have a new family, one that will watch over and love you as their own. He has blessed you to have His priesthood in your life. The Star Kindler has blessed you with a mission in this life, and He will not call you back to Him until that mission is fulfilled. You are blessed to be a comfort and a strength to those who need and love you. Remember your mission, little one, and remember the love of your Heavenly Father. We seal this blessing upon you and do so in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen."

Nuada opened his eyes to see Jarláth place the child in Dylan's arms once more. He opened his mouth to ask if that was all that was to be done, but closed it again. There was an odd feeling in the room. Similar, the Elven warrior thought, to the comforting feeling that often dwelt within the walls of Dylan's cottage, but richer and stronger. He was reminded of that long ago first night in Findias, when he'd walked through Dylan's mind for the very first time and sensed that strange presence that was separate from but a part of her, which had seemed to shine like a star. Instead of speaking, the prince rose to his feet and went where his heart called him - to the mortal and the halfling child.

Dylan's fingertips stroked the soft, round cheek. She looked up at Nuada with a smile. "Her fever's broken," Dylan said. To the other fae she murmured, "Thank you. Both of you."

Jarláth and Nils bowed to the prince's lady. "It was our privilege," the Butcher lieutenant replied. "Thank you for calling us."

"I'll tell Jenny to keep an eye on her," the mortal murmured to the prince. "Just in case. But I think she'll be all right. Her breathing is already much better."

Sharp Elven ears caught the rasp in the babe's respiration; where once it had been harsh and clearly painful, now it was already fading. The child's color was slowly returning as well. Her eyes, the color of beryl, were bright, and there was a smile on her cherub mouth.

"Do you feel better, _peata_?" Dylan asked the babe. Tiny hands reached for a lock of Dylan's hair. She tickled the baby's cheek with it.

"This is the power of the Star Kindler?" Nuada asked softly. "That you can do this?"

"When Heavenly Father wills it, anything is possible," she replied. "It's one of His gifts to us - the power of His priesthood to give blessings of healing and comfort in accordance with His will. A blessing can do miraculous things when faith is strong enough and when our wills are in accordance with God's." She smiled at the prince. "My King is pretty amazing, isn't He?"

**.**

When Jenny and the other two faerie women came back into the room, Dylan returned the child to the glaistig, told Jenny to keep an eye on the baby for the next few days, and then left with Nuada. Tsu's'di, A'du, 'Sa'ti and the requisite attachment of bodyguards waited in the hallway. Rórdán had had to go back to the servants' quarters due to the late hour. A'du raced over and grabbed his mistress's hand.

"Did it work?" The boy cried, nearly skipping to keep pace between his lady and her prince as they moved down the hall. "Is the baby okay?"

Dylan smiled down at her boy. "Pretty sure it did. Thanks for getting Nils, A'du'la'di. You were a really big help." The child grinned and purred, rubbing his cheek against his mistress's hand. "Here, switch sides, please."

A'du darted to Dylan's other side and grasped that hand. Now with her hand free, Dylan reached out and laced her fingers with Nuada's. The prince glanced down in surprise.

_Thank you,_ she murmured through their link. _Thank you for trusting me in this._

_I would be a fool to doubt you, mo cridh, when you've proven yourself to me over and over again. And as you've said before, I do not doubt the Star Kindler's existence. If anyone could get your Christian God to save that child, it would be you. You have a way about you._

_Thank you._

They made their way through the castle corridors, surrounded by guards. Sometime in the last few days, Dylan had learned, not quite to ignore the presence of the Butchers, but how to accept it. Perhaps because her own retinue of protectors had gone out of their way to be kind to her the last few days.

Uaithne and Ailbho were wonderful, and A'du'la'di adored them both. Fionnlagh seemed to have taken Tsu's'di under her wing, which made Dylan happy. The cougar youth seemed to get along well with the guardswoman. Friendship of a sort had begun blooming between the mortal and Guardswoman Ailís during the chess matches two days prior. Gráinne and Onóra were both cheerful compared to the reticent Ailís, and lacked Fionnlagh's biting sarcasm. And A'du seemed to be fond of Onóra. All in all, Dylan thought, she was pretty happy with her guards. It was like having a slumber party every night.

And once she'd discovered that she was allowed to be alone in the nook-room, she could go there whenever she needed to be alone (such as when she needed to say her prayers, instead of retreating to her closet).

But she would think about that later. For now, she needed to gauge how Nuada felt about what had just happened. Was he all right? He'd seemed... impressed, from what she'd been able to gather from the few words he'd spoken. He certainly hadn't seemed hostile, though he hadn't answered her question about the High King being pretty amazing.

Dylan wasn't sure _where_ the prince stood now regarding the Star Kindler. His issue had always been that the God sometimes known as the Lamplighter of the Moon didn't take an active enough role in mundane lives. Did this change his opinion at all? Dylan wondered if she was actually hoping Nuada would convert. It didn't seem likely. She didn't want him to choose to follow her God by action but not by faith just so he could be with her. Her prince would never have done such a thing anyway; he held his honor to dear for that kind of deceit.

Was she really going to hold out hope that after more than two-thousand years of believing that God had turned His back on the fae, Nuada would choose Him anyway? Dylan was an optimist, but even she had to admit that that seemed a little too impossible.

Nuada was oblivious to her jumbled thoughts. His own held most of his concentration. Something Jarláth had said during the blessing had caught the prince's attention. A possibility. He turned it over and over in his mind, until every facet of the idea had been explored. _He has blessed you that one day you will have a new family, one that will watch over and love you as their own_. Nuada remembered what he'd only recently said to his father. _Children and motherhood are delicate subjects with Dylan._ What if...

The child had no family. She could stay below stairs, an orphaned servant... or he could speak to his father. Speak to Dylan. Speak to Jenny, as well, as the household servants were within her purview as head housekeeper. Speak to the three of them, and see if he mightn't be able to give his lady a child after all. It would not be _his_ child, which was what they both wanted. At least, he thought it was a shared dream between them. They had never spoken of whether Dylan merely wanted children and to be with him, or specifically wanted to bear _his_ child. Wanted to be mother to his - to their - children. But for himself...

Nuada could admit he'd entertained brief daydreams. Very brief. Thinking about the impossible only led to grief, after all. But the thought of his child growing within her, the thought of laying his hand against the swell of her belly and feeling a gentle kick... the prince could admit he'd envisioned such a thing. Yearned for it more than a little. Knew he could never have that particular dream.

But perhaps Dylan could have _her_ dream. The rumors abounding about the halfling babe were a dilemma. Until his father told him of it, he'd had no notion that anyone, even a fool, believed he'd sired the little one. Never mind the idea Dylan was the child's mother. Yet _that_ rumor was the most problematic. If he arranged for his lady to adopt the child... oh, the whispers would certainly fly then. They would be virulent, vicious. They would be flying already, as Dylan had given the babe a name. Was it fair to Dylan or the baby to put either in such a dangerous position?

The Elven warrior was no coward; he could admit that focusing on the matter of the child allowed his thoughts to remain far from memories of a few nights prior, when he'd escorted his lady to the sleeping garden with the hawthorn tree and showed her the depth of the transformation she'd wrought within him. He couldn't honorably condemn her for refusing him. He would _not._ But anger often followed swift and hot on the heels of sorrow. So Nuada refused to let himself truly think about what had happened that night. Dylan had been forced to refuse him because of her honor. Well enough. He would accept it, and things would return to the way they'd been before he'd made a complete fool of himself.

A gentle press of fingers drew his attention to the mortal at his side. She watched him from the corner of her eye, concern and uncertainty in every line of her body._Um... Nuada?_ Acknowledgment came through their linked hands._Are you okay?_

_I am well enough, Dylan. Do not concern yourself._ When he caught a flicker of doubt in her eyes, he added, _Truly, my love, I'm well. My thoughts were merely elsewhere, that's all. Problems pending, nothing more._

_You'll figure it all out. You're just that incredible,_ she said, squeezing his hand. _Seriously. I am so blessed to have you in my life._

_Yes, well, you can repay me with a game of chess._

Dylan shot him a wide-eyed look of pseudo-terror. _But... you'll slaughter me. I'll die a horrible, bloody chess death._

The Elven prince smirked. _Well, then. You shall simply have to improve quickly, will you not? And just so you understand just what is at stake during our game-_

_I am_ not _playing strip-chess with you,_ Dylan informed him. _I don't think that's what you were going to say, but just in case it was, I thought I'd throw that out there just so we're on the same page. I am not wagering a single piece of my clothing on this game, since you'd only kick my butt and I'd end up naked._

He bit his tongue and forced his mind _not_ to picture his enticing and oh so beautiful lady in _any_ state of undress. He would _not_ imagine her so much as missing a sock.

_I had intended to say that for each game, the winner will receive an unnamed act of service._

_Our typical stakes, apparently._

_Well, mo mhuire, if it isn't broken, why fix it?_

She smiled as they reached the door to her sitting room. _I have a better idea,_ Dylan said as Uaithne and Ailbho preceded them, completing the initial scan to make sure her suite was safe. _After the bedtime story. It's late; the kids need to go to sleep._

They waited for Fionnlagh and Gráinne to check Dylan's bedroom and the cubs' room while Tsu's'di and Lorcc, one of Nuada's guards, checked the nook-room. Once the suite was deemed secure, Nuada and Dylan ordered the children to get ready for bed. Once dressed in nightclothes and comfortably settled, the prince and his lady went into the children's room, leaving the guards outside.

Nuada wasn't sure what he'd expected as he settled against the wall beside the children's bedroom door. What he found was 'Sa'ti and A'du in their pajamas, sitting on the larger bed meant for Tsu's'di with their legs thrown over the side, practically bouncing with excitement.

When Nuada came in, A'du beamed. Nudged his younger sister. "Told you he'd be here," the cougar boy said.

"Oh?" Dylan said, perching on A'du's bed. "You doubted the prince?" Both cubs hastily swore up and down that they would never ever, ever, ever, _ever_ doubt Prince Nuada about anything _ever_. What, was the _a'ge'lv_ crazy? "You're right; what _could_ I have been thinking? Anyway, so I know you guys have been waiting and waiting, and now that His Highness is back, we can actually read it."

She lifted the book she'd been holding. The title read _The Christmas Mouseling._

"All right! Finally!"

"Yay!"

The prince raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. Just forced the tension from his shoulders and listened to his lady read a rather sentimental children's story about a mother mouse and her baby trying to find a place to escape the cruel winter wind. After that, Dylan had Tsu's'di pull another book from the shelf above the youth's bed. The cover was soft blue leather. Written across it were three words in Gaelic in silver plate. In English, it read _Old Testament Stories._

"Will you read to us about Esther?" 'Sa'ti asked. "Miss Miyax talked about her in church. Please?"

"But I wanna hear about David and Goliath," A'du'la'di protested. "That's way cooler, because David was little and stuff. Rórdán told me about him."

Dylan smiled. "We can read both. They're really about the same thing, in a way." Both children cocked their heads. "Both of those stories are about doing what's right, even when it's really scary. I read in a book once, that bravery is a sort of magic. The magic of good against evil, of right against wrong. Magic that's made when you do what you know to be right, even when no one else can or will help you. And that's sort of what these stories are about - courage, and relying on Heavenly Father to help you fight your fears." With that, she opened the book and flipped to the appropriate page.

"_Now in the realm of Persia and Media there lived a king called Ahaseurus, who was in search of a new queen, because the previous queen, Queen Vashti, had rebelled against the king's commands. A man of the king's household, Mordecai, presented his young cousin. She was called Esther, and she found favor with King Ahaseurus_..."

Nuada found himself relaxing into the familiar cadence of Dylan's voice once again as she read the story of a young queen who defended an innocent people from a king's edict and a corrupt official, and then the story of a boy who fought a giant to protect his home.

When the second story was over, the children got out of bed and knelt with their arms folded and their heads bowed. Tsu's'di, who'd been standing on Dylan's other side, knelt down beside her, folded his arms, and bowed his head as well. After a moment, without opening her eyes, Dylan reached out and tugged on Nuada's pant leg. He glanced down at her. She gestured for him to kneel next to her. Remembering the odd feeling in the sickroom during the blessing, the prince complied, copying her posture of folded arms and bowed head.

"It's 'Sa'ti's turn," A'du said.

"That's because you missed your turn last night," Dylan reminded the little boy. "Or do you not want to?"

A'du lifted his head. "Oh, I want to. I just forgot I missed my turn. Okay. Gimme a sec." The child bowed his head again. Took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. Then he began to speak.

"Dear Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this day, and for all the good stuff that's happened today: Rórdán coming to see me, and the _a'ge'lv_ coming back safe from work, and His Highness being here for the bedtime stories and for family prayer. We thank Thee..."

Listening to A'du'la'di quietly pray, thanking the Star Kindler for things Nuada could admit _he_ never would have thought of, he once again felt that odd quiet stillness that he'd felt earlier, during the blessing for the child. That warmth and that soft presence that he'd felt in Dylan's cottage and in the back of her mind. He wondered how the child had learned to think this way - giving thanks for simple things, like Nuada's own presence in the room. Had Dylan taught him that?

"So we ask, if Thou would, to bless _A'ge'lv_ Dylan and His Highness, because they're really amazing and we love them a lot. Please help the prince with stuff if he needs it. And help the _a'ge'lv_, too. Please keep Tsu's'di safe while he guards her. And bless the other guards while they're working, too. They're really nice. And bless the king so he won't be so grumpy and sad. Oh, and please help 'Sa'ti to remember the thing she forgot. She can't remember what it is. And we say these things in the name of Christ, amen."

After the prayer, both A'du and 'Sa'ti clambered into bed and cuddled beneath the blankets. "Will you sing that song the hob maids were singing in the hallway at church, _A'ge'lv_? About falling and trying. I don't remember how it went."

She smiled. "Of course. Tsu's'di, Nuada, you guys can make your escape now." Tsu's'di just grinned. "Let's see if I can keep in tune..."

"_Something deep inside you  
Wonders if you'll be enough.  
You try, and you fall,  
And you fail to measure up.  
It hurts more than you show.  
But you have to know  
You're never alone._

_"He is there,  
Always in your heart,  
Even when you wonder  
If He knows you are.  
He believes  
You will make it through,  
And He knows all the things  
You're going to do.  
No matter what  
You're going through,  
He will remain  
True to you..._"

By the end of the song, the cubs were nearly asleep. As Dylan got up from her perch on Tsu's'di's bed, A'du mumbled, "G'night, _A'ge'lv_. G'night, Your Highness."

Dylan brushed a kiss across each of the cougars' foreheads. "Good night, you two. Good night, Tsu's'di."

"Good night, _A'ge'lv_. You were mostly in tune that time."

The mortal laughed. Nuada inclined his head to the children and followed Dylan out of the room. She quietly shut the door behind her.

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In the nook-room, Dylan and Nuada sat on opposite ends of the chessboard. Dylan noticed the shadows around Nuada's eyes and at his mouth had lessened, and the tension had mostly left him. She smiled. There was still worry in his eyes, but it was tempered by a peace she recognized from their time in her cottage.

The prince caught her watching him. "That song... where did you learn it?"

Dylan's smile turned self-deprecating. "From a CD. It's one of the reasons I can sing it sort-of okay. John bought it for my birthday ages ago. I've got a CD player made of _adamas_. It was a Christmas gift."

Nuada blinked. "_Adamas_? The stuff of Heaven?"

She snorted. "Hardly. It's powerful stuff, but it's not divine. If it was, the Shadowhunters certainly wouldn't have access to it, much less unlimited access. No, it's just one of those mysterious substances, like faerie metal or goblin crystal. No one knows where it comes from, only what it can do."

"If you don't know where it comes from, how do you know it isn't divine?"

"Because I'm a child of the Star Kindler," she said simply. "Because I retain the privilege and the right of the companionship of His Spirit. When that 'innate sixth sense' you talk about fails, maybe I'll be less likely to stick to my guns. Until then, I go by what God and the Spirit say. And They say _adamas_ is awesome, but it's not the stuff heavenly palaces and weapons are made of." She shrugged. "Not that this bothers me. It's pretty, it's almost unbreakable, and in hands other than mine, it becomes a weapon. That's pretty cool. Anyway, did you want that chess game?"

"I did. What was the 'better idea' you had concerning the stakes?"

Dylan's better idea turned out to be that for every piece one of them lost, they had to answer a question from the other, no matter what it was. She could see the idea and the risk appealed to the prince's faerie nature. She smiled and, since she sat on the side of white diamonds, moved a pawn forward.

"Be gentle with me," she murmured.

Nuada's smile was feral. "Oh, I will, darling. No need to be afraid." His eyes slid to gold-brushed ivory when she blushed and ducked her head. "By the way, mo duinne, I forgot to mention something else that will happen tomorrow." He moved one of his pawns of yellow diamond. "Must've slipped my mind. I do apologize."

She arched a brow. "Well, as slippery as your fey mind is, care to tell me what it is you forgot?" Another white diamond pawn slid forward.

"Nothing of great import. Simply that tomorrow," he moved his left-hand knight, "you'll have to try on the formal gown I commissioned for you for the banquet."

The glittering piece Dylan had been about to move tipped over. "_What_? You bought me a dress? A _formal_ dress?" Seeing her panic, Nuada couldn't help laughing. "Oh... you hush." But she was smiling. "Just for that, I'll kick your butt at this game." Pale fingers reached out and carefully righted her piece. She shoved it into place.

"In that case, milady, you may want to watch your flank." He captured her pawn with his knight. "I believe you owe me an answer to a question."

"Oh, phooey." Dylan sighed. "Ask away."

"What was it you were thinking of this morning, that you wouldn't tell me about?"

Her mouth dropped open. After a few heartbeats of panic, she managed to squeak, "Oh, crud."

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_**Author's Note:**__man, I want cake. Anyone else want cake? I seriously have a craving for cake. I'm gonna go tell my second-string beta to make the cake mix she bought. I'm desperate for cake. And reviews. But mostly cake. Hang on a sec. *yells over shoulder* IK, go make the cake! Pwease? *back to Author's Note* Aaaaaand I'm back. Now onto our review prompt!_

_1) What do you think Dylan's nightmare was about?_

_2) So of course the children couldn't tell Nuada. Of course something had to happen to prevent this. Possible fallout or repercussions or even implications of that particular misadventure?_

_3) I thought I'd give everyone a look at what Nuada does as prince when not involved in romantic interludes, Golden Army plots, or the trials and tribulations of this fanfic, lol. What do you guys think?_

_4) Nuada and Dylan's interactions in this chapter - how are we liking the diminished angst? What are we thinking? Where do we see this going?_

_5) Balor and Nuada - I don't want their interactions to be the same "I hate you"/"I hate you more" deal every time they talk. What do you guys think about this particular meeting?_

_6) Dylan and Nuada handling the baby, thinking about babies, possibilities of who might poison said babies, thinking about having their own babies, etc. - thoughts?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__"What You Don't Know" is a song by this group called either Monrose. There's a Nuada vid on Youtube to that song. And one of the lines totally makes me think of this fic. "What you don't know is that your scars are beautiful. What you don't know is that your imperfections are what make me whole." So yeah - everyone should go listen to that song._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- It was OceanFire9 who pointed out that eventually Nuada would notice how Dylan always bites her lip or her tongue, and would tell her to stop.

- Dylan referring to herself as "a long shot" is inspired by the song "Long Shot" by Kelly Clarkson, which is sort of Dylan's theme song regarding her and Nuada's relationship in a lot of ways. "It's a long shot but I say, 'Why not?' If I say, 'Forget it,' I know that I'll regret it. Lalalalalala..."

- "What humans do is in their nature. To honor the truce is in ours." is a quote by Balor from the film.

- Cassandra is the MC of the novel _Ice_ by Sarah Beth Durst.

- Nanook is the Inuit polar bear spirit. Mashkaupeu is the Inupiaq (specific Inuit tribe) version.

- A munaqsri is a special type of spirit in Inuit mythology that carries lifeforce from a dying creature to one being born. In _Ice_, each species has at least one munaqsri.

- While a Russian prince is called a czarvitch or tsarvitch, a Russian princess isn't called a czarishka. I made that up.

- Dinarzadi is the name of Sheharazade's sister; Sheharazade is the teller of the 1001 tales in the _1001 Arabian Nights_. Dinzarzadi is the one who asks Sheharazade for the story, thus helping begin the plan that keeps the sultan from killing her.

- Dastan is loosely based on Dastan from Disney's _Prince of Persia_.

- Prince Emīru, Prince Zeburan, and their sisters are modified cameos from the anime/manga _Princess Resurrection_.

- The Obsidian Butterfly is the English translation of the Aztec character in mythology - Itzpapalotl.

- King Ursus is from French myth.

- Melusine is a famous mermaid from French myth with two tails and gossamer wings.

- Heart's Ease is a real dance; EcnelisEsion introduced me to it. You can see a more upbeat, country-style version of it on Youtube.

- Quadrille is a real dance. You can see it danced in Tim Burton's _Alice in Wonderland 2010_.

- I made up the other dances except the Entwine (see author's notes for previous chapters). The Fiddler's Tangle has no origin for its name, other than that I believe a violin has six strings and the Fiddler's Tangle is danced with 6 people. =)

- The Scarlet Ribbon was named in honor of my grandmother, who loved the song "Scarlet Ribbons." You can find it on Youtube.

- Twilight's Dawn is named after the novel of the same name by Anne Bishop, the final novel in _The Black Jewels Series_.

- Morning Mist is named after the song "Morning Mist on the Boyne," which is the first real piece of Irish music I ever heard.

- "Sweet as bee pollen" is a paraphrase from the movie _Legend_ starring Tim Curry and Tom Cruise. The original line is "Sweet as bee pollen on a summer's day."

- "Sweet as summer apples" is a quote from the "Snow White" novel _White as Snow_ by Tanith Lee.

- It is standard practice that unless it is a dire, dire emergency, priesthood holders wear their Sunday best to give blessings.

- The glaistig is a creature from Scottish mythology. It came in two forms: a kind of satyr, a supposed she-hag or hag in the shape of a goat; secondly, a kind of beautiful female fairy, identical with the bean-nighe, usually attired in a green robe, seldom seen except at the bank of a stream, and engaged in washing, also known as maighdean uaine (green maiden).

In most stories, the creature is described as a beautiful woman with dusky or gray skin and long blonde hair. Her lower half is that of a goat, usually disguised by a long, flowing green robe or dress.

According to legends, the glaistig could serve as both a malign and benign creature. Some stories have her luring men to her lair via either song or dance, where she would then drink their blood. Other such tales have her casting stones in the path of travellers or throwing them off course.

In other, more benign incarnations, the glaistig is a protector of cattle and herders, and in at least one legend in Scotland, the town of Ach-na-Creige had such a spirit protecting the cattle herds. The townsfolk, in gratitude, poured milk from the cows into a hollowed-out stone for her to drink. According to the same legend, her protection was revoked after one local youth poured boiling milk into the stone, burning her.

She has also been described in some folklore as watching over children while their mothers milked the cows and fathers watched over the herds.

Another rendition of the glaistig legend is that the glaistig was once a mortal noblewoman, to whom a "fairy" nature had been given or who was cursed with the goat's legs and immortality, and since has been known as "The Green Lady." In this incarnation, she seems to be more benign, and watches over houses and also looks after those of weak mind as well.

A glaistig of modern media is the villainess Mabry from Holly Black's novel _Valiant_.

- I believe, though I may be wrong, that _kakusha_ is actually Russian for "little cabbage," which for some reason is an endearment for children.

- Random fact, when a baby is sick and won't take their medicine, you can mix it with sweet baby food, like applesauce or carrot-mush, which will cover the taste. Learned that from my dad, used it all the time when I was a nanny.

- The serial killer Dylan talks about is an antagonist from an episode of _Law & Order: Special Victims Unit_.

- Elders' Quorum is the all-male group within every ward of the LDS Church. The all-female group is called the Relief Society. Both have a president and two presidential counselors.

- Spring Heeled Jack (also Springheel Jack, Spring-heel Jack, etc.) is a character from English folklore said to have existed during the Victorian era and able to jump extraordinarily high. Spring Heeled Jack was described by people claiming to have seen him as having a terrifying and frightful appearance, with diabolical physiognomy, clawed hands, and eyes that "resembled red balls of fire." One report claimed that, beneath a black cloak, he wore a helmet and a tight-fitting white garment like an "oilskin". Many stories also mention a "Devil-like" aspect.

Spring Heeled Jack was said to be tall and thin, with the appearance of a gentleman, and capable of making great leaps. Several reports mention that he could breathe out blue and white flames and that he wore sharp metallic claws at his fingertips. At least two people claimed that he was able to speak comprehensible English.

I first found out about him in Caitlin Kittredge's novel _The Iron Thorn_.

- Orang minyaks don't actually have six limbs in Malaysian mythology, but I decided to make them standout. They're known for sneaking into the houses of virgins and raping them in the night.

- The "Innsmouth folk" are the fish-people from HP Lovecraft's short story, "Shadows over Innsmouth." Abe is actually one of those things, in their fully-evolved form.

- The Kishi are a race of hill-dwelling creatures of Angola, Africa, and are usually malicious. They have two heads; the head usually shown is quite handsome and is used to seduce its prey. The rear face is usually hidden by long thick hair, and resembles the face of a hyena. It has long sharp teeth and jaws so strong they cannot be pulled off of anything it bites. The Kishi seduces women with its handsome face and invites them to its lair for dinner, whereupon it devours its victims.

- Niamh is one of Dylan's middle names, as well as the name of several characters in _The Sevenwaters Series_ by Juliet Marillier.

- For blessings for most people, hands go on top of the head. For babies, they go underneath the back, to hold the baby up.

- The words recorded in this chapter are indeed the words used during anointings and blessings of this type.

- _Peata_ is a Gaelic endearment mothers often use for their children.

- I don't know if anyone remembers, but in chapter 49 Dylan was going to read _The Christmas Mouseling_ to the kids, and A'du insisted on waiting until Nuada could hear it before she read it to them.

- "I read in a book once, that bravery is a sort of magic. The magic of good against evil, of right against wrong. The magic that is made when you do what you know to be right, even when no one else can or will help you." is a paraphrase from the Don Bluth film _The Princess and the Goblin_, based on the novel of the same name by George MacDonald.

The original quote is, "You mean like... like being brave?"/"It is more than just being brave, my child. It is the magic of good against evil. Of right against wrong. Of doing what you _know_ to be right, even when no one else will help you."

For some reason, that part of the film always makes me cry. And there's this beautiful animation of a dragon and a knight riding a unicorn, made of flames, while this is being said. I love it.

- The song Dylan sings is called "True to You" by Jenny Phillips.

- _Adamas_ is the stuff that weapons are made of in _The Mortal Instruments_ by Cassandra Clare.

- "Must have slipped my mind"/"Well, as slippery as your fey mind is" is a paraphrase from _The Lion King_. "Oh, [the prince's presentation to the kingdom] was today? Oh, I feel simply awful. Must have slipped my mind."/"Yes, well, as slippery as your mind is, as the king's brother, you should have been first in line."/"I was first in line, until the little hairball was born."


	70. Frightened by a Dream

_**Author's Note:**_ _Guess what? I'm updating early. I know, it's 2 days early, but I can't guarantee being able to get to the library anytime soon after this. So... yeah. And Jasper, Nightmare, Ecnelis, Serbia - where are you guys? *sob* I miss you sooooooo much! I haven't heard from you guys in forever! My heart is breaking into pieces! *more sobs* I love you guys. Enjoy the chapter!_

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**Chapter Seventy**  
**Frightened by a Dream**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of****a Bargain, a Confession, Three Bloody Battles, Goodbye Kisses, a Warning, New Gowns, Princes, and Early Midwinter Gifts**

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"What was it you were thinking of this morning, that you would not tell me about?"

Dylan's mouth dropped open. The chess piece she'd been in the process of moving slipped from her fingers. She met a fathomless gaze of feral gold. After a few heartbeats of panic, she managed to squeak, "Oh, crud." She yanked her hands away from the chessboard and hid them under the table. Pressed them flat to her thighs when she noticed they were shaking. "Um... I don't... really... um..."

Nuada watched her with that empty amber gaze and simply waited. When she didn't speak again, he raised an eyebrow. "Are you reneging on our bargain, my lady?"

She paled. "No." She drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Okay, fine. I had a nightmare last night."

"So I gathered."

Dark brows furrowed. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"You ask me to trust you with my weakness, my lady, but you won't trust me with yours. Getting a confession of any sort of weakness from you is like attempting to teach a rock to sing; successes vary."

Dylan blinked, bemused. "You've tried to teach a rock to sing and actually managed it?"

"Don't try to change the subject." Nuada's lips twitched. His mortal's nerves faded a little and she smiled. That smile slipped away when he murmured, "Tell me what you dreamed, Dylan."

"I can't." A flash of irritation in topaz eyes. She glared. "I mean I honestly can't - I don't _know_ what I dreamed. I can't remember. I mean, I remember parts of it, but that's a different nightmare. It was... it was two nightmares jumbled together. I know that much. And I remember one part of the nightmare, but not the other."

"Tell me what you remember."

"No." She didn't flinch when he frowned at her. "I can't. This... it will hurt you."

"Tell me, as you swore you would." The human jumped to her feet and paced the length of the small nook-room. She folded her arms beneath her breasts. Shook her head. "You owe me the answer to a question, no matter what the question may be."

Dylan gritted from between clenched teeth, "Ask me something else."

"I'm asking you this."

Dread and something icy slid down her spine. She shook her head again. "And I'm asking you to choose a different question."

He wasn't sure what made him push her - instinct, maybe. Whatever it was, it told him that this needed to be addressed, and addressed now. Not just her reluctance to trust him with this, but the nightmare itself, both parts. He needed to know whatever it was she could tell him about the part she couldn't remember; it was of vital importance, though he couldn't have said why. And he needed to know what she could remember, because she didn't want to tell him. What could be so bad that she didn't want to tell him?

"I want the answer to this question, and I want it now." Nuada saw her waver. Saw the hesitation in her eyes, the uncertainty. That she wasn't certain of him pricked his temper like an iron needle. "Do not be a coward, Dylan. Just tell me."

Her head snapped up and she stared at him for a long moment. There was nothing she could glean from his empty eyes and emotionless face. Finally, she muttered, "Fine. You want the truth, fine. I had two nightmares, all jumbled together, bits and pieces flashing around in my head and scaring the living daylights out of me. I don't remember half of it, except for a few things. Silver in the dark, and laughter, and someone holding me down. Pain. Not being able to breathe, not being able to scream. That's all I remember about that. And I woke up scared to death and feeling like I was going to be sick, my skin crawling, but at the same time..." Dylan pressed a hand to her mouth. Leaned back against the bookcase. "At the same time you were right there and I wanted..."

Nuada slowly got to his feet and came toward her. "You wanted me to hold you. Comfort you." He stopped barely a foot away. She could feel the warmth coming off his body; she was suddenly freezing cold. "Why did you not ask? I would've held you."

Dylan shook her head. "That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted... I wanted you to touch me. To just... just forget my rules and... I wanted to let you... I woke up sick to my stomach, trying not to scream, everything too hot and too close and I couldn't breathe, and I was so scared and I didn't know why. I only knew I wanted you. Knew that if you touched me too much I'd give in and that giving in would be a mistake. That there was something wrong."

"Because how could you ever want me?"

Her eyes flashed. "Seriously? _That_ is what you're getting from this? No. That's not it. Jeez. It felt _wrong._ Not the fact that I wanted you, but _how_ I wanted you. It wasn't like normal. Sometimes - often - you meet my eyes or you take my hand, and suddenly I can't remember how to breathe and my heart feels like it's pounding in my throat, and I never want you to look away or let me go. I've never felt like that with anyone but that's _not_ what I was feeling this morning.

"And I've never felt scared because I was attracted to you. I've never felt sick or scared like that. It was like... I wasn't scared or sick because of lust. It was on top of the lust. Or maybe the lust was on top of that. I don't know. It was... it was the same revulsion as after my attack in the subway. I felt... I don't know why, but separate from how I was feeling about you, I felt... violated. Degraded. Like someone had done something awful to me, and I couldn't remember who or what, but I _knew_ it had happened."

Dylan hugged herself, shivering as if cold. "I keep waking up like that. It's not like my normal nightmares, although I have them, too. I can handle them. But this... I don't even know what I'm dreaming. I just keep waking up terrified and sick and every part of my body burning and it hurts and it's scary _and I hate it!_ And that's all from the part I _don't_ remember."

It took a supreme effort, but Nuada kept his hands at his sides. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her until the echoes of old fear faded from her voice. Until she stopped shivering as if she would shake apart. Thank the stars she wasn't crying; he wouldn't have been able to take it.

"And the part you do remember? Tell me." The breath hitched in her throat. She shot him a stricken look. Shook her head. "Dylan-"

"No!" She clenched her fists. Shoved one hand hard against her mouth. White spots stood out where her knuckles pressed against her skin. "No. I don't want to. Please, Nuada, don't ask me."

"I'll not be angry, mo duinne, I promise you." Moving slowly, Nuada took the hand she pressed against her lips and drew it away, so he could see the way her mouth trembled. "There is nothing you could tell me about this nightmare that would anger me." She just shook her head again. "Tell me. It will be all right, Dylan. Please tell me. Do you not trust me?"

Softly, she whispered, "Of course I do. More than anyone. I trust you with my life."

"Do you trust me with your heart?"

"Yes."

"Then trust me with this, mo duinne. Tell me," Nuada whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Tell me." Dylan drew an almost-sobbing breath and whispered words that, for a moment, held no meaning to him. He stared at her. "What did you say?" His voice was hollow.

"You attacked me. In the nightmare. You... you hurt me."

The words were like icy stones on his tongue when he whispered, "How? How did I hurt you?"

Dylan tried to pull back from him, but there was nowhere she could go. "Nuada-"

"_How_?" A whipcrack demand. She flinched. The Elven warrior set his hands against the bookcase at Dylan's back, on either side of her head. He leaned in. Pinned her with a feral gaze. She wasn't afraid of him; would never be afraid of him. So the closeness of him didn't frighten her at all. But she was afraid of what would happen if she dared to confess the part of her dream that she remembered. What would it do to him? Too softly, the warrior said, "Tell me."

She swallowed. "In my dream," she whispered, then had to clear her throat when the words barely managed to rasp out of her. "You... Nuada, it was just a dream. It doesn't matter."

Feral eyes narrowed. "Do not lie to me, Dylan. Not even to spare me grief or pain. If it doesn't matter, why will you not tell me?" His eyes searched her face. Why _would_ she not tell him? What was so terrible that she wouldn't tell him? He could think of only one thing. "Tell me."

Topaz met sapphire. He held her gaze.

"You raped me," she whispered. He sucked in a sharp breath. That fey gaze demanded the whole of it. "I... you talked to me. You asked me to let you... and then you weren't asking anymore. You were demanding and I said no and you grabbed me and I couldn't... I didn't want to hurt you and I couldn't fight you, you were too strong, and then... then you..." Nuada pulled away from her; refused to meet her eyes. "Nuada, I'm sorry! I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to upset you. I didn't want you to think-

"Think what?" He demanded, voice low. "Didn't wish me to think you feared me? Didn't wish me to think that perhaps, just perhaps, even _you_ could think the worst of me? To think... to think you could ever believe me capable-"

"I _don't_!" Dylan went to him then. Slid her arms around him and cuddled against his chest. "I know you would never, ever hurt me. Not ever. I know that. That's why I didn't want to tell you. It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real. I know that. I know _you._ If I thought for a second that you could ever do anything like that to anyone, especially me, do you think I'd be here with you? I'm not afraid of you. I trust you."

He didn't put his arms around her. Didn't dare. His nightmare, the worst of his darkest dreams, reflected in Dylan's own. What did that mean? How many times had he succumbed to exhausted slumber in the hopes of outrunning those nightmares, only to find himself with her? Only to feel her hot salted blood on his hands, his skin? Taste the raw copper of it on his tongue as he broke her to pieces beneath him? He'd never told her. Was certain she hadn't known about any save that dream where'd he woken in a black, nearly insane rage with his hand on his knife and his knife at her throat. She hadn't known, yet now she dreamed of the same thing.

Nuada thought of Eamonn, of his curse. That curse should've only taken effect upon the Zwezdan Elf's death. Should've been thwarted by the royal magic coursing through the Elven prince's veins. If Dylan was right, then Eamonn was alive. Yet this nightmare of hers, coupled with his own dark dreams, had an undertaste of premonition.

Slender fingers twisted in the back of his shirt. "Nuada," Dylan whispered. "Please. This is why I didn't want to tell you. Talk to me. Please?"

"I would never harm you, Dylan," he murmured. His arms came up and enfolded her. The tension drained from her body. "You must know that. You must know I would never force you to-"

"I _know_," she said. "I know. That's why the dream upsets me so much. It makes me sick and it scares me when it's happening, but when I wake up I feel so guilty because I know you'd never do that to anyone. You would never hurt me. I'm sorry; maybe I should've told you before. There's... there's a lot I haven't talked to you about. I didn't want to worry you. Or hurt you." Dylan's sigh was warm against Nuada's throat. "I'm so used to relying on myself. I feel... I feel stupid when I need your help to deal with things that aren't as important as what you have to deal with. I mean, one woman's nightmares pale in comparison to the fate of a struggling fae village, wouldn't you say?"

A calloused hand cupped her cheek. "You do not wish to be a burden."

"I nearly got you killed once."

"And you have saved my life at least a dozen times over," Nuada replied.

"Your dad hates me."

"No, he doesn't. He merely finds you annoying at times." His mouth curved slightly when she huffed a laugh. "When you are sweet and charming, he finds you quite likeable. He's not a fool, mo duinne."

"The court thinks you're out of your mind for falling for me."

"They do not see your charms. It's no fault of mine that they're blind."

"_You_ think I'm annoying."

Nuada let the half-smile spread across his face, though his eyes were shadowed. "Only sometimes." His thumb caressed the fragile edge of her cheekbone. She turned her face into his palm and sighed.

"But you think I'm frustrating."

He began to lead her back to her chair. "If I answer honestly, will you attempt to kick me?"

Her smile eased some of the choking emotion tightening his chest. "I make no promises one way or the other," she said in a sweet voice.

The prince held out the chair for her so she could sit. Once seated, he scooted her chair in and took his own seat across from her. "Well, it is lucky I don't owe you an answer to a question, then, is it not?" He settled back into his chair. "I'll make you a promise, if you make me one in turn."

"I tell you everything when you ask if you tell me everything when I ask?"

"In simple terms; have we a bargain?"

"Deal."

The Elven warrior moved his aurulent knight. "How long have you been having this dream?"

Dylan moved her own knight. Her hands still shook a little. "I feel like this is taking unfair advantage of our new deal, since the original stakes of the game were that for every piece lost, the loser would answer a question for the winner. However," she added when the prince raised his brows, "I'll answer you. I've been having this nightmare, mingled with my normal ones and the stupid one I can't remember, every night since the night I slept in your room."

Pale fingers hesitated over a spearman. "Since Samhain?"

"What? No. I... I slept in your room while... while you were unconscious after the duel with Zhenjin. I couldn't sleep because I was worried about you, so I went and slept in your room. On your bed. 'Cause it smelled like you." She frowned. "Put that way, it sounds a bit creepy, actually."

"No," he murmured, keeping his eyes on the board, "it does not. I... sometimes, I find myself longing for your cottage purely because I miss the scent of you on the air." Sun-kissed ivory eyes flicked to her, then away. "The night we slept beside each other, your scent and your warmth soothed away my dark dreams. I don't find it strange at all that you ventured to my bed because you could not sleep."

"Oh." She made her move, and promptly lost a piece. "Dang it. So not fair."

"I did not cheat."

"Your natural Elven superiority is cheating," she grumbled. Nuada smiled. "May I ask you a question, now?"

"That would break the bonds of our first bargain."

"So does our new one. Your point?" When the prince inclined his head, she asked, "Why don't you and your dad get along? Why does he think so poorly of you?"

For a long time there was silence. Pawns and bishops, knights and castles did battle and lost - or won, in Nuada's case. Dylan merely waited for him to speak. He'd promised that if she answered his questions, he would answer hers. So he would. Even if it was hard on him.

In the end, his answer sent fury racing like hot poison through her body. For just a moment, she actually hated King Balor.

"He blames me for my mother's death. Among other things."

"So, it's because..." Remembering what Nuada had said about speaking ill of the king in front of other people, she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a mere whisper. "Because he's an idiot. Got it."

Nuada huffed a laugh. It held an edge of bitterness. "How do you know I wasn't responsible?"

"How old were you?"

He looked up at the sudden change in her voice. Gone was the mortal woman who loved him without reserve. In her place was the woman Nuada imagined Dylan became when she was in her role as a healer of heart and mind. Her face was open and without expression, yet a gentle warmth was there, a warmth Nuada had never seen on the empty court faces of the Bethmooran nobles. Without taking her eyes off him, she moved a white diamond castle and actually took one of his spearmen.

"I was in my ninth century." He moved his hierophant.

"Where were her guards?"

"They were with us."

Her castle captured another pawn. "How many?"

Nuada forced himself to focus on the game and not her questions. "Two. My mother's habit when spending private time with my sister and I." He captured her remaining knight. "I was taking her to see something."

"Why?" A glittering tower of white diamond slid across the board. "What did you want her to see?"

"A Fomorian asphodel. My mother's favorite flower, second only to roses. I found it just at the edges of the woods around Renvyle, where we lived at the time. I wanted to show it to her. I thought... I thought it would make her happy." Nuada's hand rested on the yellow diamond queen, but he didn't move it. "I'd been there before. Humans saw me. They were waiting for us. For my mother and my sister."

"And you knew this how?"

He blinked. "I did not know."

"So like I said - the reason you and your dad don't get along is because he's an idiot." Like a switch had been thrown, gone was the mind-healer. Back was the woman who would brave anything to defend him, to stand by him. Her eyes were steady on his when she added, "You were a child. You were trying to do something good for your mother. Blaming you would be like blaming A'du'la'di for what happened on Sunday. I know you don't blame him. Your father shouldn't blame you. You definitely shouldn't blame yourself."

Nuada said, "I don't blame myself. I blame the humans who murdered her. Which is why I am very glad that they are thoroughly dead. Just as I'm very glad that the animals that attacked you the night we met are also thoroughly dead." He held her gaze for a long moment and did not allow her to look away.

Dylan inclined her head. "The law of God punishes rape with execution," she murmured. "Who am I to question Him?" She moved a piece, and promptly lost it. "Oh, fiddlesticks. I have another question. If your father is so suspicious of you, why didn't he threaten to punish you when you went into exile?"

"I think," Nuada said after a moment, "he was simply happy to be rid of me. So long as I was absent from court, I couldn't stir up anti-human sentiment among our nobles. There was... there was a war," he added. Firegold eyes contemplated a chess knight. "The last war between humans and fae. When it ended, I looked out on a battlefield soaked in the blood of both, and knew that nothing would ever be the same for me. For my people.

"My father did not see that. He thought the Kindly Ones could simply return to our lives, as if the war had never been. As if no innocent blood had been spilled. As if no families had been ripped asunder, no children slaughtered, no women raped, no villages and towns and cities razed to the ground. He thought the fae would forget. He thought the humans would forget. I knew no one would forget, not for a great long span of years."

He closed his eyes. Shifted the chess knight into place. "So I walked away from the luxury of being a prince, to think on all that my years had taught me thus far, and to learn what my people would need from me when I finally ascended the throne. My sister begged me to remain. So did Naya." A brief quirk of lips. "So did Jenny and Miyax and Caspar and Nils, all who'd had a hand in raising me. My family begged me not to go. Wink demanded I allow him to accompany me.

"Yet my father watched me leave without a word. He did not try to stop me. Did not embrace me. He did not even bid me farewell. And he has never, until that night just ere Samhain, ordered me to return."

"If he had... would you have obeyed?" Dylan asked. She moved her queen closer to the golden knight.

"I would have had to. He is my king. By his sufferance did my exile last. If and when his plans come to fruition, I can only hope I may leave the court once more, to return to my exile... and my freedom. I've scarce enough freedom as crown prince. I'll have none when I'm king. No freedom to be among my people, no freedom to aid them as I wish to do." He offered her a look as soft as a caress, and as bitter as a winter night. "No freedom to love as I yearn to love."

"But you'll be able to do things as king that you can't do now," she murmured. She didn't show him the way his words affected her; only added in a tranquil tone, "You'll be able to help them with royal authority, if not with your own hands. It's a good trade. And when you're king... I think you'll find someone who loves you even more than I do now. Someone who will always stand by you, who will be the wife you need and the queen Bethmoora needs. Someone you can love, too. And you'll be a wonderful king. I know that for a fact."

Nuada smiled. There was only a touch of melancholy to it now. "You humble me." Then his smile curved into a grin. He slid his queen into place. "Checkmate, mo duinne."

Dylan sputtered. "What? But... but... oh, come _on!_ Seriously? I suck at this game."

"You merely need practice. Another game, then. Unless you're afraid to lose?" His brow quirked in challenge.

The mortal met his gaze and did not flinch. "Bring it, Elf boy."

**.**

Dylan went to bed after the third game (she lost all three rounds, of course, but it took longer for Nuada to massacre her chess army each time). She woke from the same collage of nightmares that had plagued her the last several days and readied for work. The gold ring on her finger brought her to the sanctuary.

Just as she was reaching for the portal that would open to the rest of the subway, Nuada's voice stopped her. "You left without saying goodbye."

She turned. "I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep. I left a note."

"I saw that." He stood with arms folded across his bare chest, watching her. He was sleep-rumpled, a state she almost never saw him in: sleeping trews wrinkled; feet bare on the cold stone of the sanctuary floor; hair slightly mussed. He _had_ been asleep. Had her departure woken him somehow? "But I would prefer a more personal goodbye."

A smile tugged at her mouth as she realized, "You didn't come here to lecture me. You came to kiss me goodbye."

He shrugged. "Can you blame me?"

She went to him and slid her arms around his neck. "Uh-uh." Popping up on tiptoe, she brushed her mouth against his. Felt his hot sigh against her lips. "I'll be back later. Probably around noon, unless there's an emergency or something. Then we'll go to the palace tailors or wherever you got that dress and then do banquet stuff and it'll be fun. Maybe."

As the human started to turn away, Nuada wrapped one arm around her waist and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Dylan laid her hands on his chest and upper arm. Felt the hard strength of muscle toned by centuries of battle. His skin was warm under her hands. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm.

"You call that a goodbye kiss?"

"Well, I _did_ learn how to kiss from _you,_ Your Highness."

Releasing her chin, Nuada allowed his hand to slide around to her shoulder before smoothing down her back to the waistband of her jeans. He hooked his fingers in the belt-loops and pulled her close. "Well, mo duinne, it seems I've been remiss in my duty to you. I'll have to teach you better."

The warmth of his breath against her mouth had her eyes drifting closed. There was a brush of lips. A feather-soft caress. Golden heat spread through her body as his hands settled at her hips. Until Nuada, she'd never thought about how it would feel to be cradled by all of the strength of a warrior. His hands were gentle. Always gentle. But she could feel the strength of him in the hard muscle of his biceps under her fingers, in his hands holding her to him.

With studious concentration Nuada slid his lips over the silk of hers. It was a slow exploration of her mouth that merely touched the surface of what he would find if he allowed himself to deepen the kiss. He adored her mouth. The shape of it, the feel of it beneath his own. And he adored kissing her - the way her eyelashes fluttered as he nipped her bottom lip; how she sighed and pressed close to him; the way her fingers pressed against his arms when a low sound, almost a growl, escaped his control.

He broke the kiss when need threatened to overtake him. A single, closed-mouth kiss from her could break his control if he wasn't careful. Instead of focusing on that, on the way she was looking at him, he touched his forehead to hers and murmured, "I love kissing you."

"No arguments here," she whispered. "You're kinda good at this."

Nuada raised his eyebrows. "Kind of?"

She smiled. Mischief sparkled in her fey-like blue eyes. "In case you missed the hint, that was a challenge, Your Highness. Or are you backing down from the aforesaid challenge?"

The Elven warrior tangled his fingers in the cascade of dark curls tumbling down her back. "I never back down from a challenge. Though isn't your brother waiting for you in the tunnels?"

"John can wait a few minutes," she said, and kissed him again.

**.**

It took more than a few minutes, much to Dylan's chagrin. The kissing itself hadn't taken that long, though. No, it was Nuada's fault. Nuada being cute. Dylan dumped all the blame for her tardiness squarely in the prince's lap. If he hadn't been so cute, and been saying such charming and romantic (if sometimes cheesy) stuff in tenderly spoken Gaelic, she'd have left at the end of five minutes, instead of at the end of fifteen.

John didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, he'd been chatting up a girl with long black hair wearing a small silver gear around her neck on a silver chain. Her jade green eyes fixed on Dylan. The mortal inclined her head to the half-faerie. From the gear around her neck, she was probably a Gate Minder from the Faerie kingdom of Thorn. From the green eyes, Dylan knew she was probably the only female Gate Minder of a dual bloodline in all of the land of Thorn - Aoife Grayson. The only non-full-blooded faerie Dylan knew of, besides the half-human mechanic Dean Nails down at the Rustworks, who'd fought a shoggoth and lived. They hadn't killed the thing, but they'd escaped it. Dylan had heard the story from Ravus, who was friends - of a sort - with Dean.

_Poor John,_ Dylan thought as she approached and the half-faerie girl made her excuses and disappeared into the tunnels. _He doesn't know she's taken. Oh, well. There's like, zero chance he'll see her again anytime soon, so no worries._ It was common knowledge along the Faerie grapevine that Dean Nails, half-human bastard son of the second queen of the kingdom of Windhaven, was in love with Aoife Grayson, the half-human bastard daughter of the mad Princess Nerissa of Thorn. Since neither the two queens of Thorn nor the king of Windhaven had done anything to either of them as far as Dylan knew, she figured they were allowed to be together.

Dylan didn't know Aoife at all, and had met Dean only twice while down at the Rustworks; she'd asked him for directions to get to the home of a pregnant _nain rouge_ whose husband had sent for the mortal healer when his wife had gone into early labor. While Dean's mother was a queen, he wasn't a prince. His mother, Shard, was only queen because she'd married the Erlking of Windhaven.

Dylan was glad that neither the queens of Thorn nor the Erlking were sending envoys to Bethmoora. The Erlking, for the most part, hated every other type of fae other than Erlkin. Octavia and Sinéad, the twin queens of Thorn, were busy with something else, though rumors hadn't said what. Dylan didn't care. She'd never met any of the three rulers, only heard stories, and what she'd heard gave her the chills.

John teased her as they walked to the actual subway station, because her hair was messed up and he was fairly certain she'd been kissing somebody. Dylan didn't chide him for teasing her. The fact that he _was_ teasing her, instead of getting angry that she'd kissed Nuada, was a good enough reason to put up with his jokes. She didn't bother him about Aoife. John was charming, and a flirt; sort of a much milder, less oversexed version of Francesca. Dylan didn't begrudge him.

Work was quick. She talked to one of her long-time patients, a seventeen-year-old named Gus. Gus had the Sight by virtue of having once been turned (albeit briefly) into a stone-troll as a little boy. His younger sister, Rosie, had possessed the Sight as a toddler - most toddlers did, before the Sight faded away during early childhood - and then been kissed by, as far as Dylan knew, the world's only _flower_ troll. But the Sight wasn't why Gus had come to her four years ago, when he was about thirteen. It was because he'd ticked off a juvenile court judge so badly that it was either mandatory therapy, or being carted off to a detention center.

Dylan had done his initial evaluation. She'd taken one look at the sullen teenager, seen the odd grayish-purple bruise-like discoloration on his thumb, and blurted without thinking, "You have troll blood." Gus had given her a single look of absolute incredulity before grinning.

"You can see this?" He'd flicked his thumb. A spark of violet power had sizzled along his skin before dissipating. "Wicked. Are you a witch or something?"

"Or something," she'd said. And that was all it had taken for him to open up.

After she saw Gus and Rosie, she dealt with Varen again, at his father's insistence. He might've been in college, but his father paid full tuition, so Varen did what his father wanted - usually. Exceptions were dealing with Faerie and attending his cheerleading girlfriend Isobel's football games at NYU. After everything the cheerleader and "the king of all Goths," as Dylan's secretary called him, had been through, she didn't blame him. Her last session was more of a check-up with Mickey, who gave her a note on his way out.

The note was from his older brother Ceśar, leader of the Lobos, and it was simple and to the point. _Things are going to be bad for a few months. The Park isn't safe. Watch your back._ Right. Message received. She'd be careful. Especially if Ceśar thought she needed to be warned. So she'd watch her back.

**.**

Back in her room in Findias, she checked her phone. Right on time. She slipped out of her room, collecting her guards on the way to the prince's study. Nuada glanced up from the papers on his desk when Dylan poked her head in to smile at him. Dark lips curved at the corners.

"Hi," she murmured. "So... palace tailors? New dress?"

Nuada's smile widened. "New dresses."

Dylan blinked. "New... dresses? Plural?"

The prince slid the papers he'd been perusing back into his desk drawer and got to his feet. After slipping his spear into the sheath at his back and buckling on his sword, he met her at the door. "There will be little enough time over the coming days to see the tailors, and I doubt you'll want to wear the same gown every night. I wanted to get a head start. If you don't like them, we can have new ones made. But give me a chance - I know how to dress a woman."

"Really?" She arched an eyebrow. "I'm sensing some sort of innuendo hiding in there, but I don't know what it is." He chuckled. She poked him in the chest. "No laughing. I know what I'm talking about. You're thinking something wicked."

"Darling," he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple. "When I think about you and clothes, nearly all my thoughts are wicked."

She blew out a long, slow breath. His mouth against her skin was very warm. "Okay. Um... okay."

"You do wonders for my ego."

Dylan wiggled out of his arms and tried to cool the blush flaming her cheeks. "Like your ego needs any help from me. New clothes. Shopping. Sort of. Let's go."

The palace tailors lived close to the servants' quarters, in the wing just beneath the second-story guard barracks. Nuada led Dylan into the room on his arm in a formal escort's stance. He allowed a small smile to play about his lips while Dylan stared around them in wonder at the massive main room the tailors and seamstresses used to store fabrics, half-finished projects, and other such things.

He paid strict attention to the materials Dylan goggled over - rich sapphire brocade embroidered with gold; artfully dyed green and amber silks; moonbeam velvet with the sheen of an ivory freshwater pearl. She actually stopped in front of a Gevaudan-style gown on a dress-form, in pale gold crushed velvet and deep forest green and silver-embroidered white silk. Reached out, fingers trembling, but pulled them back before she actually touched the soft material.

"Oh, that's beautiful. Who's it for?"

"You think it beautiful?" Nuada asked softly. She nodded, staring up at the gown with wide eyes and parted lips. "That is well, then, as it's yours."

She whirled on him. "Mine?" He nodded. "It's really mine? You bought that for me?"

A brush of fingers at her cheek sent warmth curling around her heart. "I did," he murmured in her ear. "I saw the material and it reminded me of our time in the royal forest. The sunlight on the water and through the oak leaves, the way it lit up your eyes when you smiled. You like it?"

"I love it." She hugged him. "I _love_ it. It's gorgeous. Can I... can I try it on?"

"Absolutely, my lady," a voice said from behind them.

Dylan turned to see an Elven man with skin so dark that the sunlight through the windows brought out purple highlights. His hair hung in a thousand braids to his waist. Each braid was tipped with copper beads that _clicked_ when the Elf moved his head. Around his right wrist was a thin hemp rope that dangled more copper beads and tiny, black teeth. The pale gold of his tunic and trews emphasized the midnight pallor of his skin. He bowed to the prince and his lady.

"I am Themba, my lady, if it pleases you." His accent reminded Dylan of Aso the Weaver from the Troll Market. This, then, was another Child of the Spider, another Elf of Nyame. "I'm chief of the palace tailors. Would you like to try on the gown?"

She smiled. "Yes, please."

"Come along, then, and we shall see if I was correct in your measurements."

"How did you measure me?" Dylan asked as she and the prince followed the dark-skinned Elf. Another Elf, this one with uptilted eyes the color of dark garnets and a streak of blond through the midnight darkness of her short-cropped hair, carefully removed the dress from the form and followed after the trio.

Themba laughed; a rich, deep, rolling laugh that reminded Dylan of a lion purring. "I saw you at the prince's banquet, my lady, when Prince Zhenjin challenged him for the honor of the little dragon princess."

"Oh." Then what he was saying truly registered. "Wait, so all you had to do was look at me once?"

He nodded. "I am very, _very_ good at my work, my lady. It's why I am chief of this little part of Findias. Now, if you will but step into this dressing room, and my young journeymaid, Hiyori, will help you." The little Asian-looking Elf girl ducked her head in respect.

The dressing room was rather spacious - more spacious than it had looked from the outside. She and Hiyori fit easily. At the Onibi Elf's insistence - it turned out the Elves of Onibi, the Children of the Phoenix, had dark red eyes that were nearly black and at least a bit of blond in their hair, giving credence to their legends that stated they were literal descendents of firebirds - Dylan stripped down to her underthings and Hiyori helped slide the gown over the mortal's head.

The velvet should've made the gown heavy, but it didn't. In fact, it felt lighter than a cloud. The material was cool and soft against Dylan's skin. Hiyori cinched the short bodice laces at front and the long ones in back. The entwined antique gold and hunter green of the laces stood out well against the white silk of the bodice and the pale gold of the rest of the gown. Hiyori also helped the mortal with the green silk sleeves so that the laces at the shoulders sat just right. Dylan only protested when Hiyori tugged the scrunchie out of her hair.

"But-"

"It will look better this way, milady," the journeymaid seamstress murmured. Her accent, strangely, was pure Irish. It held none of the sharp consonants of a Japanese accent, and she had no issue pronouncing the letter "L," which didn't exist in Japanese. Had she been raised in Bethmoora? "Trust me, milady. You'll see when the prince looks at you. Now come - let us show Master Themba and His Highness how beautiful you are."

She saw it the moment she stepped out of the dressing room and into the light. Themba laughed and clapped his hands, delighted. "I told you it would fit, my lady. I am very good at my work. Wonderful." Dylan heard him, but her entire attention was focused on Nuada.

Nuada had been in the middle of saying something to Zhenjin, who'd appeared while Dylan was in the dressing room. With Zhenjin and Nuada were three other men. Two, the mortal recognized as Gaôzu and Hôu Junjï, the Dilong crown prince's younger brothers.

The other was a tall, lean man with short, off-white hair so thick it almost looked like fur. His skin was black as a panther's, and unlike Themba's, seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflecting it. Unlike the Dilong and Bethmooran Elves, his ears were rounded as a human's. Undyed leather breaches trimmed in fur the same color as his hair flowed down long legs into black boots. A white silk shirt beneath an undyed leather vest, also trimmed in ivory fur, stood out stark against his pitch-black skin. When he turned his head to say something to Zhenjin, Dylan saw his features looked Inuit.

Whatever Zhenjin had been about to say dwindled away when Nuada stopped mid-sentence and stared at her. Heat flooded Dylan's face. She dropped her gaze to the ground. The toes of her buff-colored leather boots peeked out from beneath the velvet skirt of her gown. She stared at those and waited.

The conversation between the four fae men died away as Nuada stepped forward. When he stopped a scant few inches in front of her, she glanced up and met a gaze flickering between warm honeyed amber and gold-kissed ivory.

"Well?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What do you think?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. What did he _think_? He thought he might've been mad to commission this dress from Themba. Mad, not to realize it would be absolute torture to see her looking so... so... "You're absolutely stunning, beloved."

Her cheeks grew hotter. "Thank you."

"The color suits you very well," he murmured. Wry chuckles from behind the Elven prince made him scowl. Nuada cleared his throat. Turning to the chief of the palace tailors, he added, "Does it not suit her, Themba?"

The Nyame Elf took pity on the prince and nodded. "That it does, Your Highness, as you said it would. Your Ladyship looks well in golds and greens; they suit you. Blues, too, methinks. We'll see when you come back for more clothes. You do mean to return for my services, do you not, milady?" The tailor asked when Dylan shot Nuada a startled glance. "You'll need more than a few gowns for the Midwinter festivities the king plans to host. And then there are those events that will take place after Midwinter, up until the Frost Moon, hosted by the nobles of the court. You'll no doubt be invited, my lady."

"Oh. I... hadn't thought that far ahead," Dylan confessed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nuada give her a gentle look that conveyed everything she needed to know. "But I probably will. Especially if they're all as amazing as this one."

"It is the woman who makes the gown, my lady, not the gown that makes the woman," Themba rumbled in his deep voice. He smiled at the shy pleasure on the human's face. "Do you not agree, Your Highness?"

"I agree," Nuada said softly, taking Dylan's hand. He brushed a gentle kiss across the healing scrapes on her knuckles. "You always look beautiful, mo mhuire. And you look positively resplendent in this gown. I will be the envy of the entire court."

"You're not too bad looking yourself, Your Highness," Dylan replied, and slid her arms around his waist to hug him. "I love this dress," she added. "It's gorgeous. It really should be uncomfortable, but it's totally not. And it's gorgeous. I love it. Now, um... who's that?"

"Ah, yes. Allow me to make the introductions. My fairest lady, Dylan Myers of Central Park, allow me to introduce the Munaqsri of the White Bears of the North, the Great Nanook, Lord Mashkaupeu of Saami. His wife is Lady Cassandra; I spoke of her to you last night."

Dylan nodded. "I remember. A pleasure to meet you, Great Nanook." She sank into a curtsy.

"In private, my lady, I insist my friends call me simply Lord Bear. Great Nanook sounds so... stuffy. As you are Nuada's lady and he my friend, I hope to consider you a friend as well." He held out his hand. "My wife, Cassandra, says modern humans prefer to shake hands when they meet someone."

The human grinned and took the proffered hand. "True. Curtsying all the time takes some getting used to. And if I'm to call you Lord Bear, then you can call me Lady Dylan if you like." Lady Myers just sounded weird. "Or just Dylan."

"Lady Dylan, then." The munaqsri king smiled. His teeth were startlingly white against his black skin. "I have the feeling you and my daughter Abigail will get along. She's not fond of being called 'Princess' much, herself. And I've heard from Nuada that you're fond of children."

Blue eyes lit up. "I am, indeed. How old is your daughter?"

"Six years old, come the Summer Solstice. She-"

"Daddy!"

Mashkaupeu's sloe-black eyes lit up as he turned to see a little girl with flame-red hair and the brightest green eyes Dylan had ever seen dart into the room, followed by two massive ice trolls. The little girl raced up to the munaqsri king, who hoisted her into his arms. The trolls followed a few paces back. From the armor of ensorcelled black ice and the swords of glittering, seafoam-green ice at their sides, Dylan figured they were the little girl's bodyguards.

"Well, so you found me, eh? I thought you were napping with your mother."

Abigail shook her head so her ponytail bounced. "Nuh-uh. I tried to sleep, but I was too excited about the party. So I came to find you, instead. Ijirqang and Keelut said they would help me. And we found you! What are you doing?"

"Meeting Prince Nuada's lady. You should meet the prince yourself. Down you get." Mashkaupeu set his daughter on the ground and turned her in Nuada's direction. "Your Royal Highness, allow me to present my daughter, Princess Abigail of Saami. Abigail, this is Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora and," turning his daughter a little to see Dylan, "Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park."

Abigail bobbed a curtsy. "It's nice to meet you. Are you a human?"

Dylan smiled. "Yes, I am."

"My mommy's a human, but I'm not. I'm a munaqsri like my daddy. That means I can carry lifespark. Oh. Your hand is hurt." She pointed at the scrapes on Dylan's knuckles and the fading bruises on her fingers. "I can fix it. Can I fix it?"

Dylan flicked a glance from the child to her father. The munaqsri king shrugged and gave a _go-ahead_ gesture. Dylan held out her hand. Abigail took it gently in hers and peered at it. She blew a soft breath on the scrapes. As Dylan watched, they faded away completely. The bruises lightened from grayish-blue to a blue so soft it was almost non-existent, then faded as well.

"Gotcha. My daddy taught me how to do that. Are you gonna be at the party tonight?" Abigail asked, changing tack so rapidly that Nuada, Zhenjin, Gaôzu, and Hôu Junjï were surprised Dylan could keep up. "I don't get to go because it's too late at night and I have a bedtime. I don't think princesses should have a bedtime, do you? I mean, we're princesses. So... yeah, no bedtimes. That's what _I_ think."

"Yes, I'll be at the banquet tonight. I'm sorry you can't go, but everybody needs a bedtime, even princes and princesses. When you're young, your body needs more sleep so it has enough energy to help you grow. You don't want to be little forever, do you?"

Abigail's eyes grew round. "No way! If I'm stuck being little, I won't be able to be a munaqsri anymore!"

"So bedtime's kind of important, then, huh?"

A heavy sigh. "I guess. You're really smart. Are you a scientist? My mommy used to be a scientist before she married my daddy. She knows all about polar bears. That's how they met; she thought he was a polar bear. Are you a scientist?"

"A doctor, actually."

"Wow. So you can heal people and stuff?"

Drawing back a ways from the mortal and the little girl, the four Elven princes and the munaqsri king were talking.

"How can she keep up with everything that child is saying?" Gaôzu wondered. "She's just like you, Zhen, with Ming. I've never been able to keep up with Ming's chatter very long. How is Lady Dylan doing it?"

Nuada smiled. "She has a way with children. She likes them."

Mashkaupeu watched his daughter reach out and stroke the plush, gold velvet of the mortal's gown with a careful hand under Themba's watchful eye. "Abigail certainly likes her. That's good. Cassie and I were worried because whenever Abigail settled down for a minute from being excited about this trip, she would get sad and a little scared, I think, about not knowing anyone and not having any friends here. Many of the nobles in Bethmoora dislike humans, and Cassie was worried they wouldn't allow their children to play with our daughter."

The prince of Bethmoora flicked his eyes to Mashkaupeu before settling his gaze on Dylan once more. "My lady has a handmaiden, physically the same age as your daughter. U'de'ho'sa'ti, a cougar-shifter from Elphame. And King Roiben Darktithe has brought his consort Lady Kaye's foster-sister, Lady Kate, here. I see no reason why the three girls cannot be playmates while they're in Bethmoora."

Sloe-black eyes shifted to meet eyes of Bethmooran gold. "Thank you, Prince Nuada. I know that for the longest time, you didn't approve of my choice of consort. Yet you extend this offer to me. I appreciate it."

Nuada inclined his head. "I do this as much for 'Sa'ti as for Princess Abigail." The prince smiled. "Although I think perhaps we should separate my lady from the princess before they start forming plans that will bring down the castle."

"I heard that," Dylan called without looking away from Abigail, who was busy explaining how the munaqsri of the boreal aspens in Canada was, according to Lady Cassandra, "out of her ever-loving mind." When Mashkaupeu came up, Abigail broke off mid-word and threw her arms around her father. The white-haired king hoisted her up again.

"Have you been telling tales, little cub?" The Polar Bear King asked, poking his daughter lightly in the stomach. Abigail giggled.

"Yep!"

"Well, it's time to say goodbye now. His Highness and Lady Dylan are more than likely quite busy preparing for tonight. And while you're not attending the banquet, you _are_ being presented to the Bethmooran royal family tonight before the banquet begins, and we must get you ready, as well."

Abigail blew out a breath. "Okay. Bye, Dylan. Bye, Your Highness."

"Bye-bye, Abigail," Dylan said, amusement in her voice. Nuada merely inclined his head.

Mashkaupeu sent his daughter off with her two ice troll bodyguards. Then he added, "My lady, it truly was a pleasure. I had heard things, and... well, some of them were true, some not. I'm glad to see it is true that you've made the prince a happy man. I shall see you tonight, I hope, Silverlance."

Nuada canted his head. Opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Zhenjin.

"Well, Lady Dylan, now that I can get a word in edgewise, I must say that Silverlance was absolutely right; that gown suits you very well." The Dilong prince held out his hand for hers, and kissed the back of it. "I agree with Nuada - you look lovely. As lovely as you are compassionate."

Jade reptilian eyes locked with eyes of silver-washed blue. Dylan smiled. "Thank you, Prince Zhenjin."

Gaôzu poked his brother in the ribs. "She belongs to Nuada, Brother," the second Dilong prince interjected in a stage-whisper. The munaqsri king snorted. Hôu Junjï rolled his eyes. "Stop mooning over her. Get your own human."

Zhenjin shot Gaôzu a sharp look. "Brother-"

"My sister's on the lookout for a boyfriend," Dylan said. Nuada made a noise like A'du'la'di about to cough up a furball. Mashkaupeu, Hôu Junjï, Gaôzu, and Zhenjin gave him a curious look. Nuada merely stared at his lady in something akin to horror. "Oh, don't look like that. She's not so bad once you get to know her."

"You're jesting, surely."

She laughed. "You know, my sister still wants a picture of you without a shirt. If I can get a charm for my phone that allows the camera to pick up your glamour, would you let me take-"

"No."

"But-"

Without batting an eyelash, he said, "No."

"You're a meanie."

"Those lovely eyes of yours can tear up all you like, you can bat your lashes all you wish, and you can pout at me if you're willing to sink that low." Dylan huffed a laugh, and Nuada smiled. "The answer, mo duinne, is still no. I'll not be swayed. Your sister is a lust-minded harpy. I cannot believe you'd sic her on me that way."

Dylan grinned. "Don't worry, Your Highness, I'll protect you."

Gaôzu turned his laugh into a cough. Zhenjin just snorted. Mashkaupeu cleared his throat several times until he stopped straining not to laugh. Hôu Junjï found the ceiling suddenly _very_ interesting. Nuada merely raised his eyebrows at her. She laughed.

Zhenjin, Gaôzu, Hôu Junjï, and Mashkaupeu made their farewells, and the three princes and the munaqsri king went on their way. The Bethmooran prince turned to his lady. "Well, you've met the Polar Bear King and his daughter. What did you think of them?"

She smiled. "You know," she said so that only he could hear her. "I like him. He seems really nice. And Abigail's adorable. Are all your other friends like that?"

"Mashkaupeu and I are not friends. We're not enemies, but we've never been close. His sympathy for humans kept us distant from each other when we might have grown close. Now, though... I can see how he fell." He lightly touched Dylan's cheek. She smiled. "Dastan is charming; he has to be. His twin sister, Dinarzadi, used to hit him if he said something she didn't like. Kagiso and Günther will likely compliment you, but Kagiso is more restrained than Günther. Males are the subservient gender in Nyame. I know you'll like them, though. At any rate, there are four other gowns I would have you try."

Her eyes goggled. "You bought me _five_ dresses?" She cocked her head. "You like buying me stuff. Why?"

Amber eyes were serious when he murmured, "There is much I wish to give you that I cannot, so I give you what I can. Does it bother you?"

"No," she said softly. "Whatever makes you happy."

**.**

In the end, she was pretty happy, too. All the gowns fit. Themba really _was_ good at his job. There was the gold, green, and white gown Nuada had intended for the final banquet of the Midwinter festivities, as well as four others: a beautiful gown of gold, silver, and a million shades of blue, similar to one Nuala owned but much darker, to complement Dylan's hair and her cream-pale skin; a gown of rich crimson and champagne gold, the colors of Bethmoora, for the banquet that very night; one in royal blue sprinkled with tiny white jewels like stars across the deepening twilight of the night sky, meant for a masquerade the king was planning at some point; and a silk gown of icy blue and cream in a style originating in the French-Faerie kingdom of Gevaudan, meant for the Midwinter Ball. Dylan loved _all_ of them, but her favorites were the green and gold, and the gown meant for the Ball itself. Her third favorite was the one meant for the masquerade, though she didn't have a mask. Someone, Themba informed her, was taking care of that.

By the time she and Nuada got back to their suites and ate a light and rather late lunch, it was time for them to get ready for the banquet. They parted company after the Elven prince pressed a soft kiss against her mouth. Then Dylan raced into the bathroom, calling for Eimh and 'Sa'ti.

Eimh insisted on a bubblebath to relax her person because the hound claimed she could smell Dylan's anxiety all the way from the bathroom door. At Dylan's direction, 'Sa'ti laid out her mistress's makeup on the long marble counter. Then Dylan took as long as she dared to scrub, rinse, luxuriate in the scent of her favorite soap - summer roses and spring lilies - and wash and condition her hair. Even as she was getting out of the bathtub and drying off with a thick towel 'Sa'ti handed her, the mortal's heart was pounding hard against her ribs.

*Don't be nervous,* Eimh said, wagging her tail. *You will have fun. There will be food. And interesting people. Master will protect you and make sure no males try to be your mate. And there will be lots of food.* The dog gave a little bounce. *You bring food back for us?*

"Can't," Dylan replied, wrapping herself in the towel and sitting at the vanity. She called up Youtube on her phone and went looking for the perfect Michelle Phan tutorial. Was it sad that some adorable girl on the internet was better at putting on makeup than she was? Probably, but for this, Dylan wanted to look her absolute best. "I don't think that's allowed."

"I wish we could go," 'Sa'ti lamented. Out of Dylan's five "young" servants, only Tsu's'di and Sétanta were accompanying her to the banquet. Suddenly 'Sa'ti perked up. "But I get to see you in your dress!"

"If Themba's assistants get it here," Dylan mumbled. The tailor had said he didn't want to risk the gown getting ruined by being handled by careless guards or, horror of horrors, the prince. Nuada had merely made a sound somewhere between a duck quacking and a cat having a bath, and hadn't argued.

Halfway through doing her makeup, while 'Sa'ti watched with wide, fascinated eyes, Fionnlagh knocked on the bathroom door and poked her head inside.

"Some servants from the palace tailors have brought your gown, milady," the guard said. "And your shoes."

Shoes? She hadn't tried on any shoes. Dylan started to bite her lip, then remembered the elegant sheen of gold gloss on her lips and restrained herself. She'd be fine. The shoes would be fine. It would all be fine.

Somehow, despite the fact that her hands were shaking, she managed to finish her makeup. Slipping on the dress was made easy by the fact that Themba had been kind enough to send Hiyori to help Dylan once again. This gown was easier; it didn't have as many parts to lace up. Still, Dylan wasn't sure how she'd have managed without the Onibi Elf to help her. Hiyori even helped Dylan do her hair, tying it back in a loose and yet incredibly complex braid while crowning her head with two other, thinner braids that joined up with the thicker braid behind Dylan's head to flow down her back.

The shoes weren't shoes, thank goodness, but boots of exquisitely soft doeskin the color of russet winter apples. It matched the dark red of the body of her gown. Her bootlaces were a deep, antique gold, just a touch darker than her sleeves and the laces of her bodice. She slipped them on over the black, gold-sheened socks Nuada had bought her as an apology - it seemed like ages ago.

Finally she was ready. Dylan thanked Hiyori, 'Sa'ti, and Eimh. The little ewah girl gazed up at her and whispered, "Oh, _A'ge'lv_. You look so pretty." Eimh whuffed in agreement. Hiyori inclined her head. Dylan had learned during the clothing tryouts that Onibi Elves rarely smiled, but you could tell when they were pleased because their eyes did a sort of happy crinkling at the corners. Hiyori's eyes did that now.

Dylan stepped out of her room to find Nuada waiting for her. His deep scarlet shirt and champagne gold tunic and trews made him look strikingly handsome. He had a different sheath for his sword, as well, and new boots. Or at least, Dylan had never seen them. When he saw her, he smiled.

He held out his hand to her. "I want to show you something before we go."

"Okay," she murmured. "Sure."

He led her into his room, which - unlike hers - had a full-length mirror in one corner. She'd noticed it when he'd changed for his audience with the king two days before. He positioned her in front of it with gentle hands. "You look beautiful," he murmured. His arms slid around her from behind, and he held her against him. "A true lady of Bethmoora." He ducked his head so that his face was just touching the place where her neck met her shoulder. "And I love your perfume. It makes my head spin."

"Th-thank you," she whispered. His breath was warm on her skin. His lips weren't touching her neck, but she could feel them just a touch too close for her peace of mind. He was so warm and solid, and the way he held her close to him... she suddenly couldn't catch her breath. "Um... you're making me fluttery."

Nuada pulled back a little. He'd allowed himself to forget for just a moment that the woman in his arms wasn't his wife. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. _This_ is why I brought you here." He let her go to pick up a burgundy velvet box from the low table beside his bed. "I have something for you. For tonight. Consider it... an early Midwinter gift. Close your eyes."

Fighting back a smile - and losing - Dylan complied. Something cool and metallic touched the skin above her collarbones. Nuada's fingertips brushed against her throat and the sides of her neck. She shivered. Then the prince murmured, "Open your eyes."

It was a delicate web of rubies and gold, intricately crafted into a teardrop glittering at her throat. The slender chain was cool against her neck, the weight of the metal light on her skin. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry she'd ever seen. Simple, yet elegant.

"Wow."

"Do you like it?" He asked softly. She touched it with hesitant fingers. Nodded. "It looks lovely on you." He caressed her cheek. "And you look lovely, as well, Dylan. Truly. All the nobles of court will envy me."

Dylan smiled. "Thank you. It's beautiful. It... it's beautiful."

"I have one other thing for you," the prince said softly. "I want to make certain the royals and other nobles realize that while we're not betrothed, you are under my protection, you are my lady, and you are the woman I would marry... if I could." He picked up a second box, a bit larger than the first, and drew the top off.

Her eyes widened and she stared at the gleaming contents. It looked like another necklace, but this one was a trio of delicate golden chains glittering with tiny diamonds, and from which hung a ruby teardrop. "Wow. What's that for?"

"For your hair."

Dylan's eyes widened even more. "I can't wear that."

"Why not?"

"It's like... like a crown. I can't wear a crown. I'm not royal."

"It isn't a crown, mo duinne. It's a simple hairpiece, nothing more." He took out the golden chains with the gleaming jewel like a drop of mortal blood. "It means only that you are a noble."

"But I'm not a noble."

He chuckled. "Dylan, you're the fourth most powerful person in Bethmoora. You may not be of noble blood, but I call you 'lady' for a reason." Locking eyes with her, Prince Nuada murmured, "Please accept it, mo mhuire." At her reluctant nod, he carefully wove the golden chains through the twin braids crowning her head so the ruby hung at her brow.

She'd seen stuff like this in movies, but she'd never worn something so... crown-like. It sent flutters through her stomach. At the same time, it made her feel... different. Less like the human girl who loved the prince and more like the woman the prince loved in return. She smiled at him. "How did you know how to put that on?"

Nuada was quiet for a moment. Then he murmured, "When I was young, just before a banquet or other royal proceedings, sometimes my sister's hairpieces would come loose. Her maids would throw fits if she had to go to them and have it reset, so she would come to me. I learned very quickly how to fix it." He stepped back from her and let his eyes rove over her face. "You look like a princess."

"You know something? I feel like one," she whispered. "I really do. So... you ready?"

"I am. Are you?"

She took his arm when he offered it. "Totally. Let's do this."

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_**Author's Note:**__and the drama will pick up A LOT in chapters 71-73. Hehehe. I am so evil. But I wanted to have some not-quote-as-angsty/dramatic moments between our lovebirds before the drama kicked up again. Not that the first scene wasn't dramatic and angsty, but... anyway. Oh, and I updated my other Hellboy fanfic, "Snow White, Blood Red," as well. We're on chapter 4. Everyone go read it! Love you all!_

_And now to our happy, happy review prompt!_

_1) The first scene. I didn't want it to be too dark. I wanted to delve into the dark, and then go back to the light a little. How did I do? What do you think of Nuada and Dylan's interactions there?_

_2) Cute, flirty kissing scene! Have we ever had one of those before? I don't remember. What did you guys think?_

_3) Dresses! I love writing about clothes! And food. But clothes! To quote Nadia G, the lady on the Cooking Network, "Shoes!" But mostly clothes. What do you guys think of the clothes? And Hiyori? And Themba?_

_4) Ah, new royals. Mashkaupeu and Abigail. Thoughts?_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Aoife Grayson is the MC of _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlinn Kittredge.

- Gus and Rosie are from Don Bluth's film, _A Troll in Central Park._

- Although Dylan actually wore the crimson and gold gown in this chapter, I gave precedence to the green, gold, and white gown, because it's one of my two favorites, but the gown she wears to the masquerade gets described later. Not a reference, just an author's note.


	71. A Spell on You

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _All right, so I gave you guys a breather. Hope you appreciate it (I know you do, I love you guys) because you're not getting another one for at least 3 or 4 more chapters. Jeez, it is really hot in my apartment, you guys. I don't know why it's so hot. Other than the fact that my AC bites and we live in a desert. I wish it would rain. Oh, I wish it would rain. It gets, like, 20 degrees cooler in here when it rains. Sigh. Anyway, I love all of you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. _

_Oh, and the next chapter/installment is a character list. Why? Because I've gotten complaints that people are hard to keep track of. Real books have cast lists and glossaries and such, so why not this fanfic? I seriously doubt the admin are going to consider fanfiction a lesser form of media than a printed work of original fiction. That's just crazy. Not with all the hard work they put into this site. Anyway, so with that said, on with the show!_

_- LA_

_PS - whoever said they wanted banquet details, here they are! Fun stuff! Woot-woot!_

_**Pronounciation of Names (as They Appear):**_

Yatesh - Yeh-_teshh_  
Günther Wolfjarl Wielandson - _Goon_-thurr _Vulf_-yarl _Vee_-land-sun  
Viðarr - _Vy_-thar  
Askel - Ash-kull  
Friðr - Free-thar  
Guðfriðr - Gooth-free-thar  
Eilonwy - Ay-_lawn_-wee  
Taran Daffyd - _Tayr_-inn _Dah_-feed  
Mathonwy - _Maff_-uh-nee  
Llŷr - Leer

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**Chapter Seventy-One**

**A Spell on You**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of** **Turnabout, Service and Power, Royals, a Banquet, the Seed of Evil, a Waltz under the Stars, Fire in the Heart, Memories, and a Realization**

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Balor pulled Nuada aside just as he, Dylan, and their entourage of guards came into the king's formal dining hall, currently still empty but for the king's household. The king wore a plush velvet tunic, shirt, and trews in Bethmoora's colors, rich antique gold and red ranging from crimson to a deep burgundy. Something gleamed golden against his wide brown leather belt. Dylan barely got a glimpse of it as the king motioned Nuada away from her. His guards did not accompany him.

Sétanta, the hound chosen to stay with Dylan for the banquet, would have pressed against her legs, but Master had warned him before Master's lady had stepped out of the bathtub room that she would be in velvet, and not to get too close or she would get his fur on her. Instead, the night-black hound stretched out his neck to bump his nose against Dylan's fingers.

*Master's sire is angry,* the hound whispered, careful to keep his words so that only his person could hear him. *He smells like smoke and snakeskin.*

Dylan glanced down at the dog. Ice-blue eyes peered up at her. As softly as she could manage, hoping neither Tsu's'di nor the Butchers could hear, she whispered, "What do you mean, Sétanta?"

*I do not know exactly,* the dog said. *He smells angry, like woodsmoke and embers when they sleep beneath the ashes. It can go out, or it can flare up, and then it's dangerous and can cause a fire. And there is another smell under that. Snakeskin and old wood that is starting to rot. Loam beneath fallen logs. Dying forests. Ashes. I think...* He bumped her fingers with his cool nose again. She laid her hand atop his silky black head. *I think the king is sick.*

Her eyes jerked from Sétanta's face to the two royal Elves conversing in heated whispers some twenty feet away beneath one of the banquet hall's chandeliers. She narrowed her eyes and tried to study the king without prejudice getting in her way. Did the king look a little pale, even for an Elf? Dylan had learned during her time in Nuada's sanctuary months ago that Bethmooran Elves, at least, turned gray instead of bleaching white when they became "pale." If things were truly bad, they would even get faint blue highlights to their skin. Nuada had had that bluish tinge to his skin in the subway that night, thanks to the dipsa poison coursing through his veins. Did the king have it?

King Balor wasn't blue yet, but his skin did seem a bit grayer than it should have. Nuala's face had a healthy, sort of softly aurulent blush to it. Nuada's skin, in good light, had a very faint yellow cast. Balor's didn't. Had he looked that gray when she'd been in Findias the first time? Dylan didn't think so. She frowned. Did the king look thinner than he had that night in October? Or was it simply the cut of his clothes?

A sharp movement from Nuada broke her concentration. The prince practically ripped the sheathed lance from his back. The king's guards' hands went at once to the hilts of their massive claymores. But Nuada merely flipped the blade in an elegant movement and presented the weapon to his father. Balor yanked it out of his hand and gave it over to the chamberlain standing at his side. Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers gave a flourishing bow before scuttling back and away through one of the archways decorated with pine boughs.

Nuada turned his back on his father and strode to Dylan's side. Moving slowly, giving him time to protest, the mortal took his hand and laced her fingers with his. _What happened?_

_I am back under house-arrest,_ the prince snarled through the link. _My father claims he has fulfilled his duty in granting A'du'la'di's boon and now it is high time I was punished for breaking the original terms of my previous house-arrest. For absconding with you to the orchards and forsaking my guards, for using A'du'la'di as a so-called pawn to get my privileges back, I am under house-arrest and forbidden the Silver Lance until Lethe, the summer solstice._

"_What?_" Dylan hissed, then gritted her teeth. Silently, she demanded, _What?_

_You heard me._

_You have got to be kidding me,_ the mortal grumbled. _Oh, my gosh! I hate your dad. I... I really hate your dad. Is he just being a jerk on purpose or does he actually think you deserve this? Because if it's the former, I'm gonna kick his butt. And if it's the latter, he needs his head examined._

_My father believes I deserve many things,_ the prince replied. _None of them good._ Then Nuada's mental voice dwindled to vicious snarling curses. Dylan gently extricated her hand from his grip and instead hooked her index finger around his little finger. After several moments of mental silence, the tension seeped out of Nuada's body. His eyes faded from furious bronze to topaz.

"Let us take our seats, mo mhuire." Nuada's voice was toneless, empty. There was nothing to indicate how upset he'd been only moments before. But from the corner of her eye, Dylan glimpsed Nuala watching her twin with narrowed golden eyes from her place at the king's long hawthorn table.

Nuada must have felt his sister's gaze, because he suddenly stiffened. Dylan glanced at Nuala. Then, she took Nuada's arm and gave it a light tug. His eyes slid to her upturned face. She whispered, "Sorry to interrupt what might be a riveting mental narrative from the princess, but my knee's bothering me a bit. I think it's going to snow soon and my meds haven't kicked in yet. So would it be okay if we sit?"

The prince gave himself a mental shake. "Of course, milady. Forgive me. If you will allow me the honor of escorting you." He shifted her grip on his arm to that of a formal escort's stance. Dylan gave him a bright smile.

It was strange, sitting at the king's table after everything that had happened. Nuada pulled out her chair for her, and she sank into it with a smile. He took the seat between hers and Balor's. Nuala had already taken the seat on Dylan's other side. Because the envoys weren't going to come in for another ten minutes or so, the rest of the chairs arrayed up and down the king's table were empty.

Nuada touched Dylan's palm with the very tips of his fingers beneath the table to get her attention. _May I ask you something?_

_Our bargain from last night would say so,_ she said with a smile. _What's up?_

_I know that most mortal women find the idea of chivalry insulting in this so-called "modern" age._ Puzzlement echoed down the link between them. _I have heard it said that human women believe it is indicative of a man thinking them weak or deficient in some way. Yet you allow me such things. Why?_

She blinked at him. _Why not? I don't think it's insulting at all. It's just... polite. I mean, I've heard that before, that some people think it's rude to get a door for someone or something because it supposedly means a guy thinks I can't get the door myself because I'm too weak or too stupid or something, but I know that's not what it's about. Well, most of the time. Some guys are just jerks and they really think that's why chivalry exists, because we poor weak females can't fend for ourselves. But that's not what it means. You know that, and I know that, so why get upset?_

Nuada asked, _And what do you think chivalry means?_

_Chivalry, as we are talking about it - getting the door or my chair or whatever - is... it's a physical outlet for an emotional bond. Men defend and protect. Or they should. Not that women are necessarily weaker. But we have different strengths. Different things we're good at. That just makes sense; we're physically wired differently. So men have one set of strengths and women have another - neither one is better or lesser; they're equal, but different. And men... they're dominant, in that they have that alpha male thing going on. You do it all the time, actually. And that's fine. The little things you do, though, like getting my chair for me, those little things indicate that while you may be a strong, dominant male, you hold me as an equal. You are willing to... submit, I guess, to seeing to my comfort and my needs instead of focusing on your own, therefore acknowledging that I am just as important as you are, that what I want or need is just as important as what you want or need. It's a sort of willing servitude that men are allowed to have with women. Does that make sense?_

Nuada's expression was a mixture of surprise and looking impressed. _How is it you know this, and yet no other mortal seems to?_

_Actually, lots of mortals know it. One of my patients was actually talking to me about that a few months ago. She'd recently read what was basically a shorter version of what I just said in a book and wanted my opinion on the idea. And they teach about it in church._

His eyebrows rose. _Really?_

_Yeah. It's one of the things I liked about what I learned while I was in the institution - that the genders are different, but equal. What I learned in med school and while getting my psychiatry degree certainly backed up the different part. It made sense to me, though, that just because someone is different doesn't mean they're necessarily weaker or anything. Women and men are equal; we just are sometimes better at different things because of how our brains are wired._

_Yet women cannot hold the Star Kindler's priesthood. That does not seem quite as equal as you seem to think._

Dylan smiled. Nudged a bit of decorative greenery on the table with a fingertip. _Well, it wouldn't be fair if women got both of Heavenly Father's greatest powers and men only got one. That's a bit sexist, wouldn't you say?_

_So men receive the priesthood and women receive what?_

_Women don't "receive" anything. We're born with our power - the power of creation. The power to carry life. The gift of motherhood. Even women who aren't physically capable of having children can adopt or be mothers to those who need one. We have the gift of nurturing and caring for the next generation. Shaping them. There's an old saying about that. Something like, "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." Or something. The bond between a mother and child is - usually - stronger than any other bond. _

_There are exceptions, of course, but the general rule stands. And then men get the priesthood. Just as important, but different._ Dylan's smile widened. _Although you ask almost any guy in the church and they'll tell you a woman's gift is the more impressive of the two powers._ She shrugged at that. _I'm content with my skill set. And, random fact, a man cannot attain the highest level of the priesthood without first getting married in the Star Kindler's temple. Whereas we can have babies whenever. Not that we should, but we can. And a man can have the priesthood taken away from him if he becomes unworthy of it. That knowledge helps guys stick to their morals and not mess up too often. It's why the priesthood is often called "a restraining influence."_

_Who has the power to take such a thing away?_ Nuada asked. Dylan's brows shot up.

_Um... God. Who else?_

_You truly believe the Star Kindler takes such an active role in your life? In the lives of any of His followers?_

Dylan nodded. _A good king cares about his people. He wants them to be healthy and happy, wants what is best for them. If Heavenly Father didn't want that for us, if He didn't care, what kind of God would He be?_

_Yet He would punish you for pursuing the happiness you claim He wishes you to have? He would punish you for marrying me?_

Surprised at the sharp edge of melancholic bitterness to Nuada's voice, she shifted her hand so that she could rub her thumb across his knuckles. _Hey. I thought we were okay. What's the matter_? He said nothing. Only pressed her fingers in reassurance that he wasn't angry. He could not suppress the melancholy swirling beneath the surface of his thoughts. _Nuada? Come on. Talk to me. We've still got a couple minutes. What's wrong?_

_Later,_ the prince murmured. _We can discuss it later. Forgive me for snapping at you. You did not deserve it. We are, as you say, "okay." It is nothing important._

She arched a brow in perfect imitation of him. _What happened to our bargain?_

Nuada bit back a sigh. _Very well. It is simply that... I was thinking of my newest punishment. My father seeks to strike at the heart of my pride with this._ Anger seethed hot and dark beneath the words. _He cares nothing for your safety and seeks only to shame me. Then I thought to myself how much I wished the night to be over, so that we could return to our rooms, to bed, so that I might simply hold you to me and forget the world and my father's disapprobation for a time. Then I remembered that, because of your rules, I cannot._

_I see_. Dylan was quiet for a long moment. Nuada wondered if he'd upset her. She did not _feel_ upset, but then again, she was more skilled at shielding her stray thoughts and emotions than anyone he knew who'd never received training. He knew it was from her time in the institution, where she'd learned to keep her innermost self apart from anyone and everyone around her. Then Dylan said, _Well, the banquet's about to start, I think, so I'll make this quick. Your Highness, would you perhaps be willing, after all of this craziness tonight, to go for a walk with me somewhere we can find a secluded place to cuddle? It's not quite what you were hoping for, but I personally love snuggling you, especially when it's cold, and you can hold me standing up. Lots of holding. Sound good?_

He smiled with a warmth that mellowed topaz eyes to honeyed gold. Bringing her hand to his mouth, he pressed a soft kiss to each of her knuckles. _It does,_ he said through their link, and aloud, he murmured in a voice like a velvet caress, "Mo duinne."

A very soft, very feminine gagging sound issued from behind Dylan. She turned to see Nuala looking far too innocent, studying the vaulted ceiling decorated with winter greenery, crimson banners, and golden candlelight with prim concentration. Dylan felt Nuada's amusement - mingled with irritation and more than a little hurt - through their linked hands.

"Better have a care, my sister," Nuada cautioned his twin. "Father has informed me that soon I might have the opportunity to tease you just as mercilessly."

Dylan blinked. "Huh?" She fixed Nuala with her best "girl stare," as Francesca called them. "You have a boyfriend? Or a truelove? Whatever. You've got a guy? Really?" The princess nodded. A tiny smile played about her mouth. "That's great. Who is it?"

"Prince Bres," Nuala murmured. Her eyes lit up as she said the prince's name.

The mortal felt her stomach sink. "Oh. Um... that's... great." No, it wasn't. "He's nice to you and everything?"

Nuala smiled. Dylan wondered if she looked that lovesick whenever people asked her about Nuada. "Oh, he's wonderful. Such a thoughtful man. And so gentle. He takes such care to be gentle with me. He has never spoken sharply to me, or raised his voice to me even once." Those golden eyes flicked to Nuada, then away. "Bres is... he is simply wonderful. I like him very much."

"You like him," Dylan echoed. "You're not... in love with him?"

"If you mean am I as besotted with him as you are with my brother, then no, I'm not," Nuala teased. "We have not been courting so long as you and Nuada. But I think I could fall in love with him," the princess added in a whisper, so that only Dylan and the prince could hear. "I really do."

"That's... great," Dylan said. "Really great. That you're... happy."

"Oh?" Nuada gave her a bland look. "I thought you did not like Prince Bres."

Dylan gave him her best innocent look. "I don't like or dislike him. I don't know him. He just scares me." She shrugged, though the look she was giving him beneath her innocent look said clearly not to push her on the subject of the Fomorian prince right then. "You scared me to death when I first met you. Then I learned the truth."

He cocked his head. "The truth?"

"That you're sort of like a cake."

"Excuse me?" Nuada asked while his twin fought back a surprised giggle.

"You're all white and kind of stiff on the outside, like really elaborate frosting, but all it does is hide the fact that you're really warm and sweet and squishy on the inside. Much like a cake."

Nuala snorted, then covered her mouth with her hand. The legendary Silverlance merely sighed. "Any other pastries you wish to compare me to, my lady?"

Dylan shot him a mischievous look. "Sometimes, when I talk about you to my friends, I call you my love muffin."

And so it was that when the first of the envoys entered the king's formal dining hall, it was to the sound of the crown prince of Bethmoora laughing, looking quite happy with the scarred mortal woman seated at his side.

**.**

To avoid slighting anyone, the chamberlain had arranged it so that each envoy was brought before the king's table in alphabetical order. That way it couldn't be said that Bethmoora offered favor to any country above another. Dylan tried to hide how absolutely fascinated she was by the proceedings. Each envoy would bring forth whatever royalty or nobility existed among its ranks. Those royals or nobles would approach the king's table and either bow or curtsy while a Bethmooran herald introduced them. The king would welcome them, then those chosen to sit with the king would take their places while the rest of the envoy found other seats or - in the case of royal children - were sent to bed.

First came the lion-maned narasimha lord, Yatesh, from the east-Asian kingdom of Alaka, representing the _padishah_ empress of that kingdom. Dylan had seen leonine fae before, but she'd never seen one so _big_. Lord Yatesh was easily taller than Nuada and twice as broad as Dylan. When he smiled, she saw the razored incisors common in jungle cats.

Next came Álfheim, the Viking-like Elven kingdom to the far north. First to be introduced was the midnight-haired, garnet-eyed Crown Prince Günther Wolfjarl Wielandson, heir to the Wolf Throne, and his dökkálfr wife, Princess Eir. Prince Günther was a massive Elven man with the thick arms of a blacksmith. His dark red eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. He wore no armor, only a finely-made russet leather tunic over a white shirt and leather trews with gray boots. His dark hair was silvered at the temples. Princess Eir was tall and slim as sword. Unlike most of the women assembled to greet the king, she wore leather trousers and a tunic like her husband's over a white shirt embroidered with silver wolves. What surprised Dylan about the dark-haired Nordic princess were two things: that she bore a decorative, purely ornamental sword at her hip sheathed in silver-stamped white leather... and that she looked to be about five months pregnant.

With them were Prince Günther's three brothers: Prince Viðarr Wolfslayer, a stocky ljósálfr who did not smile; Prince Askel, another ljósálfr, who appeared to be about sixteen and hadn't quite finished growing into his tall, somewhat lanky frame just yet; and Prince Siegfried, who looked to be about A'du'la'di's age and had the same midnight black hair and garnet eyes as his eldest brother. Also with them were Prince Günther's three children. Princess Friðr and Prince Guðfriðr, ljósálfar twins, were perhaps a little younger than their uncle Siegfried. Princess Sassa, the Princess Royale of Álfheim, looked to be in her fourteenth century and was the spitting image of her mother, Princess Eir.

The princes Siegfried and Guðfriðr and Princess Friðr were dismissed once the introductions were over. Günther and Eir took seats at the king's table. The other two adult álfar princes and Princess Sassa took seats with the nobles of their envoy among the Bethmooran court.

If Dylan hadn't known the next envoy was supposed to be fae, she never would have guessed. The royal family of Annwn had come to pay their respects and visit the royal family of Bethmoora. Finally, Dylan was allowed to see just what King Arawn Death-Lord of Annwn, Master of the Fell Crochan, and Nuada's friend, actually looked like. He was surprisingly ordinary-looking. Hair of dusty blond was tied back in a short horsetail with a black silk ribbon. Oddly human-looking brown eyes alighted on each of the Bethmooran Elves at Balor's table - Balor, Nuala, Nuada - before settling on Dylan. Arawn smiled. It was a surprisingly warm smile that pulled an answering smile from Dylan before she even had to think about it.

With Arawn was a statuesque woman with gleaming chestnut hair falling in styled waves down her back; Arawn's wife, Queen Penarddun ap Beli Mawr, one of the most beautiful women Dylan had ever seen. And behind the Welsh faerie king and queen were their four children. Princess Eilonwy, the only girl, had inherited her father's blond hair and her mother's green eyes. The three princes - Crown Prince Taran Daffyd; Arawn's second youngest son, Prince Mathonwy; and the young Prince Llŷr - all favored their father. All three princes, and Princess Eilonwy, smiled at Nuada. Prince Llŷr, who looked to be maybe a little older than Prince Siegfried of Álfheim, actually waved at the crown prince of Bethmoora until King Arawn laid a restraining hand on his youngest son's shoulder.

Dylan knew - and for the most part ignored - the envoy of Cíocal, though she kept a smile pasted on her face. She'd already met Bres and Cíaran. Been told about Birog and Lí Ban, the old woman who'd been Prince Bres's nanny and the bodach who served as both best friend and sometimes-bodyguard. One of the envoy, Arrachd, was ill and could not attend the banquet, according to the Fomorian prince.

One person Dylan had seen but not met yet was the redhaired Lady Dierdre, Cíaran's sister, during Saturday's disastrous dance lesson. A strange unease shivered through the human, as well as a sharp stab of pain at her temples. When Lady Dierdre sank into a graceful curtsy with a rustle of skirts, Dylan caught a glimpse of silvered emerald peeking from beneath long red-amber lashes. Nuada stiffened at her side.

_Hey,_ the mortal murmured through the link of her hand in his beneath the table. _You okay? What's the matter?_

_Nothing,_ Nuada replied. _Only that... well... she looks a bit like my mother._

Dylan automatically flicked a surreptitious look at the king. To her surprise, a soft smile played about Balor's mouth and there was an odd, peaceful light in the old king's eyes when he inclined his head to Lady Dierdre macAengus of Caer Ibormeith. Nuada's possible new stepmother? The idea was kind of disgusting, considering Balor's age. Was that the source of Dylan's unease?

The mortal focused on the Fomorian woman. From what she remembered Nuada telling her about Queen Cethlenn, she could see the resemblance. Scarlet Fomori - those Fomorians born with red hair instead of blond or brown - were rare. To see one in Bethmoora, where one had not set foot since the death of Nuada's mother... she could understand why her prince would be so tense.

_Are you going to be okay?_ Dylan asked. A sending of distracted acquiescence met her inquiry. _Okay._

But no, Nuada thought. No, he wasn't certain he _would_ be all right. He had only seen Lady Dierdre twice - at their first meeting, and during Dylan's dance lesson. He had been so distracted that morning that he hadn't felt - or hadn't noticed if he had felt - that shiver of physical yearning that had touched him when he'd first met the Fomorian noblewoman.

It was worse now. There was something about the way the candlelight slid along her wrists and up her arms, playing in the hollows at her throat and shoulders. The way one garnet-dark lock of hair curled fetchingly against her pale throat. The dark green and black silk of her gown made her hunter green eyes shine. It left her shoulders enticingly bare, in the way of Fomorian clothes. A silver and emerald broach gleamed like crystallized dryad blood just beneath her breasts.

Nuada swallowed and fought to keep his face emotionless when Dierdre straightened from her curtsy and caught his eye. She smiled, a curl of coral-painted lips. A whisper of something hot and dark brushed the length of Nuada's spine. Her smile was almost sad. It seemed to say, _Perhaps if things were different, you and I could have been something._ Then she and Bres were given seats at the king's table, while the rest took their places elsewhere.

The only new person Dylan didn't recognize right away in the Dilong envoy was the three-year-old girl in pale jade silk with her hair swept up with jade and gold combs, dolled up in formal Chinese rice-powder and skinpaint. She bowed to the Bethmooran king and his family. It was Her Imperial Highness Princess Ming-Xian Ti-Lung, the Jade Orchid of Dilong. Just before she was to be handed over to the Dilong guards to be taken to bed, she lisped in halting Gaelic, "Thank you, Printh Nuada, for not killing my brother. It would've made me thad. Tho thank you very much."

Without missing a beat, the prince inclined his head to the little princess. "You are quite welcome, Your Imperial Highness."

Eathesbury, the Elven counterpart to mortal Britain, had the largest envoy - five of the Eathesburian princesses as well as three lords of the court. King Harold the Eleventh of Eathesbury had, it turned out, no sons and twelve daughters. The eldest, the absent Princess Royale Azalea, was in her eighteenth century. The youngest, Princess Lily, who _was_ with the envoy, was in her fourth. Princess Kale, the second youngest, was somewhere past six-hundred. The three elder princesses appeared to be sixteen, fifteen, and fourteen.

The three lords in the envoy were the betrothed of two of the eldest princesses. For the second-eldest princess, with the unfathomable name of Princess Bramble, there was Lord Edward Haftenravenscher, who was actually from Gevaudan. For Princess Clover, there was the Lord Minister Jonathon Fairweller, who looked to be at least twice her age. Despite that, Princess Clover was obviously madly in love with the older Elven lord. Dylan wondered if she looked at Nuada the way Clover looked at Lord Fairweller. She wondered if Nuada looked at her the way Lord Fairweller looked at Princess Clover. As for Princess Delphinium, she approached on the arm of the Lord Captain of the Royal Eathesburian Guard, Captain Andrew Everdeen. Yet out of the five princesses of Eathesbury, Dylan found herself absolutely adoring the two youngest Eathesburian princesses, Kale and Lily.

Kale, who appeared to be about six years old, started to tip over during her curtsy before the king. Her sister reached for her at the same time as a furry black shape slipped out from beneath the table and set itself where Princess Kale could grab on.

It was Sétanta. Kale steadied herself by hanging onto the hound's thick, black fur. After she finished her curtsy, she stroked Sétanta's head while the dog's tail wagged back and forth.

"Nice doggy," said Kale. Her brown eyes brimmed with puppy-love. "Pretty doggy. Thank you."

*You are welcome,* Sétanta said. *I like you a lot. You give good pets. Oh, oh! Right there.* Kale obediently scratched behind his left ear. Sétanta sighed in delirious doggy joy. *That is nice. Thank you very much.*

The hound stayed put while Princess Lily made her curtsy. She hung onto him, as well, and so did not stumble. When the youngest princess straightened, she stared up at Dylan for a minute. "You are very pretty," said Princess Lily. "I like your dress."

Whispers went up among the assembled fae. Dylan ignored them and smiled at the little Elven girl. "Thank you very much, Your Highness. I like your dress, too. It's very pretty."

Lily smoothed her chubby hands down the front of her pale blue taffeta dress with its white satin sash and smiled.

From the Irish Elven kingdom of Eirc came a few Elven nobles. The king, Rennan mac Dela, was not present, but sent his greetings to the Bethmooran royal family via his ambassadors. From Elphame, which was broken up into many different courts ruled by many different monarchs, there were only a few: King Roiben Darktithe, his consort Lady Kaye, her foster-sister Lady Kate, and the Ladies Val and Peri. Peri had brought her son, the young Lord Bean, and Val had brought her trainee, the mortal teenager Mallory Grace. Bean and Kate waved at Dylan.

Dylan finally got to see Henri, prince of Gevaudan, the French "mer-bear" who had replaced Nuada as Eilonwy's betrothed. He didn't _look_ like a bear. He was tall and trim, with silvery blond hair and sea-blue eyes. His sister, Crown Princess Estelle, had the same coloring. The head of the Gevaudan guard, Lord Captain Roel, was sharp in a blood-red military coat with a ceremonial saber at his side. Despite his military-neat appearance, there was something about his yellow eyes and sharp features that made him seem almost... feral. Dangerous. Yet Dylan was surprised to realize she wasn't afraid of him.

There was the Iaran princess and her consort, who moved with the same liquid grace as a pair of jaguars, though they were clearly Elven - Itzpapalotl and Tezcatlipoca de Iara. Dusky-skinned, with shining black hair, their cat-green eyes were striking. The princess of Menehune, the Elven kingdom in the Hawaiian Islands, and her consort were also there. Like Princess Eir, Princess Pele was pregnant. Unlike with Princess Eir, it was obvious that between the Menehune princess and her consort Prince Talu, Pele held the true ruling power.

The Mediterranean man in sky-blue linen and black leather was King Anterion from the Grecian kingdom of Mytikas. Anterion gave Dylan a sharp, disapproving look before taking his seat. With him were a few nobles - a shaggy black minotaur and a fanged faerie with blue-black skin and crimson eyes. Dylan thought it might have been one of the Greek carrion eaters known as an eurynomos, but she couldn't be sure.

The crown princess of Nyame, to Dylan's surprise, bore more scars than any fae the human had ever seen. She was also missing her left eye. In its place was a mass of chocolate-brown scar tissue, shaped much like the white scars at the bends of Dylan's elbows. Around Princess Kamaria's neck was an obsidian pendant in the shape of an hourglass, as well as a double-looped necklace of copper beads, long black teeth, ivory fangs, and roughly cut pieces of lapis lazuli, sapphire, hawk's eye, aquamarine, and turquoise. With the midnight-skinned African Elf princess were two men - the eldest prince of Nyame, Prince Farai, and Princess Kamaria's twin brother, the Prince Royale Kagiso.

Kamaria and Kagiso gave Dylan speculative glances. Farai shot the human a look of vicious loathing that set everyone whispering again. Seemingly in response, Nuada propped his elbow on the table and raised Dylan's hand, clasped firmly in his, then simply held it, a blatant declaration before the court and the visiting dignitaries. Prince Farai narrowed his eyes at the Bethmooran prince. Nuada merely raised his eyebrows in subtle challenge.

Aside from the envoys from Elphame, only two other parties had mortals in their ranks. One was Saami; Abigail was the spitting image of her mortal mother, Lady Cassandra, wife of the Great Nanook. The other was Onibi. Among the black- and golden-haired, scarlet-eyed royal family of Onibi - the teenage-looking Crown Prince Emīru, his somewhat younger sister Princess Ririānu, and their little sister Shāuddo, who might have been in her seventh century - were two humans, a teenage boy and a young woman, who looked so much alike they might have been siblings. They were introduced as Lord Hiro Hiyorimi and his elder sister, Lady Sawawa.

With them was a redhaired girl with the feral golden eyes of a werewolf; a dark-haired vampire girl with an amused half-smile curving her blood-red lips; and a crimson-skinned, burgundy-eyed tengu maiden with glossy, violet-black feathers. These were the Ladies Liza Wildman, Reiri Kamura, and Koto Makimori. With Sawawa, they were Princess Ririānu's ladies-in-waiting. Except they didn't _act_ like ladies-in-waiting. In fact, they acted a lot like bodyguards. Unlike Lord Hiro, who supposedly _was_ Ririānu and Shāuddo's bodyguard. _He_ actually reminded Dylan of herself - a mortal amidst the fae, only at such a high-ranking royal function because their place was at the side of the faerie royal they loved. She could see that loved reflected in the teenager's eyes whenever he looked at Ririānu. Also with the group was a tall man with a pencil-thin mustache in black silk with an eyepatch. He was introduced as Lord Furandāsu. Dylan had the feeling that he, too, was a bodyguard.

When the Saami envoy approached, after introductions and obeisance had been made, Princess Abigail took a few steps toward the table and gave a sort of bounce on the balls of her feet. The torch- and candlelight made her formal tunic and trousers of moonbeam silk glow. "Hi, Lady Dylan."

Dylan smiled. "Hello, Princess Abigail."

Abigail was about to step back to stand with her parents when a furry black snout shoved out from beneath the floor-length tablecloth again, followed by a furry black body. Sétanta slowly approached the Inuit princess, who held very still. When the hound's face was only a few inches away from hers, Abigail held out a hand for him to sniff.

"Hello. I'm Princess Abigail. I'm a munaqsri. Don't be scared; I'm nice."

*I am Sétanta,* said Sétanta. *I am a dog.* He licked Abigail's outstretched fingers. *And I am nice, too. You are delicious. You taste like snow and seals.*

"My father is the polar bear munaqsri. We eat seal a lot."

"Sétanta," Nuada said softly, but without anger. The young hound pup hunched his shoulders and slunk back beneath the table, murmuring *bye-bye* over his shoulder to the young princess.

"Princess Abigail," Mashkaupeu said in the same tone of voice. The princess mimicked the dog's hunched posture and went back to stand with her parents.

Dylan hazarded a surreptitious glance at Balor. The old king was smiling indulgently. The mortal wondered if Nuada's father had a soft spot for children. Or dogs. Or the offspring of mortals. Either way, chuckles went up from the assembled fae at the meeting between faerie hound and munaqsri princess.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed twin princes of the east-Asian kingdom of Orang sent ice washing cold and biting down Dylan's spine. The crown prince, or _czarvitch_, of Zwezda was only about sixteen centuries old. He came with his two older sisters, the adult _czarishkas_, or princesses, Utrennyaya and Vechernyaya. All three had the moon-pale skin, black hair, and cat-slit silver eyes of the Children of the Stars. Young Pharaoh Maahes and his queen from the Egyptian fae kingdom of Ubasti, ruled by its twin kings, didn't have the chilling effect the Orang envoy had on her. The feline-like Queen Aket-ten, like the princesses Eir and Pele, was pregnant. Dylan tried to suppress a sharp throb of envy.

Nuada had been right - she immediately liked Prince Dastan and Princess Dinarzadi of Shahbaz. Dastan was the third child of the widowed Sultana of Shahbaz and the second prince. Dinarzadi was his older twin sister, and Dylan could tell from the bright smile on the faerie woman's face that she and Dinarzadi would get along splendidly. And when Dastan grinned at Nuada as he straightened from his bow to the Bethmooran royal family, Dylan felt her prince relax. Nuada even smiled back. A real smile, one that reached his eyes and warmed them from topaz to gold.

There was one envoy that thrilled the human down to her very toes. A tall, skeletally thin man in a velvet tunic and trews of sepulchral black, his silk shirt also of black with a sheen of otherworldly green to it, approached the king's table. Unlike every other envoy, there was no bowing or canting of the head. The faerie lord merely let his deathly black eyes drift over the royal family. Balor and Nuala and even Nuada had to fight against the urge to stiffen under that corpsely gaze. Dylan only smiled.

"Greetings to you and yours, King Balor One-Arm, sovereign lord of Bethmoora. Hail and well-met, Prince Nuada Silverlance and Princess Nuala." Then, in a voice that was no less regal for all it had taken on a soft sort of gentle fondness, the fae king added, "It is very good to see you, Dylan, my dear."

She grinned. "It's good to see you, too, Master Moundshroud."

Which of course sent the assemble fae into another frenzy of hissing whispers.

Dylan just kept smiling. Not only was Moundshroud there, but he'd brought the heir to the throne of his half of the kingdom he shared with Ligeia, the Samhain Throne of Weir - Joseph Pipkin, the once-mortal boy responsible for Dylan's relationship with the Keeper of the Halloween Tree in the first place. Pipkin bowed to the Bethmooran royal family before offering Dylan a wink and a half-insolent, two-fingered salute. The human woman just laughed softly.

And then, thankfully, the banquet began. Which was great, because lunch felt as if it had been a million years in the past, and Dylan was positively starving.

**.**

The food was fantastic, made all the better because, unlike the last formal banquet where Bres had sat beside Nuala, now Moundshroud sat beside the Bethmooran princess. He'd told the king that if he managed to make it to the Midwinter festivities, he wanted a seat near Prince Nuada's mortal, without displacing any of the royal family. So while Nuala was obviously nervous about sitting next to the ancient fae king, Dylan was ecstatic to see her old friend. The ease with which she talked to Moundshroud, even getting him to laugh every now and then in that bone-dry, rattling way of his, astonished pretty much everyone, including Nuada. He'd known Dylan was on good terms with the Samhain Keeper. He just hadn't realized how good those terms truly were.

During the fifth course, of lightly roasted squab, King Balor finally asked what most of the table had been wondering since Moundshroud's greeting of the human woman being courted by the mighty Silverlance. "My lord Moundshroud, if I may ask... how did you meet Lady Dylan?"

Moundshroud grinned, revealing his tombstone-like teeth. "I don't know if I ought to embarrass the poor girl. What do you think, my dear?" He asked Dylan, who flushed and sighed.

"I was pretty foolish back then, wasn't I? Although in my defense," she added when the old fae cackled, "I was only twenty-one."

The Keeper of the Samhain Tree waved this negligent detail aside. "Foolish and brave, dear girl. Foolish and brave. I had come to a mortal hospital to collect a child, as it happened. Young Pipkin." Moundshroud sent a toothy smile down the table to where his apprentice and heir sat near the end with some of the younger royals. "He was only a boy at the time, thirteen years old or thereabouts. And I came in to wait for him to die, when a young woman who'd been reading to him suddenly looked over at me with wide eyes and told me I couldn't have him."

Nuala gasped. "Oh, Dylan, you didn't!" _No one_ refused someone as powerful as Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud _anything_.

Dylan nodded. "I absolutely did. Pipkin was only a kid and it wasn't fair. Of course, life isn't fair, but it just... I don't know. I couldn't just let Moundshroud take him. I wasn't sure exactly what happened to kids who die and are taken by the Keeper. If they become undead or anything. I'd never heard much one way or the other about it. So I told him he could have me instead of Pipkin."

Nuada had been in the process of taking a sip of white wine. Now he froze, then slowly lowered his glass back to the table. He fixed topaz eyes on his truelove and asked in a voice devoid of any emotion, "You did what?"

"I told him he could have me instead of Pipkin."

Moundshroud cackled again, a dry rasping sort of coughing sound that rattled in his bony chest. "It would have killed her, too, if not for the fact that four others made the same deal with me that very night. Four human children and a human woman offered a piece of their lifeforce to save that boy. I was very impressed. I was more impressed with Lady Dylan, because unlike the four children, she hadn't known someone else was offering up the same thing. She'd been willing to accept death to save a child she didn't even know. I was quite impressed."

Dylan shrugged. "And we've been friends ever since."

The old fae laughed again. "Well, I liked you well enough. But it wasn't until you managed to get Pipkin to act his age and shape up like a proper prince of Faerie that I became more than simply fond of you."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "However did you manage that?"

"Bribery," Dylan replied with a grin. "Pipkin's a sucker for apple pie." She took a drink from her glass of cider while Moundshroud chuckled. "And I'm good with kids."

"Yes," Balor interjected. "It seems Princess Abigail and Princess Lily have taken a liking to you."

"Like I said," the mortal replied, forcing lightness into her voice, "I'm good with children, Your Majesty." She didn't say anything else for a long while after that, but busied herself with eating. Nuada seemed to notice her nervousness, because he fielded a lot of the questions and conversation from the other royals while she fought to regain her inner composure. Balor talking to her made Dylan nervous. Balor talking to her when Nuada was around, after what he'd done to the prince just that evening, after what he'd threatened to do to the prince a few days prior, scared her silly.

**.**

Unlike the banquet that had "welcomed" Nuada back to Findias, this one actually had dancing. Not a lot, Nuala explained to Dylan in a whisper as the dessert dishes were being taken away, not like a ball. But some dancing. Dylan didn't have to dance if she didn't feel up to it, the princess assured her. She was allowed to turn down anyone who asked her if she wasn't comfortable. Dylan could see the memory of her one and only dance lesson reflected in Nuala's amber eyes.

For the most part, Dylan merely watched with Nuada. He didn't seem inclined to dance, either. So the pair of them simply watched the assembled fae. Every so often, Dylan would sneak a look at the king.

Since Sétanta had mentioned it, she kept noticing little things about Balor that worried her. His pallor. The deepening lines in his face. The fact that when she'd first come to Findias back in October, he'd sat straight and tall on his throne, and now he slouched a bit. Perhaps it was merely the late hour, but she wasn't sure. Sétanta had mentioned that the king smelled odd. What could be wrong with him?

She was about to say something to Nuada, when Cíaran approached the table, escorting Lady Dierdre. Nuada narrowed his eyes at the Fomorian lord, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by the redhaired Fomorian woman.

"Your Highness, do you not like to dance?"

Nuada gave a negligent shrug. "My lady is tired, and I would not dance with another before first dancing with her, no matter how fair my partner nor how tempting the offer." He caught Dylan's hand in his and squeezed her fingers. "I fear I would be unable to give any other partners my full attention, if I were longing for a dance from my lady."

A rustle of skirts heralded Polunochnaya coming to stand abreast of Dierdre. "Oh, Lady Dylan, won't you dance with Nuada so that the rest of us might have a turn?" Naya flashed the mortal a dazzling smile. "It will not do, you know, for the crown prince not to dance at least a few times. Won't you, Dylan?"

Dierdre offered a short little curtsy to Dylan. "Yes, please, Lady Dylan. Bres has told me so much about His Highness. I had such hopes of dancing with him."

"And I know that Princess Clover of Eathesbury was hoping for a dance as well," said Naya. "So are Princess Eilonwy and Princess Kamaria. And Princess Dinarzadi and the _czarishkas_ of Zwezda. Surely you will not break all of our poor hearts, Prince Nuada."

Nuada had gone very still beside her. His fingers twitched almost imperceptibly against her hand held in a loose grip. Feral eyes flicked to Dylan before settling on Dierdre and Naya. "If my lady does not wish to dance, then I will remain at her side, _Ledi_ Polunochnaya. I am certain the princesses will understand. After all, who will remain to keep my lady company if I do not?"

Cíaran opened his mouth, then shut it with an audible _click_ of teeth when Nuada shot him a quelling look. At that moment, however, two fae princes approached the table. One was Prince Askel. The other was Prince Mathonwy of Annwn. Mathonwy nudged Askel in the ribs with an elbow. Askel nudged him back. The nudging only stopped when Pipkin pushed between them.

"Stand aside, boys," Moundshroud's heir said with a grin. "See how it's done." He bowed to Prince Nuada before offering a second, flourishing bow to Dylan and extending his hand to her. "My lady, if I might have the honor of the next dance?"

Dylan smiled and glanced at her prince. "Seems _Ledi_ Polunochnaya is in luck," she said, feeling generous. "Someone's come along to keep me company."

"So that's a yes?" Pipkin asked with a grin.

The scarred human woman rolled her eyes at the once-mortal boy's enthusiasm and reached out to take the proferred hand, when a pale hand reached out and caught hers. Dylan glanced at Nuada.

He kept his gaze fixed on Pipkin, though he asked through the link of their hands, _If you plan on dancing with that boy, you_ will _dance with me first, my lady. For surely you will not break_ my _poor heart?_

A wordless pulse of affection and acquiescence put warmth into golden eyes. Nuada arched a lazy brow at Moundshroud's heir.

"You will wait your turn, young prince. The first dance of the evening with Lady Dylan is mine."

**.**

There was an intimacy to the dances of the Old World that, for all the sexuality of the club dances of the New World, was missing from modern choreography. Dylan found it here, as she and Nuada stepped onto the dance floor while the music shivered through the air like silver and gossamer. Fire- and candlelight flickered over them as Nuada raised his right hand as Dylan raised hers. A sunlit gold gaze met moonlit blue. Their hands met, palm to palm. The barest touch. And with all the eyes of Bethmoora's court upon them, the crown prince danced Heart's Ease with his mortal lady.

They moved together to the heartbeat of the music. Circled each other, never taking their eyes off one another as they stepped aside, moved in, stepped back, danced away. There was nothing else but the rhythm and the touch of their hands, the rough velvet of a warrior's callused palm against the silk of Dylan's skin. Nothing else but the pulse of the music moving through them. Nothing but the dance.

Nuada's feral, honey-kissed ivory gaze missed nothing - the way Dylan's lashes curled against her cheek, the way the light caressed the hollows at her cream-pale throat. Her hand trembled slightly against his as he let everything he was feeling fill his eyes. A soft, gentle heat kindled between them. Love thrummed in the air.

Neither of them spoke a word. There was no need.

Balor watched the emotions moving behind his son's eyes - possessive adoration, hot lust, an almost feral hunger, a distant melancholy. Yet these were only undercurrents, shimmers of feeling beneath what was obvious to anyone with eyes to see. Prince Nuada Silverlance was very much in love with the woman he danced with. The king still had not discerned whether that love would protect Lady Dylan from Nuada's cruelty and demanding nature. Had not yet decided what to do in the face of that unexpected love in his son's eyes.

When the dance ended, even the court musicians seemed to hold their breath. All eyes were on the prince and his lady as Nuada offered a short, Old World bow from the waist and raised the mortal's hand to his black lips. The human's eyes went soft and misty. She dipped slightly in small curtsy.

The court let out a collective breath as the crown prince escorted his lady to a chair before taking a seat beside her. Whispering swelled as the music began once more, and dancing was taken up again.

A few songs later, Pipkin came to claim the dance he'd previously asked for and Naya absconded with Nuada. The human woman tried to focus on dancing the Morning Mist, a slow and simple side-stepping medieval dance, and tried not to think about her prince dancing with Naya. Nuada had already said that there was nothing between them anymore. It wasn't a big deal. They were friends. Friends danced with each other. It was all in good fun. So she forced herself to enjoy dancing with the redhaired, freckled faerie prince whose life she had once saved and ignored Polunochnaya with Nuada.

Dancing with Prince Mathonwy was easier. This dance was a somewhat faster deal, called the Fiddler's Tangle - though why it was called that, Dylan didn't know. It was quick compared to Morning Mist, but not so quick it made her tired or made her knee hurt. It required three pairs of people, so she partnered with Mathonwy while Prince Askel partnered with the golden-haired Princess Clover from Eathesbury and Pipkin took Princess Ririānu of Onibi as his own partner (which made Dylan the oldest person in the group, physically if not chronologically). It was slow and easy enough that Dylan could actually talk to Mathonwy a little.

Mathonwy, it turned out, had a lot to say about Nuada. According to the Welsh prince, Nuada Silverlance was the fourth greatest warrior in the entire world. Only Mathonwy's father and older brother, King Arawn and Prince Taran, and his sister Eilonwy's betrothed, Prince Henri, were as good as Nuada. It was very clear to Dylan that the young prince idolized Nuada and seemed to consider him a sort of adopted brother. As close as Nuada was with Arawn, that didn't surprise her too much.

As it happened, Dylan danced more often than she'd expected to, though she did not dance with Nuada again before she had to beg leave of her partners to sit down. She danced with Askel, who complimented her extravagantly on her beauty. The ljósálfr prince actually seemed sincere, too. After sitting out a few times, she danced with Crown Prince Taran, Mathonwy's older brother, as well as Crown Prince Emīru of Onibi. Zhenjin and Mashkaupeu also insisted on dances after giving her more time to rest.

Lord Bradford and Lord Haftenravenscher of Eathesbury were very gentlemanly, as well. Lord Haftenravenscher also insisted she call him "Lord Teddie," which was apparently what everyone else called him. "I say, but Haftenravenscher's a jolly awful mouthful, isn't it?" Dylan found herself liking "Lord Teddie" quite a bit.

In fact, Dylan was surprised to find herself having fun. But eventually, even with a full dose of Vicodin in her system and Nuada's soothing magic easing the stiffness in her knee, she had to sit down for the night.

Prince Emīru sat with her, more than a little out of breath and looking pale. One of the ladies-in-waiting-who-were-probably-actually-bodyguards, the tengu girl, brought the prince a glass of water before settling in at the prince's back. Torch- and candlelight gleamed glossy midnight violet on her feathers, which complemented her bright red skin. Her burgundy eyes flicked to the mortal for a brief instant before returning to the crowd of dancing fae.

Dylan sought out Nuada among the crowd. She found him just as the next dance, an actual waltz, was beginning. A prickle of unease shivered down her spine as she watched her prince hold out a hand to Lady Dierdre.

The Fomorian smiled at the Bethmooran Elf.

**.**

Nuada knew he couldn't put it off any longer. He would have to dance with Lady Dierdre. Well enough. He was not a feckless youth, unable to keep a single spark of attraction from consuming him when a beautiful woman looked his way. And it would be rude to slight the Fomorian noblewoman. Especially over something so ridiculous.

So the crown prince took Dierdre in his arms. Allowed her to lay one of her slim hands on his arm just beneath his shoulder while slipping the other into his own grasp. Nuada laid his hand against her back. The silk of her gown was cool against his suddenly hot skin. The hand he held in his was soft as silk and cool. Ever so slightly damp, the way Nuala's hands sometimes were after she had applied lotion to keep them soft. A frisson of awareness licked along Nuada's spine as Dierdre stepped close to him.

_I have heard that you possess the gift of mind-touch, Your Highness._ The words were faint, without magic behind them. Almost as weak as a stray thought. Yet Nuada heard Dierdre's voice in his head as clear as daylight. _I find it difficult to dance and converse at the same time without sounding out of breath. Might you be persuaded to indulge me in speaking this way?_

After an interminable silence, Nuada replied, _It would be my pleasure to indulge you, Lady Dierdre._

A lift of lush, painted lips in a smile. _I appreciate your consideration, Your Highness. I truly do. I thank you._ Her fingers curled around his. Her fingertips just brushed his skin. Sparks seemed to sizzle along his arm. He forced back a frown. _I am rarely blessed to dance with such a skilled partner. I thank you for that, as well._

_A warrior is not truly a warrior unless he can dance, my lady,_ Nuada murmured. _And dance with both skill and grace, with consideration for his partner._

_And_ are _you considerate of your partners, Your Highness?_

Her long hair wisped against his hand at her back, silken strands like spun garnets. His fingers twitched when the cascade of her hair brushed against his skin again. What was _wrong_ with him? Why did this woman affect him so strongly? He barely knew her. Yet he felt an odd sense of protectiveness for Dierdre already. Protectiveness, and this strange awareness of her as a woman. A very beautiful woman.

_I do my best,_ he replied absently.

Nuada called up Dylan's face in his mind. He would have turned to look for her, but to so pointedly ignore his partner would have been rude. While the prince cared little for what the simpering court ladies who sought to bed him might think if he insulted one of them, he did not want to insult Dierdre. So he contented himself with picturing that scarred face, those fey-like eyes of utterly impossible blue, that quick smile. It helped him put some distance between himself and the physical attraction for the woman in his arms.

It was not that he was tempted. Beautiful Dierdre might have been, but his heart belonged wholly to another. It was not temptation that troubled him. It was Dylan. Her possible reaction if she learned he found the Fomorian noblewoman attractive. After confessing her fears regarding Lorelei and Naya, it would have been churlish of him not to take care with her uncertainties.

_Your Highness, may I ask... how did you come to know the Lady Dylan?_

Startled from his thoughts, Nuada murmured, _She saved my life. I saved hers. More than a dozen brushes with death later, I asked her to be my lady._

Dierdre smiled, a dreamy sort of smile that parted her full lips a very little bit, as if that were the most romantic sentiment she'd ever heard. Her darkly verdant eyes were also dreamy. Dylan's eyes sometimes looked almost exactly the same way in the sweet seconds just after Nuada had kissed her.

_Forgive me for prying, Your Highness, but why are the two of you not betrothed? You seem so in love. Has His Royal Majesty forbidden it?_

In the back of his mind, Nuada knew Dierdre shouldn't have been asking such questions. Not because it was insulting. Merely because he should have told her to mind her own business with her first question regarding how he'd met Dylan. His lack of protest would only encourage her.

Yet something - perhaps the phantom of his mother's memory, so intricately entwined with the Fomorian noblewoman's appearance - beckoned to the Elf prince. Whispered to him that having someone apart from all of the politics and power plays with whom he could talk would be no bad thing. And it was common enough knowledge, anyway, was it not?

_My lady is a follower of the High King of the World, and that royal God has commanded that His followers wed only those who also follow Him. Though I acknowledge the existence of the divine, I follow no God or gods who would abandon the Daoine Maithe to the cruelty of the sons of Adam. So marriage is a longed-for dream, and nothing more._

After a space of silence, Dierdre murmured, _Any lady who would deny your suit is a fool, my prince._ The words "my prince" were a velvet caress along Nuada's spine, though from the absolutely artless look on the scarlet Fomori's face, the prince knew it had not been deliberate. _I mean no disrespect, and forgive me if I offend you, but a man like you... Bres has told me much of you. How you are honorable. Courageous. Kind. A fearsome warrior, a proud and great leader of Elves and other fae. And you must know there is gossip aplenty concerning your prowess as a lover. _

_Yet your lady turns all of that aside in the name of her faith? One might almost wonder if she truly appreciates the value of what she has. I would never turn away such a man, if I were fortunate enough to truly win his love._

Nuada paused to study Dierdre's upturned face. The candlelight twined with her rich, dark hair to turn it into an alluring tangle. Her eyes were still dark, still dreamy... yet there was a soft light in them that sent just a lick of heat warming Nuada's blood. Dierdre's tongue touched her bottom lip, a nervous gesture that drew Nuada's eyes to her mouth.

_I... my lady,_ the prince said, trying and failing to ignore the way her lightly-painted lips glistened enticingly in the golden light of candles and chandeliers. _You may be under a misapprehension. I am wholly devoted to Lady Dylan. I have vowed to remain at her side until Fate itself, and nothing else, drags me from her._

_Forgive me, Your Highness, I mean no disrespect to either you or your lady with my words, but that hardly seems fair to you. Those who follow the Star Kindler forebear from intimacy until marriage. So not only are you denied a wife, but you are denied even a lover? And she denies you children by her, when your duty as crown prince-_

A sudden spike of fury had Nuada jerking back from her. He released her hand and stepped back. Fixed her with an icy look. She quailed beneath his anger.

"How dare you?" Nuada said too softly. "Know your place, Lady macAengus. I am the crown prince of Bethmoora and you will speak _to_ me and _of_ my lady with respect."

Dierdre watched the prince going back to his human whore and couldn't find it in herself to be angry. A touch of Branwen's Tears - just the very lightest touch, mind, to stoke his lust - and a couple of the compulsion spells, woven by Birog and fueled by King Elatha and Prince Bres's magic, would do what she wanted them to do this night. It would just take a few hours for the spells to take root, to ripen.

When those spells finally quickened and came to life... Dierdre wasn't quite sure what was going to happen. Would the prince attack the little slut? Or just seduce her? Dierdre hoped it was the former. The bitch deserved whatever pain Nuada would inflict. And if Nuada dared to rebuff _her_, Lady Dierdre macAengus, then he deserved the heartache that would come from inflicting even part of the same fate that had befallen his beloved mother on his mortal whore.

Nuada made his way back to Dylan's side. His palm tingled pleasantly where Dierdre's hand had pressed against it. The prince surreptitiously wiped his hand on his tunic. He could still smell the Elven woman's perfume. To erase both sensations, he took Dylan's hand in his and sent a wordless pulse of adoration through their linked hands.

"Have fun?" Dylan asked, smiling. There was an odd catch in her voice. Or was that his imagination?

The prince inclined his head. "I had a difficult time keeping my thoughts on my partners," he confessed. "As I warned I would. It was difficult not to attempt to find you in the crowd and attempt to cut in. I do wish a second dance with you, mo mhuire."

She smiled. "After the banquet, when we go for our walk. We can find someplace you can try to teach me to waltz, where no one will see me mess up."

The thought of waltzing with her, of having her pressed as close as Dierdre had been pressed, or closer, of her hand in his and his other hand caressing the velvet-shrouded plains of her back, feeling the warmth of her so very near... the thought fired his blood, erasing the last memories of the desire and the anger Dierdre had made him feel during the dance.

"It would be my absolute and sincere pleasure, mo mhuire."

**.**

They slipped away a little after midnight. Nuada arranged it somehow with his retinue of royal babysitters, and Dylan's guards, to make it so that the prince and his lady could at least escape the banquet without being noticed by anyone other than King Balor, who gave his son a cold look before nodding to him, and Nuala, who was busy being swept off her feet by Crown Prince Bres.

Nuada and Dylan met up with their guards a little ways down the corridor from the formal banquet hall. Tsu's'di had been sent to Dylan's suite at Nuada's order to get something. The cougar boy returned with the prince's gray winter cloak of thick, soft wool and another cloak of rich russet red velvet lined with golden fur.

"I thought perhaps you would prefer this to your leather coat if we happened to venture out into the cold," the prince murmured. "And Themba suggested we have some outdoor things made to go with your gowns. If you do not like it," he added hastily, "I can have Tsu's'di fetch your coat or..."

He trailed off when Dylan only stared at the thick crimson velvet and tawny gold fur. As if mesmerized, she took it from the cougar youth. Touched the lining of the cloak to her cheek.

"It's so soft," she whispered. Rubbed it against her cheek, closing her eyes to savor the feel of it. "Oh, it's so soft." Delighted eyes fixed on Nuada's face. "You have _got_ to stop buying me stuff. I don't deserve... oh, it's wonderful." She laid her cheek against the luxurious fur again and sighed. "Thank you. It's wonderful and beautiful and I love it, thank you." She cuddled her face against it. "It's so _soft._ I can't get over how soft it is."

"It is mink fur; some of the softest in Faerie."

Dylan's eyes snapped open. "Mink?" Horror saturated the word.

The prince raised an eyebrow. "You are not one of those females that abhors the use of fur when it comes from so-called 'cute and cuddly' animals, are you?"

"No," she replied, indignant. "If you kill an animal, you shouldn't waste any part of it. It's just that... well... mink is _expensive._ Which mean this was expensive. I love getting presents from you, but you've got to stop spending so much money on me. I really don't deserve it, Nuada."

He stroked a fingertip down her cheek. "You deserve the world a thousand times over, mo duinne. As I cannot give it to you, I must content myself with what I _can_ give you. You would not deny me such a small pleasure, would you, my fairest lady?"

After a moment, she shook her head. Smiled. "I would never deny you pleasure. If I could help it," she added when his eyes glinted with mischief. Nuada laughed.

It was warm enough that when Dylan stepped out into the winter night on Nuada's arm, she hardly felt the cold at all. Snowflakes whispered down around them, catching in her hair and on the scarlet velvet, on Nuada's cloak. Probably in his hair, too, but the blond was nearly white in the light of the moon, so she couldn't tell.

At first she didn't know where he was leading her. Then, when they came upon a rowan wood door in an ivy-covered stone wall, she smiled. "You'd bring me back here?"

Nuada canted his head. "I would."

In his mother's garden of eternal summer roses, there was no snow. Only a little bit of spritzing rain. Barely a drizzle. Dylan shrugged off the fur-lined cloak and laid it carefully across the stone and wood bench beneath the Fomorian rose tree. Nuada's cloak took its place beside hers. The Elf prince held out his hand.

"Anois, mo mhuire, mbeidh tú ag onóir dom le damhsa?"

_Now, my lady, will you honor me with a dance?_

Feeling suddenly oddly shy, Dylan smiled. "Bheadh sé _mo_ onóir, mo phrionsa."

_It would be_ my _honor, my prince._

His hand was soft and warm at her back, coming to rest just under her left shoulder. His other hand enfolded her right in a firm but gentle grip. Dylan let her other hand rest on Nuada's arm, just a touch shy of his shoulder. The silk of his shirt was smooth and cool under her touch. A few wisps of star-blond hair tickled her fingers.

He drew her close, until she could almost feel his heartbeat through his shirt. They had left their guards beyond the ensorcelled walls, so they were wonderfully alone under the moon gazing down on them. Nuada's eyes traveled over her face before sliding closed. He drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "You are so beautiful, Dylan," he whispered. "Why are you so very beautiful?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. She ducked her head. "I think you're just a teensy bit biased. Most people would go with pretty."

He leaned in just a little and whispered, "Well, then, allow me to be biased, as you call it. It is no fault of mine that 'most people' are blind to your exquisite beauty. Especially tonight," he added. Even in the moonlight, she could see Nuada's eyes were ivory kissed with gold. "With the moon caressing your skin, and the stars reflected in your eyes like jewels. You steal my very breath away. Now," in a voice like a whisper of velvet, "dance with me, my love."

She'd never danced the waltz in her life, unless one counted the disastrous five minutes with Cíaran. Yet as she moved with Nuada to silent music, the steps came easily to her. Nuada's soft mental voice reminded her which foot to step with. He led with only the most careful of touches, and she followed him with ease. Dylan found herself smiling in wonderment as Nuada gently spun her out and brought her back in again.

As they danced, alone in the garden, they found themselves drifting closer, as if drawn by some inexorable force. In the end, Nuada found his cheek just touching Dylan's temple. His breath ruffled a few stray wisps of hair that had managed to escape her crown of braids. Her breath shushed against the side of his neck.

"That was very well done, mo réalta tráthnóna," Nuada whispered. _My evening star._ "Very well done, indeed."

Her contented sigh was warm against his throat. "I thought tonight would be scary and horrible, but it wasn't. It's been wonderful. I keep using that word, but I can't think of another one. It's just... it's all been so... magical. The dancing was great. I had so much fun. This is the best part of it all, though. It's like a faerie tale, dancing here with you under the moon and the stars. I feel so... I feel beautiful. I feel like a princess."

"You are a princess, Dylan," he murmured against the soft wealth of her hair. "You are _my_ princess. Inis dom cad atá i do chroí." _Tell me what is in your heart._

"You," she said. "Just you." Then she paused. "Well... and that phenomenal lemon custard they had at dinner. That stuff is freaking amazing. I kinda want to have some for breakfast tomorrow."

Nuada's lips twitched. "You want lemon custard for breakfast."

"Or maybe applie pie," she replied, giving it some thought. "I haven't had apple pie in a while. Oooh! Or chocolate chunk cookies with milk. The whole time we were at the cottage, you never actually had cookies _with milk_. You've gotta try it. I could go for that for breakfast."

"_That_ is not breakfast, my lady."

Dylan gave him a scandalized look. "Oh, my gosh. Don't tell me you're one of _those_ people. I will have to disown you, my dearest prince, if that's true. You can't possibly balk at having chocolate chunk cookies or pie or custard after having snickerdoodles and cherry slushees for breakfast at the Troll Market. That just doesn't make sense."

He chuckled. "You are such a child sometimes."

"Yeah. But that's why you love me, though," she said sweetly.

Nuada smiled. "It is one reason." He tilted her chin up so that the moonlight shone on her scarred face. The pad of his thumb brushed along the fullness of her lower lip, stroking back and forth. Her breathing suddenly went very shallow. "There are others, however."

Voice somewhat breathy, she asked, "Am I supposed to guess?"

"If you like." He was slowly, ever so slowly closing the distance between them. A delicious shiver ghosted down Dylan's spine. Her hands slid up over the plush, warm velvet of his tunic to rest against his chest. Nuada's fingers traipsed up and down her spine, inciting another shiver. The velvet of her gown was soft beneath his fingertips. Almost as soft as her mouth under his caressing thumb.

"My charming personality," Dylan whispered. She was more than a little breathless now, and her eyes were wide and lit by the moon overhead.

Dark lips quirked at the corners. "That is one."

"My penchant for stumbling into life and death situations and giving you gray hair."

A laugh caught in his throat. He swallowed it down. "Indeed."

"The fact that I can make you feel awkward."

His brow quirked. "I am an Elf, darling. I am never awkward."

"Yeah, I've heard that before. Do you love me because I let you absolutely slaughter me at chess?"

"You _let_ me slaughter you at chess? Sweetheart, I do not know how to break this to you gently, but you did not _let_ me do anything last night." With a wicked curve of his mouth and a glint in his eye, he added, "To my eternal sorrow." She laughed. The Elven warrior added, "I defeated you in battle using my own skills."

"That kinda sounds like a challenge."

Now he was having difficulty keeping his face straight. "If you like."

"Fine, then. Bring it, Elf boy. I will kick your butt. And you will love every second."

"I do not doubt it." His mouth was mere scant inches from hers. "Any other reasons why I seem to find myself utterly bewitched?"

Dylan grinned. "I'm just too beautiful to resist."

Triumph flashed in the prince's eyes. "Ha. Caught you, mo duinne. Never again will I allow you to profess to being anything other than beautiful. You have at last admitted it yourself."

"Okay, fine. I concede defeat on that score. Though it's not my fault you're so amazing. How is one poor, romantically inexperienced mortal supposed to resist such a dashing and courageous Elven prince?"

A mere breath away from her lips, Nuada murmured, "You forgot deliriously attractive."

"Fine. A dashing, courageous, honorable, and deliriously attractive Elven prince with the most adorable ears I've ever seen."

He shot her a mock-scowl and pulled back abruptly. "I _was_ going to kiss you, but I've changed my mind."

Instead of laughing it off or joking with him, Dylan slid one arm around his neck. She laid her palm against his chest, as if holding his heartbeat in her hand. Her touch nearly scorched him through the silk of his shirt. Those impossible eyes locked with a feral ivory gaze.

"You changed your mind," Dylan echoed, as if testing the words. Nuada suddenly found his tongue immobilized. He could only nod. She pressed a little closer. Heat bloomed in the pit of his belly. "You don't want to kiss me? You're sure about that? Because if I'm just wasting your time, Your Highness, I can go-"

Strong hands settling at her hips cut her off. Nuada's breath had gone oddly shallow. Pinning her with his eyes, the fae warrior said in what might have been a growl, "You are playing with fire, my lady."

Hunger had taken root in him as she'd pressed close - so close, yet far enough away to make him need her closer. An almost predatory instinct had stirred in the back of his mind when she'd teased about leaving. Something dark had whispered in his veins, mingling with his heated blood. Now he held her in place and watched the emotions shifting behind her eyes. Excitement, adoration, fond amusement, a little nervousness. But no fear. Not even with that growl beneath his words, or the sudden possessive strength in every line of his body.

Dylan laid her palm against the side of his face. Brushed her thumb ever so lightly along the royal scar carved into his cheek. Nuada drew a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced. One hand was draped against the back of his neck beneath his hair. Her palm was warm against his neck. Her fingers fluttered against the pulse beating hard at the base of his throat. He tried to speak. Found he couldn't. She _was_ playing with fire, though, stoking the embers of desire smoldering inside him.

"Playing with fire?" An odd, niggling sensation at the back of her mind tried to distract her. A whisper of cold curled in her chest and whispered along her backbone. She ignored it, drowning in the way Nuada gazed down at her. "Don't worry - I won't get burned," Dylan murmured. Butterfly-soft pressure against his neck urged him to lean down a little. She licked her lips, that nervous gesture that nearly drove him mad. He bit back a groan.

"How can you be certain?" Longing roughened his voice. He cupped her cheek.

"Because I trust you," she whispered against his lips, each word a caress against his warm mouth. Then there was only the press of dark lips like velvet against her own.

Nuada groaned against Dylan's mouth as she made a soft, kitten sound that shivered over him like a touch. Gods, she was so soft against him, he could scarcely bear it. Her hands slid down from behind his neck to press against the heat of his chest. The prince could taste the sweet tang of vanilla and lemon on her lips from the banquet earlier that night.

When Nuada began to murmur soft, sweet things in Gaelic against her mouth between kisses, Dylan felt her heart melting. Weakness flooded her knees and her stomach somersaulted. No matter how many times Nuada kissed her, no matter how often he let down his defenses and whispered sweet nothings to her while he held her close, it still hit her as if it was the very first time.

"Tabhair ná cuir cosc, Nuada," Dylan pleaded. _Please don't stop._ Her voice as soft as silk, as sweet as temptation. It stirred something in him. Something that had been pulsing just beneath the skin, simmering in his veins ever since his waltz with Dierdre. Something that had been fueling the hunger burning within him now. That something flooded through him. Set him aflame.

Nuada's fingers clenched in the velvet of her gown until his hands trembled. He caught Dylan's lush bottom lip between his teeth, nipping hard enough to make her gasp. A flick of his tongue against her lip soothed the soft hurt. She shivered in his arms. Gasped when he nipped her again.

A strange tingling warmth whispered over Dylan's skin while a spill of ice dripped down her spine. Both felt vaguely familiar. A ghost of memory tugged at her thoughts. Nuada's hands sliding over her ribs, stopping a few inches shy of her breasts, drove the half-formed recollection from her mind. His hands burned through the material of her gown. She felt almost dizzy as that warmth spread through her body, mingling with the ice flooding her chest and skittering down her spine. Was this magic? Or just the hot, shuddery feelings he could coax out of her with enough skill and patience?

She should... she should have been doing something just now. Telling him something. The cold in her body, battling with the delicious heat, meant something. Something important. But she couldn't remember what it was. Her head felt cobwebby. Her body felt languid and sleepy. Everything seemed distant, surreal. Only Nuada's touch, his mouth on hers, the nearness of him, seemed real. He was so solid against her. So warm. It pushed against the sudden chill in her. She pressed closer.

There was something about this, Nuada thought as he trailed little kisses along the thickly slashing scar gracing Dylan's cheek. Something... different. He was supposed to do something. Or not do something. He could scarcely think beyond the blood pounding hot through his body. A chill shivered down his back. He ignored it in favor of the woman in his arms. All there was, was Dylan's skin under his lips. She was supposed to tell him something, though. Wasn't she? Supposed to stop him from... from what? But no, she'd said _don't stop._ So why did this feel strange? Why did it feel off? Why did part of him feel cold when the rest of his body was on fire?

His mouth was scorching hot. Dylan gasped, arching against Nuada as he brushed slow kisses along the smooth expanse of her throat. Her fingers tangled in his hair. They weren't supposed to... weren't supposed to... why couldn't she remember? Why couldn't she think?

There was nothing except his mouth moving over her skin as he came back to kiss her lips once more. Gently, so gently, he parted petal-soft lips and for the first time allowed himself to kiss her truly, allowed himself to drink deeply of that sweet, sweet mouth. She moaned into the kiss as he eagerly explored her mouth, as he finally tasted her for true. And by the Fates, she tasted so sweet. Intoxicating.

He hardly knew what he was doing when one hand tugged at the laces at the back of Dylan's gown. He could barely focus past the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her. Gods, the taste of her. He'd yearned for it for so long. Yearned for _her_, and now... now...

Now what? The question was a sliver of ice pricking the back of his mind. What was he doing? Hadn't she asked him not to do this?

The questions faded away beneath the strange haze of hot desire burning in his belly. Something nudged his thoughts back to the way she clung to him. Back to what he'd been doing with his free hand. What had he been doing? His fingertips whispered across Dylan's back just above where the velvet gave way to soft, cream-pale flesh. She pressed closer to him. Ah, that's what he'd been doing.

Something dark as midnight and frigid as winter slid down Dylan's spine. She shivered again, but not with pleasure. That dark, primordial something mingled with the golden heat flooding her body, twisting it, changing it into something with sharp edges and jagged teeth. Behind her closed eyelids she caught glimpses of black hair, blond hair, golden eyes, silver eyes with slitted pupils, the dark eyes of the wolves. She tensed. Nuada's mouth coaxed her into loose, languid need once more. The images faded. The spike of fear began to dissolve.

Only as the knot at the back of her dress came undone and the laces began to come loose, as she felt the velvet slide across her shoulders, leaving them bare to the summer-warm garden air, did reality finally penetrate the bizarre fog wrapped around Dylan's brain.

That black shadow in her mind slammed into her, dredging up Morphean echoes and hell phantoms of the past. Fear, screaming panic with razor sharp talons to rend and tear, slashed her. Her blood turned to burning black ice. For a split second the mouth on hers was cruel, the kiss violating, suffocating. The hands on her body pinching and squeezing until black bruises were left behind. She cried out as the fear pulsed through her.

Then it was just Nuada. Nuada kissing her, touching her. But the fear refused to vanish.

"No! _No!_" She tried to jerk back. For an instant, his arms were inescapable. She couldn't break away. She was trapped, and he would... he would...

He would force her to the ground, rough hands would rip at velvet and silk, leaving her naked, vulnerable, and then he would bear down on her like a nightmare of blood and hell and his hand over her mouth would keep her from being able to scream as he forced himself on her, _into_ her...

The fear transformed into pulse-pounding, mind-numbing terror. She smelled the metallic reek of blood. The night pressed in with icy fingers and needle-sharp teeth.

"Stop! No!" Dylan ripped out of his arms and stumbled back, clutching at her half-laced dress to keep it from coming loose and slipping off her shoulders. Her back hit one of the walls covered in rose vines and ivy. She didn't even notice the wicked thorns catching on velvet and silk, piercing the vulnerable skin at her back. Didn't notice the blood trickling down her back. "Don't touch me! Don't, don't touch me!" She sank to the ground, shivering violently. "Don't touch me, don't touch me. No," she whimpered. Fought not to shake apart. "Don't touch me. Leave me alone. No. No, please, don't."

Wrenched back to reality, Nuada blinked hard and fought to clear his mind of the haze of desire and need. Fought to settle memory and understanding in his mind. "I... I am sorry." He shook his head as if to clear it. Struggled to focus. Shame curdled in his stomach. "Dylan, I am sorry. I do not know what I was thinking, I-"

She made a soft, keening sound and covered her face with her hands. Ice flooded Nuada's veins, shoving back the strange fog in his mind. He recognized that pose. She'd adopted it so often in the sanctuary when the memories grew too strong for her to bear. Bile burned in the back of the fae prince's throat. He had done this. He hadn't been able to keep himself in control _for five gods-cursed minutes_ and he had resurrected those vicious memories of her past.

"Dylan," he said. His voice was gentle. He approached slowly, heart sinking with every frantic whimper out of her mouth. The shadows were dark and deep around her. "I am sorry, mo duinne. I am so sorry." He touched her wrists and she jumped. Whimpered again. "It is all right. It's me; it is Nuada. I will not hurt you. You are safe, my love. I'm so sorry." He carefully grasped her wrists. Pulled her hands away from her face. "It is Nuada, Dylan. Come back, now, sweetheart. Take a deep breath. Just breathe, beloved. You are safe."

"Please," she whispered in a voice as hollow and brittle as blown glass. He could feel her slipping away down some tenebrous path into memory and felt his blood turn colder. "Please don't hurt me. Please, I didn't do anything. Please, please, don't hurt me, please." She hunched away from him when he moved a little closer. "Don't put me in the dark, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me. They'll get me, the monsters, Patrick, Xander, please, please, _don't._"

"It is all right, Dylan," he said. He didn't dare touch her much more than he already had, so long as that strange cobwebby haze was still fuzzing his thoughts. It meant something, stars curse it; he just could not think what. So he took her hands in his. They were ice cold. Her fingers trembled. She wrenched out of his grip with a small cry of utter terror. "Dylan. Mo duinne. It is Nuada; do you know me? Dylan!"

"No," she whispered. Her entire body shook. Her voice was the heartbroken pleading of a tormented child. "No, no, no. Don't put me in the dark. Please no, please no. Don't put me in the dark. Don't hurt me, please. I'm scared. Mommy, I'm scared. The monsters are coming, Mommy. Help me. John, where are you? John, John, don't leave me, please, help me. I don't want to be alone in the dark. Don't let the monsters get me, please, they're coming, don't let them-"

"I won't," the Elven warrior said. Every word from her mouth had been like a stone striking him. Every word from his own mouth felt as if it left his tongue bleeding. The night smelled of blood and ragged terror. "I won't, sweetheart. You are safe with me, I swear it. I will keep you safe. Come back, now. Please, mo duinne. You are safe. Look at me. Look. Do you remember?" He shifted to look into glassy blue eyes that saw nothing. "Do you remember who I am? Do you know me? It is Nuada, beloved. I am sorry, but it is all right, you are safe now. Please, mo duinne."

Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn't move, didn't respond except to whisper, "No," over and over again. Whisper, "Help. Please, don't. Please, help. No." Every word beat him like hammer-blows from merciless fists. "No, please, no. No..."

Desperate, unsure, Nuada took one trembling hand in his. Closing his eyes, he sent a wordless wash of everything he felt - grief at her pain, shame over what he'd done, despair, fear for her, and over it all, the golden warmth of how she made him feel, of what she meant to him. A soundless plea that he could only pray would shatter the flashback that had sucked her in and refused to let her go.

She drew a shuddering breath. Swallowed. Blinked. Let the breath out in a slow exhalation. "Nuada," she breathed. The emptiness began to fade from her eyes. She blinked again. Frowned. Met his eyes. Confusion filled her face. "Nuada?"

He had to swallow the guilt like shards of glass before he could speak. "Yes. It's me, Dylan. I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry. I did not mean for this to happen. Are you all right? Do you remember where we are?"

She swiped at her face. Stared at her damp fingertips. "Your mother's garden. What's the matter? What... my dress. Why is my dress..." He saw the memories slip into place behind her eyes. What little color she'd possessed drained from her face. She stared at him. The betrayal and accusation in her gaze were almost worse than the helpless terror from moments before. "Wh-what... why did you... what?"

"Forgive me, I'm sorry, I do not know what I was thinking-"

"I know _exactly_ what you were thinking," Dylan replied in a tremulous voice, staring at him as if he were a stranger. She ripped her hand out of his grasp. Panic razored through her as she thought of everything that had just happened. "Nuada, you promised." He opened his mouth, unsure what he meant to say, and she quavered, "You _promised._" A fresh tear slipped down her cheek.

"Oh, don't," the prince said. Pleaded. "Do not do that, Dylan, please. I am sorry."

Dylan huddled against the wall, as far away from him as she could get. Guilt and confusion and panic warred in the pit of her stomach until she thought she might be sick. Even now, everything seemed fogged and hazy. It was difficult to focus. Every part of her yearned to be back in Nuada's arms, to let him finish what he'd begun with steamy kisses and caressing hands, but just the thought made her eyes burn with tears. Fear turned her guts to ice. What had she been _thinking?_ What had _he_ been thinking? What was wrong with them?

The breath shuddered out of her almost in a sob. It wasn't just the rawness in the wake of a brutal flashback, although that was most of it. It wasn't the guilt at breaking the Law of Chastity _again_, after promising she wouldn't, although that was part of it, too. The guilt left her ice cold, but it wasn't that, so much. It was that Nuada had promised her. He'd promised her. She'd told him that if he put his mind to it, he'd have her in a heartbeat, and he'd _promised_ never to try and seduce her. Yet now... now...

She could still feel his hands on her body. Still feel his mouth on her skin. She wanted it, with the same abnormal intensity that came after the jumbled nightmares of rape and shadows. Wanted it so much it was starting to hurt.

Starting to hurt... that dragged at her awareness. It meant something, the pain. And the stuffy, cobwebby feeling in her head. What did they mean?

Nuada shifted, startling her. She flinched. Her jerked back.

"Sweetheart," Nuada murmured, his voice as gentle as a lullaby. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. Forgive me. I am so sorry. It will never happen again, I promise you. It was a mistake."

"You tried to take my dress off," she whispered. The cold burned against her bleeding back. Fear, the edges still ragged and sharp, made her lash out. "What were you going to do after that? Throw me down on the grass and have your way like I was some cheap whore?"

Nuada averted his eyes. Swallowed audibly. The night was suddenly bitterly cold. "I deserve that. I know that I do. I... I never meant... I can only beg your forgiveness."

Dylan stared at him. The shadowed eyes of dingy gray-gold. The thin line of his mouth. The torment in his eyes. Her anger trickled away, leaving guilt and fading panic in its place. "I... it's my fault. I shouldn't have been so... I sent you mixed signals. Maybe I deserved it." Her voice took on just an edge of hollow memories. "Good girls don't kiss boys like that. Good girls don't let boys kiss them. Only bad girls. Only bad girls let boys touch them. It was my fault, I shouldn't have-"

"_No_," Nuada said firmly. "No, Dylan. You are right - _I_ should not have done this. _I_ broke my word to _you_. I was not thinking clearly. I beg you to forgive me, my lady. I never meant to take things so far. I should have taken more care with your memories, especially considering your recent nightmares. I am sorry."

She shivered, wrapping one arm around herself. "It felt like I was swimming through fog. Everything's burning." A trembling fist scrubbed at her eyes. The makeup smudged even more, giving her eyes a bruised look. "Burning fog. I couldn't think. Everything was cobwebby. I should've stopped you but I couldn't remember why. I wanted it but it was wrong and it felt like my nightmares and I got scared and I couldn't get away, you wouldn't let me go, and then you... and then I... I..." She started to cry, silent tears streaming like trails of diamond down her cheeks. "It was just like in my nightmare."

Nuada frowned. Cobwebby. Just as his thoughts still were, though the sensation was fading the more he concentrated on it. And the burning. Lust, vicious and hot and unrelenting, so merciless that it left the entire body aching. Just like... just like...

He suddenly remembered Dylan pacing frantically around a healing chamber, desperate to outrun the poisonous agony in her body. And the cobwebs. Something that made you ignore common sense. The strength of her flashback, and the choking miasma of terror and darkness that had surrounded her.

"Fire and rain," Nuada breathed. Dylan went very still. Teary eyes flicked to Nuada's face, to the horrified rage slowly spreading across his features. "By the gods. Someone... Dylan, someone put a spell on us."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and here I am at the end of 71. Why did I post 71 so quickly? For two reasons. One, Yifrodit made this __**BEAUTIFUL**_ _cover for_ Once Upon a Time. _She actually made 2, but this one is my favorite, and I want you all to see it. Two, because while you guys were like, "Yay, breather chapter," I was like, "Gah, bored. Enough talking. Time for some screaming." Hehehe. So here it is! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it. I love you guys! Ta-ta!_

_1) Ooooh! Balor stole the Silver Lance back! No fair, no fair! Actually, maybe fair, considering Nuada broke the rules. What do you guys think?_

_2) Nuada and Dylan's conversation about chivalry and gender equality and such. I'm just curious - what do you guys think, both on the subject and regarding what Dylan had to say?_

_3) So I worked hard to come up with these new, intriguing, different looking, mythically inspired nobles. What do you guys think of them? Friends or foes? Villains or good guys? Neutral?_

_4) Grrrr. Dierdre. Evil Dierdre! What do you guys think of her devious little plots and how Nuada reacts to her and everything?_

_5) Sétanta; he's back. I love Sétanta, don't you?_

_6) I scream, you scream, we all scream - for Moundshroud. Because he is awesome. Who thinks he should stick around to give our lovebirds a helping hand? Or Balor a piece of his mind?_

_7) So the banquet. I know I didn't go much into the food (should I have?) but what did you guys think of the dancing and stuff?_

_8) Happy interactions in the garden! Banter! Presents! Dancing! Thoughts?_

_9) Favorite things? I'd love to hear about them. You guys always surprise me._

_10) And of course... the evil plot unfolding at the end. Bad guys always gotta ruin everything! Where do you guys see_ that _going?_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Yep, you saw it, all right! "Something gleamed golden against his wide brown leather belt." That would be his piece of the Golden Army Crown. Yep, yep!

- I have been told by people online (on writing websites mostly) that chivalry is degrading and morally wrong. I don't agree.

- To be specific, chivalry as I explained it was first introduced to me in that way in _The Black Jewels Series_ by Anne Bishop. They don't call it chivalry in the series, but the concept is the same. Although the book Dylan mentions is actually _Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side_. It's an okay book; you guys should read it.

- They really do teach this concept in the LDS church, though.

- I forget who said "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world," but it's an old saying from at least the 1800s, and it's true.

- The unspoken subtext of this part ("Oh, he is wonderful. Such a thoughtful man. And so gentle. He takes such care to be gentle with me. He has never spoken sharply to me, or raised his voice to me even once." Those golden eyes flicked to Nuada, then away.") is, _Unlike you, Nuada._

- The thing Dylan says about the cake is from a word prompt written by the fantastically brilliant WhenNightmaresWalked.

- The love-muffin comment, though not a direct quote, is from a novel in the _In Death_ series by JD Robb.

- Guðfriðr is the Germanic/Nordic equivalent of Geoffrey, random fact.

- Sassa is Scandinavian for Alexandra.

- Taran Daffyd is named after Taran from _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander.

- Eilonwy is named after Princess Eilonwy from the same series

- Llŷr is a figure in Welsh mythology, the father of Brân, Brânwen and Manawydan by Penarddun. The Welsh Triads mention he was imprisoned by Euroswydd; the Second Branch of the Mabinogi names Euroswydd as the father of Penarddun's younger two sons, Nisien and Efnisien. Llŷr corresponds to Lir in Irish mythology, and, like the latter, he is identified as a god of the sea. Leir of Britain, a mythical British king most famous as the subject of William Shakespeare's King Lear, may be derived from Llŷr.

- Penarddun is a figure in Welsh mythology, the wife of Llŷr and a daughter of Beli Mawr. The Second Branch of the Mabinogi names Bran, Branwen, and Manawydan as her children by Llŷr, and she has two additional sons by Euroswydd. These are Nisien, a good man, and Efnysien, a conniving troublemaker. The Welsh Triads call Llŷr one of the Three Exalted Prisoners of Britain for his captivity at Euroswydd's hands; this likely refers to a lost tradition of the birth of Penarddun's younger sons.

The name Penarddun can be translated as "Chief Beauty" or "Most Fair" (Welsh pen "head, chief, foremost" + arddun "fair, beautiful (of a girl)"), an apt name for a beautiful woman.

- The people of Eathesbury (minus Lord Captain Andrew Everdeen, who is an original character) are from the novel Entwined by Heather Dixon.

- Itzpapalotl and Tezcatlipoca are both from Aztec mythology.

- Pele is a goddess in Hawaiian mythology.

- Although the title Princess Royal is given to the eldest princess of a royal family, in the case of Nyame, Prince Royal is given to the eldest prince (Farai) except in the cast of another prince being the twin of the crown princess (in this case, Kagiso being Kamaria's twin brother).

- Everyone in the Onibi envoy (except Koto Makimori) is a cameo from a manga I adore called Princess Resurrection. Koto Makimori is the cameo of bleedingcrimson.

- About the name Utrennyaya. The Morning Star of the Zwezda in Slavic mythology is Zorya Utrennyaya (from Russian utro, meaning "morning"; also known as Zvezda Danica, Zvezda Dennitsa, Zwezda Dnieca, Zvezda Zornitsa, Gwiazda Poranna, Rannia Zoria, Zornica, Zornička), who opens the gates of Dažbog's palace each morning so that the Sun may begin his journey. She is depicted as a warrior goddess, fully-armed and courageous, and was invoked to protect against death in battle with the prayer "Defend me, O maiden, with your veil from the enemy, from the arquebus and arrow..."[citation needed] She is a patroness of horses, protection, exorcism, and the planet Venus, and Slavs would pray to her each morning as the sun rose. In some tales, she sits under the World Tree on the fiery-stone Alatuir, from which run the four rivers of the Otherworld, and under her seat flows the river of healing.

- About the name Vechernyaya: The Evening Star is Zorya Vechernyaya (from Russian vecher, meaning "evening"; also known as Vecernja Zvezda, Zvezda Vechernaya, Zwezda Wieczoniaia, Zwezda Wieczernica, Zvezda Vechernitsa, Gwiazda Wieczorna, Vechirnia Zoria, Večernjača, Večernica), who closes the palace gates at dusk, after sunset and Dažbog's return. She was associated with the planet Venus or Mercury. Some myths described both her and her sister Zorya Utrennyaya as the wives of the moon god Myesyats and the mothers of the stars, but other accounts cast all three Zorya as virgin goddesses. A patroness of exorcism and protection, she is sometimes associated with the mother in the Triple Goddess archetype.

- Maahes is the lion god of Nubia.

- Aket-ten is the name of a character in Mercedes Lackey's Dragon Jousters quartet, which is set in two kingdoms heavily based on Egypt.

- Mink are cute, but they're vicious little critters, so I don't feel bad about someone who's gonna eat the mink selling its minky fur. And just so you guys know, it was a giant evil mink that lined that cloak, and the mink's name was Minerva. If anyone picked up on that reference, they get a cameo cookie.

- I got the phrase "fire and rain" from a Labyrinth fanfic. It is used here by permission of the author. 'Cause she's awesome. =D


	72. Cast List

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, I can't stand it anymore. So many people have been like, "We need a character list," and I don't have one because I'm pretty sure it's against the rules, but then I thought about it, and was like, "You know what? It's actually probably not. Because books have glossaries and character lists in them. Why can't fanfics? Are they less legitimate than books because they're online and they're fan-done?" Somehow, I doubt the creators of this site feel that way. So I've FINALLY put in a character list, in alphabetical order. I hope everyone is happy and that this helps with any confusion. =)_

_And there's also a glossary after this, too._

_Loves,_

_LA_

_PS - as new chapters, and thus new characters, appear, this list will be updated. A few characters are listed already, as well, even though they haven't made appearances yet. And if I've forgotten anyone, please let me know._

_PPS - I've listed ALL the royals that we have or will run into at the bottom, just so when they're mentioned people aren't too confused, but in a different list because the list is HUGE. Way bigger than I thought._

_PPPS - Last one. These listings are broken up into categories, like, "Bad Guys on This Team," "Bad Guys on That Team," "Servants in Findias," "Dylan's Family," etc._

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_**Once Upon a Time  
Character List**_

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_Heroes_

**Dylan Myers:** the main female character. First appears in chapter 1. Was twenty-eight at the beginning of chapter 1, had her twenty-ninth birthday during the first 7 chapters. Her birthday is December 20th. Psychiatrist, specializing in youth counseling. Possesses the Sight. Currently unmarried, no previous spouse, no children. Elder twin sister of John Myers, younger sister of Petra, Pauline, Mary, Simone, Gardenia, Victoria, and Francesca Myers. Parents deceased. Spent eleven years in the psychiatric ward of Saint Vincent's Hospital in New York City. Former employee and current friend of Lady Kaye Fierch, Queen of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts of New Jersey. Friend of Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud, Keeper of the Samhain Tree. Phobically afraid of the dark and of needles. "Almost-engaged" to Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora.

**Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora:** the main male character. First appears in chapter 1. Called Silverlance for his skill with that weapon. Is four-thousand-ninety-eight years old at the beginning of chapter 1. His birthday is June 22nd, the Summer Solstice. Crown Prince of the Irish-fey kingdom of Bethmoora. Currently unmarried, no previous spouse, no children. Twin brother of Princess Nuala. Mother deceased; father is king of Bethmoora. Has been in self-imposed exile for over two-thousand years. His main goal is to protect his kingdom and the other fae realms; his plan to do so is to resurrect the Golden Army. "Almost-engaged" to Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park.

_Faerie Allies_

**Ailbho mac Cavan:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Later assigned to guard Dylan. Engaged to a girl named Clodagh. Likes Dylan and Nuada.

**Ailís mac Kieran:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan.

**Arawn Death-Lord of Annwn:** the king of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld. Old friend of King Balor. Close friend of Nuada. Nuada saved his life several centuries ago, and did him an as-yet-unknown "act of service" a few centuries after that. Father of four. His daughter Eilonwy was once considered a potential match for Nuada, but agreed not to pursue the union at the behest of both Nuada and Eilonwy. Master of the Fell Crochan, also known as the Black Cauldron. First mentioned in chapter 21. Inspired by Welsh myth and _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Aso Assase Ya:** Nyame Elf of approximately six-thousand years. Seamstress and weaver. Old friend of Nuada's. Former soldier and member of the Anansi, the royal guard of Nyame. Has a shop in the Troll Market beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Possesses a wicked sense of humor and enjoys teasing Nuada. First appeared in chapter 40.

**Brighid Brownie:** the brownie that alerts Nuada to Dylan's presence in the subway in chapter 10; she later informs Dylan of Nuada's impending "trial" in the same chapter and accompanies her and Becan to Findias. Helps Nuada combat Dylan's hypothermia in chapter 42. Becan's love interest.

**Brünnhilde Ashkeson:** wife of blacksmith Erik Ashkeson; fair-haired, red-eyed ljósálfr (light-elf) of the Nordic Elven kingdom of Álheim. Does not really like Nuada, but is pleased with how he treats and seems to feel about Dylan. Wink is intimidated by her. Her husband adores her. First appears in chapter 40.

**Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud:** fae king of Weir, the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, and husband of Ligeia. Takes special interest in mortal children with the Sight born on Halloween. Pipkin is his heir. Dylan is his friend and he is very fond of her. Considered one of the most dangerous fae to ever live. First appeared in chapter 50.

**Caspar Kabouter:** Dutch house-sprite and Master of the Royal Kitchens in Findias, current capital of Bethmoora. Fond of Dylan, loves Nuada like his own son. Appears in chapter 13.

**Dastan of Shahbaz:** third-eldest child of Sultana Tamina and twin brother of Dinarzadi. Named for his paternal grandfather. Friend of Nuada's. In his thirty-fifth century. Went to war against the humans. Cameo inspired by Disney's _The Prince of Persia_ film. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Dinarzadi of Shahbaz:** second-eldest child and only daughter of Sultana Tamina; twin sister of Dastan. Named for her maternal grandmother. Was once considered a potential match for Nuada. In her thirty-fifth century. Went to war against the humans. Cameo inspired by _The 1001 Arabian Nights_ (Dinarzad is the younger sister of Sheharazade, the girl who has to tell the 1001 stories). Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Eilonwy ap Arawn:** Arawn's eldest daughter; crown princess of Annwn. In her twenty-seventh century. Once considered a potential wife for Nuada, but the match was not pursued at the behest of both the Bethmooran prince and the Annwn princess. Has three brothers. Cameo inspired from _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Pronounced Ay-_lawn_-wee. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Erik Ashkeson:** a dark-haired, red-eyed Nordic Elf known as a dökkálfr (dark-elf). Blacksmith with a shop in the Troll Market. A friend of Nuada's, though they disgree about humans (Erik's policy is live and let live). Taught Nuada the finer points of smithing and jewelry-making. Together with Nuada, created Wink's bronze arm. Was the one to give Wink the name "Ironfist." Has dozens of apprentices. Absolutely devoted to his wife. Deadly with any sort of hammer. First appears in chapter 40.

**Fionnlagh McTadgh:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan. Sister of Loén.

**Flannán:** Nuada's best she-hound; bred for hunting. The alpha of his top pack of _Sidhe Cú Faoil_ (fey wolfhounds). Mother of Eimh and Sétanta. Her name means "little red one" in honor of her rust-colored coat. First appears in chapter 48.

**Gráinne mac Uilliam:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan.

**Hiyori Yasutora:** one of the journeymaid seamstresses in Findias, apprenticing under Themba. An Elf of Onibi raised in Bethmoora. First appears in chapter 70.

**Jarlath mac Rón:** new lieutenant of the Butcher Guards; first mentioned in chapter 62. First appears in chapter 69.

**Jocasta of Reedus:** Elven noblewoman of Bethmoora, a known human sympathizer. Nuada does not like her; she publicly lends her support to Nuada when he begins courting Dylan. First mentioned in chapter 39.

**Joseph Pipkin:** called Pip or Pipkin. A once-human, now fae young man who stopped aging at seventeen. Protege of Moundshroud, the Keeper of the Samhain Tree; considered equal to a prince in rank. Friend of Dylan's. She offered her life in exchange for his when he was dying of a ruptured appendix at age thirteen (while still mortal). The deal would have killed her, had not Pipkin's four best friends (Ralph, Jenny, Wally, and Tom) also made the same deal. Calls Dylan "Doc." Cameo from Ray Bradbury's _the Halloween Tree_. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 50.

**Kaye Fierch:** pixie, changeling, and owner/manager of the faerie coffee shop Persephone's. Consort of King Roiben Darktithe and therefore Queen of the Unseelie and Seelie Courts of New York and New Jersey, "sister" of Kate Fierch. Former employer and friend of Dylan's. Main character of Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Ironside_. First mentioned in chapter 8. Against a war with the humans.

**Laigdech Goblin:** Bethmooran goblin merchant from the Troll Market, specializing in toys and clockwork pieces. Married with children. Respected enough and high-ranking enough to be Head of the Artificers' Guild in New York, but declined the position. Friend of Nuada's, likes Dylan. First appears in chapter 45.

**Loén McTadhg:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 57, where he is assigned to escort Nuala to her room. Dislikes Nuada, but pities Dylan. Brother of Fionnlagh.

**Lóegaire****:** elderly female mind-healer at Findias; soft-spoken, but very observant and clever. First appears in chapter 75.

**Lorcc mac Cumhail:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Friendly enough with Dylan.

**Lorelei von der Strom:** a rhinemaiden, owns and manages a bar called Fafner's Cave in the East Village in Manhattan. Long-time close friend of Nuada, Wink, and Nuala ever since she was a small child. Born almost a century ago in Bavaria, after her mother (Sunna) fled inland to escape rising industrial pollution. Moved to the States with some of her family the year before World War Two broke out. Wink and Lorelei begin falling in love over a night of wine and conversation concurrent to chapter 34, but detailed in chapter 1 of "Caves And Rivers." Also pursued by Geri the fenris, who's feral charm interests her, though she still loves Wink. Universally neutral, very much opposed to all crusade-like wars and genocide, including Nuada's idea of war with humans. Was shot by a Nazi agent once, still has the gun from the incident. Harbors a dark secret around her escape from Germany.

**Mashkaupeu of Saami:** the white bear king of Saami and the munaqsri, or Inuit guardian, of the polar bears. Famous for taking a human wife and being abducted by so-called trolls. Friend of Boreas, the North Wind. Husband of Cassandra and father of Abigail. Cameo from _Ice_ by Sarah Beth Durst. First appears in chapter 58. I have no idea how to pronounce his name; sorry. =( Against a war with the humans.

**Miyax Agloolik of Saami:** an agloolik, or Inuit ice spirit, Mistress of the Royal Kennels in Findias, and friend to Nuada. Helps breed and train his dogs. First mentioned, though not by name, in chapter 18, and again in chapter 48. Named for the titular character in _Julie of the Wolves_ (whose English name is Julie, but whose Inuit name is Miyax).

**Nils Fjøsnisse:** a tomte, similar to a brownie but specializing in farmwork and animals, a sprite very fond of horses. Master of the Royal Stables in Findias, and friend to Nuada. Helps breed and train his horses. First appears in chapter 13.

**Onóra McTaggart:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan.

**Peri:** a sidhe noblewoman, has a young son named Bean. A member of one of the sidhe families responsible for changeling children, Peri ran away with her son when her family decided he should be left in exchange for a human kid. They'd been on the run for years before finally settling in New York. Friend of Dylan's, and a member of Roiben's court. First mentioned in chapter 8; first appears in chapter 39. Cameo from the novel _A Necklace of Kisses_ by Francesca Lia Block.

**Roiben:** king of the two Elphame courts of New York and New Jersey, former Elf knight. Husband of Lady Kaye Fierch. Twin brother of Lady Ethine. Called Darktithe. Won the Unseelie crown by slaying the previous queen, Nicnevin. Won the Seelie crown when his sister bequeathed it to him after a battle. Cameo from Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Ironside_. Went to war with Nuada against the humans. Appears in chapter 54. Against a war with the humans.

**Sunna von der Strom:** a rhinemaiden, hundreds of years old, and Lorelei's mother. Fled inland in the last 150 years to escape rising industrial pollution, where she met and married Lorelei's father. Has no qualms at all about "making sport" with humans. Was most favored of her clan-sisters by a local dragon in the centuries that she lived in the Rhine. Doesn't generally approve of Lorelei's "exotic" taste in men.

**Táebfada:** female healer at Findias; soft-spoken, but with a strong backbone. First appears in chapter 67.

**Taran Daffyd ap Arawn:** eldest son of Arawn Death-Lord, prince of Annwn. Cameo inspired from _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Pronounced Tayr-inn. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Themba:** chief of the palace tailors; an Elf of Nyame. Has a big, rolling laugh. First appears in chapter 70.

**Uaithne mac Declan:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Later assigned to guard Dylan. Married to Ennis; has two children - a young son named Tadgh and an infant daughter named Aodh. Respects Nuada, likes Dylan.

**Valerie Russell:** mortal royal guard of Lady Kaye Fierch, Roiben's consort; girlfriend of Ravus the Apothecary and senior partner of Mallory Grace. Cameo from Holly Black's _Valiant_ and _Ironside_.

**Wink Ironfist:** We know Wink. Wink is awesome. First appears in chapter 1.

**Yang Shōjō of Onibi:** a flower-selling sea sprite, originally from Onibi, who now resides in New York. Has a shop in the Brooklyn Troll Market. Friendly acquaintance of Nuada and Wink. First appeared in chapter 26. Has a tanuki (racoon-fae) servant named Morinji.

**Zhenjin Ti-Lung:** called Zhenjin Azurefire due to his rank as the crown prince of Dilong. Second-eldest living son of Huizong, friend of Nuada. Brother to (among others) Gaozu, Hou Junji, Qing Long, and Ming Xian. First-rank prince. First appears in chapter 45. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced Zenn-Jinn. In favor of a new war with the humans.

_Dylan's Retinue_

**A'du'la'di Ewah:** forty-one-year-old Cherokee cougar-shifter; physically about eight years old. One older brother, Tsu's'di. One younger sister, 'Sa'ti. Orphan. Sworn as a page to Dylan. Hero-worships Nuada. Favorite book is _The Wonderful Wizard of Ha's_. First appeared in chapter 46.

**Becan Brownie:** Dylan's house-sprite, romantic interest of Brighid. Been living in Dylan's cottage undetected for nearly five years before Nuada revealed his presence in chapter 8.

**Eimh Ionsaí:** one of Dylan's guard dogs, given to her by Nuada. Flannán's daughter, Sétanta's sister. Her name means "swift attack" in Gaelic. A white fey wolfhound with amber eyes. Still a puppy, but tries to be very serious. First appears in chapter 48.

**Sétanta Cian:** one of Dylan's guard dogs, given to her by Nuada. Flannán's son, Eimh's brother. The name "Cian" means "legendary" in Gaelic. A black fey wolfhound with ice-blue eyes. Still a puppy. Named for the youth who would become the legendary hero known as Cu Chulain or the Hound of Ulster. Can make the switch between serious and playful very easily. First appears in chapter 59.

**Tsu's'di Kata Ewah:** seventy-nine-year-old Cherokee cougar-shifter; physically between fifteen and sixteen years old. One younger brother, A'du'la'di, and a younger sister, 'Sa'ti. Orphan. Sworn as a bodyguard to Dylan. Greatly admires Nuada and Wink. Fond of Lena, daughter of Balanos. First appeared in chapter 46.

**U'de'ho'sa'ti Ewah:** thirty-three-year-old Cherokee cougar-shifter; physically between five and six years old. Two older brothers, Tsu's'di and A'du'la'di. Orphan. Sworn as a handmaiden to Dylan. Has a stuffed mountain lion named Neytiri. First appeared in chapter 46.

_**Villains**_

_Team Blackwood_

**Alexander "Xander" Blackwood:** one of the two notorious Blackwood brothers; partly responsible for the years of sexual abuse Dylan and several other children experienced while trapped in the psychiatric ward of Saint Vincent's Hospital.

**Ivan Blackwood:** father of Patrick and Xander Blackwood. Rich man, socialite, has a brother in the Senate. Child molester. Cameo from an as-yet-undisclosed source. Mentioned in chapter 35.

**Lucian Westenra:** psychiatrist at Saint Vincent's Hospital, from before Dylan's internment there until chapter 50. Responsible for the years of rape and sexual abuse Dylan and several other children experienced while trapped in the psychiatric ward. Has a livid red scar on his right wrist from when Dylan bit him as a child. Executed by Nuada with Balor's permission in chapters 49 & 50.

**Patrick Blackwood:** one of the two notorious Blackwood brothers; partly responsible for the years of sexual abuse Dylan and several other children experienced while trapped in the psychiatric ward of Saint Vincent's Hospital.

_Team Bres_

**Ar****r****achd Nuckelavee:** a nuckelavee in Bres's envoy to Bethmoora. Broke into the Metropolitan Museum of Art to steal the third crown piece, only to discover it was a fake. Seen by Tiana Johnson, who gave his description to the BPRD. Plans to hunt Tiana down and kill her. Hates humans. Dislikes Dierdre. First mentioned in chapter 20, but first appears in chapter 48.

**Birog:** Bres's former nanny, a Fomori sorceress and a member of the envoy from Ciocal to Bethmoora. First appears in chapter 20.

**Bres mac Elatha of Ciocal:** Elf of Ciocal, last surviving child of King Elatha. Though he didn't kill all of his siblings, he killed a lot of them, as per tradition in that kingdom. Fomorian prince. Lover of Dierdre, best friend of Ciaran, former friend of Nuada. Plans to marry Nuala and then kill her to gain control of the Golden Army without having to fight Nuada (as he would probably lose). Went to war with Nuada against the humans. Lusts after Dierdre, but does not love her. First appears in chapter 18.

**Ciaran mac Aengus:** a gancanaugh currently posing as a Fomorian Elf. Twin brother to Dierdre and best friend to Bres. One of King Elatha's top torturers. Has a sadistic streak and enjoys torturing and killing wee fae and humans. First appears in chapter 19. Adept at weaving dream-spells, but more detail-oriented than Dierdre. Less likely to pout, whine, complain, or disobey Bres.

**Dierdre mac Aengus:** twin sister of Ciaran, lover of Bres, and a gancanaugh noblewoman. Currently glamoring herself to look like a scarlet Fomori to get closer emotionally to Nuada, Nuala, and Balor. Has plans to seduce Nuada in an attempt to drive a wedge between him and Dylan. Hates Nuala for gaining even a little of Bres's attention, and loathes Dylan for her humanity. Fears and lusts after Bres, but does not love him. Loves Ciaran.

**Eamonn:** a Zwezdan Elf raised in Ciocal, and a sadistic psychopath who works for King Elatha and Prince Bres. Obsessed with destroying Nuada. Was focused on doing so through Nuala and Dylan, but once Bres stepped in with his plans for the princess, Eamonn focused on Dylan. Has nearly killed her twice (in chapters 12 and 42). Responsible for Nuada's flogging in chapter 10/11. Believes Nuada has betrayed the fae and should have killed his father and taken control of the Golden Army to wipe out humanity. Was fatally injured by Nuada in chapter 42, and then cursed him that if he died, Nuada would lose his father, sister, Wink, and Dylan through his own mistakes and cowardice. First appears in chapter 7.

**Elatha mac Dalbaech of Ciocal:** king of Ciocal. Called Elatha Redtongue, an epithet referring to his encouragement of his children killing each other in increasingly violent and painful ways and the rumors that he drank their blood from a goblet. Master of Eamonn, secret enemy of Balor and Bethmoora.

**Iolo the Huntsman:** a mysterious Welsh fae who works for a faerie lord. His master is in league with Bres, and is plotting treason against the king of whatever kingdom this faerie lord comes from. Iolo doesn't care one way or the other about what's going on with Nuada, except as it affects his master, and loathes having to work with such highstrung fae beings as Eamonn and Dierdre. First appeared in chapter 14.

**Kadru Naga:** a naga (faerie serpent from India) in the employ of Dierdre and Bres; her task is to bite King Balor and slowly poison his body and mind with her venom. First appears in chapter 26.

_Team "Unknown Master"_

**Black Agnes:** one of the Black Ladies of Bradley Woods (flesh-eating female water fae). From mythology.

**Blue Aniss:** one of the Black Ladies of Bradley Woods. Helped poison the halfling baby. First appears in chapter 18. From mythology.

**Gray Jane:** one of the Black Ladies of Bradley Woods.

**Jenny Greenteeth:** one of the Black Ladies of Bradley Woods; the youngest. Helped poison the halfling baby. First appears in chapter 18. From mythology.

**Ligeia of Weir:** fae queen of Weir, mistress of the nocs, and wife of Moundshroud. Hates humans, especially human women. First mentioned in chapter 54. Cameo from Kelly Creagh's _Nevermore_.

**Oisin mac Conan:** former captain of the Butcher Guards; hated Nuada. First appeared in chapter 22. Died in chapter 57.

**Padraig:** lieutenant to Captain Oisin. First appeared in chapter 53. Died in chapter 57.

**Peg Powler:** one of the Black Ladies of Bradley Woods; sometimes called simply the Powler. Helped poison the halfling baby. First appears in chapter 18. From mythology.

**Pinfeathers of Weir:** the "prince" or captain of the red nocs; owes fealty to Queen Ligeia of Weir, but is allied with a mortal boy named Varen Nethers, the creator of the red nocs. Is in love with a human girl named Isobel Lanley. First mentioned in chapter 54. Cameo from _Nevermore_ by Kelly Creagh.

**Polunochnaya **_**iz**_ **Lysaya Gora:** mentioned briefly, though not by name, in chapter 43 as a friend and lady-in-waiting to Nuala. Called "'Naya." An Elven noblewoman of Zwezda. First appears in chapter 57. Same age as Nuala and Nuada. Name pronounced "Poh-Loo-Nock-Nai-Yuh." The name "Lysaya Gora" translates into English as "Bald Mountain" (as in, the song "Night on Bald Mountain" from Disney's _Fantasia_).

**Scrimshaw of Weir:** the "prince" or captain of the blue nocs; owes fealty to Queen Ligeia of Weir. One of the oldest nocs still living. Has an odd obsession with Edgar Allen Poe. First mentioned in chapter 54. Cameo from _Nevermore_ by Kelly Creagh.

**Segna the Gold:** one of the Black Ladies of Bradley Woods. Helped poison the halfling baby. First appears in chapter 18. From mythology.

_Various Other Villains or Potential Trouble-Makers_

**Ailbhe of Cromm Crúaich:** oldest daughter of Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich. Potential suitor for Nuada. Mentioned in chapter 34.

**Conri Rougarou:** French-American wolf-shifter who attacks 'Sa'ti in chapter 46 and, when Dylan gets in the way, attacks her as well. He is the one who called Dylan a whore. In lust with Odette Swanmane. Is punished by Nuada for his attack on Dylan by breaking most of the bones in his arm. Appears in chapter 46.

**Cuan Rougarou:** French-American wolf-shifter who attacks 'Sa'ti in chapter 46 and, when Dylan gets in the way, attacks her as well. He is the one who speaks for the group and apologizes to Nuada. In lust with Odette Swanmane. Is punished by Nuada for his attack on Dylan by breaking the bones in his hand. Only appears in chapter 46.

**Dennis Matlock:** the police sergeant who filed a complaint about Dylan. Mentioned in chapter 27.

**Dougal of Cromm Crúaich:** Bethmooran nobleman, father of three daughters and one young son. One of Nuada's anti-human supporters, trying to pair up the prince with one of his three daughters - Ailbhe, Orla, or Una. Mentioned in chapter 34.

**Ethine:** Roiben's sister, mentioned in chapter 54. Nuada once paid court to her. Pretends her brother is dead, as she is ashamed of him and his acceptance of the Unseelie Crown. Cameo from Holly Black's _Ironside_.

**Finbar:** Bethmooran nobleman, one of Nuada's anti-human supporters. Publicly snubbed him after the events of chapter 14. Mentioned in chapter 20 and 29.

**Galen:** Bethmooran nobleman, one of Nuada's anti-human supporters. Publicly snubbed him after the events of chapter 14. Mentioned in chapter 20 and 29.

**Geri**: a fenris (flesh-eating wolf shifter) who is actively pursuing Lorelei, Wink's truelove, and views Wink as a rival. Wink views him as a pest, and often refers to him as "boyo." Drinks human blood, eats human flesh, and has no problem forcing himself on human women. First appeared in chapter 37 of this fic; first appears in chapter 2 of "Caves and Rivers." Species cameo from _Sisters Red_ by Jackson Pearce.

**Jenny Hob:** head of housemaids in Findias. Loves Prince Nuada as if he were her own son and watched him grow up. Suspicious of Dylan, but does not hate her. First mentioned in chapter 13.

**José Ramirez:** Lisa's older brother and the instigator of Dylan's attack in chapter 1, though he did not take part. As punishment, Tito Quijada beat him to the point of hospitalization. Was the one to shoot Rafael. Member of the Rojos. First mentioned in chapter 20.

**Na'ko'ma Wakį́yą:** mentioned briefly, though not by name, in chapter 43 as a friend and lady-in-waiting to Nuala. Called "Ko." A wakį́yą is a Native American creatured called a "thunderbird." First appears in chapter 57.

**Odette Swanmane:** the swan-shifter from chapter 46 who set Cuan and Conri Rougarou on the ewah children and Dylan.

**Orla of Cromm Crúaich:** middle daughter of Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich. Potential suitor for Nuada. Mentioned in chapter 34.

**Una of Cromm Crúaich:** youngest daughter of Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich. Potential suitor for Nuada. Mentioned in chapter 34.

_Butcher Guards_

**Ailbho mac Cavan:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Later assigned to guard Dylan. Engaged to a girl named Clodagh. Likes Dylan and Nuada.

**Ailís mac Kieran:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan.

**Fionnlagh McTadgh:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan. Sister of Loén.

**Gráinne mac Uilliam:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan.

**Jarlath mac Rón:** new lieutenant of the Butcher Guards; first mentioned in chapter 62.

**Loén McTadhg:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 57, where he is assigned to escort Nuala to her room. Dislikes Nuada, but pities Dylan. Brother of Fionnlagh.

**Lorcc mac Cumhail:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Friendly enough with Dylan.

**Mahon mac Niall:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Dislikes Dylan, respects the prince.

**Muirne ingen Óenfer:** new female co-lieutenant of the Butcher Guards under Captain Sáruit. First mentioned in chapter 67.

**Odhrán mac Galen:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan, but transferred to guarding Nuada.

**Oisin mac Conan:** former captain of the Butcher Guards; hated Nuada. First appeared in chapter 22. Died in chapter 57.

**Onóra McTaggart:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan.

**Padraig McLochlainn:** lieutenant to Captain Oisin. First appeared in chapter 53. Died in chapter 57.

**Phelan mac Mannix:** new co-captain of the Butcher Guards; first mentioned in chapter 62.

**Ríagáin mac Gowain:** a member of the royal guards; first mentioned in chapter 63, assigned to guard Dylan, but transferred to guarding Nuada.

**Sáruit ingen Chuinn:** female co-captain of the Butcher Guards and leader of the king's personal guard detail; first mentioned in chapter 63.

**Siothrún mac Suibhne:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 62, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Neutral regarding both Dylan and Nuada.

**Uaithne mac Declan:** a member of the royal guards; first appears in chapter 63, assigned to guard Nuada while he heals. Later assigned to guard Dylan. Married to Ennis; has two children - a young son named Tadgh and an infant daughter named Aodh. Respects Nuada, likes Dylan.

_Servants in Findias_

**Cabhán Glaistig:** the midwife and child-healer of Findias township; doesn't work in the castle, but often is summoned there. First mentioned, though not by name, in chapter 40. Mentioned by name in chapter 60. Appears in chapter 69.

**Caspar Kabouter:** Dutch house-sprite and Master of the Royal Kitchens in Findias, current capital of Bethmoora. Fond of Dylan, loves Nuada like his own son. Appears in chapter 13.

**Collin Mistlethwaite:** Head Gardener at Findias. A puck from Eathesbury. Looks like a young boy of maybe 15 years.

**Colum McCleod:** one of the stable lads at Findias; a young Elf. First mentioned in chapter 29.

**Conn:** one of the Elven healers in Findias. First mentioned in chapter 68; first appears in chapter 69.

**Dickon Goodfellow:** Gamekeeper and Woodsman of Findias; a puck from Eathesbury. Looks like a young boy of maybe 15 years.

**Fiona Hob:** one of the hob chambermaids at Findias; first appears in chapter 58.

**Hiyori Yasutora:** one of the journeymaid seamstresses in Findias, apprenticing under Themba. An Elf of Onibi raised in Bethmoora. First appears in chapter 70.

**Jenny Hob:** Head of Housemaids in Findias. Loves Prince Nuada as if he were her own son and watched him grow up. Suspicious of Dylan, but does not hate her. First mentioned in chapter 13.

**Lilé Hob:** one of the hob chambermaids at Findias; first appears in chapter 29.

**Lóegaire****:** elderly female mind-healer at Findias; soft-spoken, but very observant and clever. First appears in chapter 75.

**Miyax Agloolik of Saami:** an agloolik, or Inuit ice spirit, Mistress of the Royal Kennels in Findias, and friend to Nuada. Helps breed and train his dogs. First mentioned, though not by name, in chapter 18, and again in chapter 48. Named for the titular character in _Julie of the Wolves_ (whose English name is Julie, but whose Inuit name is Miyax).

**Nils Fjøsnisse:** a tomte, similar to a brownie but specializing in farmwork and animals, a sprite very fond of horses. Master of the Royal Stables in Findias, and friend to Nuada. Helps breed and train his horses. First appears in chapter 13.

**Rórdán Hob:** a kitchen boy and friend of A'du'la'di; first appeared in chapter 65.

**Siobhan Dubh:** the Elf servant/nurse/midwife that tends to the orphaned servant children in Findias. First mentioned in chapter 29.

**Somhairle:** the chief healer at Findias and the king's personal physician. First appears in chapter 63.

**Táebfada:** female healer at Findias; soft-spoken, but with a strong backbone. Friend to Nuada. First appears in chapter 67.

**Themba:** chief of the palace tailors; an Elf of Nyame. Has a big, rolling laugh. First appears in chapter 70.

**Uilleag Brownie:** a pot-boy in Findias's kitchen.

_Dylan's Kids_

**Adrian King:** one of Dylan's Sight-kids. Cursed by a witch for his poor attitude regarding "ugly" girls, he came away from the curse whole but possessing the Sight at the late age of sixteen. Now seventeen. Cameo from Alex Flinn's novel, _Beastly_. Mentioned in chapter 39.

**Augustus "Gus" Jenkins:** one of Dylan's Sight-kids. He and his younger sister Rosie are the particular friends of a troll dwelling in Central Park. Was once briefly turned into a troll by dark magic. Sixteen years old. Cameo from Don Bluth's animated film, _A Troll in Central Park_. Appeared in chapter 24.

**Clarissa "Clary" Fray:** a relatively young shadowhunter (a type of demon-slayer said to be descended from an angel; Dylan knows this to be false). Also called nephilim. Has red hair and green eyes. Supposedly possesses a less-diluted strain of angelic blood than other shadowhunters due to experiments done on her in utero by her father, Valentine Morgenstern. Has an older brother named Jonathon Christopher, who possesses undiluted "greater demon" blood. Is madly in love with Jace Lightwood and is the best friend of Simon Lewis. A member of Dylan's Sight-group, more as a guest-speaker/guest-mentor than as someone in need of guidance. First appears in chapter 37, not mentioned by name, but seen with Jace by Wink on his way to Fafner's Cave. Cameo from _the Mortal Instruments_ by Cassandra Clare.

**Jace Lightwood:** another shadowhunter. Descended from the incredibly gifted Herondale family. Madly in love with Clary; sort-of-friends with Simon. Also possesses a strain of less-diluted so-called angelic blood due to experiments done on him in utero by adoptive father Valentine Morgenstern. Parabatai (brothers-in-soul-and-blood) with Alec Lightwood, who is his best friend, though not his biological brother. Cameo from _the Mortal Instruments_ by Cassandra Clare. First appears in chapter 37 alongside Clary.

**Rose Jenkins:** one of Dylan's Sight-kids. She and her older brother Gus are the particular friends of a troll dwelling in Central Park. Was once briefly kidnapped by a troll. Fourteen years old. Cameo from Don Bluth's animated film, _A Troll in Central Park_. Appeared in chapter 10.

**Simon Lewis:** perpetually-sixteen-year-old vampire; Dylan counsels him both on how to survive with one foot in the Hidden Realm and on how to cope with having been kicked out of his house. Cameo from Cassandra Clare's _Mortal Instruments_ series. First appears in chapter 54.

_Dylan's Family_

_Birth Order, Oldest to Youngest: Petra, Pauline, Mary, Simone, Gardenia, Victoria, Francesca, Dylan, and John._

**Arianna Myers:** Dylan's niece, Petra's daughter. Age fifteen. Mentioned briefly in chapter 34 as "Ari."

**David Myers:** Dylan's nephew, Petra's son. Age nine.

**Francesca Myers:** one of Dylan's sisters; twin of Victoria. Second youngest girl. Full name, Francesca Elizabeth Dorothy Myers. Works as a waitress at a restaurant called Yvaine's. Obsessed with sex. Has a very foul mouth except at work. First "appears" in chapter 25. One of the only siblings who Dylan gets along with most of the time. Nickname is 'Cesca. Wants to see Nuada with his shirt off. Once forced John into a dress and tried to put lipstick on him when they were kids.

**Gardenia Myers:** one of Dylan's sisters; twin of Simone. Fourth youngest girl. She and her sister are named after the musical duo Simon and Garfunkel. Full name, Gardenia Arianna Myers. First "appears" in chapter 25.

**John Myers:** Dylan's twin brother and only younger sibling. Full name, John Thaddeus Myers. Sucked into an alternate "hell-dimension" when he was 12 where he did not age. Was spat back out 6 years later. Lived off-and-on with his twin sister in New York and their Uncle Thaddeus in Pennsylvania. Upon graduating from high school, was recruited by the US government to work for the FBI (after they send him to college and to a place where he can learn to the extent of his psychic abilities). Though chronologically twenty-eight years old at the beginning of chapter 1, is physically only twenty-one. First appears in chapter 3.

**Mary Myers:** Dylan's third oldest sister; the youngest triplet after Petra and Pauline. Named after the musical group Peter, Paul, and Mary. Full name, Mary Nessa Myers. Childhood nickname, "Em-an-Em." Works as a yoga instructor. Self-proclaimed Bhuddist, but isn't really. First "appears" in chapter 25.

**Pauline Myers:** Dylan's second oldest sister; the middle triplet between Petra and Mary. Named after the musical group Peter, Paul and Mary. Full name, Pauline Alexis Myers. Works as a school teacher. First "appears" in chapter 25.

**Petra Myers:** Dylan's oldest sister; the eldest triplet, followed by Pauline and Mary. Named after the musical group Peter, Paul and Mary. Full name, Petra Ruby Christine Myers. Works as a bank teller. Dylan's only sister who owns a gun. First appears in chapter 8. Divorced, with a daughter named Ari and a son named David.

**Simone Myers:** one of Dylan's sisters; twin of Gardenia. Fourth oldest girl. She and her sister are named after the musical duo Simon and Garfunkel. Full name, Simone Jeanette Myers. First "appears" in chapter 25.

**Thaddeus Myers:** Dylan's maternal uncle and her mother's older twin brother; the man John gets his middle-name from. Possesses a very small bit of the Sight. Helped teach Dylan how to deal with the fae when she was a little girl before she was imprisoned. Helped raise John after his return from the alternate dimension when things became too difficult for Dylan to handle. First mentioned in chapter 3.

**Victoria Myers:** one of Dylan's sisters; twin of Francesca. Third youngest girl. Full name, Victoria Lurline Myers. Works as a librarian at the New York City Public Library (the one with the lions). Nickname is Tori. Super-protective of Francesca. First mentioned in chapter 25; first appears in chapter 31.

_Tertiary Characters_

**Anya Paperdowski:** a BPRD agent and friend of Dylan's, though Dylan doesn't know about Anya's connection to the Bureau. They often go to faires and medieval reenactments together. First mentioned in chapter 8. Appears in chapter 32.

**Beezle:** one of Erik's goblin apprentices; makes a _very_ brief appearance in chapter 40.

**Brighid Brownie:** a female brownie who has helped Nuada in the past. Love interest for Becan. First appears in chapter 10.

**Ceśar Martinez:** leader of the Lobos, older brother of Miguel, gang-leader to deceased Rafael Gonzales, and "friend" to Dylan. First mentioned in chapter 23, doesn't appear until chapter 37. Friendly with Dylan and willing to do her favors because she kept his little brother out of juvie. Former patient of hers.

**Charlotte Peabody:** lieutenant of the NYPD, friend of Dylan's. First mentioned in chapter 7, first appeared in chapter 8. Knows that someone saved Dylan in chapter 1, and knows that this person killed her attackers, but does not pursue the matter at Dylan's request.

**Cornelius Stone:** an adult human who is friends with John, Kaye the pixie, Ravus the troll, and Val. Possesses the Sight but is not one of Dylan's Sight-patients, though she is counseling him as a therapist for other issues. Though he doesn't hate faeries, he is afraid of them. Was sexually assaulted by an Unseelie Elf knight as a teenager, then cursed by a Seelie Elf knight to wither and kill anything he touched with his bare hands. His sister Janet was drowned by a kelpie. First appears in chapter 54. Cameo from Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Ironside_.

**Elsie Cottingley:** the college intern working at Saint Vincent's Hospital. Stuck dealing with Westenra in chapter 26. Filling in as his secretary in chapter 49, though only mentioned by name in the latter.

**Fiona Connelly:** a selkie-maiden whose brother owns an apothecary in the Troll Market beneath the Hudson Bay Bridge. Mentioned, though not by name, in chapter 43. Cameo inspired by the film _The Secret of Roan Inish_.

**Helena Printer:** Doctor Westenra's secretary; on maternity leave during the events of "Hush-a-By Mountain" and "Confession." First appears in chapter 25.

**Holly Colfer:** one of the psychiatrists mentioned in chapter 27 that work with the police.

**James Connelly:** a selkie who owns an apothecary in the Troll Market beneath the Hudson Bay Bridge. Provided Wink with the magical water he used to make the troll potion for Dylan's illness in chapter 43. Cameo inspired by the film _The Secret of Roan Inish_.

**James Donovan:** a police seargent under Lt. Charlotte Peabody. Professional friend of Dylan's. First appears in chapter 22.

**Jarl Erikson:** Erik's son; in his seventeenth century. Appears briefly in chapter 56. Pronounced "Yarl."

**Joyce McTavish:** a friend of Dylan's, they often go to faires and medieval reenactments together. First mentioned in chapter 8. Enjoys snow.

**Julian Hollis:** young psychiatrist and verifiable genius, who graduated high school at 14. Head of Psychiatry at Saint Vincent's. First mentioned in chapter 23. Appears in chapter 36. Favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla.

**Kathleen Shirelle:** prosecuting attorney dealing with Lisa's case. Mentioned in chapters 27 and 37.

**Morinji Tanuki:** Yang Shōjō's servant and shop-help, a male racoon fae from Onibi. First appears in chapter 40.

**Quentin Viguie:** one of the psychiatrists mentioned in chapter 27 that work with the police.

**Rafael Gonzales:** member of the Lobos, Lisa Ramirez's boyfriend. First mentioned postmortem in chapter 20.

**Samantha Black-Crow:** Francesca's boss and a supervisor/manager at Yvaine's; a cameo from Neil Gaiman's _American Gods._ First appeared in chapter 31.

**Stanley Troll:** a flower-troll that lives under a little bridge in Central Park. Friend to Gus and Rosie Jenkins, and friendly with humans. Appears in chapter 10. Brief cameo from Don Bluth's animated film, _A Troll in Central Park_.

**Thimbletack Brownie:** the brownie from _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_ who takes care of Jared, Simon, and Mallory Grace. First mentioned in chapter 54.

**Tito Quijada:** leader of the Hispanic gang the Rojos. Has an alliance of sorts with Dylan and considers her a friend. Did not authorize the attack on her in chapter 1. First mentioned in chapter 8.

**Vica Taltos:** friend of Lorelei's. Briefly appears in chapter 53 and 55.

_Royalty (Divided By Country)_

_some people will be repeated from the list above_

_Alaka_

_southeast-Asian fae kingdom, spanning India, Indonesia, Pakistan, and a few other countries; a non-Elven kingdom ruled by the current Padishah Empress_

**Ja'ha'nara Ramayana raja Alaka:** padishah empress of Alaka. Unmarried, only in her twenty-fifth century. Inspired by Indian history. Against a war with the humans.

**Yatesh raja Rakshana:** narasimha (lion-man) ambassador for the _padishah_ empress. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Alfheim_

_the Nordic faerie kingdom, inspired by Viking culture; spans Norway, Sweden, Iceland, Greenland, Switzerland, Denmark, and Finland; called the Children of the Hammer_

**Askel Wielandson of Álfheim:** second youngest prince of Álfheim, one of four boys. Barely into his sixteenth century. Named Askel after the "lucky third son" of Swedish myths (similar to Cinderella stories in America). A dökkálfr. Inspired by Swedish myth. Pronounced Ash-kell. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Wieland Yngvison of Álfheim:** one-eyed King of Álfheim; father of Günther, Viðarr, Askel, and Siegfried. Called Ravenseye. A ljósálfr. Against a war with the humans.

**Eir Wielandson of Álfheim:** Crown princess of Álfheim, wife of Günther. In her thirty-fifth century. Mother of two daughters and one son. A dökkálfr, and a powerful healer. Neutral about a war with the humans. Currently pregnant. First appears in chapter 71.

**Fríðr Güntherson of Álfheim:** youngest daughter of Crown Prince Günther; younger sister of Sassa and older twin sister of Guðfriðr. In her ninth century. First appears in chapter 71.

**Günther Wielandson of Álfheim:** Crown prince of Álfheim, one of four boys. In his forty-fifth century. Married, with two daughters and one son. Called Günther Wolfjarl; instrumental in forging an alliance between the álfar and the werewolves of Álfheim. A ljósálfr. Went to war against the humans. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Guðfriðr Güntherson of Álfheim:** only son of Crown Prince Günther; younger brother of Sassa and younger twin brother of Fríðr. In his ninth century. First appears in chapter 71.

**Sassa Güntherson of Álfheim:** oldest daughter of Crown Prince Günther; older sister of Fríðr and Guðfriðr. In her fourteenth century. First appears in chapter 71.

**Siegfried Wielandson of Álfheim:** youngest prince of Álfheim, one of four boys. Only in his eighth century. Very close with his three older brothers. A ljósálfr. First appears in chapter 71.

**Viðarr Wielandson of** **Álfheim:** second oldest prince of Álfheim, one of four boys. In his thirtieth century. Called Wolfslayer. A dökkálfr. Pronounced _Vy_-tharr. In favor of a new war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Annwn_

_the Welsh otherworld; called the Children of the Hunt_

**Arawn Death-Lord of Annwn:** the king of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld. Old friend of King Balor. Close friend of Nuada. Nuada saved his life several centuries ago, and did him an as-yet-unknown "act of service" a few centuries after that. Father of four. His daughter Eilonwy was once considered a potential match for Nuada, but agreed not to pursue the union at the behest of both Nuada and Eilonwy. Master of the Fell Crochan, also known as the Black Cauldron. First mentioned in chapter 21. Inspired by Welsh myth and _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Eilonwy ap Arawn:** Arawn's eldest daughter; crown princess of Annwn. In her twenty-seventh century. Once considered a potential wife for Nuada, but the match was not pursued at the behest of both the Bethmooran prince and the Annwn princess. Has three brothers. Cameo inspired from _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Pronounced Ay-_lawn_-wee. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Llŷr ap Arawn:** youngest son of Arawn Death-Lord, prince of Annwn. Inspired by Welsh myth. Pronounced "Leer" - I think. First appears in chapter 71.

**Mathonwy ap Arawn:** second youngest son of Arawn Death-Lord, prince of Annwn. Cameo inspired from _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Pronounced Maff-onn-ee, not Math-onn-wee. First appears in chapter 71.

**Penarddun ap Beli Mawr:** Queen of Annwn, wife of Arawn Death-Lord. Called "the Fair." Is said to be so beautiful she does not need glamor to make mortal men fall in love with her. Mother of Eilonwy, Taran, Mathonwy, and Llŷr. Inspired by Welsh myth. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Taran Daffyd ap Arawn:** eldest son of Arawn Death-Lord, prince of Annwn. Cameo inspired from _The Chronicles of Prydain_ by Lloyd Alexander. Pronounced Tayr-inn. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Bethmoora_

_one of the three Irish faerie kingdoms; the kingdom of the Tuatha de Denaan; called the Children of the Earth_

**Ailbhe of Cromm Crúaich:** oldest daughter of Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich. Potential suitor for Nuada. Mentioned in chapter 34.

**Balor One-Arm of Bethmoora:** the One-Armed King of "Elfland," king of Bethmoora and father of Nuada and Nuala. Widower to Queen Cethlenn, a Fomori noblewoman. Is willing to do anything to maintain the forgotten truce between humans and fae. Current possessor of one piece of the Golden Crown. First appearance is in chapter 10. Against a war with the humans.

**Braden of Cromm Crúaich:** Bethmooran Elf, eldest son of Dougal of Cromm Crúaich, only ten centuries old, younger brother of Ailbhe, Orla, and Una. His family is mentioned in chapter 34.

**Cethlenn of Bethmoora:** Elf noblewoman of Ciocal. One of the rare "scarlet Fomori." Died at the hands of humans. Wife and queen to Balor One-Arm. Mother of Nuada and Nuala. Called Cethlenn the Wise and Cethlenn Kingsheart. First appears in very brief flashback in chapter 1. Mentioned in chapter 4. Inspired by Irish myth.

**Dougal of Cromm Crúaich:** Bethmooran nobleman, father of three daughters and one young son. One of Nuada's anti-human supporters, trying to pair up the prince with one of his three daughters - Ailbhe, Orla, or Una. Mentioned in chapter 34.

**Finbar of Macha:** Bethmooran nobleman, one of Nuada's anti-human supporters. Publicly snubbed him after the events of chapter 14. Mentioned in chapter 20 and 29.

**Galen of Nechtan:** Bethmooran nobleman, one of Nuada's anti-human supporters. Publicly snubbed him after the events of chapter 14. Mentioned in chapter 20 & 29.

**Jocasta of Reedus:** Elven noblewoman of Bethmoora, a known human sympathizer. Nuada does not like her; she publicly lends her support to Nuada when he begins courting Dylan. First mentioned in chapter 39.

**Na'ko'ma **_**Wakį́yą**_ **of **_**Kw'Uhnx'Wa**_**:** mentioned briefly, though not by name, in chapter 43 as a friend and lady-in-waiting to Nuala. Called "Ko." A wakį́yą is a Native American creatured called a "thunderbird." First appears in chapter 64.

**Orla of Cromm Crúaich:** middle daughter of Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich. Potential suitor for Nuada. Mentioned in chapter 34.

**Polunochnaya **_**iz**_ **Lysaya Gora:** mentioned briefly, though not by name, in chapter 43 as a friend and lady-in-waiting to Nuala. Called "'Naya." An Elven noblewoman of Zwezda. First appears in chapter 57. Same age as Nuala and Nuada. Name pronounced "Poh-Loo-Nock-Nai-Yuh." The name "Lysaya Gora" translates into English as "Bald Mountain" (as in, the song "Night on Bald Mountain" from Disney's _Fantasia_).

**Una of Cromm Crúaich:** youngest daughter of Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich. Potential suitor for Nuada. Mentioned in chapter 34.

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_Ciocal_

_one of the three Irish faerie kingdoms; the kingdom of the Fomori; called the Children of the Water_

**Arrachd:** a nuckelavee in Bres's envoy to Bethmoora. Broke into the Metropolitan Museum of Art to steal the third crown piece, only to discover it was a fake. Seen by Tiana Johnson, who gave his description to the BPRD. Plans to hunt Tiana down and kill her. Hates humans. First mentioned in chapter 20, but first appears in chapter 48.

**Birog:** Bres's former nanny, a Fomori sorceress and a member of the envoy from Ciocal to Bethmoora. First appears in chapter 20.

**Bres mac Elatha of Ciocal:** Elf of Ciocal, last surviving child of King Elatha. Though he didn't kill all of his siblings, he killed a lot of them, as per tradition in that kingdom. Fomorian prince. Lover of Dierdre, best friend of Ciaran, former friend of Nuada. Plans to marry Nuala and then kill her to gain control of the Golden Army without having to fight Nuada (as he would probably lose). Went to war with Nuada against the humans. Lusts after Dierdre, but does not love her. First appears in chapter 18.

**Ciaran macAengus of Caer Ibormeith:** a gancanaugh currently posing as a Fomorian Elf. Twin brother to Dierdre and best friend to Bres. One of King Elatha's top torturers. Has a sadistic streak and enjoys torturing and killing wee fae and humans. First appears in chapter 19. Adept at weaving dream-spells, but more detail-oriented than Dierdre. Less likely to pout, whine, complain, or disobey Bres.

**Dierdre macAengus of Caer Ibormeith:** twin sister of Ciaran, lover of Bres, and a gancanaugh noblewoman. Currently glamoring herself to look like a scarlet Fomori to get closer emotionally to Nuada, Nuala, and Balor. Has plans to seduce Nuada in an attempt to drive a wedge between him and Dylan. Hates Nuala for gaining even a little of Bres's attention, and loathes Dylan for her humanity. Fears and lusts after Bres, but does not love him. Loves Ciaran.

**Elatha mac Dalbaech of Ciocal:** king of Ciocal. Called Elatha Redtongue, an epithet referring to his encouragement of his children killing each other in increasingly violent and painful ways and the rumors that he drank their blood from a goblet. Master of Eamonn, secret enemy of Balor and Bethmoora.

**Sadb ingen Elatha of Orang:** daughter of Elatha and only surviving child other than Bres; married to Crown Prince Minyak of Orang. Not a marriage of love, though they do not hate each other.

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_Dilong_

_the faerie equivalent of China, with a bit of the surrounding Asian countries (such as Korea, Vietnam, Laos, and Siam) thrown in; the Elves are called the Children of the Dragon, and their royal family is said to be able to transform into dragons, though this has never been proven_

**Gaozu Ti-Lung of Dilong:** second-oldest living son of the Emperor of Dilong. A few decades younger than Nuada, and a master of hand-to-hand combat. Younger brother of Zhenjin, older brother of (among others) Hou Junji, Qing Long, and Ming Xian. Went to war against the humans. First appears in chapter 45. Pronounced _Gow_-zoo. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Hou Junji Ti-Lung:** third-oldest living son of the Emperor of Dilong. Little is known about the Elf who has recently seen his three-thousandth summer. First appears in chapter 45. Pronounced Ho-june-jee. Neutral about a war with the humans.

**Huizong Ti-Lung:** the half-mad Jade Emperor of Dilong (Elven China). He is a stickler for honor and lets very little slide by him. Obsessed with the standing of Dilong in the eyes of the other fae kingdoms. Favors Zhenjin as the second-oldest son, but also favors Ming Xian as the only girl. Though he has an empress, known as the Pearl Snake, he also has several other wives. His favorite is the mother of Qing Long and Ming Xian, for giving birth to three sets of twin boys and the longed-for daughter. While on friendly terms with Balor, he is outraged that Nuada seems to have dishonored his favorite child by courting a human instead. Has a younger sister, Yin Mei, with whom he is very close. Was once nearly overthrown by his first-born son, Shaohoa, and had him exiled. First mentioned in chapter 16, first appears in chapter 27. Inspired by Chinese myth. Pronounced Hwee-zong Ty-Lung. Against a war with the humans.

**Ming Xian Ti-Lung of Dilong:** youngest child and only daughter of Emperor Huizong. "Almost-engaged" to Prince Nuada of Bethmoora. Called Princess Yu-Lan, or Princess Jade-Orchid. First mentioned in chapter 17, I think.

**Qing Long Ti-Lung of Dilong:** youngest prince of the Dilong royal family, only in his fifth century. First appeared in chapter 27.

**Yue Ti-Lung:** the favorite wife of Emperor Huizong. Mother of Ming Xian and the six youngest Dilong princes (she's his favorite because she gave him six sons and the much-longed-for daughter). Called the Jade Snake Princess. Sister of Yeh-Shen. A first-rank princess. Inspired by the Chinese faerie tale "Green Snake and White Snake." Takes her name from the Lady of Yue of Chinese history. Pronounced _You_-Ay. Against a war with the humans.

The Lady of Yue, also known as the Maiden of the Southern Forest, was a renowned swordswoman who lived in the State of Yue during the reign of King Goujian of Yue (496-465 BCE). On the counsel of his advisors, Goujian contacted the Maiden of the Southern Forest, who visited him. He was so impressed with her swordsmanship that he gave her the title of "Lady of Yue," and appointed her to train his army officers, who in turn instructed his army.

**Yin Mei Ti-Lung:** called Princess Redbird, due to her lethal combat skills. Youngest sister of Emperor Huizong; aunt of Zhenjin, Gaozu, Hou Junji, Qing Long, and Ming Xian. First appears in chapter 45. A second-rank princess. Pronounced Yinn-May. Against a war with the humans.

**Yeh-Shen Ti-Lung-Fenghuang:** called the Pearl Snake Empress and the Phoenix Empress, first wife of Emperor Huizong, and Empress of Dilong. Mother of Prince Shaohao, Prince Zhenjin, Prince Hou Junji, and Gaozu. _Not_ the mother of Ming Xian or Qing Long. A first-rank princess. Inspired by the Chinese faerie tale "Green Snake and White Snake." Takes her first name from the Chinese "Cinderella." First mentioned in chapter 56. Against a war with the humans.

**Zhenjin Ti-Lung:** called Zhenjin Azurefire due to his rank as the crown prince of Dilong. Second-eldest living son of Huizong, friend of Nuada. Brother to (among others) Gaozu, Hou Junji, Qing Long, and Ming Xian. First-rank prince. First appears in chapter 45. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced Zenn-Jinn. In favor of a new war with the humans.

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_Eathesbury_

_Elven kingdom based on Great Britain; famous for the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury; called the Children of Silver_

**Andrew Everdeen:** captain of the Eathesburian Royal Guard. First appears in chapter 71.

**Azalea of Eathesbury:** Princess Royale of Eathesbury, King Harold's eldest daughter. Called "the Graceful." One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Engaged to Lord John Bradford. Considered one of the best dancers in Faerie. In her eighteenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Bramble of Eathesbury:** second princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's second eldest daughter. Called "the Brave." One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Engaged to Lord Edward Haftravenscher. Known for her sharp tongue and warrior skills. In her seventeenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

**Clover of Eathesbury:** third princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's third eldest daughter. Called "the Fair." One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Engaged to former Eathesburian Prime Minister, Lord Jonathon Fairweller. Known for being incredibly shy. In her sixteenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

**Delphinium of Eathesbury:** fourth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's fourth eldest daughter. Called "Delphi" by her friends and family. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. In her fifteenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

**Edward Haftravenscher:** Elven lord from Gevaudan, though his mother was Eathesburian. Engaged to Princess Bramble. Helped rescue the princesses during a hostile takeover of the kingdom. Called "Lord Teddie" by his friends. In his nineteenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

**Evening Primrose of Eathesbury:** fifth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's fifth eldest daughter, and Flora's twin. Called "Eve" by her friends and family. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. In her thirteenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Flora of Eathesbury:** sixth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's sixth eldest daughter, and Eve's twin. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. In her thirteenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Goldenrod of Eathesbury:** seventh princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's sixth youngest daughter. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. In her eleventh century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Harold the Eleventh of Eathesbury:** widower king of Eathesbury, father of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Famous for his silver sword. Captain-General of the Eathesburian army. In his forty-fifth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Hollyhock of Eathesbury:** eighth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's fifth youngest daughter. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Has a penchant for losing things. In her tenth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Ivy of Eathesbury:** ninth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's fourth youngest daughter. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Talks with a slight lisp. In her eighth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Jessamine of Eathesbury:** tenth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's third youngest daughter. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. In her seventh century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**John Bradford:** current Prime Minister of Eathesbury, engaged to Princess Azalea and heir to the Eathesburian throne by virtue of his pending marriage. Captain in the Eathesburian army. Helped rescue the princesses during a hostile takeover of the kingdom. In his twenty-first century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon.

**Jonathon Fairweller:** former Prime Minister of Eathesbury, and an Eathesburian lord. Engaged to Princess Clover. Helped rescue the princesses during a hostile takeover of the kingdom. In his fortieth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

**Kale of Eathesbury:** eleventh princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's second youngest daughter. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. In her sixth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

**Lily of Eathesbury:** twelfth princess of Eathesbury, King Harold's youngest daughter. One of the Twelve Flowers of Eathesbury. Born on the winter solstice. In her fourth century. Cameo from _Entwined_ by Heather Dixon. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Eirc_

_one of the three Irish faerie kingdoms, the kingdom of the Fir Bholg; called the Children of the Hills_

**Rennan mac Dela:** king of Eirc and king of the Fir Bholg. Unmarried, only in his thirtieth-seventh century. Inspired by Irish myth. Went to war with Nuada against the humans. In favor of a new war with the humans.

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_Elphame_

_faerie kingdom that spans America. Does not include Alaska or Hawaii (Alaska being part of Saami and Hawaii being part of Menehune). Broken into various fiefdoms and ruled by different courts. Only fae kingdom of this type._

**Aislinn Sunfire:** formerly human, now faerie queen of the Summer Court of California. From Melissa Marr's _Wicked Lovely_.

**Bean:** sidhe-changeling boy whose mother, a noblewoman of the Night Court of New Jersey, decided to keep him. Best friend of both Kate and A'du'la'di. True age is unknown, but is physically eight years old. Cameo from _A Necklace of Kisses_ by Francesca Lia Block. First mentioned in chapter 8. First appeared in chapter 39.

**Dulcamara:** one of King Roiben's Elf knights. The only female of Roiben's trusted trio. Known for her jagged teeth and bone-knives. Cameo from Holly Black's _Ironside_.

**Ellebere:** one of King Roiben's Elf knights. Goes with Nuada at the end of chapter 54. Has little respect for common fae and humans, though he is completely loyal to Roiben. Known for his long, wine-red hair. First appears in chapter 54. Cameo from Holly Black's _Ironside_.

**Irial:** a gancanaugh and former king of the Dark Court of California. From Melissa Marr's _Ink Exchange_. Called Inkblood.

**Jared Grace:** one of two twin boys from New York with the Sight. Their great-great-uncle was a faerie researcher. Helped stop the hostile takeover of the mortal realm by a troll called Mulgarath. Has an older sister named Mallory. Jared, his brother Simon, and his sister Mallory saw Dylan to deal with their parents' divorce, but now are part of her circle of Sight-gifted youngsters. Cameo from Holly Black's _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_. First appear in chapter 24.

**Kate Fierch:** seven-year-old human girl taken by the faeries as a baby; Kaye's mortal counterpart. Rescued by Kaye and returned to their mother in Holly Black's _Ironside_. First mentioned in chapter 8.

**Kaye Fierch:** pixie, changeling, and owner/manager of the faerie coffee shop Persephone's. Consort of King Roiben Darktithe and therefore Queen of the Unseelie and Seelie Courts of New York and New Jersey, "sister" of Kate Fierch. Former employer and friend of Dylan's. Main character of Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Ironside_. First mentioned in chapter 8. Against a war with the humans.

**Keenan:** the king of the Summer Court of California; from Melissa Marr's _Wicked Lovely_.

**Leslie:** the official human consort of King Niall of the Dark Court of California. Cameo from _Ink Exchange_ by Melissa Marr.

**Mallory Grace:** mortal girl gifted with the Sight; very good with edges weapons. Training under Valerie Russel to become a guard in Roiben's court.

**Meliorn:** one of King Roiben's Elf knights. Goes with Nuada at the end of chapter 54. Has little respect for common fae and humans, though he is romantically inclined toward a shadowhunter. Unknown whether he is completely loyal to Roiben or not. Wears thin armor that looks like tree bark. The faerie representative to the Shadowhunter Enclave. First appears in chapter 54. Cameo from Cassandra Clare's _City of Ashes_.

**Niall:** a gancanaugh and current king of the Dark Court of California; his consort is a human girl named Leslie. From Melissa Marr's _Ink Exchange_. Called Inkbane.

**Peri:** a sidhe noblewoman, has a young son named Bean. A member of one of the sidhe families responsible for changeling children, Peri ran away with her son when her family decided he should be left in exchange for a human kid. They'd been on the run for years before finally settling in New York. Friend of Dylan's, and a member of Roiben's court. First mentioned in chapter 8; first appears in chapter 39. Cameo from the novel _A Necklace of Kisses_ by Francesca Lia Block.

**Roiben:** king of the two Elphame courts of New York and New Jersey, former Elf knight. Husband of Lady Kaye Fierch. Twin brother of Lady Ethine. Called Darktithe. Won the Unseelie crown by slaying the previous queen, Nicnevin. Won the Seelie crown when his sister bequeathed it to him after a battle. Cameo from Holly Black's _Tithe_ and _Ironside_. Went to war with Nuada against the humans. Appears in chapter 54. Against a war with the humans.

**Ruddles:** chamberlain/steward of Roiben Darktithe. Cameo from Holly Black's _Ironside_.

**Simon Grace:** one of two twin boys from New York with the Sight. Their great-great-uncle was a faerie researcher. Helped stop the hostile takeover of the mortal realm by a troll called Mulgarath. Has an older sister named Mallory. Simon, his brother Jared, and his sister Mallory saw Dylan to deal with their parents' divorce, but now are part of her circle of Sight-gifted youngsters. Cameo from Holly Black's _the Spiderwicke Chronicles_. First appear in chapter 24.

**Valerie Russell:** mortal royal guard of Lady Kaye Fierch, Roiben's consort; girlfriend of Ravus the Apothecary and senior partner of Mallory Grace. Cameo from Holly Black's _Valiant_ and _Ironside_.

.

_Gevaudan_

_the French-fae kingdom; known for their royal guard, made up of_ loup-garou

**Estelle de Gevaudan:** crown princess of Gevaudan, daughter of King Ursus and Queen Melusine. Bear-shifter; famous for her strange coloring (she has silver-blond hair and sea-blue eyes, unheard of among the bear-shifters). Betrothed to the Captain of the Royal Guard. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Henri de Gevaudan:** prince of Gevaudan, son of King Ursus and Queen Melusine. Bear-shifter; famous for his strange color (he has silver-blond hair and sea-blue eyes, unheard of among the bear-shifters). Betrothed to Princess Eilonwy ap Arawn of Annwn. First appears in chapter 71.

**Melusine de Gevaudan:** queen of Gevaudan, wife of King Ursus, and mother of Princess Estelle and Prince Henri. A rare winged two-tailed mermaid. Inspired by French myth. Against a war with the humans.

**Roel de Loup:** Lord Captain of the Gevaudan Royal Guard; a werewolf. First appears in chapter 71.

**Ursus de Gevaudan:** king of the "French" fae kingdom Gevaudan. Husband of Queen Melusine. Father of Princess Estelle and Prince Henri. Inspired by French myth. Against a war with the humans.

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_Hyborea_

_the northern wasteland kingdom populated by nomadic "barbarian" warriors; called the Children of the Sword_

**Hrewn of Hyborea:** King of the barbarian nomads of Hyborea and husband of Valeria. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced Huh-_rune_. Neutral about a war with the humans.

**Valeria of Hyborea:** Queen of the barbarian-nomad tribes of the fae kingdom of Hyborea. Wife of King Hrewn. Cameo from _Conan the Barbarian_. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced Vuh-_lair_-ee-uh. Neutral about a war with the humans.

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_Iara_

_Elven kingdom spanning the entirety of South and Central America; called the Children of the Jaguar_

**Itzpapalotl de Iara:** warrior princess of the South-American Elf kingdom of Iara, wife of Prince Tezcatlipoca. Called the Obsidian Butterfly. Said to be descended from mermaids. Possesses powerful water magic. Went to war against the humans. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Tezcatlipoca de Iara:** consort of the Iaran princess Itzpapalotl. Called Shadow-King, though his rank is _not_ that of a king. Called by many simply "Iara" or "Lord Iara." Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Menehune_

_the Elven kingdom that spans the Hawaiian islands; called the Children of the Ocean_

**Pele oi Menehune:** Princess of the Pacific Islands kingdom of Elves, wife of Prince Talu. Inspired by Hawaiian myth. Currently pregnant with a daughter they mean to name Lilo. Pronounced Pay-lay. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Talu oi Menehune:** prince of the Pacific Island Elf kingdom, consort to Princess Pele. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Mytikas_

_kingdom of the Greek-fae_

**Anterion of Mytikas:** King of the Greek fae kingdom, husband of Hedone, and father of Endymion. Called Anterion Skywise. Went to war against the humans. Inspired by Greek myth. In favor of a new war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Endymion of Mytikas:** Crown prince of Mytikas and son of King Anterion. About ten years old (physically). Inspired by Greek myth.

**Hedone of Mytikas:** warrior queen of Mytikas, wife of Anterion, and mother of Endymion. Inspired by Greek myth. Pronounced _Heh_-doh-neh. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Sryope:** eurynomos and noblewoman of Mytikas; travels with King Anterion for the Bethmooran Midwinter festivities. First appears in chapter 71.

**Thanatos:** minotaur and nobleman of Mytikas; travels with King Anterion for the Bethmooran Midwinter festivities. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Nyame_

_African Elven kingdom and matriarchal monarchy; their royal guard are called the Anansi; the people are called the Children of the Spider_

**Farai of Nyame:** eldest child of Queen Nyota and a prince of Nyame. In his forty-seventh century. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced Fuh-_ry_. In favor of a new war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Jalani of Nyame:** second eldest child of Queen Nyota and a prince of Nyame. Went to war against the humans. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Kagiso of Nyame:** fifth-eldest child of Queen Nyota and captain of the Anansi. Friend of Nuada's. Went to war against the humans. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Kamaria of Nyame:** fourth-eldest child of Queen Nyota and Crown Princess of Nyame. Friend of Nuada's. Went to war against the humans. Uncertain about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Nyota of Nyama:** queen of Nyame. Called the Black Widow and Nyota Webspinner. In her sixty-fifth century. Against a war with the humans.

**Obi of Nyame:** third eldest child of Queen Nyota and a prince of Nyame. Went to war against the humans. Uncertain about a war with the humans.

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_Onibi_

_Japanese-Elven empire; called the Children of the Phoenix_

**Byakkohana Gōkin of Onibi:** the White Tiger Empress of Onibi, and wife of Emperor Suzaku. Called Tigerflower. Mother of Deyuken, Giriyamu, Zeburan, Shiruvia, Emīru, Ririānu, and Shāuddo. Inspired by Japanese myth (Byakko is the white tiger guardian of Japan). Pronounced Bee-_yah_-koh-_hah_-nah. Against a war with the humans.

**Deyuken Gōkin of Onibi:** eldest child of Emperor Suzaku. Older brother of Giriyamu, Zeburan, Shiruvia, Emīru, Ririānu, and Shāuddo. Inelligible for the throne due to marrying a commoner. Physically in his early forties. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Emīru Gōkin of Onibi:** second eldest son of Emperor Suzaku and crown prince of Onibi. Younger brother of Zeherin and older brother of Ririānu and Shāuddo. Went to war against the humans. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Furandāsu:** Prince Emīru's bodyguard. First appears in chapter 71.

**Giriyamu Gōkin of Onibi:** second eldest child of Emperor Suzaku. Abdicated the throne after Deyuken was decreed inelligible. In his mid-thirties, physically. Known for exposing his brother Zeburan's plot to kill their father. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. Younger brother of Deyuken; older brother of Zeburan, Shiruvia, Emīru, Ririānu, and Shāuddo. Pronounced _Gih_-ree-am, similar to the English name "Gilliam." In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Hiro Hiyorimi:** Princess Ririānu's perpetually 17-year-old immortal human bodyguard and her unofficial boyfriend; younger brother of Sawawa. First appears in chapter 71.

**Koto Makimori:** a tengu bodyguard for Princess Ririānu. First appears in chapter 71.

**Liza Wildman:** Princess Ririānu's 16-year-old female half-werewolf bodyguard and Reiri's rival. First appears in chapter 71.

**Reiri Kamura:** Princess Ririānu's female vampire bodyguard and Liza's rival. First appears in chapter 71.

**Ririānu Gōkin of Onibi:** Second youngest child and second daughter of Emperor Suzaku. Has said she has no intention of trying to claim the throne from her brother Emīru. Hates her brother Zeherin. Very close with her sister Shāuddo. In love with a mortal boy from Japan named Hiro. Has a vampire, a mortal, and a half-wolf-shifter as her ladies-in-waiting. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. Younger sister of Deyuken, Giriyamu, Zeburan, Shiruvia, and Emīru; older sister of Shāuddo. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Sawawa Hiyorimi:** Princess Ririānu's human maid-servant and Hiro's older sister. First appears in chapter 71.

**Shāuddo Gōkin of Onibi:** youngest child and third daughter of Emperor Suzaku. About nine years old physically. Sister of Deyuken, Giriyamu, Zeburan, Shiruvia, Emīru, and Ririānu. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. Pronounced Shah-ooh-doh. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Shiruvia Gōkin of Onibi:** middle child and first daughter of Emperor Suzaku. About eighteen years old, physically. Sister of Deyuken, Giriyamu, Zeburan, Emīru, Ririānu, and Shāuddo. Chronically ill, and therefore considered inelligible for the throne. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. Pronounced _Sheer_-vee-ah, soft on the "R." In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Suzaku Gōkin of Onibi:** Emperor of Onibi, called the Phoenix Emperor. Husband of Empress Byakkohana. Father of Prince Deyuken, Prince Giriyamu, Prince Zeburan, Princess Shiruvia, Prince Emīru, Princess Ririānu, and Princess Shāuddo. In his fifty-third century. Inspired by Japanese mythology (Suzaku is "the vermillion bird" guardian spirit of Japan). Pronounced Soo-_zah_-koo. Against a war with the humans.

**Zeburan Gōkin of Onibi:** the mad, third eldest child of Emperor Suzaku. Physically about twenty-one. Deemed inelligible for the throne due to his insane bloodlust and sadistic ways. Younger brother of Deyuken and Giriyamu. Elder brother of Shiruvia, Emīru, Ririānu, and Shāuddo. Cameo from _Princess Resurrection_. Pronounced Zev-ooh-rinn. In favor of a new war with the humans.

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_Orang_

_southeast-Asian Elven kingdom; a dictatorship_

**Bunian:** second prince of Orang; twin brother of Prince Minyak. Along with his brother, rumored to have murdered his mother and younger siblings. Went to war against the humans. In favor of a new war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Korek:** the ailing and aged king of Orang. Father of Minyak and Bunian. Called Korek the Blind by many. Against a war with the humans.

**Minyak:** the sadistic crown prince of the kingdom of Orang. Twin brother of Bunian. Husband of Princess Sabd (daughter of Elatha and sister of Bres). Son of the aging King Korek. In his thirty-eighth century. Along with his brother, rumored to have murdered his mother and younger siblings. Went to war against the humans. In favor of a new war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

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_Saami_

_Inuit fae kingdom farthest to the north; covers most of the Arctic Circle, a huge part of Canada, a bit of Russia, Alaska, and the Aleutian Islands_

**Abigail of Saami:** half-human, half-munaqsri (Inuit guardian spirit) princess of the Inuit fae kingdom, daughter of the great Nanook and a mortal mother. Great-grandaughter (adoptive) of Boreas, the North Wind. Cameo from _Ice_ by Sarah Beth Durst. About five years old. First appears in chapter 58.

**Boreas:** one of the ancient, archetypal fae of the elements (similar in power to Moundshroud and the forest elemental from _Hellboy II_). Elemental of the North Wind. Adoptive grandfather of Cassandra and great-grandfather of Abigail.

**Cassandra of Saami:** human wife of the great Maskhapeu, mother of Princess Abigail. Granddaughter of Boreas, the North Wind. Cameo from _Ice_ by Sarah Beth Durst. First appears in chapter 58. Against a war with the humans.

**Mashkaupeu of Saami:** the white bear king of Saami and the munaqsri, or Inuit guardian, of the polar bears. Famous for taking a human wife and being abducted by so-called trolls. Friend of Boreas, the North Wind. Husband of Cassandra and father of Abigail. Cameo from _Ice_ by Sarah Beth Durst. First appears in chapter 58. I have no idea how to pronounce his name; sorry. =( Against a war with the humans.

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_Shahbaz_

_Persian kingdom in the middle-eastern desert of Faerie_

**Dastan of Shahbaz:** third-eldest child of Sultana Tamina and twin brother of Dinarzadi. Named for his paternal grandfather. Friend of Nuada's. In his thirty-fifth century. Went to war against the humans. Cameo inspired by Disney's _The Prince of Persia_ film. Neutral about a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Dinarzadi of Shahbaz:** second-eldest child and only daughter of Sultana Tamina; twin sister of Dastan. Named for her maternal grandmother. Was once considered a potential match for Nuada. In her thirty-fifth century. Went to war against the humans. Cameo inspired by _The 1001 Arabian Nights_ (Dinarzad is the younger sister of Sheharazade, the girl who has to tell the 1001 stories). Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Sharayar of Shahbaz:** dead sultan of Shahbaz, husband of Tamina, and father of Siavash, Dinarzadi, Dastan, and Xerxes. Inspired by _The 1001 Arabian Nights_ (Sharayar was the sultan who kept lopping off his wives' heads). In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Siavash of Shahbaz:** Eldest son of Sultana Tamina and Crown Prince of Shahbaz. In his forty-second century. Went to war against the humans. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Tamina of Shahbaz:** widowed sultana of Shahbaz, mother of Siavash, Dinarzadi, Dastan, and a war with the humans.

**Xerxes of Shahbaz:** youngest son of Sultana Tamina. In his thirty-fifth century. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced _Zer_-Cease. Neutral about a war with the humans.

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_Thorn_

_Lovecraftian faerie kingdom ruled by two young queens; hostile towards Windhaven; called the Children of Thorn_

**Aoife Grayson of Thorn:** half-human, illegitimate daughter of Princess Nerissa; Gate Keeper of the portals between the mortal world, Thorn, and Windhaven. Younger sister of Conrad. Severely allergic to iron. Can magically manipulate machinery. In love with Dean Nails. Best friend is a ghoul named Carver. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge.

**Conrad Grayson of Thorn:** half-human, illegitimate son of Princess Nerissa; back-up Gate Keeper of the portals between the mortal world, Thorn, and Windhaven. Older brother of Aoife. Severely allergic to iron. Best friend is a ghoul named Carver. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge.

**Nerissa of Thorn:** a princess of Thorn, sister of Queen Octavia and Queen Sinead. Victim of severe iron-induced dementia. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge. Neutral about a war with the humans.

**Octavia of Thorn:** Queen of the Winter Courts of Thorn, sister of Nerissa and Sinead. Considered the "kind" sister. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge. Against a war with the humans.

**Sinead of Thorn:** Queen of the Summer Court of Thorn, sister of Octavia and Nerissa. Considered the "cruel" sister. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge. Pronounced Shih-nayd. In favor of a new war with the humans.

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_Ubasti_

_Egyptian faerie kingdom; ruled by mau-cat/humanoid fae; called the Children of the Lioness_

**Aket-ten of Ubasti:** lesser queen of the Egyptian fae kingdom of Ubasti and wife of Maahes. Called Aket-ten the Lioness. In her twenty-ninth century. Currently pregnant with her first child. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Latis of Ubasti:** greater queen of the Egyptian fae kingdom of Ubasti and wife of Seft. Called Latis the Desert Flower. In her twenty-sixth century. Against a war with the humans.

**Maahes of Ubasti:** lesser pharaoh of Ubasti and husband of Aket-ten. Younger twin brother of the greater pharaoh, Seft. In his thirty-eighth century. Went to war against the humans. Pronounced May-aww-hayce. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 71.

**Seft of Ubasti:** greater pharaoh of Ubasti and husband of Latis. Older twin brother of the lesser pharaoh, Maahes. In his thirty-eighth century. Went to war against the humans. Against a war with the humans.

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_Weir_

_forest kingdom broken into two provinces - Ulalume & Samhain; ruled by both Ligeia & Moundshroud, though the union is uneasy; home of the Samhain Tree_

**Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud:** fae king of Weir, the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, and husband of Ligeia. Takes special interest in mortal children with the Sight born on Halloween. Pipkin is his heir. Dylan is his friend and he is very fond of her. Considered one of the most dangerous fae to ever live. First appeared in chapter 50.

**Isobel Langley:** mortal college student, girlfriend of Varen. Made a noblewoman of Samhain to protect her from Ligeia. Cameo from _Nevermore_ by Kelly Creagh. First appears in chapter 61. One of Dylan's patients.

**Jenny Wicker:** half-mortal college student and friend of Pipkin's. Made a noblewoman of Samhain after helping Moundshroud to capture a runaway Sight-child. Gained several odd powers, including the Sight, due to that trip. Called Jenny the Witch. Cameo from Ray Bradbury's _the Halloween Tree_.

**Joseph Pipkin:** called Pip or Pipkin. A once-human, now fae young man who stopped aging at seventeen. Protege of Moundshroud, the Keeper of the Samhain Tree; considered equal to a prince in rank. Friend of Dylan's. She offered her life in exchange for his when he was dying of a ruptured appendix at age thirteen (while still mortal). The deal would have killed her, had not Pipkin's four best friends (Ralph, Jenny, Wally, and Tom) also made the same deal. Calls Dylan "Doc." Cameo from Ray Bradbury's _the Halloween Tree_. Against a war with the humans. First appears in chapter 50.

**Ligeia of Weir:** fae queen of Weir, mistress of the nocs, and wife of Moundshroud. Hates humans, especially human women. First mentioned in chapter 54. Cameo from Kelly Creagh's _Nevermore_.

**Pinfeathers of Weir:** the "prince" or captain of the Red Murder; owes fealty to Queen Ligeia of Weir, but is allied with a mortal boy named Varen Nethers, the creator of the red nocs. Is in love with a human girl named Isobel Lanley. First mentioned in chapter 54. Cameo from _Nevermore_ by Kelly Creagh.

**Ralph Peters:** half-mortal college student and friend of Pipkin's. Made a nobleman of Samhain after helping Moundshroud to capture a runaway Sight-child. Gained several odd powers, including the Sight, due to that trip. An intern at Dylan's psychiatry office. Cameo from Ray Bradbury's _the Halloween Tree_.

**Scrimshaw of Weir:** the "prince" or captain of the Blue Murder; owes fealty to Queen Ligeia of Weir. One of the oldest nocs still living. Has an odd obsession with Edgar Allen Poe. First mentioned in chapter 54. Cameo from _Nevermore_ by Kelly Creagh.

**Tom Skelton:** half-mortal college student and friend of Pipkin's. Made a nobleman of Samhain after helping Moundshroud to capture a runaway Sight-child. Gained several odd powers, including the Sight, due to that trip. Called Tom Skeleton. Moundshroud's third-favorite human. Cameo from Ray Bradbury's _the Halloween Tree_.

**Varen Nethers:** one of Dylan's kids who received mandatory counseling at the behest of the high school. Possesses the Sight, as well as a strange reality-twisting ability. Creator of Pinfeathers, prince of the red nocs. Current unwilling favorite of Ligeia. Cameo from Kelly Creagh's _Nevermore_.

**Wally Hugo:** half-mortal college student and friend of Pipkin's. Made a nobleman of Samhain after helping Moundshroud to capture a runaway Sight-child. Gained several odd powers, including the Sight, due to that trip. Moundshroud's third-favorite human. Cameo from Ray Bradbury's _the Halloween Tree_.

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_Windhaven_

_Lovecraftian faerie kingdom ruled by the Erlking; hostile towards Thorn; called the Children of the Mist_

**Dean Nails of Windhaven:** the guy Kaye mentions in chapter 57 helped set up Dylan's phone with "fairy long-distance." Half-blood son of Queen Shard, though not the Erlking's son. Considered a prince, but not in line for the throne. Lives in the mortal world as a mechanic, faerie guide, and jack-of-all-trades. Married to a half-sidhe named Aoife Grayson. Real name is Nails, but goes by "Dean." Cameo from _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge.

**Erlking of Windhaven:** the nameless king of Windhaven, and king of the Erlkin. Not necessarily friendly to humans, and on tense terms with the other fae kings. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Shard of Windhaven:** Queen of the Erlkin, and wife of the Erlking. Doesn't like any fae that aren't Erlkin, but tolerant of humans. Cameo from the HP Lovecraft-inspired _The Iron Codex_ series by Caitlin Kittredge. In favor of a new war with the humans.

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_Zwezda_

_the Russian-myth-inspired faerie kingdom to the north; Zwezdan Elves are called the Children of the Stars_

**Czernobog Zoryanov **_**iz**_ **Zwezda:** the _czar_ of Zwezda, husband of Czarina Danica. Called Sunshadow. Father of _Czarvitch_ Dazbog and the _czarishkas_ Vechernyaya and Utrennyaya. In his seventy-eighth century. Inspired by Slavic myth. Pronounced _Churr_-noh-bawg. In favor of a new war with the humans.

**Danica Zoryanov **_**iz**_ **Zwezda:** the _czarina_ of Zwezda, wife of Czar Czernobog. Called Starsong. Mother of _Czarvitch_ Dazbog and the _czarishkas_ Vechernyaya and Utrennyaya. In her fifty-second century. Inspired by Slavic myth. Neutral about a war with the humans.

**Dazbog Zoryanov **_**iz**_ **Zwezda:** the _czarvitch_ (crown prince) of Zwezda. Younger brother of Vechernyaya and Utrennyaya. In his sixteenth century. Inspired by Slavic myth. Uncertain about a war with the humans. First appeared in chapter 71.

**Utrennyaya Zoryanov iz Zwezda:** oldest _czarishka_ (princess) of Zwezda. Older twin sister of Vechernyaya and Dazbog. In her twenty-third century. Her name means "morning star." Inspired by Slavic myth. Uncertain about a war with the humans. First appeared in chapter 71.

**Vechernyaya Zoryanov iz Zwezda:** youngest _czarishka_ (princess) of Zwezda. Younger twin sister of Utrennyaya and older sister of Dazbog. In her twenty-third century. Her name means "evening star." Inspired by Slavic myth. Uncertain about a war with the humans. First appeared in chapter 71.


	73. Frayed at the Ends, They Break

_**Author's Note:**_ _So guess what, everybody? So first my power went out yesterday for six hours. Luckily, we had bottled water that wasn't in the fridge, and our cats had water, or we'd have been in trouble. As it was, no AC, and it was over a hundred degrees. Then my apartment complex tried to jerk us around when we tried to pay our rent. And I found out this book that SUCKS now has a sequel. Grrrrr…. So LA is having a baaaad week._

_To make up for this, here's chapter 72! Hope you all enjoy._

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the title is paraphrased from "Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson._

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**Chapter Seventy-Two**

**Frayed at the Ends, They Break**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of** **Realization, Tenderness, Forgiveness, More Memories, Regaining Calm, Understanding, Confessions, and the King's Words**

.

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"Someone... Dylan, someone put a spell on us."

Dylan fought the shivers of cold and fading fear that ripped through her, fought the strange blurriness still fuzzing her thoughts, and tried to focus on Nuada. That xanthous gray of despair and grief in his eyes morphed into molten copper fury washed with scarlet hatred. He fairly vibrated with rage.

"A... a spell?" She echoed. She couldn't process what Nuada was telling her. His eyes settled reluctantly on her face. Infuriated, crimson-stained bronze faded back to graying gold again.

"I make no excuses, my lady," Nuada whispered. He was careful not to touch her. Careful not to shift even a centimeter closer. "Spell or not, it doesn't matter. I have broken my word and my honor. I..." The confession rasped out of him. "I am ashamed."

"Nuada..." She reached for him. He jerked back from the touch. "It... it's not your fault."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Fixed his gaze on the dewy grass. "My lady, if you would allow me... if you could find it in yourself to permit me to... to see to your injuries? I know you're hurt. I can feel your pain, and the sting of blood is on the air. The thorns... I... or would you rather I send for a healer?"

A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind. If he fetched a healer, the king would find out what had happened. The same if she left the garden looking this way: hair mussed, clothes disheveled, tears and smudged makeup staining her face. Green stained her gown from the grass, no doubt. Thorns had ripped the silk and velvet. What would her guards do if she walked out looking like this? What would they think? What would they tell the king?

She shivered again. Hugged herself against the aching cold. Wasn't it supposed to always be summer in this garden? Why was she so cold?

"My lady?" Such uncertainty in that voice. Nuada looked at her now. Looked at her, and she saw the fear behind his eyes. Fear that she would turn against him for this. Fear she would recoil from him again. "Dylan?"

It was up to her now. An odd clarity stole over her as she realized that. Nuada had called her out of the swirling abyss of her memories yet again, calling her with love and despair and the terror that he'd done something to her that could never be undone. He'd given her his strength to return to the real world. Even knowing that once she came back, she might turn on him, he'd pulled her from the maelstrom of fear and slashing echoes of the past. Now he offered himself, certain that despite all he'd done - and all he hadn't - she would tear away from him, never to return.

"I think," Dylan whispered, "I'm stuck." She tilted her head forward a little. Thorns caught and pulled her hair, her gown. The exposed portion of her back and shoulders. Fresh blood ran. "Can you help me?"

He moved as slowly as time often crawled. His hands shook, but his touch was gentle as he unhooked the vicious thorns from her braids, from velvet and silk. From the still-bleeding cuts in her skin. The golden chain woven into her braids and the one about her throat were carefully extricated from both mortal and thorn. When she was finally free, crimson blood smeared his fingers.

Moving as if afraid of bleeding to death, Dylan stood on shaky legs and sat at the small garden fountain. The laces at the back of her gown remained undone. Nuada glimpsed pale flesh marred by tiny ribbons of scarlet so dark it was nearly black in the moonlight. Loathed himself for the spike of hot lust that speared him.

"I... I don't think..." Dylan bit her lip. "Um. I think I should try to... to calm down a little before we leave. Uaithne and the others... they... they won't understand. And people... if people saw, they might talk. You'd get in trouble."

Nuada came toward her. Stopped a few paces away. "If... if that is so," he said, choosing his words with care, "then would I be permitted the privilege of tending your hurts, Lady Dylan?" His voice was empty and formal. Only a slight tremor beneath the words gave anything away. "You needn't fear my control. Now I know of the spell, I can resist it. But your wounds need to be cleaned. May I?"

She nodded without speaking. Nuada sat on the wide rim of the fountain behind Dylan. Pulled a cambric handkerchief from his pocket. A touch of magic cleansed the fountain's water so it was safe to touch open wounds. Nuada wet the handkerchief.

"I need to move the material aside a little," the prince murmured. "If I may." Dylan nodded again. When calloused fingers pulled velvet aside, revealing a bleeding shoulder blade, Dylan whimpered. Nuada's hand went still. "It's all right," he said, voice strained. "Don't be afraid. Please don't be afraid." He touched wet cambric to one of several deep, bloody scratches. Cleaned away a little blood.

Dylan's arms were folded tight against her stomach and chest to keep the gown from slipping down her shoulders. As Nuada wiped away the crimson smearing her scratched skin, she pressed her arms harder and harder against her body. Nuada kept speaking soft words of reassurance. It was the only thing that kept her from bolting.

The Elven warrior ground his teeth. Shoved down the lust razoring through him at the sight of Dylan's bare back. Even the sight of blood and scratches and old scars did nothing to cool the smoldering need. It was the spell, he knew. The one aspect of it that didn't quail beneath the power of an Elven royal. The compulsion-aspect of the spell wasn't gone, either, but his power kept it subdued enough that he could ignore it. Not so with the part of the spell fueling his desire. Sheer strength of will kept him from giving into that. Thank the gods he knew what it was.

Branwen's Tears. Someone, somehow, had touched him with gancanaugh poison. Had laid spells on him then, as well. Spells, plural.

One had hidden the physical hunger from him, suppressed it for a time, giving the venom enough time to seep into his skin so that it couldn't be washed away. Suppressing it to allow it to intensify until the sexual yearning was almost painful. _That_ aspect could've been worse, he knew. There was no pain for him, as there had been for Dylan. Just that almost-pain, which centuries of iron self-control enabled him to ignore.

The second spell had been a compulsion spell. Enchantment to seduce him into ignoring his instincts, his better judgment. An ensorcelled net drawing him deeper into the miasma of poisonous lust. Turning his thoughts away from promises made. Making him forget the honor that bound him, shielded him.

Whoever had _dared_ lay such enchantment on him would _die_. Slowly. As Westenra had died, drowning in blood and screams. Whoever had tricked him into doing this... into desecrating this sacred place, into terrorizing and hurting Dylan... He would rip them apart with his bare hands if that was what it took. He would shatter them and grind their bones to dust. He _would._ As soon as he took care of his lady, and as soon as he figured out who had laid those spells on him in the first place.

Only a king could lay a spell on a prince or princess without being detected. Only a few kings had been present at the banquet earlier tonight: the lesser pharaoh of Ubasti, whose power was somewhere between a monarch's and an heir's; Roiben, who was Nuada's friend as well as Dylan's' King Anterion of Mytikas, who'd been Nuada's friend but despised humans as Nuada did, and who no doubt felt betrayed by the fact that the Elven prince loved a mortal; Emperor Huizong, possibly still nursing a disdain for the mortal chosen in place of his daughter; Arawn, also Nuada's friend; Mashkaupeu, who liked humans; the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, who clearly loved Dylan.

And one other. One it hurt to think of, to even consider. Yet consider it Nuada must, because it was a viable concern. What if Balor had done this? What if Balor had arranged this? Everything in Nuada rebelled at the idea, but there was one reason for such an action by his father.

King Balor would feel justified in disowning him, in stripping him of title and rank and power, if the crown prince was found guilty of a crime like rape after everything else that had happened. And Nuada knew his father had lost patience with Dylan refusing - both in subtle ways and openly - to turn against the king's heir. Would the king consider Dylan nothing but a casualty?

"Who do you think did it?"

The words shattered his thoughts like glass. It was the first thing Dylan had said since he'd begun tending her. She still held utterly still. Still breathed in short, shallow breaths. Her voice was brittle, strained.

But she had spoken.

"I don't know, milady. I have theories, but more than one choice stands before me."

"Us," she whispered.

He stopped wiping at the blood. It hurt to breathe. "What did you say?"

"More than one choice stands before _us_." She drew a deep breath. Blew it out. "We're a team, aren't we?"

The air was icy in his chest, but a tiny ember of warmth kindled in his heart. He swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut. His hands shook. He ached to hold her to him, but he didn't dare. Not yet.

"Yes," he whispered. He licked his lips and tasted the sweetness of fey tears. "Yes, we're a team."

"Good."

**.**

Nuada kept his movements slow and gentle as he finished with Dylan's wounds and retied the laces of her gown. Neither of them moved after that. She still hugged herself as if trying to hold herself together. He kept still. Waited. He didn't know what he waited for, but he dared not break the silence that had descended. He couldn't bear to do anything that would break the tenuous truce between them.

Finally, Dylan spoke. "Can you... help me with my hair?" She touched one of her untidy braids. "I might as well just let my hair down. Then people won't notice as much if it's messy."

From years of dealing with his twin's hair, light and fine as spidersilk, he knew how to be careful as he loosed the three braids and trailed his fingers through the dark curls. After several minutes, Dylan's hair hung in a thick midnight cascade down her back. He wanted to touch it, twine his fingers in the softness of it. Didn't dare.

"Do you have another handkerchief?" Dylan whispered. "If I wash my face, it won't be as obvious that I've..."

"That you've been crying," the prince replied hoarsely. "Yes. Here." He handed her another. She wet it and with deliberate movements washed the tear-stains and smudged makeup from her face. She drew a breath that shuddered out of her.

"I think I'm okay now," she said. "Are you okay?"

He said nothing. She twisted to look over her shoulder. Lost her balance. Slipped from her perch on the rim of the fountain. Her back smacked hard against the stone. She would've hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of her, and her head would've smacked against the fountain, but Nuada's swift lunge caught her. His fingers clamped around her wrists. They locked eyes. With exquisite care, he pulled her back up to sit beside him.

"Ow," Dylan mumbled, flexing her wrists. "My gracelessness knows no bounds; I fell off a fountain. Thanks."

"Are you all right?"

Dylan nodded. Flicked him one wild-shy glance through her hair. "Are you?"

He hesitated. Fought with himself. "I am well enough."

A brush of fingertips against the back of his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced. "No," she whispered. "No, you're not. What's the matter? Inis dom - tell me." Nuada looked away. "Please? Tell me what you're thinking so I know what to do."

"You need do nothing, my lady," the prince said. "I deserve no mercy from you."

Gentle fingers touched his jaw. A soft, inexorable pressure turned his face toward her so that he had no choice but to look into her eyes. The depths of the compassion and love in those eyes nearly undid him. She couldn't look at him that way. Not after what he'd done. She couldn't possibly...

"I've had flashbacks before," Dylan said. "Why does this one upset you so much? Help me understand."

Why did it upset him? Because he'd betrayed her trust. Desecrated this place, his mother's garden, with his carnal selfishness. Because he'd frightened Dylan so badly that his touch, his voice, had done nothing to pull her from the nightmare of her past. He'd had to call her with his mind in order to bring her out of it. Because her fear had been so great that she hadn't realized the wicked rose thorns were gouging into the vulnerable flesh at her back, drawing tiny trickles of blood. Because he'd told her she was safe, and for the first time, she hadn't believed him. Hadn't been _able_ to believe him.

And most importantly, because when she'd told him no, when she'd pulled away, for just a moment he'd been tempted to ignore her protests. Tempted to kiss her quiet. Tempted to seduce her to the point where she wouldn't have wanted to protest anymore. How much further might he have gone under the influence of that spell? Would he have broken down all resistance with gentle ruthlessness until she was helpless in his arms? Or, if she'd kept struggling, would he have forced her to the ground, clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her screams, shoved her skirts out of his way, and simply taken her like some mindless, rutting animal?

The Tears in his blood stirred the embers of smoldering lust at the thought. Nausea threatened. He shuddered - with disgust or desire, he didn't know, and that sickened him further.

Her hand against his cheek burned through the toxic, molten ice in his blood. "Tell me. Help me understand."

So in a choked whisper, nausea churning like viscous poison in his belly, the Elven warrior confessed everything. And when it was done, he waited for Dylan's condemnation. She had to condemn him. Repudiate him. He wondered if he would shatter when she did, or if it would take time for the full import of that severance to come crashing down on him.

"I love you, Nuada," Dylan whispered, only truth in her voice, and with those four simple words she broke the legendary Silverlance completely. He turned to her fully, almost blindly, and pressed his face against her neck, his arms sliding around her to hold her tight against him. Dylan stroked his hair. Whispered, "Shhh. It's all right. I'll be all right. Shhh. You would never do that to me, Nuada. Spell or no spell. You stopped. Even with that spell riding you, you stopped when I said to stop. You would never hurt me like that. Shhh. I'll be all right. We're all right."

"I frightened you," the prince whispered against her shoulder. "You were so frightened. I've never seen you like that. You didn't know me. Your fear... You weren't even that afraid of Eamonn. I've never felt such fear in you, and it was my actions that caused it. You were afraid of me."

"No," she contradicted. "Not of you. It was a flashback. I was reacting to that. Not to you. I'm not afraid of you."

"I betrayed your trust," he insisted. "I tried to... I wasn't thinking of you. Of what I claimed to want for you. Of what you wanted for yourself. I only thought of what I wanted. To touch you. To take. I had no thought for your pleasure; only my own." He lifted his head to meet her eyes. "You deserve better than that from me, my lady. For so much of your life, you 've been used by men who cared only for their own twisted desires. I profess to be better than them, but then I-"

"Don't you dare." She framed his face between her hands. "Don't you dare compare yourself to them. You are _nothing_ like them. This wasn't you. It was an accident. Okay? Granted, we should've been paying more attention. The Spirit warned me and I ignored Him and... and He left me. That's my fault. But the spell was mostly responsible.

"Listen to me," Dylan said when he tried to look away. "Look at me. I love you. I don't blame you for this. You didn't mean to scare me. You didn't know that would happen. And we're both at fault for how far things went. I asked you not to stop, so you didn't. When I _did_ ask you to stop, you did. That's what matters."

He shook his head. "You are too forgiving of my sins. You always have been. You don't understand the depths of my transgression, my lady."

"Nuada-"

The Elven warrior was on his feet, pacing across the dew-laden grass, then back again. His breath rasped in his throat. "Don't you see? You asked me, begged me to stop. And so I did. _But I didn't want to._"

"That doesn't matter. You _did_ stop."

"It _does_ matter! Shades, Dylan. Don't you understand? For just a moment, I considered not stopping. I thought, 'I can seduce her. I can kiss her, touch her, until she loses the will to say no. I can make her crave my touch so that she never refuses me again, and then she'll be mine.'

"What sort of beast looks at the woman he loves and thinks that if he moves carefully, he can tumble her into bed, willing or no? What kind of monster sees the woman he loves shaking with fear, the scent of her blood on the air, and feels desire so vicious it's nearly despair?" He closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. "All I wanted in that moment was to feel you under me. I didn't care how I got you there. What say you to that?"

"But you _didn't_, Nuada. You didn't."

"I wanted to." The despair in his eyes, in his words, left her bleeding afresh from the newly-opened scars on her heart. "My father was right." He leaned against the trunk of the Fomorian rose tree and let his eyes slide closed. "My father was right, Dylan."

She was on her feet, jabbing a finger into his chest before he'd registered she'd moved at all.

"No. No! He was so wrong about you. He's _wrong_ about you. You're a good man. Forget your father. Forget everyone else. What about _me_? Don't you care what _I_ think? Someone basically mind-raped you. You're not the monster here. You're the victim, just like me. Even your father can't condemn you for this." He opened his mouth, and she snapped, "If you feel that bad, pray for forgiveness. Always makes _me_ feel better."

The hot anger cooled a little, leaving smoldering embers behind. Dylan thunked her head against his chest. "You don't get to say that. How dare you say that? After everything you've done for the people around you, after everything you've done for me, how dare you call yourself a monster? How dare you believe that?" She thumped him on the chest with a fist.

"You jerk. You're amazing and incredible and wonderful and I'm so lucky to know you, I love you and you're a good man, d'you hear me? You're one of the best men I know. I am so sick of everyone saying you're not. I'm sick of it. I _hate_ this place! I hate these people! I hate all of this political... stuff. I just want to go home with you so we can be safe. So everyone will leave you alone. Leave _us_ alone! I want to go home." She swallowed a sob. "I just want to go home."

Nuada enfolded her in his arms. Felt her melt against him and didn't bother suppressing the utter relief that she would still do that, that she would trust him that way.

"As do I, mo duinne," he confessed. "I long to go home." Back to her cottage. Back to warm memories and the comfort of her just down the hall while he slept. He swallowed hard. Forced himself to say words that twisted inside him like snakes. "I actually think it best if you went home, and I remained here. It would be safer if-"

She wrenched back from him. "_What?_"

"It would be safer for you, Dylan. Safer to send you away from here. You'll have guards, and I'll rework the wards around the cottage, just in case Eammon-"

"You want to send me away?" There was no understanding, no gentle compassion in her eyes now. There was only incredulous hurt and a betrayal so deep and fathomless it was like peering into a deep chasm. "But... but I didn't... no!" She stepped back. Her hands slid up to her face, and Nuada tensed, waiting for her to cover her eyes in that familiar defensive gesture again. Instead, her fingers tangled in her hair. She whispered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to panic, it won't happen again, I-"

"Dylan-" He didn't want her to _apologize!_ Not for this, of all things.

"Don't go away, you promised. You promised you would... that I could... you want me to leave? You're sending me away. I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm sorry. Please. I won't freak out again, I swear, no matter what you do. I won't flashback, I promise. Just don't send me away." She was trembling again. When he gently grasped her shoulders, she flinched. "Please don't send me away. I didn't do anything. I didn't _do_ anything this time, don't send me away."

"It would be better for you, Dylan. Safer."

_It would be better for you._ Her parents' voices in her head. Trying to reassure. Trying to explain why it was all right for her to be sent far away where she would never see them again. Where she would never see her sisters or her friends from school or John. John, her twin. John, her other half. Never see John, not ever again because it was _better._

And now Nuada trying to send her away, too. Never see Nuada again. Never see John or Nuada or the children because she was being sent away, far away, where the monsters were, because she'd upset them, upset everyone, and it was better this way, better to send her far, far away…

Dylan's fingers bit into her upper arms until she felt the joints creaking from the strain.

"Don't send me away," she pleaded. Her voice held just a touch of child's terror. Fresh guilt churned in Nuada's stomach. "I'll be better, I promise. I'm sorry, I won't flashback anymore, I'll be better. I won't do anything. I didn't do anything. Nuada, please don't. Don't send me away, I can't, I'll do what you want, I promise."

"Shhh," he soothed, gently tugging her into his arms again. Memory screamed from her eyes. He couldn't bear to see it there. Not again. Despair and fear saturated the very air, leaving it heavy and dark, almost choking. "All right, sweetheart. All right. It's all right. I'll not send you away."

Safer if he did, stars curse it. Safer if he sent her back to the mortal realm with guards instead of allowing her to remain here with him, where he could protect her but also be the greatest danger to her safety. Yet if he sent her away... what would it do to her? How much strain would one more rejection, one more abandonment, put on her? Especially following on the heels of such a brutal flashback?

"Shhh. It's all right. Hush, now. Hush."

"Don't send me away." A quiet, desperate whisper. Her entire body shook with minute tremors. "I'll be good, I promise. I won't do anything bad. Just don't make me leave. I don't want to be alone. Just don't send me away."

He laid his cheek against her hair. "You're not bad." Nuada wished her parents were still alive, so he could kill them himself for these emotional wounds. Filthy human monsters. He yearned to hear their blood singing over Elven silver. "You're one of the best women I know. I would never abandon you, Dylan. You are my lady. My place is at your side. Don't be afraid anymore. Don't be afraid. Hush, now, beloved. It's all right."

"Don't let go. Don't send me away."

"Never," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Never."

**.**

After a long while, she stopped shaking. Once she was calm enough, once the past no longer held her prisoner, he stepped back to finger-comb the tangled hair from her face. Brushed a caress against her cheek. The gentleness of the gesture belied the turmoil within him. What he'd done to her... what he'd _wanted_ to do to her... gods, it did not bear thinking about. Yet he would have to tell the king. Honor demanded at least that much. But for now, he owed Dylan more. She needed him. Until she no longer did, he would remain at her side.

So with great care he settled her cloak around her shoulders. Donned his own. Offered his arm and held his breath.

Instead of taking his arm in the formal escort's pose, she wrapped both her arms around his. Cuddled close. Her hands were icy through his shirt. He felt her heartbeat thudding so hard it pulsed through her entire body. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Dylan whispered. "I won't let them hurt you for this."

The Elven prince didn't tell her that he, himself, would go before King Balor at first light and make his report before offering himself up to the king's justice. In Faerie, intent was nine-tenths of the law. He'd wanted to hurt her - or rather, hadn't cared if he did. That he hadn't was thanks only to some miracle. He _had_ harmed her in other ways.

Even now, the memory of her terror thickening the night air into noxious poison clogged his throat. For breaking his oath - the oath of the crown prince of Bethmoora - and for all the vicious things he'd wanted to do, had almost done, he would give himself over to his father's mercy.

And if Balor had been the one to cast the spell... Nuada didn't know how that could be, but he could certainly think of reasons why the king would do it. If he went to his father, and his father was the one who'd done this, how much mercy would the king show him? How much of the prince's sentence would be justice and how much would be vindictive cruelty?

Nuada shoved these thoughts aside and prepared himself to step out of the sanctuary of his mother's garden. Once beyond these walls, he would face no-doubt infuriated Butcher Guards. The king. Nuala. How many others?

The door swung open. He stepped out with Dylan.

As he'd expected, the Butchers waited beyond the garden walls, swords drawn. Nuada tensed, but though it spoke against every warrior's instinct, he didn't move to draw his own weapon. Instead, he met Uaithne's glittering eyes.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," Uaithne said. His voice frosted the bitter winter air. "What-"

"Uaithne," Dylan said softly. Her grip tightened on Nuada's arm. The guard fell silent. "Please. Don't. I can't... just please don't. Okay?"

There was a moment of silence. Then the guardsman asked, "Are you all right, milady?"

Dylan shook her head. "Please don't make it worse, okay?"

"Milady..." Uaithne hesitated. "Did the prince-"

Nuada bit back a snarl. It was a valid question, stars curse it. But Dylan shook her head. "Nuada didn't do anything. Please, can we just... can we just go back now?"

The six guards assigned to the mortal offered her the fist-to-chest salute of the Butcher Guards. They stepped aside. After a moment, Nuada's guards stepped aside as well, giving the prince and his lady room to proceed.

Even as Nuada escorted Dylan past the guards and down the path through the royal gardens, he noticed that where once his retinue had included eight guards, now there were only seven. So. One had already been sent to the king, it seemed. Well, enough.

**.**

Outside the door to Dylan's suite, Nuada caught a page and whispered instructions in his ear while the guards entered the suite to ensure it was safe. The page scuttled off down the hall.

At Uaithne's nod, Nuada and Dylan entered the suite. Found the children sprawled across the furniture in the sitting room, sound asleep. The hounds snored where they stretched out on the floor. The sight of them eased some of the tension in both Elf and mortal.

With softly murmured words, they parted - Nuada to shower, Dylan to take a bath.

She moved almost mechanically. Her thoughts tumbled around in her head, so she ignored them and focused on what she was doing.

Lavendar oil. Chamomile bath salts that made the water foam palest violet. Vanilla-scented soap. Shampoo and conditioner with the fragrance of lilacs. She even found fat pillar-candles scented with a combination of aloe, almonds, and lotus, which she lit and placed at different intervals around the tub. All of them soothing scents that would, hopefully, help her relax.

The moment she slid into the bath, the last knots of panic dissolved. She sucked in a breath. Ducked beneath the water. The heat seeped into her body, chasing away the chill. Every muscle loosened. The tension faded.

Beneath the water, tears mingling with the scented bath, only surfacing every now and then to breathe, she opened her heart to the Star Kindler and begged for forgiveness for everything she could've prevented, and asked for His help in healing the wounds caused by everything that had happened that night.

**.**

In Nuada's suite, the nearly-scalding shower pounded down on his body. He braced both hands against the marble wall and bowed his head beneath the heavy spray, letting his wet hair fall around him in a curtain to hide the rest of the world. He imagined the blood no longer on his hands staining the water with pink swirls. Dylan's blood. He'd washed it off in the fountain, but he could still feel the salt and iron stinging his fingertips.

Nuada closed his eyes.

Perhaps Dylan simply didn't understand how sickened he was by the thoughts running through his mind. Didn't understand how repulsive he found himself, that he could see her in such pain and it did nothing to quiet his lust.

Even now, a part of him still hungered. He couldn't keep his mind away from the silkiness of her skin. If he'd let his hands wander, he might have been able to revel in the softness of her body under his hands. The way her lips had parted for him and he'd finally drunk deeply of-

_Enough!_ His fist slammed into the marble hard enough to send sparks of pain sizzling up his arm. Need burned in his belly.

Snarling under his breath, Nuada made the water ice-cold. Gods, what was wrong with him? Even now, even _now_, knowing she was so shaken, knowing one wrong move would send her spiraling back into dark memories, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Wanting her. Why wouldn't it stop?

He let his forehead touch the cool marble. Didn't flinch as water stabbed down on him like icy needles, cooling his ardor a little. He closed his eyes. Drew a shuddering breath. _Help me to do what it is right,_ he prayed, though he was unsure if anyone heard him. _Help me do what I must, for my honor and for her. Help me be the man she sees when she looks at me. How can I protect her if I am the greatest danger? How can I be the one she turns to if I am most likely to do her harm? Please... please. Help me. Help me to be worthy of her forgiveness. Help me protect her. Help me to be as I must for her and for my people. Help me regain my honor. Please._

An odd sense of peace settled over him. The guilt remained, gnawing viciously as a starving wolf, but a soft peace soothed it a little and helped dim his ardor. Nuada kept his eyes closed and allowed the water to warm again as the carnal desire slowly, slowly faded.

Once out of the shower, dried and half-dressed, he combed his hair in front of the fireplace. It didn't take long, so once the knots had been combed out, he kept going to give his hands something to do. Finally finished, he donned a soft wool-silk shirt. Straightened the collar. Swallowed. Acknowledged he was being a coward and stalling. What would he find when he walked into Dylan's room? Would she have come to her senses and repudiated him by then?

Nuada drew a breath. Knocked on the door joining his bedroom to Dylan's. Heard his lady's voice, muffled by the carved rowan wood, saying, "Enter."

Fionnlagh opened the door. Nuada was surprised when the guardswoman didn't challenge him as Uaithne had, but merely bowed and gestured to where Dylan lay curled up on her massive bed, staring at nothing. The prince said not a word as the guards shuffled out of the room. Only when they were gone, the door shut firmly behind them, did Nuada stride to Dylan's bedside and kneel before her.

She wore a black undertunic with capped sleeves - a common pajama top for her, since magic and the fire on the hearth warmed the room - as well as loose sleeping pants and no socks. One slender arm stretched across the blue velvet coverlet. The other curled tight to her chest.

Topaz eyes took in the sight of blue and purple bruises marring the pale skin of her upper arms and delicate wrists. A vicious bruise painted part of Dylan's throat in rust, dusty blue and violet. When she shifted, a couple inches of too-pale flesh showed above the waist of her pajama bottoms, and stark against that flesh were purple smudges. A cut graced her cheekbone.

Nuada felt sick. Had he done that to her?

He took Dylan's hand in his. Pressed it to his lips. "Forgive me," he whispered against her fingers. "I know I don't deserve it, but please, Dylan, forgive me." He closed his eyes against the sight of those dark smudges marring her skin. "Do they pain you? Do you wish me to fetch a healer?"

"No," she said. Her voice was a mere whisper. "They don't hurt. And you didn't cause all of these. In fact, only the one on my neck is from you. And the ones on my wrists, from when you caught me when I fell off the fountain. Don't be upset." The gentleness in her voice caressed him. "Are you okay?"

"I am... I... why are you being so gentle with me? Why do you not despise me for this?"

Her palm against his face was just as gentle as her voice. "Haven't you suffered enough guilt, Nuada?" He stared at her, uncertain. Not daring to hope. "No amount of guilt or sorrow can erase sin. Only God's love and forgiveness can do that. And you have it. Just as you have mine. Do you think I can't see that you'd give almost anything to erase tonight? I see it in your eyes. It's okay." She squeezed his hands. "It's okay."

"The bruises-"

"Hush," she said firmly. "Hush."

They stayed that way for a time, Dylan stretched out on her bed and Nuada kneeling at her bedside. She could see the torrent of emotions in his eyes, shifting and twisting. For a long while, he merely clasped her hand in both of his and pressed his lips to slender mortal fingers. When he finally seemed calm enough, she squeezed his hand again. Sat up.

"Okay. I want to ask you something." Dylan waited for his nod before continuing. "The bruises. When you saw them, you looked like you were going to be sick. What were you thinking about?"

He swallowed. Fought for control. "I've never harmed a woman, save in execution of justice as ordained by law," the prince murmured. "I've never allowed my physical needs to control me that way. I've never physically hurt a woman I cared for. Not in the bedroom and not out of it. Yet you walk away from an encounter with me covered in cuts and bruises, shaking with fear. I have never... I never wanted to... what does that say about me, Dylan?"

"Elves are at least ten times stronger than humans?" She shrugged. "That I need to stop squeezing myself so hard? That I'm really heavy, and that's why you grabbed me so hard when I fell and almost gave myself cranial hemorrhaging?" She touched the dark love-bite at her throat. "Or that you are _really_ good at neck-kissing, which is why I didn't notice you giving me a hickey. By the way," Dylan added, serious again. "This one? It doesn't hurt at all. I don't know if that matters to you."

"And the ones on your wrists?"

"They twinge a bit. No big deal. Honest," Dylan added when Nuada's eyes flashed. "I'm not lying to spare your feelings. If you'd really hurt me, Nuada, I would tell you, because we'd have to talk about it. Heal those particular wounds and move past them. I'm not lying."

"Move past them?" He echoed. "How can we? How do I shed this guilt for your broken heart and my broken honor? You tell me you're well, but the evidence to the contrary is written in violence all over your body. Who would forgive me such transgressions? My father would not. My sister would not. Spell or no spell, neither would show mercy."

Dylan took his hands in hers. "Who cares what they think? You didn't transgress against them. Forgiveness isn't in their hands. It's in mine, and in Heavenly Father's. I forgive you. I forgave you even before we left the garden. If you still feel that guilty, maybe you should ask the Star Kindler's forgiveness, too. I can see you're sorry for this, that you're grieving for it. He sees that, too. Let Him shoulder the weight of your guilt. He's all-powerful - He can handle it. You'll feel better," she added when he looked away. "You've done or are willing to do almost anything to get rid of this guilt you feel. I see it in your eyes. So why not try this?"

"It isn't that simple-"

"Yes, it is," she whispered. "It is. If you've tried everything else, why not try this, too?"

Nuada bit back a sigh. "I have not yet attempted all forms of atonement. There's one more thing I must do. I wished only to see you once more beforehand."

A chill slipped down Dylan's spine like noxious poison. "What are you going to do?"

"I must report this to my father."

"No!" She was off the bed and on the floor beside him, her hands fisted in his shirt, before he could blink. "Nuada, you can't tell your father, you _can't_!" She yanked on his shirt. "He'll hurt you. He'll torture you. He might even _kill_ you. You can't tell him this! Please don't tell him! I forgive you, please don't tell him." Her head thunked against his shoulder. "Please, don't. Please, Nuada."

He held her against him. Ignored the hot tears soaking through his shirt. "I must, Dylan, if for no other reason than to alert him to a potential enemy. And he is my king. It's his right to punish my transgressions."

"No." Her protest was almost a moan, muffled by his shirt. "No. He's not fair. He won't be fair. He'll hurt you just because he can. You can't _do_ this, Nuada. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just don't do this."

"I'm sorry, mo duinne, but this is what it means to be honorable."

"No! He'll hurt you," she whispered. "You almost died last time. There was s-so much blood and you almost _died_. Please, Nuada, don't do it. He doesn't have to know."

"He already knows, sweetheart." Nuada felt her go still in his arms. Even the tears and sobbing breaths stopped. Her heart, thudding hard in her chest against his arm, seemed to cease beating. "One of my guards went to him already to report what they'd heard from outside the garden walls. And I sent a message to my father as well, that I would see him whenever he chose to summon me about what the guard reported."

Her eyes were almost accusing when she pulled back to look at him. "Why would you do that? He's going to _torture_ you. How can you just let him..." Dylan pulled away. Got to her feet. She stormed to the window and stared out at the winter night spangled with stars. For a long time, there was only silence. Then, "If he hurts you... if he does anything to you... I'll never forgive you."

She must have seen him jolt from the corner of her eye, because she whirled on him and snapped, "If you get hurt because of this, I won't ever forgive you for just throwing yourself to him! You'll do the hard thing but not the easy thing? That doesn't make any sense! You'll just hand yourself over, knowing he's going to rip you to pieces, maybe even kill you? You promised we would stay together and he's going to kill you... how could you... why would you..."

Dylan made a sound halfway between a growl and a scream and turned back to the window. She thunked her fists against the glass. "That's so stupid! He's a monster, and you're just... you..." Her forehead touched the icy glass. Her shoulders slumped. "He'll kill you. He's been looking for an excuse and now he has one. He'll kill you. I'm never going to see you again."

Nuada went to her. Slid his arms around her from behind. "You don't know that for certain. Do not despair, mo cridh. It will be all right." Dylan simply shook her head. "I don't do this to hurt you, beloved. I do this because I must. My honor demands it. You cannot ask me to abandon my honor, not even for you."

The breath hitched in her chest. "Nuada... I'm scared." He tightened his hold. "I'm really scared. You'd think I'd be more worried about Eamonn possibly being alive and those Elves that tried to kill us and the shoggoth and whatever, but I'm not. I'm scared of your dad. I'm scared of what he'll do to you."

"I know," he murmured, cuddling her close. "I know." After a moment, the fae prince said, "I'll make you a bargain, my lady. Be brave for me, as I know you can be, and I will speak to your God about what has happened before I go before my father."

"You will?" She asked in a small voice. He nodded. She swallowed. "Okay. I... okay." She covered his hands, where they rested on her arms, with her own. His skin was cool beneath her touch. "Okay."

**.**

True to his word, Nuada found himself kneeling beside the bed in his own chamber, feeling incredibly foolish, but folding his arms and bowing his head nonetheless. He'd promised Dylan that if she put on a brave face, if she stopped trying to prevent him from seeing the king, he would do this. A crown prince of Bethmoora kept his word. So Nuada closed his eyes.

_I do not profess to follow any God or gods,_ he prayed. _I know of Thy existence, Star Kindler, and I know that she worships Thee with her whole heart. I don't claim such devotion, though I acknowledge Thy power. Yet I promised her I would come before Thee as one of Thine own to confess my sins and seek absolution for my transgressions against her. For what I have done, it's the least I can do. So here I am._

He hesitated, unsure what to say. After explaining the basic format of praying, which was a little different from what he knew, Dylan had merely told him to "say what felt right." The Elven warrior was a reticent man by nature, rarely confessing weakness, and doing so now seemed more than strange. It spoke against nearly every instinct. Nothing "felt right." He was only doing this because Dylan had asked him.

Not that he doubted the High King could hear his prayer. He merely doubted that Dylan's divine Master cared about Nuada's repentant confession. But she'd asked it of him, and he had promised her. So what to say now?

_I hurt her._ The words sprang into his mind without warning. He forced himself to allow them to keep coming. _I broke my word to her. I frightened her. I resurrected the ghosts of her darkest memories. I sought to use her with no care for her well-being or her mental state, with no care for what it would do to her spirit. I promised her that I would never force her to do anything she was uncomfortable with, and then I sought to seduce her in a place sacred for its memories, uncaring of what it would do to her. She walked away from that encounter with cuts and bruises. With shadows on her heart and in her eyes. Even now, she struggles to hide from me just how fragile I left her. My lust, fueled and twisted by enemy spells, did this to her._

_Even now, I cannot seem to escape that lust for long. It's not so bad as it was, but that I should yearn for her, ache for her, when I've hurt her so badly... what does that say of me? What kind of man does that make me? Dylan says because of the spells I'm not responsible, that no sins lie on my conscience. If that is so, why do I feel this way? This guilt burns as cold as salted iron. She says to surrender it to Thee. To beg Thy forgiveness. My own father will never forgive this; why should Dylan's Heavenly Father do so?_

_She says that divine forgiveness is a gift from God to those who repent. I repent, High King of the World, though I doubt Thou would forgive one such as I, one who does not even follow Thy ways. Still, I would give anything to erase this night. Anything, to erase the fresh wounds I've put on Dylan's heart. I am sorrier than words could ever express, that such evil was done by my hands, spell or not._

_Dylan says Thou wilt take my guilt from me. If that is true, and if it is just, I would beg Thee to do so, though I know I don't deserve such mercy from her or from Thee. But this guilt and this grief... I cannot bear the weight of it. If she is right - if Thou art listening to my words now - then do as she has promised, and take this guilt from one who sorrows beneath the weight of his transgressions._

_And if Thou art listening, please... heal the hurts I have done her. Help her in whatever ways she requires. Give her peace from her past. Please._

**.**

The night was quiet and still as it dragged on toward a wintry dawn. Just as the gray unlight of false dawn began to soften the night sky, a knock sounded at the door leading from his bedroom to the front room of his suite. Nuada forced the tension from his shoulders and answered the door.

As expected, Guardsman Siothrún stood on the other side of the entryway. He saluted the prince and said, "His Majesty King Balor demands His Highness's presence in his receiving room immediately. He also demands the presence of Lady Dylan of Central Park."

So. Siothrún had been the one sent to inform the king of what had transpired. Well enough.

"Lady Dylan is in her room," the prince replied. "She may be asleep. Tell Guardsman Uaithne what you have told me so her guards may awaken her if necessary."

Dylan was, in fact, asleep. While Uaithne relayed information between Siothrún, who wasn't allowed in Dylan's sleeping chamber, and Guardswoman Fionnlagh, Nuada dressed quickly in his customary sable and scarlet. He met Dylan in the corridor. All fourteen Butcher Guards accompanied them. Siothrún had been kind enough to allow the children to remain asleep, guarded by the hounds.

Nuada studied Dylan as she stepped into the cold stone corridor. Siothrún had given word that Lady Dylan was to come as she was, in her short-sleeved undertunic and sleeping trews. The guardsman's only concession had been to allow her socks. Dylan had chosen the penguin socks Nuada had bought for her almost a month ago. She'd also exhibited a stubborn streak and donned a black flannel overshirt that only emphasized her wan pallor. The sleeves fell well past her fingertips. The overshirt hid the bruises on her arms and wrists.

"The king commands that the Lady Dylan appear as she was when summoned," Siothrún said in an empty voice. Dylan glared at him and folded her arms across her chest. It would've been comical, with six inches of excess sleeve dangling at the ends of her fingers, making her look like a child playing dress-up, if not for Siothrún's next words. "Any disobedience will be punished."

The mortal paled even further. She shrugged out of the overshirt without a word and stared at the bundle of black flannel in her hands, as if she didn't know what to do with it. Uaithne, after drawing a single shocked breath at the myriad of savage bruises so dark against Dylan's arms and wrists, offered to take the shirt. She thanked him quietly and handed it over.

At the guardsman's gesture, they started for the king's receiving room.

Dylan felt eyes on her as they traversed the various hallways - passing pages and maids, guards on duty, message-runners and the like. They could see in the torchlight that dark finger-marks bruised her arms. That sickly-looking smudges shackled her thin wrists. Some of them might've even been able to see the rather... _enthusiastic_ hickey on her neck. Was that why Balor had insisted she come in the clothes she wore? So that her injuries would be on display? Only her hair hanging down her back hid the shoulder-bruises and cuts from the thorns. Only Nuada knew about those. Would he tell the king? Why was he willing to tell Balor anything? Why did he feel so guilty?

Once they reached the door to the king's receiving room, Dylan received a surprise that left her half-sick with confusion and fear.

Balor wanted to see her first.

She shot Nuada a stricken look as the chamberlain grasped her wrist in a gentle but unbreakable grip and tugged her toward the door. Her prince gave nodded encouragingly. He believed she would be safe. Believed she could handle this. Whatever _this_ was. He wasn't worried, at least not for her. It would be all right.

Barely a quarter of the way convinced when the door closed behind her, Dylan caught her tongue between her teeth and fought against the dizzying hammer of her heart as she met Balor's shadowed, unfathomable topaz gaze.

"Have a seat, Lady Dylan."

The king himself presided over the room from a large, high-backed armchair of crimson-dyed leather situated near the crackling fireplace. A long sofa, done in antique-gold velvet and covered in a smattering of crimson, bronze, and pale gold pillows, had been set so the full light of the fire fell upon whoever sat there. The king remained partially in shadow.

She didn't want to sit, but after the conversation where Balor had informed her that disrespect would result in Nuada being badly hurt, she didn't dare refuse. Shaking legs brought her to the gold couch. Her feet sank into the rich burgundy and pale copper rug on the floor. She perched on the edge of the sofa. Clasped her hands in her lap. Kept her eyes on the intricate pattern of the Persian-looking carpet beneath her feet.

For several minutes, neither Elven king nor mortal commoner said anything. Dylan felt Balor's eyes on her. Felt his gaze raking her from crown to toes and back again. Even though she knew he could see all of her "tells," the things she did that made it obvious she was nervous (if not absolutely terrified), she couldn't seem to stop herself from doing them.

Her toes scrunched and relaxed, scrunched and relaxed, a clear sign of agitation. It was plain as a campfire in the dark that her knees shook. Despite keeping her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her hands trembled as well. Her breath came in short, shallow almost-gasps. She couldn't stop her eyes from darting to and fro, despite her resolve to keep them focused on the rug. Every so often she flicked her gaze to the king, then look away again.

"How badly are you hurt?" The king asked finally. To her surprise, his voice was astonishingly gentle. Even compassionate.

Her eyes darted to him. Was this a trap? She was so tired, and fear skittered up and down her spine like insects, mingled in her blood like black sludge. She couldn't think. Didn't dare answer him. Would he just misinterpret whatever she said, twisting it to suit his own purposes?

"Do you need a healer?" He added. She shook her head. Bit her lip until she tasted blood. "You're certain? Those bruises do not pain you?"

"No, Your Majesty," she whispered. "Thank you."

Fear mimicked the coppery taste of blood on her tongue as Balor shifted in his chair. Something like electricity crackled in the air. The hair at the nape of Dylan's neck prickled. She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched down instinctively.

"Lady Dylan... Dylan. You needn't be afraid. I will protect you from him. My son has a great deal of power, but I am a match for him. He'll not be allowed to harm you for revealing his crimes."

Her heart rate spiked. She shook her head. "No, Your Majesty. Nuada didn't do any-"

A fist seemed to close around her throat. She choked on the words. Her mouth moved soundlessly as her hand flew to her throat. What was going on? Why couldn't she talk? Panicked eyes flew to the king, who watched with a mixture of compassion and pity in his ancient gaze.

"I've ensorcelled this room so that you cannot speak falsehoods within these walls, my dear. You'll not be compelled to speak, as that would be a gross misuse of my power, but you will be prevented from lying, prevaricating, or dissembling. Now tell me what happened in the Queen's Garden tonight. I promise you, I will protect you from the prince's wrath."

Dylan shook her head. "No! He didn't-" The words dried up in her mouth. She clenched her fists. Tried again. "He's not ang-" The spell cut her off without mercy. "Stop that!" She snapped. "You don't understand!"

"I understand that my son attempted to force himself on you tonight, and yet you defend him still. Which makes me wonder," the king added, an odd look in his eyes, "how often he's attempted to hurt you or succeeded in hurting you, only to be defended by you to me afterward."

"Nuada has never tr-" Magic prevented her from saying _Nuada has never tried to hurt me_.

Balor raised one eyebrow. "I suppose that answers that question. How many times has my son forced you to accommodate him?" He asked in a voice that was terrible for all its gentleness. "Or has it not yet escalated that far? Has he not managed to force you to his bed yet? All you must do is tell the truth. No one will hurt you."

Yes they would, they would hurt her, hurt Nuada because Balor wasn't listening, no one ever listened. They hadn't listened about the garbage in the creek, hadn't listened about the demi-merrow, or the sick leshii living in the tree by her window. They hadn't listened about any of the fae. No one listened when she tried to tell them about Patrick and Xander pushing and hitting and touching the girls and saying scary things and no one would listen about what they'd done in that basement or afterwards, or about their father, or how some of the grownups knew and would look the other way, or worse...

No one listened. They only hurt. Only hurt for telling the truth, only pain because the ones in power never believed. Balor wouldn't listen, she didn't know what to say and every time the spell stopped her from speaking it just made things worse. She tried to get some semblance of sound past numb lips and couldn't. She could only stare at the king of Bethmoora with desperation in her eyes.

"What does he make you do, Dylan?"

Dylan shook her head. "N-noth-" She struggled to force _nothing_ out of her mouth, and failed. All she managed was, "Please don't hurt him."

"My dear, he must be punished for his crimes."

"No! No, he didn't do anyth-" Her fists smacked against her legs hard enough that she knew she'd have bruises in the morning. "Stop it," she said. "Stop asking me these questions. Leave us alone."

"If he's done you no harm, if he hasn't forced you into anything, then there is nothing for the prince to fear. Yet you and I know that isn't the case. Did he promise you something in exchange for letting him hurt you? Has he threatened you? Your family? Has he hurt your family?"

"N-!" Horrified, she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Was Balor lying? Why wasn't the spell letting her talk? Nuada had never threatened her or her family.

Except, she realized, he had. He'd threatened John before. Hurt him. And he _had_ threatened her, and hurt her, during the first few tenuous days in the sanctuary over a year ago. Was _that_ why the king's enchantment kept preventing her from speaking? Not that it prevented her from lying, but that it prevented her from speaking anything other than the absolute literal truth?

"I understand, my dear." Balor's expression was grave, his eyes empty. Dylan began to shake. "I see the whole of it now. You needn't fear harm coming to you or your family by Nuada's hand. I will make sure he never hurts you again. You have my word."

A sob strangled out of her. "No, you don't understand!"

"Then explain it to me."

"He didn't do any- he didn't try any... he's not ang- I mean, we were just kis-" Another attempt at speaking was thwarted by the king's spell. Dylan gritted her teeth. Closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. After letting it out slowly, she looked at the king. "Nuada _is_ angry, but his anger isn't directed at me. He's angry with himself and whoever put the spell on us."

Balor straightened in his seat. "Spell?"

"That's what he said, that someone put a spell on us. And it made sense because everything felt... strange. My head felt fuzzy and I couldn't think. Everything was..." Heat flooded her face. "It was like being touched with just a tiny bit of Branwen's Tears, on top of not being able to think straight. I felt disconnected from my body. Like being drugged."

Oh, she knew about being drugged. Knew about poison in the vein, opium-whispers seducing in sedated sleep so that monsters could come in the night while the venom kept you quiet, kept you helpless while they gave you more pain, used your body and muffled your screams...

Dylan made a small sound and hugged herself, ignoring the way the bruises protested her uncompromising grip. No, she wasn't going to think about that. Wasn't going to go down that path for a fourth time tonight. She _wasn't_. No.

The king sat back and studied the mortal who fought tears. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. What the mortal had described sounded like a compulsion spell. No compulsion spell was strong enough to trap a crown prince without being detected, unless laid upon him by a fae monarch. And which such powerful faerie royal would have done so?

The Great Nanook, known for his compassionate nature and love of mortals? Moundshroud, clearly fond of the human girl? Roiben, a friend and ally to both Nuada and Dylan, and an honorable warrior and king besides? Anterion, who was Nuada's friend? Huizong, who had no grudge against the children of Adam and whose son and heir seemed to have struck up a friendship with Nuada's mortal lady? None of those options made sense.

Which left only one other, one that sickened Balor. One that threatened to shatter his heart into jagged pieces. Had his son cast the spell on Dylan himself?

Nuada was a prince - he wasn't bound by the chains of other fae that prevented them from bearing false witness. He could lie to his heart's content. Only Nuala would know if her twin spoke truth or not, and only in shared dreams, or through their link, or if she bent all her will upon him. So Nuada could tell Dylan an enchantment had been laid on them both, when in fact _he_ had been the one to bespell _her_.

But if he'd bespelled her to acquiesce to his demands, why hurt her? Why leave her with such vicious bruises? Had his lust simply been too much for the prince to keep leashed? Had his control finally snapped? Or had he developed a taste for bedroom cruelty during the other encounters with the mortal? The king even had to wonder if somehow the prince had managed to modify Dylan's memory in some way, so that on the night when the princess had walked through Dylan's mind to prove the truth of her testimony on Nuada's behalf, Nuala hadn't seen what her twin had been using the mortal for all this time.

Had Nuada been toying with the poor thing this entire time? Playing with her, using her, hurting her, to fulfill some sadistic need? What did tormenting and brutalizing this woman do for the prince? Clearly his son loved Dylan, at least as much as he was able to love anyone, so why use her like this? Unless that love was too weak to combat this lust for degradation and violence against the mortal.

Balor closed his eyes and fought to will away the horrifying images of his only son as ravisher, monster. If the old king was right, would it stop at rape? Or would the day come when Nuada's lust was only sated through more and more violence? How long would Dylan survive with him? The king knew he would have to wait for the healer he'd summoned to see to Dylan before he could pass judgment on his son. He would have to learn the full depth of her injuries. Just the thought made him ill. How bad were things, really? Was there any chance Balor was wrong?

A quiet knock at the door made Dylan jump. Wide eyes darted to the door as the king bade the knocker to enter.

Healer Táebfada stepped into the room, closed the door, and bowed to the king. Her smile was gentle and kind when she looked at Dylan. "His Majesty summoned me to examine you, Lady Dylan," the Elven healer murmured in her velvet-soft voice. "Please don't be afraid."

"I'm not-" Dylan found the words snatched from her mouth. She shot a look of sharp loathing at the king. Pulling her anger around her to smother the fear enough that she could think at least a little, Dylan tried again. "I don't wish to be examined by anyone, if it pleases you, Your Majesty."

"I don't recall giving you a choice," Balor replied, unruffled. "Remove your outer clothes."

"No!" The denial was out of her mouth before she could censor it. "I'm _not_ undressing in front of you!"

Táebfada touched Dylan's forearm, on one of the rare pieces of unbruised flesh. "The king must know the extent of your injuries in order to properly pass judgment on the one who attacked you. Have you garments beneath these?"

Well, yes, she did - a thick black half-cami with a shelf-bra, since she'd known Nuada might come to see her and she hadn't wanted to fall asleep in her actual bra, and a pair of spandex shorts over her underwear for a little extra warmth - but that wasn't the point.

"I'm not going to-"

"Are your injuries so grievous, then? I can only imagine how brutal your attacker must have been." Balor's eyes bored holes in Dylan as she started to shake again. "Or are you attempting to hide older injuries? Are you protecting your attacker, Lady Dylan? A man who preys on defenseless women?"

So she got to her feet, turned her back on the king, and drew her pajama top over her head, tossing it onto the sofa. Gritting her teeth, she shimmied out of her pajama pants and tossed them on the sofa, as well. Forced herself to stand with her hands loose at her sides instead of tightly fisted while the king and healer examined her back. When Táebfada pulled Dylan's long hair over one shoulder to reveal her back and shoulders, the mortal didn't protest. Only when she had to turn around so Balor could examine her front did she cross her arms defensively in front of her breasts.

The short, black half-camisole bared several inches of Dylan's lower back, as well as most of her upper back, her shoulders, and in the front, her upper chest and her stomach. The shorts reached a bit lower than mid-thigh. Balor bit back a snarl as smoldering copper eyes took in all of the damage and all of the scars.

Purple bruises ran from Dylan's shoulders down her arms to her elbows. More bruises circled her wrists, as if someone had pinned her hands to stop her from fighting back. Deep cuts etched across the bruised flesh of her upper back. A nearly-black bruise darkened a wide stripe across the small of her back before fading into purple and disappearing beneath her shorts. Because of how Táebfada had set Dylan's hair, the brutal mark at the mortal's throat was plainly visible. Purple finger-marks marred the backs of Dylan's thighs before vanishing under the shorts.

And the scars... he'd never seen so many. Claw marks. Knife scars. Smudges from human bullets. Burns that left smooth, shiny skin behind and burns that left scars like melted wax. Jagged marks where broken bones had perforated fragile human flesh. Bite marks left by a very humanoid set of teeth - one at the base of her neck, another just above her hip, and a final mark on the back of her left calf.

And those were nothing compared to the sprawling mounds of ice-white scar tissue at the bends of her elbows and dripping down the insides of her thighs almost to her knees, and the one covering nearly half of her upper chest. What, in the name of all the gods, could have left _those_?

Balor could scarcely believe his son had inflicted even the bruises on anyone, much less the woman he claimed to love. How many of the scars were at his hands, as well? What other injuries might she have?

Dylan fought the urge to be sick. She tried to remind herself that she was twenty-nine years old, not twelve. Tried to remember that she was in Findias, not Saint Vincent's. That this was King Balor and not Westenra, or Ivan Blackwood. Ivan Blackwood, Patrick and Xander's father, who'd told her what a pretty girl she was, and wasn't it a shame that she was so badly behaved. Ivan Blackwood, who'd used the excuse of making sure she wasn't hurt by her "tussles" with his sons to force her into taking off her scrubs and-

_No!_ She clenched her fists until her nails drew blood. _No!_ She wouldn't think about that. She wouldn't! Not now! She wouldn't think about him, or Patrick or Xander, or Westenra. Westenra was _dead._ They couldn't hurt her anymore! Her teeth sank into her lip. Blood trickled down her chin. Dripped from her bleeding hands. No. She wouldn't think about this. She wouldn't. _No_.

"Is this everything, Lady Dylan?" Balor's voice was dangerously soft. He had to repeat the question three times before the mortal responded with a tersely muttered affirmative. The king settled back, eyeing the tiny drops of blood dripping onto his very expensive Shahbaz rug from the human woman's trembling, white-knuckled fists. "You may put on your clothes."

Once dressed and seated on the sofa again, with Táebfada having retreated from the room, Dylan pressed her stinging palms against her pants to soak up the blood. The material pressing into the cuts stung. Helped keep her grounded at least a little in the present. She sucked on her bottom lip to hide how deeply she'd bitten it.

"What are you thinking at this moment, Dylan?" Balor asked softly.

Couldn't think. Couldn't let herself think. Not about anything. She'd be forced to remember and Nuada wasn't here and she was so tired and Balor was here, the king was here, and if she let herself remember, if she panicked now, what would the king think? What would he do to her prince? So she only shook her head.

"Mortal child, daughter of Eve, of the race of Adam's flesh, I command you to look into my eyes."

Sheer terror spilled down her spine as she found her gaze forced upward, found herself pinned by a pair of ancient eyes the color of darkly glittering topaz. For an instant, she saw something in his eyes that reminded her of Nuada. Suppressed grief. Quiet torment. Despair. It was the only thing that kept her even partially anchored in the present, instead of spiraling back into the past.

"I will ask you this once and once only, and you _will_ speak the truth. Did my son rape you tonight?"

"No!" Dylan cried. "No, he didn't do any-" Magic cut off her words. She found herself unable to look away from those eyes.

"Then what happened?"

"He didn't rape me. He didn't even try to," she said, struggling to choose her words carefully while fighting panic. "He didn't even do most of this! I did! When I get scared, sometimes I don't pay attention to what I'm doing. I've bruised myself lots of times. Okay? The only ones that are from him are on my wrists from when he caught me when I slipped and my neck. I swear."

A flicker of hope taunted the old king. "When you're frightened," he echoed, wanting to believe but not daring to trust. "Nuada frightened you?"

"N-" The spell snatched the protest right off the tip of her tongue. She flinched when the king's eyes flashed in chilling warning. Those eyes, so lethally cold, just like... "Yes, he did. He... things got a little... we went too far, but it was consensual. Sort of. I mean, I didn't protest, or tell him to stop until I had a flashback and then I panicked and he stopped. He _did._"

Disbelief. She could see it, feel it. No one believed her, no one would listen, and hands touching, pain, darkness all around her, the eyes always watching, always looking for just one moment of weakness, and she couldn't do this now, she couldn't! He would hurt Nuada, he would kill Nuada, she couldn't let him, but those eyes, icy topaz knives, and the monsters breathing in the dark and they were coming, they were coming for her, for them, she had to... had to...

_Get a grip!_ Blood flooded her mouth as she bit down savagely on her tongue._ You can't_ do _this now! Stop it!_

"He stopped when I asked him to," she whispered, struggling to keep the present in place around her. "He stopped. He feels so guilty, but he stopped, I swear. He never meant to scare me or hurt me, he didn't," the past slipping through, fingers of shadow wrapping around her wrists, teeth in her neck, suffocating on someone's tongue shoved into her mouth, but not Nuada, never Nuada, "it was an accident. Please don't hurt him. Don't punish him for this. I'll do anything, anything you want, just don't hurt him."

Balor watched in shock as her composure crumbled. Dylan dropped her face into her hands and wept.

"Please," she whispered through her tears. "Please, don't hurt him. Don't take him away," because they would, they took everyone, leaving her all alone in the dark, "I'll do anything you want, I swear, just don't hurt him again."

Startled, wondering just what she thought he would do to the prince, Balor said tonelessly, "My dear, he must be punished for whatever crimes-"

"No!" Dylan slid off the sofa and went to her knees before the king. "Please, no. Spare him, please! Don't hurt him! What can I do? I'll do anything you want, I swear, just please, have mercy. He's a victim, too. He didn't mean to hurt me. I'm begging you, don't hurt him. Don't kill him, please. I'll do anything. Anything. Please, just don't punish him. I'm sorry I was disrespectful before and I'm sorry about all the things I said and I swear, I'll do whatever you say, anything, I won't make trouble, I swear, but please don't hurt him. Don't kill him, please. Please!"

The king watched the hysterical mortal sobbing where she knelt upon the floor, hair hanging in her face and tears slipping down her cheeks to splash the burgundy and gold carpet. What sort of horror stories had Nuada been whispering in her ears, that her terror was so overwhelming? What atrocities did she believe Balor capable of?

The part of him that was just an old man wanted to ease her tears and offer her reassurance. Instead, he allowed the part of himself that was Bethmoora's king to use her promise to his advantage. She would do anything, would she? All he need do was show mercy to the prince. All he need do was not order Nuada to be executed. That promise, given to a king of Faerie on her knees, was as binding as a sworn oath. He would hold her to that... once things were resolved tonight. After all, he might have to execute Nuada. If the full weight of his suspicions proved correct, he would have to.

In the end, Táebfada was called back in to escort Dylan into the antechamber. The moment Nuada saw the misery and terror on his truelove's face, the crown prince was on his feet and striding across the small room to Dylan's side. He pulled her into his arms and simply allowed her to sob into his chest while he stroked her hair and whispered soothing nothings in soft Gaelic.

"I tried, I tried, he wouldn't listen, they never listen," she wept, trying to burrow closer, trying to thaw the brutal chill around her with the heat of Nuada's body. "He's going to kill you, he's going to take you away, don't go in, don't, please, he didn't listen, Nuada, don't leave me..."

"Shhh, shhh. Mo duinne, shhh. Mo mhuire, mo duinne. Amhain a chara, hush, now. Shhh. It will be all right. There, now. It's all right." Nuada nuzzled her temple as he rubbed soothing circles along her back. "It's all right now. Shhh. Easy, beloved. Be easy. It will be all right."

"Prince Nuada," Táebfada said softly. Nuada glanced up from Dylan to pin his gaze on the Elven healer. She gestured to the half-open doorway. "His Majesty will see you now, Your Highness."

Nuada dried Dylan's tears before gently setting her aside. She snagged his shirtsleeve when he tried to move past her.

"No," she whispered. "Don't, Nuada, don't, please."

"It will be all right, my love," he murmured, caressing her cheek. He wiped a fresh tear away with his thumb. "All will be well. Do not fear for me."

"Let me go back in with you-"

"No," the prince said, his voice gentle but firm as steel. "No, Dylan. This is what must be."

Stricken, she watched him walk through the entryway and shut the door behind him. She had just enough strength left to get to one of the cushioned benches lining the antechamber walls before she collapsed onto it.

"Uaithne," Dylan whispered brokenly, gazing beseechingly at the leader of her personal retinue of guards. "Uaithne, do something. Can't you do something?"

The Butcher shook his head. "Nay, milady. Not I. I am sworn first and foremost to the king, as are we all. Yet have no fear. King Balor is a wise and just ruler. You have vouched for His Highness. The king will show mercy and compassion to the prince. Do not be afraid for Prince Nuada."

Dylan could only drop her head into her hands. Ailís laid a comforting hand on the mortal's shoulder when she began to cry again.

_Heavenly Father,_ she prayed, struggling to swallow her tears, struggling to keep her head above the memories, _help him. Just please, help him._ And though she didn't know why, something prompted her to add, _Both of them._

**.**

The prince knelt before his father and king. Bowed his head.

"Whatever punishment you deem just, I will accept, _Athair_," he whispered. "Yet I would beg you not to send Dylan from my side. It would break her heart and her spirit as nothing else would. Anything else, my king, I will accept without protest."

"Will you?" Balor's skepticism was obvious. "And why is that? You've never simply accepted my judgment in such matters before. Why do so now, Crown Prince?"

Nuada raised his head and met his father's cold gaze. What Balor saw in the depths of his son's eyes staggered him.

"Because you were right," the prince rasped. "Because I've at last earned the disgust and enmity you've heaped upon me all these years. I clung to my honor, thinking it would save me, and in the end... Father, whatever you think of me, you must know I never meant for this to happen. It happened, and I accept the consequences of this dishonor, but I never meant… I have dishonored myself. Our kingdom. You. Mother's memory. I've broken my vows. Shamed my bloodline. Dylan seeks to defend me but I would not have it so."

He bowed his head once more. Unsheathed the sword at his side and laid it upon the floor before Balor's feet. "I surrender my blade to you, Majesty. I surrender my life and my will. Do what you deem just with me - I deserve no mercy from you, my father and my king. Punish me as you see fit."

For a long moment, Balor could only stare at him. Finally, he managed to ask, "Gods, Nuada... what happened?"

Nuada raised his head to meet his father's eyes. The concern in their depths robbed him of breath. There was no condemnation anymore. At least, not yet. Why? He could only stare at Balor for an interminable silence before the words tore out of the Elven warrior, leaving him raw with fresh guilt.

"I hurt her." It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, to confess that sin on his knees to the Star Kindler. It was just as painful now. The words were as ash in his mouth. "I frightened her. I swore I would never... I swore to her that she was _safe_ with me. That I would never harm her, and I... gods, Father, I..."

"Tell me."

The words spilled out of him like blood from a wound. He told the king _everything_ - how he and Dylan had danced in the garden, how simple kisses had turned into a greedy fire that consumed his mind and his body. How the need had festered within him like a cancer. How she had responded to him, wanting him in return, only to fall into a brutal flashback worse than any he had witnessed from her before.

He confessed how after all of that, after seeing her terrified and bleeding and nearly broken, the lust had refused to abate. How even though it had ebbed _now,_ it had only ebbed, not faded. It smoldered within him still, an insidious whisper urging him to claim Dylan for his own, whether she wanted it or not; even speaking of it now heated his blood and made him want her all the more fiercely.

The prince told his father about recognizing the combination of spells that had been placed upon him, on them, and knowing that somewhere he had an unknown enemy. How even that knowledge hadn't stopped the need. Only sheer force of will and Dylan's terror had allowed him to keep the lust at bay enough to take care of at least some of her injuries and make sure she was at least emotionally stable enough to make it back to the palace.

Remorse was a hot weight in his belly as he laid his conscience bare for the third time that night and waited for his father's inevitable condemnation.

Balor gazed down at his son, his boy, and wondered how he had missed such pain in Nuada's eyes. Dylan had seen it. Dylan had been swift in her defense, nearly desperate. He understood why now. She had been right. Nuada was just as much a victim as the mortal herself. His son was closer to breaking than Balor had ever seen him since that day beneath the hawthorn tree mere weeks after Cethlenn's death.

Balor had not been able to look into his young son's eyes that day, knowing that he had failed Nuada and Nuala as their father. Knowing he had failed his wife. So the king had retreated - from his children, from his court, from his people, from his duties, unable to bear the constant reminders of that failure.

He would not retreat now. Not in the face of a mortal woman's pleas and his son's grief.

Balor reached out and laid a hand on his son's shoulder. A tremor went through Nuada at the contact. "My son." He gripped Nuada's shoulder. The king could feel at least four different spells twisting and twining around the prince like thorny brambles. "My poor boy. It is all right."

"Is it?"

"She does not hold you responsible, Nuada. Surely you know this."

The prince's soft laugh held a bitter edge. "Of course she does not. She never would. She would forgive me nearly any sin, so long as it was only against her and no other. She learned such forgiveness from her God, I think."

"Perhaps the rest of us could learn to forgive as your lady does."

Flexing his power, the king sent a hot pulse of magic along the tangled vines of the spells, burning them out. Ridding his son of their dark influence. As the magic moved through his body, Nuada's tension eased a little. One pale, shaking hand reached up to cover the king's hand of flesh where it rested on his shoulder.

"Thank you," Nuada whispered. "Thank you. I... I... _thank you_, Father."

"It is all right, my son. It will be all right."

"How do I fix this, Father?" He whispered. "How do I heal the damage I have done? She has forgiven me, but... you did not see her. She was so... she is so young. So fragile in some ways. I forget, because she is so strong in others, but I think..." The prince remembered Dylan's terror, the unseeing despair in her gaze as she'd pleaded with him not to hurt her. She'd returned to the present at last, but the fragility had not left her. It had only been worse when he'd held her just before entering the king's receiving room. "I fear I may have broken something within her-"

Balor's grip on Nuada's shoulder was a gentle, reassuring weight that cut off the words heavy with dread. "Bruised and battered your lady may be, my son, but broken? I doubt that very much. She is strong, as you say. Though troubles may lay her low for a time, always I find her on her feet again, ready to challenge the next threat to either of you. Do not borrow fears without cause, Nuada. She will recover. And her faith in and love for you has not waned. If anything, it has only been strengthened by the trials the two of you have faced.

"We will find these beasts that dare to move against my son and his lady," the king added in a voice thick with fury. Nuada met his father's gaze, surprise on his face. "I will find them, and I will break them like crystal beneath the blow of a dwarven hammer for what they have done. You are guilty of nothing, Nuada. _Nothing_. Neither is your lady. When we find those who _are_ guilty, I will see them punished. They will rue the day they fixed their eye on _my son_ for their twisted games."

Stunned by his father's vehemence, Nuada asked, "Then... then you do not blame me?"

_You do not hate me for this?_ Words unspoken, yet felt nonetheless by a father who could feel his son's expectation of disgust and punishment.

The king closed his eyes. "No, my son. No, I do not blame you."

The relief that swept over Nuada at his father's words would have driven him to his knees if he'd been standing. Only once before, since the final war with the humans, had Nuada walked away from a conversation with Balor where anger and hurt and mislaid blame had not festered between them.

Balor continued, "You have done no wrong here. You have acted with honor by coming before me without hesitation, without guile. You have given me the truth and nothing but. Of course I do not blame you. And I... for the accusations I have made regarding your behavior toward your lady... I am sorry, Nuada. Perhaps I should have known better. I can only offer my apologies.

"Now come, sit," the old king added briskly. He felt his old eyes stinging, and blinked, for he would not shame himself before his son and heir by weeping. "I will have a page fetch your lady from the other room."

The moment Dylan came back into the room, she was at Nuada's side on the couch, her arms around him, her face pressed to his shoulder. "Are you okay? Are you okay?" She asked over and over again, her fingers twisting in his shirt. "Are you all right? It's okay. It will be okay, I promise. It's okay. It'll be okay. I won't let them hurt you. I won't. It'll be okay."

"Yes," Nuada whispered against her hair when he laid his cheek against the dark curls. "Yes, it will. I am all right, mo duinne. Do not fear. My father removed the spells from me. I am all right." He felt her shivering beside him and frowned. "You are cold."

"N-" The word cut off abruptly. She flicked a glance at the king, who inclined his head and made a sharp cutting gesture with one hand. Dylan sighed as the feeling of strangling on her denial faded away. "A bit," she admitted. "Snuggle me?"

Nuada pulled her tight against him. She laid her head on his shoulder.

Balor wondered if the mortal realized that the tension had drained out of her the moment she'd touched Nuada and realized he was not only unharmed, but for the most part emotionally and mentally unscathed as well. It was interesting, and a bit surprising, to watch the way the Elf prince and the mortal woman reacted to each other without realizing it. When Dylan's hand touched palm-up on Nuada's knee, the prince clasped her hand. When Nuada shifted his weight just a little, the human shifted hers, too, to fit her body more comfortably to his. Balor watched with some amusement as his son blew a wisp of Dylan's hair away from his mouth. The mortal actually managed a smile.

"So... Nuada's not in trouble? Your Majesty," Dylan added belatedly. "You're not going to punish him? You promise? And you fixed him? He's all right?"

He shook his head. "No, he is not to be punished. I think he has been punished enough, don't you?" She nodded. Swiped ineffectually at her eyes. "And yes, I 'fixed' him. The spells are gone from him." As they should be from the mortal, the king thought, as the spells had only brushed against her, and were not rooted within her as they had been with Nuada. Still, better to be certain. "Do you require such assistance?" Dylan shook her head. "Very well, then. We three must talk."

For the most part, it was Nuada and Balor who spoke, and Dylan listened, as they outlined the list of potential enemies who may or may not have set the spells on the crown prince and his lady. While they talked, a servant came in with a tray with three cups and two pitchers. In Nuada and Balor's cups were hot, mulled cider with spices. In her cup was simple apple cider with just a touch of cinnamon. The larger pitcher held more mulled cider for the men. The smaller pitcher was for her. She sipped slowly from the warm cup, allowing the heat of the cider to smooth away some of the chill while she set herself to a very difficult task.

It was all Dylan could do to slowly, over the next few hours, bring herself inch by inch back onto solid mental ground. Nuada's warmth against her helped. So did the fact that she now wore her black flannel overshirt. Being covered up helped immensely. So did Nuada's arm around her shoulders. The soothing timbre of his voice. The simple fact that she could hear how the weight of guilt had been removed from him at last.

So she let the king and her prince talk while she focused on coming back to the present.

Up until Nuada had walked through her mind the night of Westenra's cruel phone call, she'd accomplished this by shoving down everything she was feeling, good and bad - especially bad - until she felt nothing. Once she got her mental center back in the midst of this emotionless void, she allowed the good feelings to come back, piece by piece. She refused to allow the negative ones to slip through again. This wasn't healthy, but it had been the only way she'd known how to cope.

Now she had a better way. She didn't do it often, because it was extremely emotionally and mentally difficult, took at least an hour, and usually needed another person to accomplish. At least, the particular technique she'd put together needed someone with her. So normally she simply ignored the fear until it faded enough to deal with it. But she needed to be as in-control and emotionally stable as possible, especially now. She could feel herself teetering on the edge. If she broke now, she wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together for days, weeks. Nuada needed her to be strong right now. He couldn't keep worrying about her sanity. Her fragility. She had to get it together.

Letting her eyes unfocus a little, she allowed Nuada's voice to wash over her like a slow, warm ocean wave. She would focus, sense by sense, on something comforting. Something special and happy, something that meant safety. Sense by sense, she would allow that something to slowly dispel the fear and grief choking her. Dylan didn't force the dark emotions away. She simply forced herself to remember that she wasn't in the past anymore. She wasn't in danger. She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't be punished, simply for being who she was.

It was Nuada she used as her center, Nuada whom she could latch onto and use to anchor herself, because only at the very beginning had he ever frightened her as himself. Sometimes he'd triggered, or exacerbated, her flashbacks, but nothing about _him_ frightened her. Nuada was safe. Nuada was safety. He would never hurt her.

First, sound. Instead of taunting words dripping with dark malice, Dylan focused on the sound of Nuada's voice. It wasn't so much the words he spoke. Those didn't matter. It was the rumble of the words in his chest. The tired velvet-softness of his voice. The way his accent, nearly gone after two-thousand years in exile, still managed to sharpen certain sounds and soften others. He spoke with an Old World cadence that she loved, as well.

Second, scent. His wool-and-silk shirt smelled faintly of laundry soap and a bit more strongly of pine. Probably the maids kept pine satchets in the clothes-presses in his room, just as they put lavendar satchets in hers. There was the spicy, wildwood scent of his soap. So different from the sting of blood and the thick stench of musk, the burn of antiseptic and the choking smell of latex that always came with severe flashbacks of her time in Saint Vincent's. Nuada smelled like forests. Not like nightmares or darkness or pain. And he smelled of feral maleness, but not in a frightening or dominating way. It was simply a part of him. Simple and easy. Fey-like.

Touch. The lambs' wool and silk shirt was soft as a cloud against her cheek. Beneath it, she felt the hard muscle of Nuada's shoulder and bicep. Strength there. Strength to fight. Strength, as she had seen, to kill. But strength to protect, as well. A warrior's strength. She could feel the warmth of him through the shirt. Feel how tired he was in the set of his shoulders, yet could tell he was paying strict attention by the way he held himself. He held her hand and his thumb stroked lightly over her knuckles. Instead of pinches, slaps, cruel blows, biting teeth and pain, there was only that gentle touch against her knuckles, that soft caress. The slow, cool breath of soothing magic spreading from where he touched her fingers and down along her hand into her wrist, to ease the faintest ache from the bruise.

Lastly for those senses that centered on Nuada came sight. She let her eyes refocus and studied him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes while she listened to what he and the king were saying. Firelight played hide-and-seek through the curtain of his star-blond hair. His features cast soft shadows across his moon-pale skin. His eyes, golden against the darkness that surrounded them, were soft amber. Her fingers yearned to trace the royal scar etched across his sharp, feral cheekbones and the whorl gracing his temple, partially hidden by his hair.

There were no monsters hiding in the darkness. No grasping hands reaching for her. Nothing but Nuada.

Feeling more firmly in the present than she had since that first moment of fear in the garden, Dylan took a sip of hot cider and allowed the taste of it to wash away the phantom taste of blood and other, fouler things. She closed her eyes. Sighed softly. Found herself relaxing, drifting.

Balor studied the human girl as surreptitiously as she had just finished studying his son. There had been nothing casual or flirtatious about her perusal. Nothing that spoke of a lover or sweetheart's affection. It was almost as if the mortal had been... cataloguing Nuada's features. Making certain they were where they were supposed to be. Making sure that he was all there. The king wondered what it meant, and why she'd done it. He would have to ask Nuada at some point. Would his son trust him with the information?

Nuada focused on the plans his father was making. The king would alert those who needed to know of this new enemy. All eyes would be on the lookout for whoever might have set such a trap for the prince. Defensive strategies were laid. Battle plans were forged. Possibilities were discussed and given merit or discarded.

In the end, they were no closer to determining the identities of the spell-casters, but it was good - better than Nuada would have ever imagined - to have his father on his side in this. All but the dregs of his guilt had faded under the balm of Dylan and the king's acceptance. And, he could admit, speaking to the Star Kindler had eased him, as well.

"There is one more thing we must speak of, Prince Nuada," the king said.

Nuada recognized the subtle transition from worried father to concerned king. He straightened. Gently shook Dylan awake. Sometime during the conversation, the exhausted mortal had drifted into a light doze against the sturdy warmth of Nuada's shoulder. She stirred. Blinked to bring the room back into focus. When the king repeated himself, she forced herself to pay attention despite how tired she was.

The crown prince canted his head toward Balor. "Majesty?"

The king sighed. "Word of this... incident has no doubt already circulated among the servants." Balor saw the human girl's gaze flick to Nuada's carefully blank face before returning to the king's. "Many will know that there is more to the story than what they have heard or been told. Others will spread gossip as the wind spreads the seeds from which poisonous weeds sprout. What do you intend to do to combat these rumors?"

"We shouldn't have to do anything," Dylan said sharply. "Nuada shouldn't have to do anything. Sire, you said it yourself - hasn't he been punished enough? I mean, obviously I wouldn't still be with him if he'd actually hurt me. Once the servants and whoever else sees I'm still here, they'll know he didn't do anything bad to me."

"It does not work that way, mo duinne," Nuada sighed. "If anything, the fact that you remain at my side will only drag your reputation through the mud again."

Dylan huffed. "Nuada, you _know_ that I don't _care_ if those stupid people call me your whore or not. You know I don't care. It doesn't matter. We know the truth. Who cares about my reputation? They all think we're at each other constantly anyway, so who _cares_?"

"Yet there are those who know that you and His Highness are not lovers, Lady Dylan, and so would wonder why you remain at his side after he has so clearly abused you. That is what they will think, at any rate - that he abuses you. Openly. Such musings could be dangerous to you and to the prince. The pro-human factions of the court may attempt to move against him in some way, either through subterfuge or openly, thinking he holds you bespelled to keep you as his paramour, with no thought to your wishes. The anti-human factions will believe you are attempting to seduce the prince and guilt him into giving you the throne through a marriage between the two of you. They may attempt to remove the perceived threat to the Crown."

She looked to her prince. "So we're basically going to have both factions mad at us?" She asked. Nuada inclined his head. "Great. I know you can't please everyone, but now we've ticked off everyone, and we've gotta fix it. Our only hope is to make one of them happy, right?" She asked. Both men nodded. "The question is, which one? What would satisfy each side?"

Balor leaned back and steepled his fingers. "It would very much gratify the anti-human nobles of the court if you left Findias, of course, and never saw the prince again. I could send you away. Or Nuada himself could send you from his side. What say you to that, milady?"

The king's brows shot upwards when Dylan turned suddenly panicked eyes on Nuada.

"You promised," she cried. She grabbed his shirt in trembling fists and tugged. "No, you promised, you _promised_ you wouldn't-"

"And I will not," Nuada murmured soothingly, stroking her cheek. "I promise, Dylan. You have my word. I swear to you that I will not send you away as your parents did. I promised we would be together as long as Fate allowed and I'll not go back on that promise for all the jewels of Atlantis, nor all the treasures of Faerie, nor even all the stars shining in the heavens. There, now. Shhh. Do not be afraid. There are other paths we might take. Do not despair."

The crown prince turned to face his king.

"There is another option. You have but to command it, and it will be done, but I will not be parted forever from my lady and my very heart until death or some other inescapable Fate demands such a sacrifice from me."

The king inclined his head. "There is one other option. To appease the human sympathizers of the court."

"Well, okay, then," Dylan said, brushing the hair from her face. "Let's hear it."

He forced any emotion from his face. "You have said that you will follow this other option without question if I command it, Crown Prince. And Lady Dylan has already sworn to forfeit whatever I demand of her if I showed you mercy this night. I believe that I have. Therefore, I will give this order, and it will be obeyed. Am I understood?"

Nuada inclined his head to the king. Dylan, frowning, nodded. What could Balor want them to do that would make him think he had to remind them of those promises? It sent a frisson of nerves tingling down the mortal's spine. She ignored it and focused on the king.

"Our command is but this: to mollify the pro-human faction of the Bethmooran nobles, the two of you will be married a year and a day from the winter solstice."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and cue everyone's outrage and joy! Lol. So, since I've rewarded everyone with that little tidbit at the end… review prompt! Gah, I have a headache. Anyway, prompt!_

_1) So, Nuada. Rape is (of course) his big taboo evil thing that he abhors. And of course, terrifying Dylan, not okay in his book. How did I do on his characterization?_

_2) Who expected Balor to be that nice about everything? Anyone?_

_3) Dylan's hysterics – thoughts? Questions? Comments? Smart remarks?_

_4) Oh, the end! Balor's command! What do you guys think will happen?_

_Aaaaaaaaaaaand…. I love you all. Ciao!_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- laters


	74. Book 9 Took Her by the Hand

_**Author's Note:**_ _hello, everyone. So, seems like the reception for last chapter wasn't as favorable as normal. I was a little concerned and confused by some of your reviews at first. So I talked it over with my beta, kinda like, "What'd I do wrong?" And she was like, "Well, have you ever actually explained what's wrong with Dylan? Mentally?" Sheepishly, I confessed, "Well, no, not in so many words. You never said anything!" (Because isn't that what betas are for? To tell you when you mess up stuff like that?) And she replied, "Well_, I _got it. Not everyone will. So wait until you post 73 and see what people say then." So let's see what you guys think. I hope you guys enjoy._

_PS - there's a Legend of Zelda reference in this chapter. Who can find it?_

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**Chapter Seventy-Three**  
**Took Her by the Hand**  
**that is**  
**A Short Tale of Refusal, a Clever Ploy, an Explanation, Conditions, a Phone Call, Conditions Met, a Question and a Promise, and a Realization**

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"Our command is but this: to mollify the pro-human faction of the Court, you two will marry a year and a day from the winter solstice."

Several drastically different emotions flashed through Nuada: shock, that his father would actually command such a thing, and command it of them _now_; elation, absolute elation, because Dylan had said she would marry him if Balor commanded it, which meant she would agree to this, and he could at last make his truelove his wife. Then dismay and remorse flooded him as he caught a glimpse of Dylan's face.

He'd expected anger. Irritation, at the very least. Dylan didn't like his father (loathing would be a more apt description of her feelings; odd, as Dylan only hated very few, and the others who'd incurred her disfavor were vile monsters without heart or soul). Yet when Nuada glanced at her, there was no ire in her expression. No annoyance or even incredulity. There was only dull acceptance. Melancholy. As if she'd expected such a devious ploy for a long while and it had finally come when she'd decided to simply accept it, instead of fighting against the inevitable. It was almost a look of defeat. There was no joy in her expression. None.

Didn't she _want_ to marry him? Didn't she want to be his wife? She'd said she did. Said she wanted to be with him. So why did she look so sad?

For the first time, he pondered the difference between his loyalty to the king of Bethmoora and her loyalty to her divine Master.

Nuada served his king and country faithfully and well out of duty. He'd been born to privilege and with that privilege came certain obligations. And he loved his father. His people. Loved Bethmoora - every forest, every river, every mountain and meadow, every village and town and city. He'd been all over his kingdom in his forty centuries and loved it all. Even when serving brought its own crushing weight of grief and pain.

Why did Dylan serve her King? Obligation? She hadn't been born into privilege as Nuada had. What influences forced her to obey the High King's edicts? Fear of damnation to the Christian Hell? That didn't seem likely. An emotionally battered and physically brutalized woman-child would not have latched onto a faith system of that kind. So what was it that compelled her to serve the Star Kindler so devoutly? He didn't know, but he did know that whatever it was would explain the sorrow on that exhausted, scarred face.

"What say you, Prince Nuada? Lady Dylan?"

Before Nuada could speak, Dylan opened her mouth. If she hadn't sounded so tired, the words would've been something akin to a snarl. "What do you think I have to say, Your Majesty? The same thing I've _been_ saying. What part of 'goes against my religion' did you forget? I thought the fae had long memories."

Balor's thin brows rose. "And what part of 'I'll do anything if you have mercy on Nuada' did _you_ forget, little mortal? I know humans have short memories, but surely they are not that short."

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" She asked wearily.

"You make it so easy. So, what say you?"

Dylan sighed. "I say this whole situation sucks, Your Majesty. But I'm pretty sure you knew that. I also have to ask... how much of this little war counsel was actually genuine?" Both men gave a start. "Did you actually believe Nuada and me about the spells? Or were you just pretending to make us think you were on our side?

"What took so long for the guard to reach you tonight, by the way? Uaithne told me the guard left after I'd been screaming for about a minute, yet no one came to help. What if Nuada had raped me? Did you actually plan to stop him, or were you going to let him hang himself, and to Hell with the annoying human slut? Were you just going to write me off as collateral damage? Did you actually take the spells off him, or just suppress them? How do we know you weren't the fae monarch who laid them in the first place?"

Nuada's hand came down on her knee. He squeezed lightly - a silent warning. He'd have thought she was angry... but he didn't sense anger from her, only tasted exhaustion so brutal it dragged at him.

"Do not test me, girl," the king said without inflection. "You have used up my patience already. Keep pushing, and you know what will happen. Don't you?"

"Just answer one question. Was this whole thing a trap to force us into this?"

"Dylan," Nuada hissed. "Enough." When Balor shifted, the prince added, "Forgive her, Majesty. She's exhausted and distraught by tonight's tribulations. I should take her back to her room so she may rest."

The king flicked his eyes to his son before focusing on the human girl once more. "What did he tell you that makes you despise and fear me so, little mortal? What lies has he been spilling into your ears?" Beside Dylan, Nuada stiffened. "What sweetly-poisoned half-truths has he been feeding you?"

She leaned back and arched one eyebrow. "He told me you were a wise king who did his best to take care of his kingdom and do right by his people. It's not what the prince told me that makes it obvious you're an enemy, Sire. I figured that out the moment I first set foot in your Great Hall. I realized you were dangerous when I walked in and saw my prince, _your son_, chained by iron shackles to cursed iron whipping posts, blood sheeting down his back and pooling on the floor at his feet, half-dead from shock and pain, and you weren't even looking at him. It's not what he's told me - it's what I've seen you do."

"Then you know that you play a very dangerous game, Lady Dylan. Push me too far, and you'll see what more I can do when given the right incentive. I know your weaknesses, my lady. Remember that. Now, what say you to my command? Will you obey, or break faith with the Daione Maithe?"

Dylan closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. "I have sworn that I will obey this command, so I will marry Crown Prince Nuada of Bethmoora at the behest of his father the king. Under protest."

"Protest noted and dismissed. What say you, Nuada?"

"I refuse."

Nuada didn't know where the words came from. He only knew that while Dylan looked at his father as if Balor were the poisoned draught she was being forced to drain to the dregs, he couldn't obey his father's command.

Balor's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. Dylan's mouth dropped open in horror. "Nuada," his truelove began, voice hoarse, "Nuada, what are you _doing?"_

"That is a very good question," the king said. "If you mean to make a joke, Crown Prince, I don't find it at all amusing."

"I'm quite serious, my king."

Fear iced Dylan's heart as Balor's eyes flashed hot copper. She grabbed Nuada's hand and held out her free hand to the king. "Please, Your Majesty, um... just wait. Let me convince him. Please. Just... just give us a day or two to talk it over. I can make him see reason. Honestly. Please?"

"Dylan," Nuada began, "I will not-"

She jabbed him in the ribs with a bruised elbow. Winced. "Shut up! Before he orders us to do something worse! Like become lovers or something." Then, realizing she'd just let slip something the king could use against them, she added in a whisper before Balor could say anything, "Or worse, sleep in the same bed together. He's mean enough to do _that_ just for spite."

"I can hear you, Lady Dylan," Balor said. Dylan made a face and dropped her gaze to the floor as if embarrassed. "Let me see if I understand you. Sleeping in the same bed with my son is worse than becoming his lover against the command of your divine King? Why is that?"

The mortal swallowed. "Well... I've heard that... that Prince Nuada is an accomplished lover. So there's that. A bonus, as it were." Nuada barely managed to refrain from choking. "However," _oh, please, let this work, please don't let him see through this,_ she thought, "he's a sucky bed-sharer. He hogs the blankets. And the pillows. And I'm not actually supposed to sleep in the same bed as someone of the opposite sex except in an instance of medical emergency, also by order of my God. Which is how I found out Nuada hogs the pillows and blankets - medical emergency, I was suffering from hypothermia. And he drools, too."

"I most certainly do not," the prince retorted, though he noticed the corner of his father's mouth twitch. As soon as Dylan had started her tangent, Nuada had known she was going _somewhere_ with it, even if he didn't know where. So he'd followed, knowing she had a plan. Sometimes her plans failed. Sometimes they worked when the odds said they shouldn't. "_You_ snore. And kick in your sleep. _And_ you steal the blankets. Little thief. A man would freeze his ba-"

"I do not! _You_ snore like a congested bear. And you're a total grouch in the morning."

"And _you_-"

"Children," Balor said in a firm voice, breaking up the mock-argument. Dylan suppressed a flash of triumph. Balor had gone from furious king to mildly annoyed - and somewhat amused - father. One was easier to deal with than the other. "Enough. You have until Friday evening before the masquerade to make your decision, Prince Nuada. Clearly the late hour and the trials of the day have muddled your thoughts.

"And just so you are made aware of what you'll be missing if you reject my command a second time, Crown Prince, you will take the Lady Dylan to your bed for the next two nights." Both Elven prince and mortal woman stiffened. "Whether you do more than sleep chastely beside her is your decision. However, in this, I _will_ be obeyed. Disobey, and I will command you to take her as your leman. Consider it the consequence of defying," with a look at Nuada, "and disrespecting," with a sharp look at Dylan, "your king after I have shown you mercy. Any more disobedience, any more defiance, and I'll show no leniency with either of you. Understand?"

One dark-shrouded topaz eye slanted a look at the mortal's pale, scarred face. Dylan nodded almost imperceptibly to her prince. Her face was very pale. Nuada inclined his head to the king. The prince's expression was icy. Dylan kept her gaze trained on the floor.

"You're both dismissed. I suggest you get to bed. Now begone."

**.**

Once in the corridor, surrounded by guards, the grim expressions worn by prince and mortal dissolved. Nuada's anger was replaced by incredulity, Dylan's with smug satisfaction.

_I cannot believe that actually worked,_ the prince said through their linked hands. _That comment about lovers was an unfortunate slip, but you recovered very quickly. I can scarcely believe he actually thought you would prefer having me take you as my mistress to simply sleeping in my bed._

_Well, you_ do _have a reputation with women. And you really_ do _hog the covers,_ Dylan replied, forcing down her smirk. _So it_ is _kind of a hardship. But our incredibly silly and pointless argument also momentarily distracted him from getting really mad at you about refusing._ Her satisfied smirk faded. _What the heck is wrong with you? What were you thinking? You already said you'd do it. D'you need your head examined or something?_

_No. It is a simple statement of fact. I refuse to be coerced._

_If this is a pride thing, I swear I'll dent your head with the nearest blunt object. Twice. Then I'll strangle you with my bare hands, bake you into a pie, and feed you to Wink, whenever he gets back. Are you out of your Elven mind? You don't refuse a direct order from King Balor; he's a sadist._

_That's stretching it a bit far, mo duinne,_ Nuada said as they made it to the stairs. _He's merely doing what he thinks is best._

_Right. Hence why he threatened to force you to have sex with me. That's totally what's best. Luckily, bizarre mortal antics actually work sometimes on obnoxious Elven kings. What does he think he's accomplishing, though, with a threat like that? Is he bluffing?_

_No,_ Nuada replied. _Not bluffing. Punishing. Kings are like common men in that way - when they get angry, they lash out. They simply must be more circumspect about it. It cannot draw attention to the king's anger. But no one would believe my father would order me to take you to my bed as a punishment. If anything, they would doubt his involvement at all. I_ earned _my reputation as a consummate lover; no woman has ever left me unsatisfied. The court knows this. Royalty is expected to take lovers. Only my father would know how distasteful I would find such a thing, and I would only find it so because you don't wish such a thing to occur. If you had no objections, I would have seduced you long ago._

She gave him a wry look. _Uh-huh. How long is "long ago," exactly? A week? A month?_

_If I'd arrived at the cottage before Eamonn, and you hadn't been ill, and you hadn't objected, I would've asked you to my bed either that night or a night soon after. Rather, I would have asked if I might come to your bed._

_Oh._ Dylan looked positively stunned. _I... didn't know that. I, um... but we hadn't even kissed. You didn't know I was in love with you. Why would you... I mean... why?_

_Once gone from your cottage after our argument, I found myself unable to rid myself of thoughts of you. I didn't know you loved me, but I knew after that first night gone that I cared for you. And I knew, after only a week gone from your presence, that I loved you. My pride would have tried to prevent me, and my sense of duty to my people, but eventually I would've been grateful to accept whatever scraps you might have thrown me._

_I couldn't be your husband, for honor and my oaths and the cooler feelings of your own heart prevented it - or so I thought_. He shrugged. _If circumstances had been different, I would've attempted to be satisfied with the honor and privilege of being your lover. And knowing what I knew of your history, I would have made the first overture, so that you would be aware of my regard. I would not have simply demanded you allow me to have my way with you. I would've employed romance. Attempted to woo you. Tried to prove my sincerity._

_Attempted? There would've been no attempting. There would've been wooing, and falling for said wooing like a ton of bricks, and then I'd be a puddle of happy mortal at your feet. I had no idea, though._ She smiled, suddenly feeling inexplicably shy. _I had no idea you felt... I didn't know you'd felt like that. Why did you keep your feelings to yourself for so long?_

_Many reasons,_ Nuada said as they approached the third floor and the royal suites. _Too numerous and complicated to get into at the moment. A more pertinent question would be, whose bed are we sleeping in tonight? And why did you agree to such a thing?_

_For one thing, I don't think your dad would be too happy with my being smart twice in a row. And two refusals, one from each of us? He'd kill us. Possibly literally. Or at least hurt you. He was being nice up until I started ticking him off again; I didn't want to risk it. And if I refused, he might've upped the stakes. Instead of just sleeping, he might've ordered you to take me as your lover, and then we'd be screwed. In a lot of ways. Although still... ugh. I have to sleep in your bed. My bed_. A _bed. With you. This is not good. This is... meh. I don't_ want _to._

_I'm sorry to be such an inconvenience,_ the prince replied dryly.

_Oh, don't even start. You know why I don't want to sleep in the same bed with you._ At Nuada's raised eyebrow, she gave him a look of pure incredulity. _You've_ got _to be kidding. You mean you actually don't know? Because you're all cuddly._

He nearly tripped on the last stair. _Because I'm_ what?

_Cuddly. I remember from when I was hypothermic. You were all nice and warm and cuddly under the blanket and I just... kinda... wanted to, um, sort of crawl on top of you to get all nice and toasty. Which I kinda... did._

_You were quite... what was the word you used? Ah, "toasty." You were quite toasty against my side, as well, mo duinne._ He scowled at her when she giggled tiredly. _Why is it you're allowed to use certain words and I am not?_

_Because you sound silly. I don't. Chalk it up to being mortal. At least you've got adorable Elf ears. But in all seriousness,_ Dylan added as they approached the doors to their suites, _we're getting married next Midwinter. I don't care what you say. It's one thing when nothing's at stake, but your dad is going to seriously kick your butt if you refuse. Especially because of the politics involved, with the anti-human group and the pro-human group._

_No, Dylan._ He held the door to her sitting room open so she could follow Uaithne and the others inside. _I'm not going to marry you simply because my father orders me to do so. It isn't fair to you._

Blue eyes widened. _What? Not fair to me?_ She followed him into her room. The moment both prince and mortal were in the bedroom, the guards made themselves scarce. She snagged his hand. "What are you talking about?"

The crown prince met her gaze, and held it. "I'll not force an unwilling woman to my bed. I'll not have an unwilling wife. It is grossly unjust that you should sacrifice so much for me - your ideals, your dream of family, your hope for marriage within the Star Kindler's temple, your hope for a simple and peaceful life. You'll sacrifice all of that without a second thought. Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because I love you! Because I don't want anything to happen to you! Because I don't want to lose you! Because if you refuse to obey your father's orders, he. Will. Hurt. You. And this time, he may not stop before you're dead.

"If I hadn't shown up that night, Nuada," Dylan hastened to say when he opened his mouth to argue, "you would've died. I'm a doctor. I know what I'm talking about. I don't think you've actually accepted this, but you would've died without intervention. You were in shock when I arrived. The flesh had been flayed from your back. Your clothes and your hair were soaked with your own blood. You were barely conscious. You'd received one-thousand lashes and you were going to get one-thousand more. You were _dying_ under the lash and he didn't stop!

"Did you forget he was planning on punishing you for crimes you hadn't committed and you would've died and he didn't care? He never officially pardoned you. Did he even apologize in private? You almost died! Why do you think I'm so scared of him? He almost killed you! And for what? So you didn't defend yourself at that so-called trial. So what? He had no proof. He only had Eamonn's word. He didn't even try to have Nuala read your mind. He chained you with ensorcelled iron and whipped the flesh from your back. He may love you, he may be your father, but he's our enemy and I wouldn't put it past him to try and set you up to give him another excuse to kill you.

"If you tick him off, he'll hurt you. I mean, he will _seriously_ hurt you. He's the king; push him too far, he'll _have_ to, just to save face. And Nuada, I'm so, _so_ afraid of how he'll do it. I'm so scared of what he might think up to do to you. He's ruthless and terrifying and he's dangerous. You can't refuse him. Please. Please, Nuada. Just say, 'Yes.' Please."

"My father didn't intend for me to die that night, Dylan."

"Maybe not, but he didn't seem too broken up about the fact that you almost did. If you take everything else off the table, get rid of all our suspicions about things we can't prove - the dullahan, the shandymen, the nocs, the attack on Wink, the compulsion spells - get rid of all that and we're still dealing with a man who doesn't seem to care if you live or die.

"And I asked a _very_ good question, one he didn't answer: why did it take so long for him to deal with what the guard told him tonight? What if you _had_ raped me? In some alternate universe where you're evil," she added when a shadow passed over his face, "where you have one of those Evil Twin goatees like Spock." At this, he gave her a bewildered look. "What if your Evil Universe Self had actually raped me? If your father had moved his butt and actually dealt with the situation, someone would've been in to deal with whatever was happening between us, instead of nobody showing up at all.

"I get that you're a prince, and the heir, but if your father's really that concerned about what you might do to me, wouldn't he have done something besides tell the guards to wait for us to leave the garden? I mean, cripes, what if you'd killed me? Not that you would, but he's such an idiot, he doesn't seem to know that. What was he going to say? 'Oops, should've moved a little faster. Sorry about that. Don't worry, Son, I'll buy you a new human.' I mean, why did he wait so long to investigate? What did he think was going to happen? What was he waiting for?"

"I don't know, Dylan," the prince confessed. "All right? I don't know. What does that have to do with-"

"Your father's ruthless, Nuada. If dishonoring or killing you will help him accomplish his goals, he'll do it. Moundshroud even warned me of that. And for some reason your father wants us to marry. He says it's to rob you of your anti-human supporters and appease the pro-human faction of court. Maybe it is. I don't know, I don't care. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's willing to blackmail you into marrying me. And whatever he's going to use as leverage is going to be pretty nasty. We can't afford to get stupid right now. Says the woman who snarled at the king," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Nuada ran a hand through his hair. "Mo duinne... it isn't fair to you-"

"Life's not fair!" Dylan cried. "But it doesn't matter. What matters is that we'll be okay if you just say, 'Yes.' I'll be fine."

"You're _not_ fine," Nuada snapped. "You've been a step away from hysterics all night! And frankly, it is becoming..." He trailed off. Sighed. "I'm sorry, but-"

"No, you're right." She sighed and leaned against the wall. "You're absolutely right. I've been messed up all night. Worse than I have been in a long, long time. I'm sorry. I know it didn't help things." She raked a hand through her hair and sighed. "I know, but... I'm better now."

"Are you? I have never seen you so... so..."

"Weak? Whiny? Pathetic?"

He barely suppressed a wince. "I was going to say, 'emotional.'"

"Sure you were." She sighed. "It's okay, though. You're right. I've been... really emotional and weak and one might even say 'pathetic.'"

Eyes blazing, Nuada snapped, "I will _not_ call someone who has lived through all that you've survived and made what you have of yourself 'pathetic.' Weak, perhaps. But as you say, we all have moments of weakness. Emotional? Well enough. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you are _not_ fine, and I'm tired of you claiming to be so when a blind fool could see you are not."

Her sigh was half a laugh. "I'm surprised you haven't dumped me or... jeez, I don't know, slapped me by now."

"Do you think I'm the sort of man that would hit a woman? And what good would striking you do?"

She shrugged. "Isn't that what people do when someone supposedly gets hysterical? Slap them straight? Snap them out of it?"

Something about the way she said that made him hesitate. He frowned. "Supposedly hysterical? What do you mean?" She didn't answer. Merely chewed her bottom lip, heedless of any damage she might be doing. "Not hysterical," he realized suddenly. "Terrified. You were absolutely terrified. But why?"

There was a difference. Hysterics were a last-ditch reaction. A final flood of emotion before the mind shut down completely. While it had a cause, the cause and the reaction were often disproportionate. But terror... true and utter terror... the legitimate fear that someone's life was in immediate danger, and there was no help coming and no way out of the situation...

"You're not fine," Nuada murmured. "You are far from fine. How fragile are you?"

Exhausted blue eyes met his, and what he saw in their depths both reassured him... and chilled him.

**.**

"Well, you saw her," Crown Princess Kamaria of the Elven kingdom of Nyame said to her older and younger brothers. "Silverlance's human lady."

Farai, eldest prince of Nyame, made a revolted sound. "Sister, how can you call that... _creature_ a lady?"

The crown princess shrugged one lean shoulder. Twining one of her countless midnight braids around her finger, she perched on the arm of her younger twin brother's chair and said, "Clearly he's besotted with her. You saw how they were tonight. And she's lovely. Did you see her face? No missing features, but she's still a fair rival for my own markings." Kamaria touched her braid-wrapped finger to the fleshy mound of scar tissue where her right eye had been.

"My sister, no one rivals your beauty," Kamaria's twin, Kagiso, insisted without looking away from the fire. "Scarred the mortal may be, but that's her only appeal, I should think. And for such a thing to intrigue the Silverlance? I don't believe that's what got him. Perhaps the rumors are true and she _is_ a witch."

Kamaria raised an eyebrow and poked her brother in the side of the head, as she'd done since they were children whenever she considered him to be behaving in a particularly dense manner. "And what spell laid by a human could ensnare a faerie royal? There is no such spell. There's no such human who could enchant one of royal blood. No, if it's not the scars, it's something else."

"But what?" Farai demanded. He glanced at his sister. Kamaria didn't seem particularly distressed by the revolting display Silverlance had put on at the banquet. Then again, Kamaria was crown princess. Heir to their mother's throne. No princess lived as long as his little sister without developing the ability to hide her emotions. Perhaps she was just as sickened by what she'd seen in Nuada's eyes as Farai. Perhaps she was simply trying to ferret out the reasons for Nuada's sudden betrayal of everything they stood for.

"It doesn't matter. Let him dally with the human if he wishes," Kamaria said suddenly. "No doubt he's simply trying to learn something of use to the fae cause. Or he is a man after all," the princess added with a smirk. "Mayhap he is just as intrigued by her beauty as he once was with mine. Let Silverlance dally if he chooses. We have no proof he has turned against us."

Farai sputtered, "No proof? He's swiving with that... thing. A member of the race we swore to exterminate to save our peoples and our kingdoms. Not only that, but he's _in love_ with it! Intrigued by her so-called beauty, he may be, just as he was with yours - but he never consorted with you, did he?"

"Our sister and Nuada Silverlance are both heirs to thrones, Elder Brother," Kagiso murmured. "They did not dare have that sort of relationship, even if they'd been madly in love, as opposed to the mutual attraction they both felt. Our Honorable Mother didn't mind a little casual flirting, but for Silverlance to take our sister as his lover? It would've caused an international incident, if nothing else."

Kamaria glanced at her twin before settling her one-eyed gaze on her elder brother once more. Unlike Farai - hot-tempered, hot-blooded, battle-minded Farai, whom their mother despaired of, since he had no inclination to join the Anansi, which was his destined role as the eldest prince who was _not_ the Prince Royal - Kagiso was nearly always soft-spoken and even-tempered. He rarely raised his voice; he certainly never raised it to his twin sister and superior in rank, as Farai did. He was slow to act, but very clever. Once they got Farai out of the room, she would speak with her twin about what they'd seen tonight.

"Be that as it may, what more proof do you need of Nuada's treachery, Kamaria? Are you enamored of him still, that you refuse to stand for our people when-" A single, knife-edged glance from the crown princess silenced her elder brother's tirade immediately. Farai closed his mouth and bowed his head.

"How dare you? Never accuse me of having forgotten our people, Prince Farai," the crown princess hissed. The firelight made her onyx eye gleam. "Nuada Silverlance is my friend, and yours! If he has betrayed us, betrayed our cause, betrayed the Bakhna Rakhna... well then, on his own head be it. If such perfidy is in his heart, he will pay the full price for his trespasses. But he deserves better from us - from _all_ of us - than to be dismissed so easily. Many of our own kin have done just such a thing to us. Will we turn on our fellows and do the same?"

"But Kamaria-"

"_I am not finished, Brother!_" The princess roared, surging to her feet. Farai was tall enough to tower over her, and was twice as broad as she was, but he could feel her power - the power of the heir - crackling through the room like the charge before a lightning storm in the savannah. "How then are we better than the kings and queens who turned against their children, against their people, if we turn against our own? We swore friendship and alliance with Silverlance! When there is proof of his misdeeds, actual proof, only then will I listen to your accusations. Let him play with his human. Let him love her if he's foolish enough to trust in the feelings of a mortal heart. One human does not necessarily change his allegiances. Now get out of my presence."

Farai's gold-flecked black eyes burned with humiliation as he lowered his head further and whispered, "As you wish, Your Highness." He stalked out without a backward glance. He didn't slam the door behind him, but Kamaria flinched when the door closed anyway.

"Do you think he'll write to Obi about this?" Kagiso asked, referring to one of their other brothers.

"I don't know and right at this moment, I don't care," she replied. With a sigh, she sank down onto the tawny leather sofa her brother had just vacated. "I truly hope Nuada hasn't forgotten the plight of the Bakhna Rakhna, Kagiso. I hope so, with all my heart. Because if he has betrayed the Good People..."

"If he has, it will mean he's betrayed us all. It will mean that Bethmoora will not stand with us in the final war, and may in fact stand against us. But does it mean we'll have to kill our friend, Kamaria? Does it have to mean that?"

She dropped her face into her hands. "I don't know that, either, Kagiso. I pray not, but I simply do not know."

**.**

Farai knew exactly where he was going, though he'd only been to Findias a few times before this. Rather, he knew who he was going to. Knew, because he was following a sound, and he knew exactly to whom it would lead.

It was true what his mother often said - he was brash, hot-headed. A soldier and a savage fighter, but not a warrior. He had no head for strategy and tactics. He certainly didn't envy his younger sister her role as heir to the throne. But he had one very valuable talent. A talent he'd honed over the centuries into an often-times lethal skill. One his mother was very, very proud of.

He could sense poison, and poisonous magic. It was little wonder, of course. His mother hadn't been the eldest princess, but the second eldest. She'd been destined for the role that the eldest child not intended for the throne was always given - leader of the Anansi. When her older twin sister, the then-current _Cha Nanzi Nega_, had been killed, his mother had become the new queen. Her ascent to the throne brought to the royal line an affinity for poisons and venoms that was normally found only in those who joined the Royal Guard. All of the _Cha Nanzi Nega_'s children had some ability of that sort, but Farai's was the most unusual. He could actually _hear_ poisonous magic when it was in use. He heard it now, and recognized the flavor of it.

The Nyame prince found Cíaran macAengus in a secluded little curtained alcove. Crown Prince Bres, a friend of Farai's, had long ago explained that Cíaran had a bit of gancanaugh blood in him from several generations ago, and that he was a throwback to his Love Talker ancestor. Farai could see evidence of that now. Hear it, in the dull throbbing pulse of Cíaran's gancanaugh power - a pulse like a dying heartbeat.

Cíaran was just releasing a slender hob maid - one of the palace maids, by the look of her half-undone dress - when Farai rapped a sardonic knock against the edge of the alcove's entryway. The maid gasped and ducked her head. In the flickering torchlight, Farai saw a bruise on her cheek. He swallowed his disgust. Gancanaugh blood brought out a lot of twisted traits in a fae, but if the girl didn't complain about the way Cíaran handled her, who was the Nyame prince to judge?

"I'm a little busy, Prince Farai," Cíaran muttered, grabbing the maid again and pinning her to a velvet-covered bench before she could slither away.

He'd already had her thrice. Wanted her again. There was something so enchanting about all of that long, curly brown hair. After he'd touched her bare skin with his venom-slicked hands, she'd responded readily enough to his advances. The first time had left something to be desired, though he'd been unable to put his finger on it until, on a whim, he'd ordered her to glamour her sloe-black eyes a different color. Clever little thing had chosen blue. The results had been... interesting.

"Does Prince Bres know you're out here raping chambermaids instead of doing something productive for our cause?"

Cíaran bit back a wolfish smile. "It's hardly rape when the trull is willing." He caressed the hob girl's cheek with a poisonous touch. She shuddered against him. Cíaran nuzzled her cheek. Licked the corner of her mouth. The girl gasped. Her eyes began to glaze. "Isn't that right, poppet? Give us a kiss."

"My lord..." She whispered before his mouth came down on hers, his lips cold and damp with faerie poison.

Farai bit back a growl. "If you could possibly pull your tongue out of your new toy's mouth long enough to tell me where Bres is?"

"In his room," Cíaran mumbled. One hand went to the hob's skirts. "With King Anterion and two guests. Someone else who wonders if Silverlance has betrayed us and all we stand for. You're welcome to join them. I'm otherwise engaged at present." He shoved her skirts up, baring her thighs. "Now go away."

Rolling his eyes, the Nyame Elf strode away, letting the curtain fall back into place. As a courtesy to Cíaran, he added another layer of sensory glamour over top the one the Fomorian lord had already put into place, ensuring that no one except a royal heir or a monarch would be able to hear Cíaran's growls of pleasure or the chambermaid's soft cries.

Farai found the crown prince of the Fomori in his suite as promised, along with the king of Mytikas and two tall, golden-eyed fae. One was considerably taller than the other; the dark-eyed prince recognized him from the banquet earlier that night. The shorter fae was in no way familiar. Slender, amber-eyed like all Bethmooran Elves, he wore a simple dark green tunic and trews with plain black boots. His long, silvery blond hair was tied back in a loose horsetail.

"Ah, Farai. Good of you to come. Cíaran busy enjoying himself? Good. He needed a respite from all the politicking. Where are Kamaria and Kagiso?"

"They remain in their chambers," the prince replied to Bres. "Kamaria is tired. Kagiso stays by her side, as always." Bres was a friend, and a trusted ally, but instinct told the Nyame prince not to inform the Fomori that his sister and brother seemed uncertain as to their course regarding what Nuada may or may not have done. "Who are these men?"

"Two very useful potential allies," Bres replied with a grin. "Our large friend is here at the behest of his mistress's family. And this fine Bethmooran is merely a concerned citizen who works in the palace. I think they'll be very useful to our plans, indeed."

**.**

"You are _not_ fine," Nuada murmured. "You're far from fine. How fragile are you?"

Exhausted blue eyes met his, and what he saw in their depths both reassured him... and chilled him. Dylan shook her head as if were a terrible burden on her shoulders. "Actually, I'm okay right now. I really am. Mostly."

The Elven prince scoffed. "I sincerely doubt that. Nearly all night it seemed you were on the verge of... of-"

"A mental breakdown?" Dylan supplied. After a moment, Nuada nodded. It was as good a phrase as any. "I wasn't on the verge of a mental breakdown."

"Indeed?"

She shot him a look. "No, I wasn't on the verge. I was _having_ one. All night. If not for you, I don't know what would've happened. The last time I had flashbacks even close to that bad - I've _never_ had them that bad before - I ended up back in a psychiatric hospital for _three months._ As an adult." Seeing his expression, she sighed. "My uncle Thaddeus convinced me. I wasn't taking care of John like I needed to; that's the only reason I agreed. Uncle Thad caught me during one of my rare lucid moments. He and my aunt took John. They were good to him; my cousin Renee has the Sight, and she's pretty gifted, so they're used to weird stuff."

He chewed that over for a moment. "Three months? What happened to you during that time? What did they do to you?"

Dylan closed her eyes. "Nothing. I was always waiting for it, though. I barely slept. Barely ate. Remind me to show you a picture sometime; I lost forty pounds. I looked pretty good, except my hip bones stuck out and you could count my ribs. When I got out, people wanted to know my dieting secret."

Laughter, Nuada reflected, chilled, shouldn't sound like broken glass scraping bone. "What did you do?"

"Spent most of my days staring out the window or crying." She hesitated, as if she might speak again, but closed her mouth. Nuada frowned.

"There's more to it than that."

"Yeah, well, I'm not telling you about it," she muttered. "Unless you wanna see what happens to a mortal with PTSD who won't take her meds and hasn't been to her weekly therapy in two months when you push too hard." Dylan sighed. Raked her hands through her hair. "You really want to know?"

He inclined his head, though he wasn't certain anymore. There was a quiet, poisonous bitterness underneath her words that was so unlike her. It almost tasted of... self-loathing. He'd never heard her sound this way before.

"You know there's not a lot of muscle in your fingers, right?" She wiggled all ten fingers at him, like a magician about to do a trick. "Most of the muscle and tendons that control movement are here." She flipped her hands around to show him the backs of her hands. Wiggled her fingers again. Tendons flexed beneath the skin. She turned her hands around so the palms faced him. "Hands don't usually scar easily once you reach adulthood," she added. "Especially if you have calluses or whatnot. Especially if you worked with your hands as a kid. Playing outside. Cleaning up the trash out in the woods and in creeks and such. Building rock forts for local garden gnomes. That sort of thing. Which is why," her voice turned almost wistful, "I'd imagine I don't have any scars left over from those three months."

Nuada didn't like the odd quality to her voice. It wasn't the hollow terror of a flashback, but it didn't sound like Dylan, either. "Where are you going with this?"

"Did you know that in a lot of mortal secondary schools, when they dissect earthworms and frogs, you're supposed to use a scalpel? But they rarely do. Usually they give kids Exact-O knives or double-sided razorblades, because they're sharper. All you have to do is put a razorblade in your palm and fold your hand around it. Like this." One by one, she folded the four fingers of her left hand and curled her thumb down, making a fist. "It doesn't even hurt at first."

He had to swallow twice before speaking. "At first?"

Her voice was dreamy when she held up her loose fist and whispered, "No. Not at first. There's just this strange warmth. The first time, I didn't know what it was. Then the blood welled up between my fingers and I realized, 'Oh. So that's what that is.' It scared me that it didn't hurt. But if you tighten your fist," her fingers clenched until her knuckles turned white, "then it hurts. It burns and you _know_ there's something besides white walls and echoing corridors and bars on the windows. More than the voices in your head and the faces you see, no matter whether you're sleeping or awake or trapped in between.

"That's what I did all day while I was there, so I could focus on something, anything, besides memories. Besides how much I wanted a drink. Besides how much I needed my next dose of Valium and whatever else my doctors had prescribed me. I let the razor make me burn so I knew there was a difference between the past and the present. Human blood is _so_ red, have you noticed?" She closed her eyes. Loosened her fist. Waggled her fingers, showing him her nail-marked palm. "And it never left any scars."

If he tried to hold her, would she push him away? For some reason, Nuada was fairly certain she would. Her face was strangely remote. He couldn't read her expression. Scarcely recognized the emptiness in her gaze. All he managed to say was, "You never told me."

"It's not something I'm proud of," Dylan replied. "I didn't... didn't want you to be ashamed of me."

"Ashamed?" He echoed. "Of you? How could I be?" She just looked at him before looking down to study her fingernails. "What is... Valium?"

She swallowed. "It's a sedative. I took it once I got out of the institution when I was eighteen for... tremors." She held up her hands again. "Drugs like thorazine, anti-psychotic medication - the stuff they made me take as a kid - sometimes has long-lasting effects. Hallucinations. Paranoia. Lowered seizure threshold. Intense nightmares. Insomnia. And tardive dyskinesia."

Seeing his incomprehension, she added, "Basically, muscle tics and tremors. When I'm freaked out, my hands shake. It used to be worse." Her smile was tired and bitter. "My sister Mary used to call me 'Ferret' because I twitched a lot until my early twenties. Now it's just my hands. So I took Valium and a few other things, for that and the nightmares." She met his eyes. "Valium's addictive. So's Ambien, Lithium, Rohypnol, and Amytal - the other poisons in my personal cocktail at the time."

"What is PTSD?"

"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," she replied softly. "They used to call it 'shell-shock' or 'mental exhaustion.' I guess those are sort of accurate."

"Battle-haunts," Nuada said. After a moment, Dylan nodded. "Dylan... what happened tonight? I would like an explanation from your lips. What happened?"

There was something eerily adolescent in her shrug of dismissal. "I had a mental breakdown. It happens."

Nuada said her name. Quietly, but firmly. Against her will, she found her gaze dragged up to his impassive face, bathed by the cool winter moonlight through the window. The embers in the hearth added just a touch of warmth to him. "Dylan," he said again. "I. Want. An explanation."

She knew, suddenly, that nothing would be okay between them if she didn't give him one. And didn't he deserve it? Didn't he deserve to know what he was getting into? She should've told him weeks ago, the mortal realized. But there'd never been a good time. Not even when he'd been helping her deal with memories of Patrick and Xander and Westenra. She'd been too shaky then to tackle everything else. Well, she'd tackle it now. Or at least, deal with whatever Nuada wanted to know.

"Okay. Okay. Um... I just... it used to be, when my memories got to be too much for me, I'd just shove everything down, where I wouldn't feel it. If I couldn't just _do_ it, then I would hurt myself, use pain to help. But then all of that fear and anger and... hatred would turn into this sort of... soul-poison. Then it would happen again, something worse would come or I'd flash back, and I'd have to shove it all down, and the poison just got thicker and thicker. It festered.

"You lanced that wound when you walked through my memories. You didn't get rid of the poison, but you made it so that _I_ could without breaking. I just... haven't had time or known where to start. And tonight... I could feel all of that darkness rising up to drown me. Like this black ocean. Every time something triggered a flashback, I'd go under. The first couple times you were there to pull me out. I'd get calm enough that I could stay in the present if I focused hard enough, but I never actually had the time to anchor myself before something else happened, triggering another flashback, and I'd be back beneath the waves, drowning. Then, when your father... when your father was talking to me, I..."

"You didn't know where you were, did you?" Nuada asked. "Like in the garden. You thought you were somewhere else, with some_one_ else. You weren't remembering; you were reliving the experience." She bit her lip and nodded. "Where did you think you were? And with who?"

"I thought I was back in the institution. I mean, I _knew_ I wasn't, but there's knowing and there's _knowing._ Like, I know you'd never hurt me. I _know_ that, in my heart and soul. But you remember when we were first together in the sanctuary? I didn't know it then. You told me, and the Spirit told me, and I knew because you'd sworn on the Darkness, but I didn't _know_ it. I didn't believe it.

"Just like tonight. I knew I was safe in Findias, that you were right outside the door. That if I needed you, you'd come. But I didn't _know_ that. I was suddenly just... just back there again. I was back in that place. I thought I was with Westenra and Ivan-" She bit off her words before she revealed the surname. "Everything got jumbled together. Sometimes I flash back and it's just memory. Other times, I'm living it all over again, and the real world is just... gone. And sometimes, like tonight, it mingles and I can't tell the difference between the past and the present and the monsters... I keep seeing faces. Monsters in the dark. If I'd been dealing with just your dad, I'd have been fine, or mostly, but suddenly I was twelve years old and I was back in that place and I didn't know what to do and I thought we were both going to die or... I was waiting for..."

When she didn't go on, he took a step nearer. "What were you waiting for?"

Dylan raked a trembling hand through her hair. "I was waiting, just waiting, for someone to grab me, to hurt me. I mean, I _felt_ hands on me. I was convinced... even though I knew there was no way it would happen, a huge part of me was waiting for your father to attack me. Not just to order someone to attack or hurt us. I was waiting for _him_ to... to try and... I just... he was going to... they always try to..."

"My father would never do such a thing, Dylan. He is capable of much, I freely admit, but not rape. Even if such evil were within his purview, he hasn't the strength to harm you that way. Surely you know that?" She flicked a glance at him before turning to stare at the floor. Nuada paused. Considered. "You weren't actually reacting to the present situation, were you? When you begged my father to spare me, who were you talking to?" Her mouth opened, closed. No sound emerged. She pressed her lips together. "Who were you seeing? Westenra? Or someone else?"

"Nuada, please-"

"Tell me. Who were you seeing in your mind? Who were you so afraid of? Afraid for?"

"Everyone," she confessed. "Everyone who's ever mattered to me and ever been threatened. You. John. My family. My patients. Everyone who matters. But especially you. And I kept seeing... everyone who'd ever threatened me. Westenra. Patrick and Xander. Their... I don't know why it was so bad. But no, I wasn't reacting as much to your father or the situation I was actually _in_. I was reacting to what my mind kept insisting was happening. Or going to happen."

Which meant, the Elven warrior thought, that she'd been reacting to the certainty that if she didn't beg for her life - and his - they would be... what?

He knew. After walking through Dylan's memories, after being forced to skim Westenra's twisted mind, Nuada knew what she'd been afraid would happen if she didn't beg. That he would be killed - probably tortured to death before her very eyes. Just as in her worst nightmares, in the brutal mind-rapes Eamonn had inflicted on her barely two months ago. That Dylan would then be raped, again and again, until her assailants either bored of the sick game and killed her, or she died beneath them. And no amount of reassurance from anyone, even herself, would have allayed those fears.

"My father said something that triggered another flashback," Nuada said softly. He wondered what it could've been. "That's why you were so upset before, when you stepped out of his receiving room and came to me. He triggered something." Dylan looked away. "What did he do?"

"If I tell you, you have to promise not to do anything about it. I mean it. I wouldn't ask if he'd done anything worth challenging him over, so you have to promise you won't confront him about this."

"I will make no such promise. What could he possibly have done to terrify you so badly?" When Dylan merely bit her lip again, Nuada commanded, "Remember our bargain, my lady."

She closed her eyes. Sighed. "Okay. He made me strip. Not strip naked," she hastened to add when a snarl ripped out of the Elven warrior and his hands convulsed into fists. "Relax! I had on shorts and a half-cami. But it... it scared me to death. Westenra used to... he would... and Ivan... they... it's just pretend," she whispered. Her eyes were glassy. "Just a game of pretend, they said. Have to make sure you're not hurt, sweetheart, have to make sure things didn't get too rough. Just close your eyes and let them see and it'll be over in a minute, it won't hurt, no one will hurt you, they always said that but it wasn't true-"

Nuada grabbed her wrists and squeezed hard enough to get her attention. She gasped. Stared at him. "Dylan, you're safe here with me. Do not go back down that road. I'm here now. No one will hurt you when I'm here. It's all right. It is _only_ a memory. It isn't real. _I_ am real. Feel me. Know that I'm real. Know it."

Trembling fingertips brushed his cheek. His temple. Traced the whorl-shaped scar there. "Nuada." She swallowed. "Nuada. Yes. I'm all right. That's all he did, Nuada, I promise. That's all your father did. He wanted to see how badly I was hurt. It just panicked me because... because they always-" She fell silent when the Elf released her wrists with a low snarl.

The warrior rose to his feet and began to pace to work off some of the temper burning through him like acid. Oh, he _knew_ what Westenra used to do, to her and other girls. What other men and those sick, twisted human whelps did. Force an innocent girl to strip slowly on the pretense that she needed to be examined for damage in the aftermath of a brutal encounter with those vermin. It saved the monsters the effort of ripping the clothes out of their way when they would... and it aroused them to watch a trembling, terrified innocent forced to perform that way. Bastards.

Dylan's memories swam to the surface of his mind. Bile burned the back of his throat as his gorge rose. He would _not_ think about such things. Not now. She needed him to focus. And _he_ needed to figure out what had happened between her and his father so that it never happened again.

"He didn't know, Nuada," she said.

"The king should've called a healer to examine you," the prince snapped.

"He did. He called Táebfada."

Nuada paused in his pacing. "Táebfada? He doesn't trust Táebfada..." He frowned. "Because Táebfada is loyal to me. She is an ally. But _you_ trust her, don't you? That's why my father chose her. He remained because he doesn't trust her to report to him accurately, knowing you would no doubt tell her I was the one to attack you. Yet he chose her to make things easier for you."

"Oh. I... oh." Dylan scrubbed at her face. "Your dad confuses me. Maybe just because I'm tired, but seriously - I'm confused now. Why would he even care if it was easy for me or not?"

The prince waved the confusion away. "Never mind that. Was this negligent cruelty on my father's part the reason you were so frightened?"

Dylan shook her head. "It was a combination of things. I was exhausted already - I've been up for almost twenty-four hours, and I haven't been sleeping, and my pain meds just make the exhaustion worse. The two flashbacks in the garden left me... unstable."

"May I ask you something?" She nodded. "When I suggested sending you away... why did that frighten you so badly?"

A single tear spilled down her cheek. "My parents sent me away," she reminded him. "That day... they didn't even _warn_ me. One day I came home from school and there was a van in our driveway and when I went into the house, they sat me down on the couch and told me I had to be sent away. That sending me away was best. That it wasn't safe for me to live at home anymore. I'd be safer at Saint Vincent's. My siblings would be safer if I was gone. Everything would be better. Everyone would be happier. They'd be happier if I was locked away where they never had to see me again."

Even Nuada couldn't believe humans capable of that. Some humans, yes, but not humans who'd raised a child like Dylan, or even one like John. "Surely they at least visited..." He trailed off when she shook her head. "Not once?"

"John came. He threw tantrums and refused to eat and kept picking fights at school until my parents agreed to let him visit me once a month. He wrote every day. He was the only one. My sisters weren't allowed to visit at first, and then they didn't want to, once people at their schools found out where I was. And my parents never visited. Never called. It was too painful for them, I think."

Hatred burned when Nuada growled, "You are too forgiving of their sins-"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "They're _dead_, Nuada, what would staying angry do? That's not the point. The _point_ is, the last time someone told me I was being sent away for my own good, for my safety, because it was better for me, I ran. I was seven years old, and I ran, trying to get to the back door so I could get to the creek at the edge of our backyard. I knew if I could get there, the fae there would protect me.

"And these two men... they chased me through my own house, trying to catch me, to hurt me. My mother was crying and my father just stood there and let them chase me. Another man had to pin John to the floor. He kept yelling for me to run. Kept fighting even though he was just a kid and that guy was huge. My sisters were all crying because they heard me screaming and John shouting and my mom sobbing. They'd all been told to stay in their rooms, but they could still hear what was happening.

"Petra didn't stay in her room," Dylan added. "Petra tried to stop them. I found out later from John that my parents grounded her for a year for that. No television, no movies, no phone calls, no magazines, no friends over, no extracurriculars at school, nothing. They made her quit cheerleading, even though she was the best on her squad. They made her quit babysitting. She had to sit at the kitchen table and copy out of the dictionary. John, my parents forgave. He was a little kid. Petra was thirteen. They didn't forgive her, and I doubt she's forgiven me.

"The last time someone told me they were sending me away... I ended up with sliced to ribbons from trying to squeeze under the back fence, beaten for trying to resist, sedated to keep me from struggling anymore, tied up in the back of a van, crying and bleeding. And it's at least a two-hour drive from where we lived in Jersey to New York.

"Once we got to Saint Vincent's, they processed me, which took hours. I had to strip in front of strangers. They gave me shots - sedatives, inoculations, tests to make sure I wasn't sick already. They cut my hair. I had the longest hair when I was little, I loved it, because my mom loved it, and they just cut it off. They took my clothes. My shoes. My doll that my mom had sent with me; they took that, too. Even the twin-locket that had a picture of me and John in it. I..."

She trailed off, shaking her head. "That's why I panicked. The first flashback was so bad, I hadn't recovered yet. The present wasn't _real_ to me yet. Then you said 'send you home' and all I heard was 'send you back.' I thought I would have to face all of that again. And part of me thought, 'They're going to leave me in that place.'"

_I'll be good,_ she'd said. A child's voice. The terrified plea of a little girl to her parents. She'd used his name, but had she really been speaking to him? _I didn't do anything this time._ Memory spilling into the real world, until she couldn't tell the difference. Until she was no longer the Dylan he knew, but a frightened seven-year-old child who knew what being sent away meant for bad girls. In her mind, he'd been about to send her away to another eleven years of vicious physical and sexual abuse from which there was no escape but death.

After a long and brittle silence, Nuada knelt at her feet. "Listen to me and listen well. I'm so sorry, mo duinne. I didn't know. I would never have said such a thing if I'd known. And I will never, _ever_ abandon you as they did. Never. I didn't know you would take it that way-"

A gentle fingertip touched his lips. "It's okay. You're right, you didn't know. I didn't tell you. I've been trying to pretend I wasn't so messed up. It's okay. Anyway, I was starting to be okay when we came back in here and talked. I _had_ to be okay - you needed me. But then you said you were going to tell your father what happened and... I remembered Gunter and..."

"Your friend who died?" Nuada ventured. "When you were younger?"

She nodded. "Cut his own throat with a shard from a coffee mug, actually." The words were toneless, dull. "He talked us into going to the adults about what happened in the basement and they wouldn't listen. They said that obviously there was some hostility between the four of us and Patrick and Xander. Said we should talk it out. Have some counseling sessions together.

"Alison and Ruby had hysterics. I started yelling because they just wouldn't listen. They made me stay in the room with Gunter while they dragged Ruby and Alison out into the hall to try and calm them down. I was so angry, thinking about just marching out there and screaming at them, attacking them, just so long as I was doing _something_ to make them _listen_. Then I heard this crashing sound and I turned around and he just... he gave me this look. Like he was sorry, because he was leaving me, too. And then he...

"You never tell." She shook her head slowly, voice distant. "You never ever tell the monsters what happened to you. It just gives them a reason to say you're bad. Just gives them something to feed on. Just gives them one more way to hurt you. There was so much blood... that day... all over me. And when you... you were dying, there was blood everywhere, I... you were going to tell him and he was going to hurt you, just like before, and-"

"But I'm all right now," Nuada said firmly. "I am all right, Dylan. I'm not hurt. You needn't fear for me now. I'm all right."

Slowly, Dylan nodded. "Yes. Yes, you are. But that's why I panicked. My exhaustion and my fragility were worse because I know what your father's capable of, and Moundshroud warned me that Balor might try to kill you if you push him too far. I was shaky to begin with; I've been shaky since..." She trailed off. Gave a weak, self-deprecating laugh. "For years, actually. It's just that I had ways to cope, and when I stopped using them, I always - almost always - avoided situations that would trigger this sort of response.

"I'm not... I'm not mentally stable," she confessed. "I don't how long it's been since I was. My... fragility is why I became an addict. It helped mellow me out. Helped me function. But that's why I ended up back in a mental hospital for three months when I was in my early twenties - I'm not stable. The only reason I didn't try to kill myself then was because I just barely managed to hold onto my faith. And that's why I used to see a therapist. But once things went crazy in October, I stopped. I wanted to make sure my schedule didn't negatively impact anything you needed.

"And because of everything we've been doing, I've had to take my pain medication more than norml. I usually get by on one-third or half-doses, because Vicodin is addictive and I can't function without at least a little but I can't risk... but now I can't do that and that's left me messed up, too." Dylan sighed. "I'm a few short steps from losing my mind. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Nuada guided her to the bed and forced her to sit down. He knelt before her. "Why do you apologize? I already knew you were fragile. Don't apologize for this."

He'd felt that strain on her mind since that night in the sanctuary when she'd screamed at him and he'd raged at her. When he'd first learned just what her life had been like. The soul-purging had helped, but it hadn't erased the strain. Merely eased it a little. And now Nuala's spell protecting Dylan's mind from the memories of Eamonn's psychic assaults was fading... how much more strain was her mind under? Had the spells laid on them tonight done anything to her ability to remain locked in the present? How close _was_ she to breaking?

But he didn't ask. He only said, "Humans even have a name for such a thing, do they not? You said it earlier."

"Yeah - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," she whispered. She wouldn't look at him. "I was diagnosed when I was twenty-four, almost out of med school. It's a mental illness. They usually medicate people who have it this severely. Give them anti-anxiety medication or anti-depressants or... or something. I have meds at home, my therapist says I need them, but I... I just..."

"Yet you don't take such things, though your own mind-healer bids you do so."

"I can't." She covered her mouth with one hand and shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "Not ever again. They pumped that poison through my veins for years. For _years_. And it kept me their little whore-zombie all that time. I _won't_ live like that. I can't be some mindless shell again. I'd rather be _dead_ than live like that. I will _not_ take that _poison_-"

"All right," he said softly. This wasn't begging again. Wasn't a flashback. This was merely twenty-two years' worth of quiet desperation. He'd seen what five years of desperation had done to her. Saw it still in the ice-white scars at the bends of her elbows and her inner thighs, over her heart. He remembered that terrible brittleness she'd had the night Westenra had called and Nuada had forced her to tell him everything. He'd felt it was unsafe to leave her alone that night. Hadn't let himself think about why that would have been. Now he knew. Desperation had driven her to do terrible things before. _It didn't even hurt at first._ Why not now? "All right. I understand. But Dylan, you must calm down. You must be calm if you want me to help you-"

Dylan jerked away from him, scrabbling back across the bed to press against a bedpost. "I don't want your help," she snapped. "Leave me alone. I don't _need_ anybody's help. There's nothing wrong with me."

"Dylan," he said. Just her name. Not in a voice meant to soothe. The Elven prince couldn't be sure that wouldn't trigger something else. No, this was the voice he used whenever it was just the two of them, and he needed some way to show her what she meant to him. To show her how much he loved and needed her. Even if needing her made him just as weak and pathetic as she feared she was. Better to be weak than not have her at all. "Dylan."

She covered her mouth with her hand again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Just... just don't say that. I'm sorry. They used to say stuff like that all the time right before... That's why I freaked out when your father kept saying he wasn't going to hurt me, that all I had to do was tell the truth. Westenra always said that. He always promised I wouldn't get hurt if I was honest and I'd tell and then there was always pain. Always... okay." She closed her eyes. "I'm not there anymore. I'm here. I'm with you. I'm all right." The breath escaped her in a shuddering sigh. Her eyes flicked open. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" He held out his hand. She crept back across the bed, eyes downcast. "Truly?"

She curled up on her side upon the bed, her hair falling in front of her face like a dark curtain. "For now. I don't know if I will be later. I'm sorry, Nuada. I know you don't need this now. I'm technically mentally ill." She nearly choked on a self-deprecating laugh. "Jeez, I hate that phrase. 'Insane' or 'crazy' doesn't sound much better, though, does it? My sisters used to say that. That I was crazy. That they hated me and I was ruining their lives. My parents used to say I had to go away because I was sick and it was the only way for me to get better." She swallowed. "I'm sorry. I should've told you sooner, I guess. I promise I'll do better. I'll be stronger."

He touched her shoulder. "I already knew, Dylan. I was merely missing a few details." Such as the severity of it. Nuada knew warriors who, from soul-scars incurred during war, could sometimes be dangerous even to those they loved if a flashback was triggered. He hadn't realized Dylan's flashbacks could be _that_ severe. Hadn't known there were times when she didn't know where she was or when. He hadn't known she was supposed to take medication for her condition. Hadn't known she skimped on taking painkillers for her bad knee, either. Getting angry with her for such self-abuse would serve no purpose, however. He'd have to think about what to do about such things later.

"As for being stronger..." Nuada trailed off, considering. "Warriors who've seen terrible battle often suffer from similar haunts. Sometimes battle-haunts are the least of the wounds left on their hearts."

He thought of one time as a young boy when he'd tried to scare his father, thinking it amusing. He'd hidden behind a tree along a garden path. Quieted his breathing and heartbeat as the weapons' masters had taught him. Sensing his father's approach, the Elven princeling had leapt out from behind the tree. Nuada couldn't remember, but he thought he might've cried, "Boo!" Just to be silly. He'd thought his father would laugh after recovering from his startlement.

Instead, the warrior-king had lashed out before he'd realized his assailant was his own child. Luckily the king hadn't been armed. The blow of Balor's fist had laid Nuada out flat on the ground and left his ears ringing. It had taken the prince a moment to realize he couldn't breathe. Then he'd gasped, choked. That first breath of frigid air after the blow had burned his suddenly-tight chest. Then he'd begun to cry.

Ashamed and shaken, his father had lifted him out of the dust and comforted him. Once the young prince was calm, Balor had taken him back to the royal nursery for his governess and nurse to fuss over while the king had gone to the queen to tell Cethlenn what had happened. Later, Balor and Cethlenn both had come to apologize and to explain to a still-uncertain prince why his father had struck him so very hard for such an innocent game.

"At least you've not hurt someone you love while trapped in the past," Nuada said. "There's that, yes? And such shadows haunt many, including those who've been imprisoned and tortured - as you were. There is no shame in it. I'm not angry with you. Forgive me for raising my voice. I am merely concerned."

"I'll be better," Dylan promised. "I won't screw things up for you-"

"_That_ is _not_ what I'm concerned over," Nuada said. Sucking in a breath, he rose upright on his knees and leaned forward, cupping the back of Dylan's head. She touched her forehead to his. "I'm concerned about _you_. I love you, Dylan." He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and whispered, "I love you, mo duinne. Broken or not," he forced himself to smile a little, though his face felt as if it might crack in half, "mad or not, I love you. I will always love you. Nothing you do and nothing you are can change that."

"Nuada, I might be losing my mind, you can't say-"

"We will find a way to mend anything that is broken or breaking," he whispered. "I promise you. My word, as the crown prince of Bethmoora. We will mend whatever needs to be mended. We'll do what needs to be done. All right? Go back to your mind-healer if that's what you need. I'll not stand in your way. I shall even ensure that whatever time you need won't interfere with what needs doing in Findias. All right?"

"What if... what if I can't do it?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What if _you_ can't? What is there that _you_ cannot do, my love?"

"I can't fly," she replied promptly. He shot her a look. To his surprise and pleasure, a smile curved her mouth. "Sorry. Just had to throw that out there."

"You know very well what I meant. Insolent chit." Her smile widened into a tired grin. "There's nothing you cannot do. Nothing. And I will help you. Just as you've sworn to be what I need, I swear to be what you need. We will do it together. Whatever it takes."

"Thank you. I... I never thought... thank you. And I really _will_ be okay. For now, at least. I finally managed to take the time to properly anchor myself. It's the first time I've done it so thoroughly - in a healthy way - in a long time. I actually feel a lot better. More... more in the present. I'm still a little unsteady, but I'll be okay."

"Will you? With all that has happened tonight? With my father's command looming over our heads? Or is that pushing you too far?"

"I'll be okay. I don't mind the wedding thing, honestly. I'm a little uncomfortable but..." She shurgged. "I get to marry you. Without breaking my oaths. I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about my sanity holding because of that. I think it was mostly that I'm exhausted, on top of the spell, and not being able to anchor myself properly until now. I'll be all right. And you don't have to worry about what's best or fair to me. Just... what can I do to make this easier for you?"

Allowing her to change the subject, Nuada said, "Ask me for something. I want _you_ to get something out of all of this. Something to make this worth it. Do that, and I will acquiesce to my father's command. Ask me for something."

"Ask for something."

"Yes."

"Anything?"

"Anything. If it's within my power to grant it, I will."

Dylan sank onto the edge of her bed. "And this will make you happy? This will make things fair? Or more fair, at least. If you make sacrifices for me, to compensate for the sacrifice I'm making for you." He nodded. "Okay. Um... anything? More than one thing? Or just one thing?"

"Preferably more than one thing. And yes, anything."

"Okay. Um... you have to wear hot pink spandex every Friday for the rest of your life."

"Done. Wait..." He paused. Blinked. "What?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "You weren't even listening! You seriously just agreed to wear hot pink spandex every Friday for the rest of your life! Cripes, Nuada. This is ridiculous. I don't want anything from you except an affirmative answer to your father's order."

"I know there are things you desire of me."

"Yes," Dylan admitted, "but those are things I can never have, so why hurt you by asking for them?"

He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Such as?"

The mortal sighed. "Such as, you won't convert just because I ask you. I wouldn't even want that, because it would be wrong of me, it would be a lie, and it would break something between us, and within you, to dishonor yourself that way. So you being a Latter-Day Saint is out. And such as..." She stared at her feet. At the chubby little penguins gazing back, wide-eyed, from her socks. Her voice was barely there when she whispered, "A baby. I know that's not an option for us. Why would I ask for that, knowing it would only hurt you that you can't give me the one thing I want the most?"

Nuada closed his eyes. Longing was a hollow ache in his chest. "I would give you a child, mo duinne, if I could." Oh, to see her with their child in her arms. To know she carried a life inside her that they had made together... He swallowed back yearning.

"I know," she murmured. "But Nuada... I really can't think of anything else. There's nothing I want that you can give me, that you haven't given me already. You're good to me. You understand me - most of the time, anyway. You accept me. You let me be who I need to be. You respect me. You love me. You never try to change me. The only things you ask me to do are usually for my own good. _You let me be_. No one else but John has ever done that. "

The Elven warrior came to her and looked down at her hands. Seamlessly changing the subject himself, he cupped her lacerated hands and murmured, "Why do you do this to yourself, Dylan?"

Remembering their bargain of honestly, she replied, "Like I said, I had a really bad flashback while I was talking to your father. I couldn't afford to let it affect me. I had no idea how he'd take it. If I started panicking like I did in the garden, and you were with me, you could've done something, but you weren't there and it was just him and me. I was scared of doing something that would make him hurt you. I had to stay grounded. There was no time to anchor myself the right way, so I had to do it with pain. Then he pushed me too far and I freaked, so it didn't really work."

"Why me?" He asked. "Why is it that I could've done something to help you? Why am I what anchors you? Because of my gift of mind-touch?"

Dylan shook her head. "Almost from the moment I met you, you've represented safety. That's why. You're safe. You've always meant safety to me and you'll always be a person and place of safety for me."

Without another word, Nuada brought her to her feet and led her to the master bathroom. At a gesture from him, she hopped up on the counter while he fetched a dark washcloth. There was no sound for a time except when Nuada turned on the water to let it fill up the silver-veined white marble sink. He wet the cloth. For the second time that night, he gently cleaned blood from her skin.

He said nothing. She didn't feel the need to press him into speaking, either. The silence wasn't strained or uncomfortable. It wasn't companionable by any stretch, but it wasn't a heavy or painful silence. They were both simply exhausted, and trying not to think of what would happen once the new wounds were seen to.

"Eventually," he said once he was finished, "if you keep doing this, you'll get scars."

She shrugged. "Maybe. What's a few more?"

Nuada merely raised her hand to his mouth. He breathed against her palm, as he'd done after that fateful dance lesson with Cíaran. Soft, subtle power slid over her palm. He'd seen his sister practicing this trick and decided to give it a try that day when Cíaran had threatened her. It had worked then, and it worked now, caressing the shallow crescents in Dylan's palm with magic, sealing the wounds. Nuada did the same to her other hand. He met fey-like blue eyes.

Dylan swallowed. She was so tired, and there were no more reasons to prevent her from going to bed. If she and Nuada didn't obey the king... she didn't know how Balor would find out they hadn't slept in the same bed. Send a maid as a spy while they slept? Scry them with magic? Whatever. The human knew the fae king would know if he was disobeyed. She didn't dare risk that. Who knew what he'd try to force on them if they didn't obey? Who knew what he would do to Nuada? Especially with Nuada's refusal to marry her still looming over them all.

"Are you nervous? About... about what happens next?" She asked her prince. He skimmed his knuckles along the scar slashing her cheek and said nothing. "Silly question, huh? You're an Elf. Of course you're not nervous."

He smiled. "You are learning."

She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. "Okay. Um... let me change my shirt, say my prayers, and read my scriptures, and then... then we can... um... excuse me." She practically fled to her closet. Inside, she stripped off the flannel overshirt, her thin black sleep-top, and the half-cami. Dragged on a thick, black sleep-cami instead. She wanted layers between her and the prince. So many layers that if his hands ended up... anywhere... for any reason - evil spells, sleepy accident, the sudden disappearance of anything resembling good judgment - she'd be able to keep her brains from liquefying in her skull and spilling out her ears.

Yanking on a thin, long-sleeved top, she covered that with an extra-extra-large black t-shirt John had bought her with _Lord of the Rings_ scrollwork written across the chest in elegant fiery letters. The shirt hung nearly to her knees. She had to lose the spandex shorts because they just weren't comfortable to sleep in, but she traded them and her thin plaid PJ bottoms for her thickest, baggiest flannel pajama pants. The penguin socks stayed; her feet were a little cold.

Dropping to her knees, Dylan folded her arms and bowed her head. _Heavenly Father,_ she prayed, _I'm in huge trouble. Help me, please._

**.**

Nuada settled onto the window seat and stared out through the glass, painted with glittering hoarfrost, at the cold white moon. So much had happened tonight. Only now did he have time to let it all sink in.

He'd been placed under house-arrest once more. The Silverlance had been taken from him again. Anterion and Farai had made it clear at the banquet that they were furious with him for taking Dylan as his lady. He couldn't be too sure of the rest of his allies and friends. Dierdre had made a - very subtle and rather timid - play for his attentions, and he'd gently rebuffed her. When she'd pressed the prince, he'd been sharp with her. He disliked needing to do so, but it had been necessary. Though he was oddly fond of the Fomorian woman, she needed to remember to whom she spoke.

Someone had managed to lay a spell upon him. Managed to touch him with Branwen's Tears. The only people powerful enough to lay the compulsion spells were fae kings. Only two kings had any reason to do so: Anterion, for what he considered Nuada's betrayal, and Balor. Yet Balor had helped Nuada. Broken the spells. Granted him mercy. Forgiven him. Promised further aid in finding whoever might've dared to try and bewitch the crown prince.

Yet what if Dylan was right in her suspicions of the king? From what he understood, she didn't specifically suspect Balor and only Balor. She only mistrusted him because of his behavior regarding the entire situation. What _had_ taken so long for the king to respond to Siothrún's report? Why hadn't he or Nuala come to open the garden gate for the guards? It wasn't as if Dylan had been particularly quiet. Her terrified cries had been heard by the Butchers; that was why Siothrún had gone to report to the king in the first place. So what had taken so long? Why hadn't his father answered Dylan's questions?

And what had Balor meant, "I know your weaknesses?" What weaknesses of Dylan's could he possibly know, and use against her? Unless the king simply meant Nuada himself. For just as Dylan was his greatest weakness, so too was the prince hers.

Siothrún was his father's spy among the Butchers, it seemed. How much of what went on between Nuada and his truelove did the guard report to Balor? The idea of someone detailing any of the tender moments between himself and Dylan to the king sent a hot wash of anger through the Elven warrior. Was he allowed no stars-cursed peace? What happened between him and his lady was private. Special. Someone daring to violate or desecrate that privacy infuriated him.

The fact that someone, anyone, had invaded the sanctity of their time together with these spells infuriated him, as well. They, whoever they were, had twisted how he felt for his lady and turned it into something sickening. Had taken the gift of Dylan's trust and what Nuada meant to offer her with tenderness, gentleness, patience... and ripped it from their grasp.

He thought of the passionate kisses they'd shared in the garden. He could still taste her. Still feel every soft curve of her body when she'd arched against him. Those memories beckoned him... and enraged him. Every clean moment of intimacy a person was normally blessed with in their life had been defiled in Dylan's. Her first kiss was bestowed by a monster against her will. That first intimate touch taken without consent by beasts. Her innocence ripped away by two putrid human animals. No vengeance, no royal authority, and no magic could restore what had been stolen from her. The truth of that was bitter as wormwood in his belly.

Yet he'd hoped that, with time and patience, with love, he could give her back at least a little of what she'd lost. He'd had plans for the two of them, if he was ever blessed to take her as his lover or his wife. Plans that included sweet kisses, gentle touches, romance. He'd vowed to be careful of her memories. Careful to ensure that no shadow marred whatever physical intimacy she graced him with.

And these _bastards_, whoever they were, had not only violated all of that, but had ensorcelled him so that, regardless of potential plans for sweet willing seduction, he'd gone too far. Yet another private moment in Dylan's life ruined by those who cared _nothing_ for what they took from her. Damn them.

Nuada touched his forehead to the icy glass and forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly. Anger served no purpose now. The black rage seething within him like hot poison certainly would do no good and might in fact do harm, with Dylan still somewhat fragile. He would be calm. He would think, and plan, and wait for their enemies to misstep. To make a mistake. And when they did, he would be on them like wolves on wounded prey, and he would taste their blood.

But for now, he needed to focus. To think on everything that had happened. Including the two most important things.

He had to think of something to do about Dylan. Perhaps have an Elven mind-healer speak with her. Humans were fools; perhaps this mind-healer she'd been seeing was wrong about his lady needing medicine to keep the past at bay. Maybe there was another way for her to cope, one that wasn't like a knife in her half-broken heart. One that didn't require her to pay in blood. Nuada would have to think of something.

And the most important thing was that the king of Bethmoora had commanded his heir to take the mortal lady as his wife. A longed-for and yet dreaded order. The only thing that would make Dylan accept Nuada's proposal. The only thing that allowed them to be together that way.

Nuada closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment. Waking up beside her every morning. Having her, if not constantly at his side, at least hovering somewhere near the center of his life. Simply being with Dylan. Basking in the comfort of her. Finding solace with her. And then, as night deepened, they could lie together and he could fall asleep with her head resting on his chest, his arms around her. Simply to fall asleep holding her would be... there were no words.

Of course, his people would be disgusted. Furious with him. Taking a mortal as his wife? Making her their new princess? After all his campaigning against the truce, against the human world? It would be viewed as a betrayal. It _was_ a betrayal. His honor still pricked him like an iron needle whenever he let himself think of it, but he was too weak-willed to refuse himself that joy and peace any longer. And of course his people would wonder, if the prince had gone mad enough to take a human as his bride, was he also mad enough to beget children with her? He'd sired no bastards, so the position of heir to the crown prince had been given to no one. If he and Dylan made a child, that child would be the next in line for the throne after Nuada himself. The fae of Bethmoora would wonder, was their prince insane enough to weaken the royal line with mortal blood?

To be married to Dylan... bane and blessing, that. Yet he would've accepted all of that. Accepted all of the rat's nest of problems that were bound to come with taking a mortal wife. He'd have made her his without hesitation... if not for the look of defeat on her face when Balor had given his order. He couldn't do that to her.

"You're thinking about it too much," Dylan said as she moved from the closet to the open bathroom doorway. She darted into the bathroom and snagged something off the counter. Came back into the bedroom with her hairbrush. "You're making this too complicated. Your oath to your king means you have to do what he says, so long as his orders aren't dishonorable. That means when the king says, 'Jump,' you ask, 'How high?' Right?"

She perched on the edge of her bed and attacked the tangles in her hair with a vengeance. The mortal might've sounded calm, but Nuada knew better. Without a word, he went to her. Plucked the brush out of her hand. "You'll damage your hair that way," he murmured. Deft fingers separated a length of Dylan's hair from the rest. Starting at the bottom, Nuada began to work the brush through it. The tension slowly drained out of her. Nuada said, "I would be ashamed to take you as my wife when the thought is so abhorrent to you."

"What do you want me to say, Nuada? That I wish I could marry you without the king having to order it? I do. I want to be your wife. I want to marry you. Even with all the crazy stuff going on, the politics and the responsibilities of being a princess - not to mention everyone hating me for being human - I still want to marry you. I don't know what else you need from me. I mean, what, do you not believe me?"

"Feeling better?" He asks instead of answering her. "Did saying your prayers help at all?"

"Yeah. It helped a _lot_, actually. So did reading my scriptures. I feel a lot better. Almost entirely back to normal. A little weepy, maybe, but- hey!" She cried, glaring. "Don't change the subject!"

"I-" He began. A chiming sound cut him off. Nuada frowned. The chiming came again. "What is that irritating noise?"

Dylan jumped. "Oh, my gosh! That's my phone!" Extricating her hair from the brush the prince held, she scrambled across the bed and reached down to scoop her purse off the floor. "Who could be trying to contact me right now?" Fumbling the purse open took a minute. Rooting around in it for the jingling contraption took two more. Finally Dylan yanked the phone out of her purse. "Ha! Gotcha!" Her fingers flew across the touch-screen. She frowned. "What? Who's this?"

It wasn't a call or text, but an IM. She'd left the internet open on her smartphone after using it to look up a Michelle Phan tutorial before the banquet. Now the IM icon on her phone flashed brightly, informing her with every blink and _ding_ sound that someone was trying to contact her. That someone was apparently drachegoldFCTavern-at-fae-dot-com. And they had something very interesting to say.

_**Drachegold:**_ _Is his royal highness with you? I need you to relay something to him for me, right away._

Dylan stared at the IM for a long moment in stunned silence. Who was this person? How had they gotten her number? And how did they know about Nuada? She hastily texted back, _What are you talking about? Who are you?_

_**Drachegold:**_ _You and I met one cold winter's night in a dragon's cave._

A dragon's cave? Wait... _drachegold_. German for "dragon's gold." One cold winter's night, Nuada had taken her to a dragon's cave, and she'd met a woman with lips red as fresh-spilt blood, hair black as darkest midnight, skin white as new-fallen snow, and eyes cold as dragon's gold.

_Lorelei?_ The mortal asked, and relaxed when the IM came back with, _Brava! =) I need you to let his highness know that his best friend is safe and well. Just in case our previous message went awry._

"Nuada!" Dylan scrambled back across the bed to flop next to him so she could show him the screen. "Look. It's a message from Lorelei about Wink." The Elven warrior scanned the words on the screen. A brief smile curved the prince's mouth. Wink might say he was all right and be wounded yet. But if the rhinemaiden said Wink was safe and well... there was no need to worry for the moment.

"Have Lorelei inform Wink that he's long overdue in returning," the prince said. Dylan gave him an exasperated look and shook her head.

_**DMyers:**_ _Where the heck has he BEEN?_ _Have you been with him? Is he alright? Are YOU alright? You realize he's been missing for going on three weeks now, right_? Thinking of Nuada's anger and the worry and stress over Wink's disappearance, which had only fueled that anger and transformed it into fury, she added, _Prince LIONRAGE over here has been near out of his mind for him._

_**Drachegold:**_ _We... had a bit of misadventure when some trouble started at the Midnight Fest that we went to. Ja, I've been with him. Would you mind if I called your phone? I have something that will keep the line secure._

When Dylan didn't respond right away, the phone chimed with a new message.

_**Drachegold:**_ _Bitte?_

As Dylan texted her number to the rhinemaiden, Nuada peered over her shoulder to see what she was doing. He quirked a brow. "'Prince Lionrage?'" He asked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Shush," the mortal replied as her phone rang. Clicking TALK, she held it to her ear. "Hello? Lorelei?" Recognizing the melodious voice that answered her, she relaxed further. "How can you call my phone? Do you have a phone?"

"_Ja. Piece of gnome-work. Goblins have the monopoly on clockworks and mechanics, but the gnomes seem to have done more thriving in the technological boom. Na gut... Butchers showed up at the Midnight Fest._"

Cold so bitter it was almost toxic spilled down Dylan's back. Her gaze slashed to Nuada. She knew he'd heard the river maiden's words. He didn't seem surprised. His pale face was carefully blank.

"_We got out with our lives, barely, but Wink was in bad form for a few days,_" Lorelei said. Dylan winced. Bad form? Wink was huge. It would take... she didn't know what it would take, to bring down a warrior the size and strength of Wink. Which meant "bad" was incredibly, nearly fatally bad, then. She saw Nuada had closed his eyes. "_I had to put out the word to a few of my more subtle contacts to get proper help for him, but he's been as good as new for some time now_." The mortal thought she might've heard a smile in the rhinemaiden's voice when she added, "_Though, for some reason he seems to want the two of us to stay isolated and lay low for a few more days. I wonder why._"

Nuada huffed a laugh. "I can certainly imagine several reasons," the prince said dryly. "Tell her I need him back by the solstice, and no later."

The mortal raised her eyebrows. "You know, _you_ could talk to her." She held out the phone. Nuada actually leaned back a little, as if afraid the thing would contaminate him. "What's the matter, Your Highness? Scared of a wittle bitty phone?" Dylan wiggled it in his general direction. He offered a mock-snarl. She laughed and put the phone back to her ear. "Nuada says he needs Wink back by the solstice."

"_As he commands, so shall we endeavor to do. Does he know or suspect the Butchers of attacking Wink?_"

"Uh, yeah. We had a few eyewitnesses give us the head's up. Did they... I don't know, say anything? Anything at all, to indicate whether..." She trailed off, wondering how to word this without it possibly coming back to bite her. "Whether they'd been sent by anyone? Or come on their own?"

There was a long silence. Then, "_A few of them attempted to take me out, to prevent me from going to Wink's aid. Some others were attacking those attending Midnight Fest who'd decided to protect the right arm of the Silverlance. Another Butcher called to those attacking, saying that their orders had not included hurting civilians._"

The breath left Nuada in a long, slow hiss. Orders. The Butchers had been under orders. And who did they take their orders from, if not the king? Perhaps if there had been only one or two of the guards, but more than two dozen? That sort of treason... there was no hiding it. And no reason for it. The Butcher Guards were loyal, first and foremost, to King Balor. They took their orders from the One-Armed King of Elfland and no other authority could surmount those orders.

Pale fingers fisted in the blue velvet coverlet on Dylan's bed. So. _So!_ It was true, then. Dylan had been right. His father had tried to have Wink murdered. Gods, but _why?_ After all Wink had done for the Bethmooran royal family, why? It made no sense! And did this mean that Balor _had_ been behind the other attacks?

He swallowed back the bitter grief, fury boiling in his blood. When he met Dylan's worried eyes, his expression was a blank mask and his eyes were empty. He got up from the edge of the bed and went back to the window to stare out into the darkness.

"Are you okay?" Dylan asked the rhinemaiden, watching Nuada as he gazed out at the wintry night. His spine was too straight, his shoulders too firm. He held himself too carefully. Whatever emotions churned beneath the surface of that thin veneer of calm, they were hurting him. But she wanted to be sure the river faerie had escaped her run-in with the Butchers without harm. Nuada seemed to care for Lorelei very much. Her being hurt would've hurt him even more.

"_Ja, I am, actually... My dress was destroyed and I got tossed around pretty hard, but I heal quite fast. No one will even be able to tell there was ever a mark on me to begin with. I decided to contact you instead of Nuada because I didn't trust the possibility of anyone keeping eyes and ears on him - but the Elven courts are generally out of their element with human electronic technology. And I got your IM address from a very interesting source._"

Dylan frowned. "Who?"

"_A waitress at a diner called Yvaine's. I believe her name is... Francesca._"

The mortal's mouth fell open. "I... what? You talked to my sister?"

"I _did not. A friend of mine did. He's human, but... unique. They seem to have taken a liking to each other. When he mentioned that I knew a 'Dylan Myers,' and needed to get in contact with you, she volunteered that she was your sister. Davio got the IM address from her, since it was such an innocuous piece of information._"

She tried to wrap her mind around that. "She doesn't know you're a faerie, though... right?"

"_No, she doesn't. As for what she thinks of Davio... I take it your sister reads a great many comic books?_"

Dylan laughed. It sounded just a bit hysterical. "Um... more like trashy romance novels about snake-shifters and were-ducks and naked gargoyle hotties." At that, the rhinemaiden chuckled. "Lemme guess. He's weird looking by human standards, but it only took her all of five seconds to realize that underneath that, he was a guy, and therefore worth chasing."

"_Something like that. Has she not told you? It happened a couple weeks ago, their meeting_."

"We don't talk much. But she's all right? She's not in any trouble because of this, right?"

After receiving Lorelei's assurances, the conversation wound down and Dylan and the rhinemaiden hung up. Laying her phone on the nightstand, Dylan got to her feet and, moving slowly to give him time to protest, went to stand about a foot away from Nuada. He didn't look away from the waxing moon, only a couple days shy of being full. Snow drifted down to blanket the kingdom. Somehow the glowing moon managed to beam through the thick clouds. The soft, silver light usually seemed to caress the prince's face, but now it only washed him out.

Dylan reached out, holding her breath, uncertain. She could feel the warmth of him through his wool shirt. Her fingers were a scant breath away from his shoulder when the prince finally spoke.

"Don't," Nuada whispered. Her hand froze just shy of touching him.

"What are you thinking?"

He drew a sharp breath and, in a voice that sounded as if he were swallowing glass, demanded, "How much more? That's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that I don't know how much more you can take. How much more _I_ can take. I'm thinking I don't know what I'll do if all of this becomes too much and breaks you. There's so much uncertainty. So many shadows gathering 'round about us, intent on our blood. And now my father... my _father_...

"I don't want to go to war, Dylan. I don't want to tear my kingdom apart, don't want to waste innocent lives. I don't want to challenge my father for the throne. But if Lorelei is correct... if the Butchers were at Midnight Fest on my father's order... For a moment tonight, I thought I had my father back. I dared to hope the breech could be mended." The Elven warrior sighed. "I was a fool. I should've learned better than to trust so easily, after everything I've seen and done in this life." He looked so cold and distant in the pool of snowy moonlight, she thought. So alone. "I'll have to send my most trusted agents to investigate this more thoroughly than I can myself. And if proof is found... if we prove he's done all that we suspect... Dylan, I'll have to kill him. I'll have no other choice."

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "We have a few immediate obstacles to tackle right now," she said, "none of which will usher in the Apocalypse if we mess them up. So we won't have to deal with political intrigue before tomorrow. Okay? First... would you mind if..." Dylan had no idea why she thought to ask him this, but it felt like her next request would make him feel better. "Would you mind too much if you finished brushing my hair?"

Strangely, the tension slipped out of his body as if it had been washed away by spring rain. The corner of his mouth quirked. "I would like that very much, in fact. It would give me something more pleasant to think about for a while. And then what?"

"Then..." Her stomach knotted further. She swallowed. "Then... come to bed?" It came out soft and timid against her will. Nuada finally looked down at her. A gentle expression spread across his face.

"You look like a little girl in those clothes."

The mortal didn't confess that _that_ had been the idea - to make herself as asexual as possible, to help them avoid temptation. She knew she looked rather adolescent in her penguin socks, baggy Hello Kitty pajama pants, long-sleeved black UnderArmor shirt and large t-shirt. "I'd put my hair up in pigtails, but you might be tempted to give them a good yank," she said dryly, surprising a wry chuckle out of the Elf. "Come on. I can't go to bed with knots in my hair and you need to sleep."

"I am well enough."

She gently tugged him toward the bed. "You're exhausted and you know it. You never sleep enough. No arguing," she added. "That's one of my conditions for marrying you. You have to do everything I say."

Nuada laughed aloud; surprised he could actually do so. "Oh? Everything you say, is it?" He was still chuckling when he began working on the tangles again. "What if you order me to do something ridiculous?" The soft bristles of the brush made a _shush_ing sound as they moved through the thick, dark curls. "Am I hopelessly at your mercy, then?"

Dylan laughed tiredly. "I hope not, for your sake. I'm a pretty stern task-mistress. I'll wrap you around my little finger and make you my slave."

"You haven't done that already?" Nuada let half his thoughts follow the conversation, trying to enjoy the simple pleasure of Dylan's undemanding talk. The other half focused on not hurting her as he ran the brush through her hair. He didn't dare let his mind wander back to thoughts of his father. And he didn't dare speculate about what would happen once he and Dylan went to bed. Would she let him hold her? Or was that pushing things too far, especially after everything that had occurred tonight? "What other orders do you have for me?"

"Actually... I do have a few real conditions," she murmured. "They came to me while I was saying my prayers. If you really want to hear them."

"Tell me," he commanded softly. "Tell me what you wish, and I will do my best to make it so."

She tried not to fidget. "Well... that is, I'd like it if... would you... I'd like it if you would come to church with me." The brush stilled for a moment. "You don't have to," she hastened to say. "It would just make me really happy if you did. You don't have to do anything else - no church activities or scripture reading or being baptized or anything like that. But it would make me so happy if you would attend church with me. When you have time." When he said nothing, she added softly, "Please?"

"It means that much to you?"

"Yes."

The Elven warrior sighed. "All right, mo duinne. As you wish, so it shall be." He was halfway finished with her hair by now. "Is there anything else? You did say 'conditions.' Plural."

"I've got a couple that I don't think you'll like." He made an inquiring noise. "Well, if I marry you, I'm going to be a princess, right?" He nodded. "So I'll be a noble of the court, right? Well... I was wondering if... well, John… I want him to have a place in Bethmoora, too. So I won't be... lonely. Would it be possible to make him a noble? Or something?"

Nuada choked. "What?"

"Could you make John a noble of Bethmoora? So he'd have a place here, and he'd be protected at least a little by his title?" Quietly, she added, "He's my twin. I miss him. We don't like being apart for very long. But it's not safe for him here. Even if we got married, it wouldn't be as safe as it could be. It would be safer if he had a title."

The prince was silent for a long while. Only after he'd finished with her hair and set the brush on the bedside table did he answer. "I don't have the power to elevate your brother to peerage. However," he added, feeling the sharpness of her disappointment, though she said nothing, "I can speak to my father about it. What else?"

"I want my sisters at the wedding."

He closed his eyes and leaned back against a bedpost. "Your sisters." He sighed when she answered in the affirmative. With just a touch of sarcasm, the Elf asked, "And just how do you suggest we go about introducing your more mundane kin to the wonderful world of Faerie?" He felt like a callow boy when her expression fell and she looked away.

"You're right. It was stupid. I don't even know why I-"

"No," Nuada said firmly. She looked up, uncertain. "That was unkind of me. I'll think on it, and see if I may come up with a way for your wish to be granted. There's no law or tradition against it, at any rate." Though he didn't want those harpy-shrews at his wedding. They would only grieve Dylan. Still, it was what she wanted.

"There's another thing." For some reason, Dylan blushed when Nuada raised his eyebrows. "I mean one really important thing. So... the thing is... for our wedding night." He stiffened. Surely she knew he expected nothing from her. Being wed didn't automatically give him the right to have her whenever he wanted, or even at all. But Nuada only waited as she continued, "I don't... I don't want to have our wedding night in Findias."

His father would no doubt attempt to fight him on that, but if that was what she wanted, he would give it to her. In this, more than anything else, the Elven warrior was determined to let her have her way. "The cottage, then?"

Dylan shook her head. "Actually, I was thinking maybe... we could have our wedding night in the sanctuary." Nuada blinked. "I've never felt safer than when I'm with you. And the sanctuary is... it's a haven. _Our_ haven. I love it there. It's safe. It's the place we spent the first three months we knew each other. I'm really comfortable there. Not to mention," she added with a shy smile, "I love the bathtub. You could swim in that thing. So... is that okay? I think it would be easier for me, too. To have it there. I'd be less likely to... ruin everything."

Nuada frowned. "Ruin? What do you mean?"

"Just... I know that I'll probably... flashback or panic. Probably at the worst possible moment. I'll try my best not to, but I don't know if I'll be able to help it. But the sanctuary is such a peaceful place. Maybe whatever freak-outs I have won't be as bad. So then it won't be... I won't be..." She drew a shuddering breath. "I know I'm not experienced. And you are. And I know I'm going to be awkward and won't know what I'm doing, and it'll be annoying for you, and-"

"Annoying?" He took her hands in his. They were cold. "Is that what you're so worried over? My patience wearing thin? Dylan, I expect nothing from you that you're not willing to give. You should know this by now."

"But it'll be your wedding night, and I'll do something wrong, and it's supposed to be perfect, that's what people always say, but what if I can't do it?" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. "It wouldn't be fair to you if you went through with everything, and you've waited so long and been so patient, and then when it came down to it, I wasn't strong enough or brave enough to let you-"

"Stop." Gently spoken, but with a hint of steel beneath the word. "Listen to me, Dylan. Truly listen. I expect _nothing_ from you that you're not willing to give me. If I'm not enough of a man that I can soothe your fears, gain your trust in that way, and make such a night everything that it should be for you, then that isn't your fault. It will be mine. My only wish for that night is that it be everything _you_ desire.

"I know what has been done to you. I walked your memories. Do you think I expect you simply to 'get over it?' I know better. I know I must take care. Bravery or strength has nothing to do with this. You _are_ strong, Dylan. You lived through a nightmare. It left you with scars, yes, but I bear soul-wounds of my own. I would never hold such against you.

"As for 'letting' me do anything, as you put it... courting or not, betrothed or not, wed or not, I've no right to demand anything from you. It's my task to earn the privilege. Every touch, every embrace, every kiss: that is your gift to me. I do not take such things for granted. I would be deeply honored if you wed me. I would be thusly honored if you entrusted me with your body as you've entrusted me with your heart. But that's what it is - an honor, a privilege, not a right. I make no demands, milady.

"And as for your supposed lack of courage... you're strong, and you're brave, and I love you. _I love you_." He gently dried the two tears that slipped down her cheeks with the edge of his shirtsleeve. "Our wedding night will take place in the sanctuary. That is your wish, and I'll see it done. Was there aught else you would ask me?"

Dylan sniffled. Laughed a little, wiping at the last traces of tears on her cheeks. "Thank you, Nuada. I don't know why I'm crying. Actually, yeah I do. I'm tired, and emotional, and no one's ever said anything so... so gallant to me, ever. You're... amazing." She drew a deep breath. "Okay. I'm calm. I'm not crying anymore." A yawn popped out. "Wow. Where'd that come from?"

"You're tired. You've been awake nearly twenty-four hours."

"Yeah. Jeez. Anyway, there are three more things I want. Nothing crazy. The first one is, I want as much control over what happens at our wedding as possible. I mean, I know it's a royal wedding and there'll be lots of things going on, but I want as much control as I can have without messing things up. I wanna know what the plans are and everything. And the second thing is especially important: I want my dress to be modest, and I want it to be white. Can I do that?"

"As you wish, on both counts. And the third thing?"

She ducked her head. Stared at the coverlet between them. "I, uh... um... it's not so much a condition as a question. Do Elves do engagement rings?"

"We do," he murmured. "I would have had one the night I asked for your hand, but the one I wanted..." Nuada actually looked sheepish. "I couldn't find it. My sister had it sent to me a few days past. She'd heard I was looking for the trinket-chest it was in and went looking for it as a way to make up for Saturday."

Dylan's eyes widened. "It's not, like... something from the royal treasury? It's not part of the crown jewels, right?"

"Not exactly." The prince slid off the bed. "Come with me."

"Wait, where are we going?" She scootched off the bed to follow him through the door that joined her bedchamber to his. "Nuada, it's like, five in the morning. What are we doing?"

The mortal followed the Elven warrior into his study. He didn't go to his desk, but to one of the bookcases behind it. On the shelf rested a box of white rosewood, polished so that it gleamed like well-oiled ivory. The image of a blooming rose, inlaid with a hard, opalescent material, graced the lid. The latch was of shining white gold. Nuada reverently lifted the box and set it on his desk with utmost care.

"This was my mother's," he murmured. Dylan's heart thumped hard against her ribs. "She had two made - one for my sister and one for me. The contents of my sister's box would be for her. The contents of this one," the prince added, meeting his truelove's eyes, "my mother intended for the woman I would one day marry."

Pale fingers lovingly traced the iridescent inlay on the lid. "This came from Cíocal. White Fomorian rosewood and abalone shell from the coast, where my mother grew up." He lifted the latch and raised the lid. Reached in and withdrew something that gleamed in the dim lamplight. Very gently he shut the jewelry box once more. "My father had this ring made for my mother, for when he intended to ask for her hand. He thought she would be impressed that it had been made by a great Iaran jeweler, Lady Ruto of Zora."

"Was she?"

Nuada smiled. "She was more impressed with the six moons' labor my father performed in order to win the ring's forging in the first place. Winning three Iaran sapphires from a quetzalcoatl dragon is no easy feat, even for an Elven king. She told him that if he'd simply showered her with treasures and jewels, she would've likely refused him. The quetzalcoatl, however, had judged my father's intentions to be sincere, so my mother accepted."

Firegold eyes lifted from the ring he held in his lightly-clenched fist to Dylan's face. "Come here." He held out his hand, palm-up. "Come to me, mo duinne."

Dylan moved around the large desk to where Nuada stood. He grasped her right hand and brushed his thumb across the gold-and-ruby ring, carved with flowering rose vines, glinting on her finger.

"When I gave you this ring... as I slipped it onto your finger... even then, I wanted so badly to ask for your hand. It was such a temptation. I don't know how I managed to resist it. It almost seemed as if my good intentions in giving you this ring served only to mock me. I'd made it for you so that we might be together, yet I was denied the union I truly wanted. The union I _still_ want.

"You're certain you wish this, Dylan? I'll fight the king for you. Only a selfish coward would demand you give up so much. I can stand by my refusal. I doubt my father will attempt to kill me for this, and whatever other harm he might seek to inflict upon me is of little enough consequence to me that I-"

She touched a finger to his lips, and he fell silent.

"I've made my decision," she said softly. "My loyalty isn't challenged. My love isn't divided. My oaths aren't broken. I've fulfilled the conditions you set by laying my own." She smiled. "So just shut up and ask me one more time, Prince Emo-Bear."

"Those are mutually exclusive options, my lady. I cannot 'shut up,' as you say, _and_ ask you a question. And I'm _not_ an emo-bear," he added with tremendous dignity. Dylan laughed. She would _never_ be able to hear the legendary Elven warrior use the phrase "emo-bear" without laughing.

Honey-amber eyes caressed her face. Her laughter faded. Then the crown prince of Bethmoora knelt before her and gently grasped her hands.

"I asked you for this, one of the greatest blessings you could ever bestow upon me, once before. Asked, and my heart was broken," Nuada whispered. "I dare to ask once more, with this promise: I'll never give up on you, Dylan. On us. No matter what stands in our way. No matter what stands between us. I will do all in my power to protect you. To love you as you deserve. To be whatever you need me to be. To be a good husband and," unsure why he felt he should say this, unsure what madness had possessed him, but knowing somehow that it needed to be said, "and if the Fates somehow deem it possible, a good father to any children we might be blessed with. I promise you all of this. And so I ask you, Dylan... my Dylan, my lady and my love... will you marry me?"

She closed her eyes. He couldn't read her expression. For one moment of heart-stopping dread, despite everything, he thought she would refuse him. But then... oh, but then... she smiled. Such a smile. She had _never_ smiled quite like that before, not even for him. Nuada knew that no matter what happened, he would carry the memory of that smile for the rest of his long life. A gaze of soft, misty blue met his.

"Yes."

Nuada drew a deep breath. Despite the shadows lingering at the fringes of his thoughts, despite the exhaustion plaguing him, golden warmth bloomed in his chest, blanketing every dark thing in him. Not so those dark things were gone, no, but so that for just a moment, they didn't matter.

She had said, "Yes."

Without looking away from those dreamy blue eyes, he slipped his mother's ring on the heart-finger of Dylan's left hand. The three Iaran sapphires glittered beside the intricately woven triple-band of white gold. A tear slipped down Dylan's cheek, glittering like a diamond in the lamplight. She laughed softly and wiped the tear away.

Then Nuada was on his feet, cradling that beloved face. A moment of hesitation, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, and then he kissed her. Gently. Slowly. Sweetly. A careful brush of his lips across hers like a touch of gossamer wings. There was none of the hot need from the garden. Not even a whisper of compulsion spell. Only a kiss so tender and soft it made Dylan's heart pound and turned Nuada's blood to molten gold. He sighed against her mouth. Allowed himself to simply revel in the joy burgeoning within him.

She'd said, "Yes."

Despite his tiredness, he hoisted Dylan up and spun her around, careful of the desk. She squeaked in surprise. Laughed. "Yes, I will marry you! Yes! _Yes!_" He set her on her feet, still laughing. He wanted to laugh, too, but he sufficed himself with grinning, leaning in, and kissing the tip of her crooked nose. Dylan grinned. "I will absolutely marry you, my prince. On one more condition."

He arched a brow. "Changing the bargain, mo duinne? Bad form."

"It's a simple condition. You won't have a problem with it. I'll marry you on the condition that we go to bed. I'm tired! And you need to sleep."

Nuada wasn't certain he _could_ sleep. Not now. And surely...

His thoughts trailed away when Dylan yawned and rubbed her eyes with her fists. She looked positively... adorable. The word slipped into his mind and would not be denied. His lady looked simply adorable, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child. She pushed her hair out of her face. Dropped her head against his chest. "Sleepy, Nuada," his truelove mumbled. "Bed, good. Staying awake, bad."

A smile curved his mouth. "I suppose you want me to carry you?"

Her arms twined around his neck. "Yes, please." So he carried his betrothed back to her bed, enjoying the innocent warmth of her curled against his chest. Only as he tucked her in did he remember the king's second order.

"Dylan-"

"S'okay," she mumbled, cuddling her face into her pillow. One hand lay against the smooth linen pillowcase. The sapphire ring gleamed like a promise. "Jus' get in. An' don' hog the blankets."

The velvet blankets and silk sheets carried faint traces of her perfume and the scent of mortality. So did the pillows. Nuada closed his eyes for a moment to bask in the scents that were Dylan's alone. Then he opened his eyes to find her blinking sleepily at him from across the bed. A good four feet separated them. Dylan's bed was quite large. And quite comfortable. More comfortable than his, actually, the prince realized. There was none of the restlessness he felt when sleeping in his own bed. Only a welcoming warmth and softness that reminded him of Dylan herself.

"If you snore," she said, fighting another yawn, "an' you wake me up, I get to kick you. Okay?"

"As you say. And if you snore?"

She gave him a flat look. "I don't snore. I'm a girl."

"Mmm. I see."

Despite herself, she grinned. "Oh, you be quiet. Go to sleep."

"And if I do not?"

"I'll take my socks off," she mumbled. "And my feet will get really, _really_ cold. And then I will put them somewhere you won't like. So there."

The legendary Elven warrior winced inwardly at the thought of anyone's ice-cold feet - even Dylan's - anywhere near "somewhere he wouldn't like." Aloud, however, all he said was, "It is against Bethmooran law to lay hands - or feet - on the royal person."

"Guess what? I'm your fiancée. That makes me a princess. Kinda. So that rule doesn't apply." She stuck her tongue out.

He hid his smile. "Oh, is that how it works? I'll have to keep that in mind, Princess."

Muffling her laughter, she smacked him in the chest with a pillow. He snatched it out of her hands and tucked it behind his head. "Hey!" She cried, propping herself up on an elbow. "No fair! Give that back!"

"Come and take it."

Dylan held out an imperious hand. "Gimme. By order of the future princess."

"Denied," he replied with a smirk. "By order of the current crown prince."

"You know, I'm gonna get revenge for this."

"Indeed?"

She settled back against the pillows. "Yep. I don't know what it'll be, exactly, but it will involve small furry children and calling you my love muffin in public. And snowballs."

Nuada grinned. "Yes, we saw how well that worked for you last time you challenged me in such a way."

"This time I'll win, though," Dylan replied. He made an inquiring noise. "I'll get help from Lord Bear. Who better to kick your butt at a snowball fight than a giant shapeshifting polar bear? Now go to sleep. Don't make me come over there."

"Darling, I fail to see how that particular threat would induce me to obey your orders. Come over here if you wish. I'll not stop you."

She slanted him a look. "I'll just bet."

"What is an Evil Twin goatee?"

Dylan choked. After managing to smother her giggles, she croaked, "What's a what?"

"What's an Evil Twin goatee?" The Elven prince repeated. "You mentioned it earlier. And who is Spock? And what is spandex?"

The mortal gave up trying to stop giggling. She blamed it on exhaustion. However, she managed to calm down enough to say, "I adore you to distraction. I really do. But that conversation's gonna have to wait, because I need to sleep. And since you won't shut up and let me sleep, I've gotta put you to work. Sing to me, Nuada. Please?"

Nuada reached out and brushed back a lock of hair from her face. "Close your eyes, then, mo mhuire, and I will sing to you."

"_Bhí sé go leor cosán cam  
Go bhfuil mé anseo dar críoch -  
Tuirseach, ceirteacha briste agus caitheamh,  
Fiáin leathshúile le heagla._

_"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht  
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.  
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.  
Déan phrionsa de dom._

_"Doras go doras lena mo croí,  
Bain triail as a shealbhú as an fuar;  
I an t-achar a cart giofógach,  
Líonadh le gadaithe agus bheatha._

_"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht  
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.  
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.  
Déan phrionsa de dom._

_"Can do suipéar agus do chanadh phingin;  
Tá amhrán ar fad caithfidh mé a thabhairt,  
Le fidil agus nach bhfuil aon chuid eile,  
Amhránaíocht ach amháin i do chónaí._

_"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht  
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.  
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.  
Déan phrionsa de dom._

_"Tríd an fhuinneog luisne órga;  
Teaghlaigh a bhailiú bhabhta.  
Anseo lasmuigh tosaíonn sé le sneachta,  
Tosta an fhuaim amháin._

_"Níl i bhfad níos mó leis an fear seo fánaíocht  
Ná mar is féidir an tsúil a fheiceáil.  
Is féidir leat a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla.  
Déan phrionsa de dom._

_"Is féidir le gach a fheiceáil dom trí shúile éagsúla;  
A dhéanamh de mo phrionsa_."

He allowed the last note to trail away, smiling to himself, watching the even rise and fall of Dylan's chest. She was asleep. If the Fates were kind, she wouldn't dream tonight. He prayed it was so. After everything that had happened - the darkness in the garden, the brutality of her flashbacks, the trial of his father's questioning - he knew her memories waited, teeth bared and claws unsheathed. Nuada could only hope that what light and warmth he'd provided would keep the nightmares at bay.

His smile slipped away as a thought, cold and cruel and bitter, oozed into his mind. That thought shattered the joy that had seemed to glow in Nuada's chest since Dylan had agreed to wed him. Shattered the hope that things might turn out all right, if only he was vigilant.

If their suspicions about Balor proved correct... if the old king was responsible for all that they suspected... Nuada would have to challenge him for the throne, as Balor would no longer be worthy of the crown. Nuada would have to fight him, either with war or in single combat. His father would die. Nuada would become the new king.

And there would be no king's order ensuring he and Dylan married. No sovereign forcing her to acquiesce. Their engagement, so very new, would be broken. With the threat of civil war in Bethmoora, he would have to send her back to the mortal realm. Bar her from returning to Faerie until such a war ended. If Nuada were defeated and his father victorious, no doubt the king would execute him - if the crown prince hadn't been killed already in combat. And if Balor were defeated, and the prince made king... he would never see Dylan again.

The pain that struck him then held all the strength of the chains of duty and honor that bound him to such a fate. It drove the breath from his lungs. He clenched his teeth and simply strained to breathe past the crushing weight that seemed to engulf him.

If the king was truly his enemy, honor and duty would shatter Nuada's heart and rob him of nearly everyone he held dear. His father, who would have to die for such a transgression; the law was clear. His twin, who would never understand the merciless weight of honor. And Dylan. Never to see Dylan again... never to hear her laughter, see her face, never to hold her again...

Without conscious thought, he moved to where his truelove lay slumbering. Fitted himself against her back. When he curved his arm around her waist and pressed his face against her shoulder, she stirred.

"Wassa matter?"

He opened his mouth to say _nothing._ Closed it. The cotton t-shirt she wore smelled of lavender, chamomile, and vanilla. It was incredibly soft against his forehead. Her hair was soft against his cheek, scented with the delicate fragrance of lilacs. Nuada breathed deep of those scents before replying, "Nearly everything. May I hold you?"

Dylan yawned before mumbling, "Can't. M'sorry. Not s'posed to."

Honor forced him to release her, though he ached to have her close. Instead, he moved back to his side of the bed. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect."

She turned to him, rubbing one eye with a loose fist. "S'okay. You didn' know." She stifled a yawn. "Don' worry, Nuada. It'll be okay." She reached across the distance between them. Laid her hand, palm up, on the velvet coverlet. "Don' worry. Just sleep. S'okay."

Nuada laid his hand atop hers. She curled her fingers around his hand, clasping gently, and sighed before sinking back into sleep.

Her warmth seeped into him from their clasped hands, pushing back the chill that had taken him when he'd realized he might never see her again. Her scent and the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him. Slowly, he relaxed again. By the time dawn broke, the legendary Elven warrior prince had fallen asleep holding hands with a mortal commoner.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and we are now at the end. I'm curious as to your thoughts. I would truly like to know everyone's thoughts and opinions on this chapter and on my questions posted below. Loves to you all._

_**Important Announcement:**_ _for a better look at the negative impact and life-altering effects of PTSD in soldiers, I suggest everyone look up a movement begun by a military spouse, I believe it's called Battling BARE. It's big on Facebook and you can probably find a link or pictures on Google. A woman whose husband had severe PTSD after returning from Iraq lashed out during a flashback and struck her without meaning to. When they took it to their counselor to help deal with the problem, instead of giving the guy help, he was court-martialed and either dishonorably discharged from the military, or was threatened with such action. His wife, in protest, began the Battling BARE program, which is a pledge by spouses and significant others to help members of the military with PTSD. Some of the pictures are very moving. The pledge itself made both me and my beta cry._

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the title comes from a line in the song "My Love Is on the High Seas" by Julie Fowlis. Originally sung in Scottish Gaelic, this song is in the trailer for Disney Pixar's_ Brave. _Although sung by a woman, the narrator is a man._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- The line "You're mocking me, aren't you?" is eerily similar to Buzz's dialogue in _Toy Story_. =)

- Dylan's threat to bake Nuada into a pie is inspired by Disney's _Lilo and Stitch_.

- "Are you out of your Elven mind?" is LA's rehash of the line from _Star Trek 2009_. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind!?"

- Dylan's reference to "Evil Twin Goatees" refers to a phenomenon also known as "Spock's Beard." In _Star Trek: the Original Series_, when Evil Spock from an alternate universe made an appearance, the only difference between him and Good Spock was that Evil Spock sported a sinister black goatee. This has since been adopted by many other fandoms.

- The title of Prince or Princess (usually Princess) Royal is usually given to the eldest living princess. In Nyame, Farai _was_ the Prince Royal until Kagiso and Kamaria were born. Due to Kagiso being Kamaria's twin, he now claims the title Prince Royal because his twin sister is the Crown Princess.

- In Nyame (and in Alfheim), scars are considered a mark of beauty.

- Bakhna Rakhna is Ashanti, I believe, for "Good People" - similar to how in Ireland, England, and Scotland, the fae are known as the Good Neighbors.

- Dylan's Uncle Thaddeus is her mother's older twin brother, and the guy John gets his middle name for. Had a big hand in raising John before his disappearance and any time Dylan was "indisposed."

- Dylan mentions Gunter, Allison, and Ruby in chapter 30.

- Gunter's death was inspired by _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_.

- Nuada's memory of his father is based on a real memory of someone I know whose father suffered PTSD after a tour in Vietnam.

- The conversation with Lorelei was written almost entirely by OceanFire9. I only tweaked it a little and wrote the part about Francesca. Davio is Ocean's character. I love him a lot.

- Quetzalcoatl is an Aztec god, apparently, but in some modern fandoms, it's a South American dragon.

- The song Nuada sings to Dylan is a modified version of a song by Blackmore's Night. The song is called "Vagabond." I modified the gender-specific words into Gaelic. The original song is in English and both sung and narrated by a woman. You guys should look it up on Youtube, it's amazing.


	75. See Me Through Different Eyes

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Change:**__ had to change a continuity/realism issue in the final scene._

_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, so here's the deal. To quote Remmy94, who's a darling, "Like from that point on dylan would work on healing her metaphorical wounds and move on to better her life." Oh, my gosh, it's SO NICE to have fans who ANTICIPATE me! See, that is exactly why Nuada needed to know everything Dylan told him last chapter. How are they going to mesh their schedules so she can fix her life if he doesn't know what the heck is going on with her? Plus I don't see him not being like, "WTF mate?" about Dylan's breakdown in the first place. I love you, Remmy._

_Oh, that makes it sound like I only love Remmy. I love all of you! Really. Especially those of you who are willing to giving me good feedback along with the bad. Or rather, criticism with praise. Yeah, that makes more sense. I'm glad that you all love this story enough and are comfortable enough with me and respect me enough to give me your opinions (and that you're polite about them instead of just calling me a whore or whatever; someone did that on another story that I discontinued). So I want to thank you guys, and ask you to read the not-so-brief secondary author's note below. I feel it's rather important_.

If you get bored, _I suppose you can skip to the part that says "__**SO IN SHORT**__," but I'd rather you didn't if you think LA's lost her touch or whatever._

_**About the last few chapters:**_ _There's one thing I want to say. Out of everyone in my vast cast of characters that I myself came up with (so Yang, Lorelei, Koto, and Lady Jocasta don't count), no one has as detailed of backstory as Nuada and Dylan. They're the two I've spent the most time on developing their early history, which I pretty much laid out in the first, erm... 6 chapters, back in '09._

_Then I ran into a problem around chapter... lemme think... 34-ish. My beta (and a couple reviewers) reminded me that a symptom of bad writing is giving your character an issue and then conveniently forgetting about it. I kind of blinked my pretty little eyes at them and said, "Oro?" At which point my beta informed me, "Dylan is headed towards a severe mental breakdown. Like, the kind that usually results in suicide or homicide or catatonia. Something's gotta give. Not now, but probably when she gets to Findias, if anything major happens, she will crack like an egg. If she didn't break down, it wouldn't make sense, given her history. That kind of thing does_ not _go away. Kind of like Nuada's angst-issues with rape and his homicidal urges when people bring up his mother." I was like, "Eeeek. What do I do, Batman?"_

_This is when I learned the most important part of realistic writing. In real life, most people aren't strong. Most people aren't even close to perfect. Most damaged and not-yet-mended people can't handle crud when it really hits the fan without some kind of outside help. In books where the ending is a guaranteed happy (not in all books, just those books where they're not tragedies), the lead characters have to either be strong or get that way in order to reach their happy ending. In a story that is supposed to model real life as closely as possible... the lead character does what they have time for. And they're rarely, if ever, the stoic strong types who just suck up hell and nightmares and just deal._

_So what does that mean? It means I'm stuck with two very flawed characters with crappy history who can only react the way a person_ in real life _would react to what they've experienced_. I (sadly) don't control my characters. _They do what fits their characterization. I don't always like it. In fact, I usually hate it. If I had my way, Nuada and Dylan would've been married with Elf puppies on the way back in chapter 15. But that's not who they are, and that wouldn't be realistic. Just like Dylan's behavior in certain chapters, while frustrating or... (what's the word I'm looking for... crud. Where it holds back the plot a little. Plot-stalling?) ...while frustrating or plot-stalling, unfortunately were incredibly well-researched way before I got to this point, thanks to the promptings, reminders, and painful pokings of my betas. To write PTSD flashback(s) in any way other than accurately would be... well, besides being bad writing (thus lumping me in with Christopher Paolini and that chick who wrote_ Enclave), _it would be irresponsible of me, as someone who knows about PTSD and knows people who have it and suffer such debillitating reactions as Dylan does, to misrepresent it._

_Is there a lot of angst? Yeah. I thought I warned people ages and ages ago that this would be dark. I try to break up the constant angst and darkness with humor, but this is an M-rated fic where I'm trying (although I may not succeed) in preventing the slaughter of billions of people via Elven prince and clockwork army. And the fae are dark in general, which gives me a bit to work with. If I had my way, there would be a lot more psychological torture, sexual assault, physical abuse, etc. in this fic. But my wishes don't always fit into the realism of the fic. *shrug*_

_I will make this promise, though. Almost nothing I put in here is for my own gratification (except the banter; that's usually for my own pleasure). Unfortunately, I came up with the plot and the characterization and wrote the first 7 chapters, where Nuada and Dylan are in the sanctuary, way back in the dawn of time before the dinosaurs roamed the earth (I_ so _did not know what I was getting myself into - by the time I found out around chapter 35, it was too late)._

Every bit of groundwork laid in those seven chapters spawned everything else in this fic. _If you think, "Wow, that's really dark/horrible/unnecessarily cruel/angsty," for the most part I can guarantee you I'm not making it up. Such as Dylan being electrocuted, starved, drugged, beaten, put in isolation, etc. Such things were standard practice in mental institutions up until the late eighties (drugging and isolating kids is still practiced in American mental hospitals to this day). Saying Dylan was in a mental hospital in that time period and she_ didn't _experience those things would be pretty unrealistic (as an example)._

_**SO IN SHORT:**_ _Where am I going with this? Unfortunately, I have to follow all plot points introduced in the first 25 chapters to their natural and realistic conclusions, whether I want to or not. I can't just forget them, even if I want to (and trust me, a lot of the times, I do want to). That would be bad writing. I don't know about you, but I hate it when authors do that. *pokes Cassandra Clare, Christopher Paolini, and the chick who wrote_ Enclave_*_

_*takes a drink of water* Bleh, I feel like a college professor. My throat hurts. Or, I guess, my fingers? From typing? Blech, anyway. So I don't actually like diving into Dylan's mental issues. I'd love to see her and Nuada get tortured (yes I'm horrible) or something, but unfortunately, for realism's sake (I hate you, realism) I have to deal with _this _before I can tackle a lot of other things - like them actually getting married. Sigh. Hope this all makes sense, and gives you a better understanding of where I'm coming from. I'm not angry or anything at all, I was just surprised and a bit confused, and wanted to tell my side. So... yeah._

_Aaaaaaaaand... now onto a crying girl getting the stuffing beat out of her by an Elven prince. I mean, what? Who could that be?_

_- LA_

_PS - to quote another reviewer, Kastet, who is also a darling (and so sweet!), "I just can't sympathise anymore with a character that essentially hasn't changed from the first 20 chapters." Well, firstly, it's not about sympathy for me. Again, it's about realism. But also, I'm merely curious, because I'm only 23 and my sister, who's 40, and my mom, who's... older (I won't share your secret, Mom, I promise, lol), have both said that once you hit about 25, maturity-wise a lot doesn't change in as short of an amount of time as it does when you're younger._

_What I mean is, there's a HUGE difference between someone who's 10 and someone who's 13. Not so much a big difference between 30 and 33, maturity-wise, even though it's the same number of years. So I'm just curious... how much change would there be in less than 2 months? I'm not a biology or psychology major (creative writing major, obviously, lol) so there's plenty I don't know. I'm always willing to go back and rewrite stuff, so... help?_

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**Chapter Seventy-Four**

**See Me Through Different Eyes**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Punishment, Sneaking, Nuala's Help, Words with a King, Bargains, a Taste of Hope, Good News and Bad, a Surprise, and Battle Plans**

.

.

Tears slipped down her pale cheeks as the cold, implacable backhand cracked her across the face, knocking her to the floor. Blood leaked from a cut on her lip. Thanks to the ring the prince wore, blood seeped from a gash across her cheek. Another blow slapped against her face. White lights exploded in front of her eyes.

"Bres!" Dierdre cried, cringing away from the coldly furious face looming above her. There was blood in her mouth from a bitten tongue, a split lip, cuts in her mouth. Blood dripped into her eyes from a cut through one eyebrow. The Fomorian prince hit her again. "Bres, please! I'm sorry! Please!"

He ignored her desperate pleas. He'd glamoured the bedroom before starting Dierdre's punishment to keep anyone from potentially seeing or hearing what he was doing to her. Arrachd knew, of course. So did Cíaran. The gancanaugh waited just beyond the door. When the warding spell faded, Bres knew his old friend would be in the room and at his sister's side in an instant. Bres would be finished by then.

"I warned you," the prince snarled. When Dierdre, clad only in a thin sleeping shift, tried to get to her hands and knees, the prince delivered a savage kick to her ribs. She cried out and fell onto her belly upon the floor. "I warned you! Not to make a move without my permission. Not to make a move on him without my order. Midwinter, I said. The ball, I said." Another vicious kick. "How dare you? How _dare_ you? You might have ruined everything!" Bres went to the floor, straddling her narrow waist to prevent her from attempting to crawl away again, and hit her twice more. "Did I not tell you to follow my orders?"

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, struggling to shield her face with shaking arms. "I'm sorry. Please, Bres, I'm sorry."

The blows stopped. Dierdre peeked between her arms. Blinked the blood from her eyes. The Fomorian prince was looking down at her, his expression one of abject disappointment. He shook his head slowly back and forth. A lock of golden hair fell across one eye.

"I know you're sorry," he murmured. His fingers touched her cheek. She flinched. Whimpered. But he merely stroked her face with surprising gentleness. "Why do you do this? Why do you constantly betray me this way, my sweet? Do you think I enjoy punishing you like this?" She trembled beneath him, unable to speak now that the onslaught of pain had abated, to be replaced by the tender caress along an unbruised, undamaged portion of her cheek. "Dierdre. How often must I do this?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Bres. I know I was supposed to wait, but I couldn't bear seeing that whore with him, when he's supposed to be mine_._ You promised the Silver Lance would be _mine_. He's supposed to be _my_ toy, _my_ plaything, and there she was, strutting around on his arm... I wish you and Cíaran would do something about her." In a tremulous voice, she added, "That human tramp makes me miserable. I _hate_ her!"

Bres shushed her, still stroking her cheek. "I know, sweeting. I also despise her. She stole Nuada from our side, the filthy whore. Turned his heart against us. Against the fae. And she'll pay for it. Even more than he will for his treachery, she'll pay for making him betray our cause. But that does not excuse your disobedience."

Her voice trembled when she whispered, "F-forgive me, my prince. Please... forgive me."

"You will never disobey me again," the prince said softly. His fingers drifted from her cheek down to her throat. "Never again, Dierdre. Or I will beat you to within an inch of your life. I will break that lovely face to pieces, and forbid you a healer." Those fingers tightened around her throat. She choked. "Now, I can use this little misstep of yours with the proper finesse," Bres added, pressing against the paleness of her neck with his hand. "We can use your punishment as bait for a trap for Silverlance. But be that as it may, you will _never_," with another squeeze around her throat that had her gasping desperately for air, "ever disobey me again."

He didn't let her go, so she couldn't speak. Only nod. Just when she started to struggle mindlessly, frantic for even a single breath, did he release her. He stood up. A wave of his hand dispelled the warding enchantment at the door. Cíaran was in the room in an instant, on his knees beside his sister, cradling her to his chest. He gently brushed a lock of hair back from her face.

Eyes of dark malachite pinned the Fomorian prince. "Did you have to be so merciless?" Cíaran demanded. "She didn't expose us, nor did she actually interfere with plans already laid. Was this really necessary?" He watched with gritted teeth as his prince and friend licked Dierdre's blood from his knuckles. "She'll have to glamour the bruises away. You'll have to help her, or they'll be seen." When Bres said nothing, Cíaran hissed before bending his head toward his sister. "Anything broken?"

"No," she whispered, pressing against the gancanaugh lord. "No, I am well enough. Nothing broken. No permanent damage, I think." Dierdre couldn't stop the shivers racking her body. Only cuddled her brother and laid her cheek against his black linen shirt. "He was careful."

"Of course I was careful," Bres said. "I happen to like Dierdre's face. I would never permanently damage my beautiful Dierdre. Surely you know that, my love."

Cíaran helped his sister to her feet and half-carried her to the silk-shrouded bed. Dierdre sank down onto it and curled up, shaking. Her brother pulled out a handkerchief and with a gentle hand blotted the blood seeping from the cuts on her face.

"Do not get too comfortable, Cíaran," Bres said after a moment. The gancanaugh froze. "I have a task for you before you tend to my lovely Dierdre."

"What task?"

"Hit her."

The gancanaugh's eyes widened, and for a moment his glamour slipped. Sclera-less black eyes with crimson-slitted pupils stared at the prince. "Your Highness-"

"Hit her," the Fomorian crown prince commanded. "Strike her hard enough to leave a bruise. I suggest a black eye." When the gancanaugh only continued to stare at him in uncomprehending shock, Bres added, "Do it, Cíaran. Hit her now. That's an order from your prince."

Cíaran turned his gaze to his sister. Tried to speak, but found the words silenced in his throat. Dierdre gave him a long look, and then nodded once before closing her eyes and bracing herself. Cíaran glanced at Bres. The Fomorian watched with an impassive expression. The gancanaugh turned back to Dierdre. Clenched his fist. Then, gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, he struck his sister at the behest of his prince.

**.**

A'du'la'di wandered through the apple orchard with 'Sa'ti, wondering when the prince and the _a'ge'lv_ were going to get up. To keep from getting bored, they'd gone down to the kitchens to see if they could help Rórdán with his chores, and one of the undercooks, Mistress Fitzgibbons, had told them they might go to the winter apple orchard to check if the apples were ripe yet. Rórdán had told them that they were allowed to pick and eat any of the apples on the trees whose trunks were marked with a special symbol.

"The prince an' princess used to pick apples all the time when they were little like us," Rórdán said as he walked with them through the trees. "Whenever they came to Findias. That's what Caspar said, anyways. But sometimes they'd get in trouble for pickin' too many, so the queen said they could have apples only off _some_ of the trees. When they grew up, and the prince went away, no one picked the apples anymore. Master Collin, he's Head Gardener here, in charge of the dryads, said the servant children could pick 'em if we wanted."

"What happened to the queen?" A'du asked softly as they crunched across the snow. "I haven't seen her. Have I?"

"She died," Rórdán murmured. "Long time ago. Humans killed her."

"The poor prince," 'Sa'ti whispered. "That's so sad. Why'd they kill her?"

Rórdán shrugged. "Don' know. But they say that's when the king went mad for a while, and the prince changed."

"Changed how?" A'du asked.

"He used to laugh a lot, an' play, an' have fun. Then the queen died, an' he became sad an' quiet all the time. He's different now, though. Since he came back. Everyone's talking 'bout how he's changed again. He's more like how he used to be 'fore Her Majesty died. That's what Caspar says. Master Caspar likes Her Ladyship a lot, jus' 'cause of that."

"The prince loves her," A'du said decisively. "That's why he's different. He's happy now. When nobody's messing with 'em, anyway. But people keep trying to hurt them. It makes me _mad_."

"Yeah," said 'Sa'ti. "People like..." She trailed off, whiskers twitching. "People like... gosh, I don't remember what I was gonna say." She sighed. "Whatever. I... d'you guys hear that?"

The three children stopped walking and talking, and listened. Someone, somewhere, was jumping against something before falling back into the snow with a muffled crunching sound. As the three servants approached, they heard a girl's voice muttering, "Stupid trees. If you were pack ice, I'd climb you just like _that_. So there! Stupid trees! Oof!" A'du and the others rounded a thick apple tree in time to see a girl with fiery red hair wearing white fur bounce off the iced trunk of another tree and flop back onto the snow. "Oh! You stupid tree! Let me climb you!"

"Hey, do you need help?" A'du called. The girl turned from yelling at the apple tree to eye him with obvious wariness. She got up and dusted the snow off her fur-trimmed leather breeches. _Maybe she works in the kennels,_ the ewah thought, remembering how Miyax, the Mistress of the Royal Kennels, usually dressed. Aloud, all he said was, "I can get an apple down for you if you want one."

"Who are you?" The girl demanded.

"I'm A'du," he said. "This is my friend Rórdán, and my little sister 'Sa'ti. Here, lemme climb up there and I'll get you an apple."

Shifting on the fly, A'du'la'di loped up to the ice-coated tree. Muscles coiling and bunching in his massive hind-legs, he sprang at the trunk. His dagger-like claws punched through the ice and wood. With only a bit of scrabbling to keep from sliding down the ice-slicked tree trunk, the cougar cub managed to clamber onto a thick branch. He sniffed an apple. Ripe. Cupping the apple in his paw, he used a careful flick of his dew-claw to sever the stem. He dropped it into 'Sa'ti's waiting hands.

The ewah boy cut down two apples each for all four of the children. Now came the hard part - getting down from the tree. Hooking his back claws into the ice and wood, he stretched out his body as far as he could, keeping himself from sliding by inching along with his front claws taking a lot of the weight. He could feel the strain in his nail-beds. When he was as stretched-out and scootched-down as he could get, he gauged the distance between his head and the ground, and sheathed his claws, which sent him tumbling towards the snow.

A'du landed on a snowdrift with a muffled _thump-crunch_. Shook himself to rid his fur of any snow. Shook out his paws. Then he shifted back into two-legger form and held out a hand to Rórdán for one of the apples meant for him.

"Thank you," the girl murmured, nibbling on the apple. Her bright green eyes peered at him from between her fiery red hair. "You're a shapeshifter?"

He nodded. "Me an' my sister are ewah, cougar shifters."

"I'm Abigail. I'm a munaqsri. I can shapeshift into a polar bear." Tucking the apple into her mouth, she shifted into a white bear cub the size of a large dog. A'du and the other children gaped in astonishment. She looked like a normal white bear in every way except size and eye-color. A'du was pretty sure bear cubs weren't normally that big. And he knew for a fact that bears didn't have eyes that shifted colors between vibrant teal, electric green, celadon, and silvery blue.

Abigail shifted back to human form and grinned. "So... wanna be friends?"

**.**

Dylan woke slowly, consciousness sliding into her mind along with the odd sensation of something like warm, rough velvet caressing her knuckles. She didn't want to wake. Not yet. She was having such a lovely dream. There was the scent of water lilies and honeysuckle on the air. The warmth of the spring sun. A familiar smile. One that actually reached eyes of vibrant, molten gold like honeyed amber. In the dream, Dylan dabbled her feet in the waters of a crystalline lake and laughed as silvery minnows darted around her ankles. But that caress across her knuckles insisted she wake up. She opened her eyes. Blinked. Memory came rushing back, and she smiled. The darkness of the previous night had gifted her with something wonderful.

Nuada lay sprawled on his stomach on the opposite side of the bed. Sunlight shone in through the window, dappling across his back and his long hair. His eyes were closed. His breathing was deep and even. Dylan's smile widened. Her prince was fast asleep. And between them, spanning the handful of feet separating them, was Nuada's outstretched arm, and her own. They'd fallen asleep clasping hands the night before, and still held onto each other now. Even in sleep, Nuada's thumb brushed across her knuckles.

The mortal's smile slipped away as she studied the Elven warrior, however. He slept, yes, and yet he still looked exhausted. Almost haggard. Faint lines creased his brow. The darkness around his eyes and on his mouth was darker than ever. And though he slumbered peacefully, sadness shadowed his features.

She carefully slipped free of Nuada's grasp. Just as carefully slid out of bed and tiptoed to the door to her sitting room. She had no idea what time it was. At least noon, by the sun. The king was no doubt awake. And if not... well, she wouldn't know until she tried. So Dylan crept out of the room and snagged Uaithne's attention. A finger to her lips and a gesture of her chin toward the bedroom door told him the prince still slept.

"How do I request an audience with the king?" The mortal asked the guard in a whisper. "I need to talk to him." She'd woken up with this idea tickling at the back of her mind. In the ten minutes it had taken her to creep out of bed without waking Nuada, the wisp of idea had fermented into a plan. She actually felt fairly stupid for not thinking of it before.

Uaithne eyed the prince's mortal lady in her rumpled pajamas. "You wish to go like that?"

"I can't change my clothes without waking His Highness. If I wake him up, I won't be able to go. He'll have a litter of kittens and claim I'll get us both killed and refuse to let me out of the suite."

The Butcher hesitated. "And _are_ you about to do something that will get you both killed?"

Dylan cocked her head to one side. "Are you allowed to ask me that? Every time Prince Nuada gives an order, you guys just do it. How come no one asks him if he's about to do something suicidally reckless?"

"Because if he gets himself killed, we may survive. If you are hurt on our watch, he will hunt us down one by one and slay us all without mercy."

She scoffed. "No, he won't." The mortal missed the flat look the Butcher Guard sent her way. "And no, I'm not about to do anything that'll get either of us killed. So can we please go? Before he wakes up and tries to stop me." The guard hesitated once more, studying the human. She sighed and held up her left hand. The light winked blue from the sapphire ring on her finger. "Does this get me any points?"

"You and His Highness are betrothed?" Uaithne demanded. Dylan smiled a little shyly and nodded. He sighed. "Very well, milady. Congratulations, if it is warranted. And I will take you to the king. Although I am not certain you'll be able to get past the chamberlain in those clothes."

Dylan folded her arms and smiled wider. "Leave that to me."

They left after she took the time to say her morning prayers. Her only concession to wearing "real clothes" was that she slipped on her everyday leather boots, which some enterprising faerie hound had deposited beside one of the sitting room sofas. Dylan rubbed behind Eimh's ears. The dog offered a puppy-grin and went limp as a baked noodle on the floor, writhing in doggy ecstasy. The sight of the hound pup's happiness made the mortal miss her cat more than a little.

Despite knowing she looked a bit ridiculous in her Hello Kitty pajama pants, at least to the other faeries, Dylan kept her head high and a calm expression pasted on her face as she followed Uaithne and all of her other guards - except Fionnlagh, who'd agreed to stay behind in case the prince woke up - to the king's study.

As predicted, she didn't make it very far, and as predicted, the chamberlain tried to stop her.

"You cannot possibly think that I will allow you to come before His Majesty in that... that... human peasant garb."

Dylan glanced down at her pajamas. "You know, the princess of Genovia and the princess of Japan wear Hello Kitty trousers, Lord Chamberlain. Not exactly peasant garb." She actually didn't know for a fact that the young princess of Japan actually wore Hello Kitty, but it would stand to reason that she did, all things considered. And the human woman knew the (fictional) princess of Genovia certainly did. "Besides, I can assure you that His Majesty will want to see me now, before things gets crazy."

The chamberlain made a _hmmm_ sound, as if he didn't believe her, but didn't quite dare to say so. She still couldn't believe the king's guards lining the corridor had called him to stop her. "My lady, surely you can understand that in the Golden Court, we have rules of etiquette. A way of doing things that has been preserved for thousands upon thousands of years. Appearing before His Majesty... like _that_, is hardly in keeping with our customs. Surely you respect that."

"I do. However, I can't change my clothes right now. And I promise you, Lord Chamberlain, the king will be _very_ unhappy if you don't let me by and then let me in - right now."

Lord Box-Head opened his mouth to refute her when Nuala swept down the hall behind the king's servant, humming to herself, a smile on her face. Upon seeing Dylan, she froze. Dylan raised both eyebrows and tried to smile, remembering that she and Nuala were trying to be friends.

"Is there a problem, Chamberlain?" The Elven princess asked.

The chamberlain's gesture practically dripped with disdain as he made a motion with his hand that included Dylan's pajamas. "She wishes to come before His Royal Majesty dressed like _that_."

Nuala's aurulent eyes went wide. "I... see. Lady Dylan, perhaps you should change?"

Uaithne made a series of soft sounds that sounded an awful lot like, "Told you so, milady."

Dylan shot her guard a dirty look while biting back a sigh. "I can't."

"Why ever not? Surely if you cannot choose what to wear, my brother..." Seeing the look on the mortal's face, Nuala sent a very delicate psychic tendril along the link binding the Elven princess to her twin, and found him fast asleep. Understanding flashed through the Elf's mind. "Ah. I see. Come with me, then, Lady Dylan. I am certain I have something I might loan you that is fit for an audience with the king."

"Oh. Um..." Well, she didn't have a good reason not to go with the princess. Except one - and it was tall, paler than the moon, with silver eyes and tumbling black curls. But that was just because she was being ridiculous. Naya was simply Nuada's friend. Dylan had nothing to worry about concerning the Zwezdan noblewoman. Nothing at all. "Sure. Thank you, Your Highness."

"My pleasure," Nuala said warmly. Then her eyes caught on the ring on Dylan's left ring-finger and widened again. "I... it is absolutely my pleasure. Besides, I think we have a few things we need to discuss, don't you?"

"I-" But Nuala had already taken her hand and yanked her back the way she'd come, towards the prince and princess's suites. Uaithne and the others trailed behind.

The moment they were in the princess's suite, Nuada's twin dragged Dylan into her dressing room. Only Dylan's three female guards were allowed to accompany the princess and future princess. Once inside the dressing room, Nuala whirled on the human woman and grabbed her hands. The Elven woman beamed.

"You accepted him! He proposed again and you accepted! Didn't you? I felt such an intense whirlwind of emotion from Nuada late last night, I could not make sense of it. But he asked you to marry him again, didn't he? And you accepted!"

Dylan nodded. "Yeah, I did. Your father ordered it."

The other woman's smile slipped. "My fath- oh. I... you are unhappy, then. You do not blame my brother, surely?"

"What? No. Nuada actually refused, that idiot. Nearly gave me a heart attack. I convinced him to marry me, though, on the condition that I set some conditions for marrying him. Which makes no sense, but-"

"But he is male," Nuala muttered, "and when do males ever make sense?" The princess sighed. "So you are not angry. That is well, then. It would grieve my brother if you were unhappy with him. He will make you a good husband, I think. He loves you very much, you know."

She rolled her eyes. "I know. Why do people think I don't know this? We're crazy-stupid in love with each other." Then she bit her lip. "And we're engaged. Jeez. If I indulge in a bit of childishness, you won't tell anyone, will you?"

Nuala gave her an understanding smile. "I'll not tell a soul. You are excited, aren't you?"

"Yes!" Dylan allowed herself a happy bounce. "Yes, I am totally excited, I get to marry him! I never thought it would be possible but I get to marry him! I'm so happy!" She sighed it out again. "I'm so happy."

"I, too, have good news!" Nuala said, letting go of Dylan's hands to go to the heavy goldenwood wardrobe standing against one wall of the dressing room. She flung the carved doors wide and stepped back to scan the contents of the wardrobe. "Bres means to go before my father today or tomorrow for permission to publicly ask for my hand." The princess blushed and smiled. Dylan thought that if Nuala didn't love the Fomorian prince, she'd unfortunately be falling for him soon. "Is that not wonderful?"

"That's... great." She thought she might choke on the fib. "As long as you're happy. Wait. _Publicly_ ask for your hand?"

"Oh, it is a bit complicated when both parties are ranking royalty. First Bres had to go before my father and ask for permission to court me. Then he had to receive _my_ permission. Once we'd been courting a suitable amount of time, he would go to my father and ask if he might propose to me. Of course, being royal, there must be both a private and public proposal, if I agreed. So Bres proposed to me, and now he must do so before the court. Nuada will have to propose to you before the court as well. No doubt at the Midwinter Ball or some other event."

Nuala pulled out a beautiful silk-linen _leine_ of exquisite blue the color of an autumn sky. She didn't notice the fact that Dylan had gone a bit pale. "This will do nicely, I think. I'll not call my maids," the princess added when Dylan glanced at the floor. "Naya spoke to me about you a few days ago. She said she seemed to make you a bit... uncomfortable. You need not be jealous of her, Dylan. Whatever was between her and my brother is long past."

"I know," Dylan replied too quickly. She didn't want to think about public proposals right now. If Nuada asked her in front of so many people... what would they do? She suddenly imagined hundreds of faerie nobles booing and hissing at her. Shook the image away. "But thanks for not calling her. I just... think it would be better if she and I avoided each other for a little while. Just until things smooth over a bit. And I'm not really fond of Na'ko'ma. Seeing as how she hates your brother. I don't think she likes me much, either. Which is fine. I'm okay with that."

The princess smiled as she laid the long, simple Irish gown over a bench covered in pearlescent blue velvet. "She does not see the way my brother looks at you. She will get over it eventually, do not fear. And now that you and Nuada are betrothed! I will admit, I have always wanted another sister."

"Another?" Dylan echoed as she shrugged out of her _Lord of the Rings_ shirt.

"Na'ko'ma and Polunochnaya were fostered in Bethmoora," Nuala said. She pulled open a drawer of her vanity table and withdrew a silver-backed brush. "While we share no blood, I have always considered them to be my sisters. They... they were my only comfort in the months after my mother's death."

"What about Nuada?" Realizing that might have sounded differently than she'd intended, Dylan hastened to add, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It is all right," the princess replied. "Nuada... he took our mother's death very hard. Nearly as hard as my father, I think. He became a very somber boy. He would not share things with me, as he once did. Only Wink seemed to be able to coax him into sharing his thoughts. So I turned to Naya and Ko. We became very much like sisters." Nuala turned around just as Dylan was tugging the satin-soft _leine_ into place. "And now I shall gain another sister. You look very well, indeed, Dylan."

"I'm surprised your clothes fit me," the mortal said, smoothing a hand over the cool blue silk.

Nuala smiled. "That is not mine. It belongs to Naya. She will not mind if you borrow it."

A pang hit Dylan behind her heart. "Oh. Um... what's it doing in your closet?" The princess shrugged.

"I have no notion. The maids might have put it back in the wrong place. But you certainly look lovely. Now come here and let me see what can be done with your hair."

Dylan couldn't suppress her smile. "You liked playing with dolls when you were little, didn't you?"

Nuala grinned. "Indeed."

**.**

With the autumn blue _leine_ and matching slippers (a little big, but Dylan's penguin socks took care of that, as the slippers were meant to be worn with thin silk stockings), and Nuala having tamed Dylan's once-sleep-mussed curls and braiding them with blue ribbons, the mortal went before the chamberlain once more. This time, he had no choice but to admit her.

Nerves kicked in as the door closed behind Dylan, leaving her alone with King Balor and the four guards that stood at attention against the far wall. She swallowed. Curtsied to him. Anything to win brownie points for what she needed to do in the next ten to twenty minutes.

"Your Majesty honors me with this audience."

Balor raised an eyebrow. After the previous night, he'd expected the same snarling shrewish behavior from Nuada's lady. This polite woman before him was a far cry from the angry mortal of last night. He gestured to a chair. "Have a seat, Lady Dylan."

"Thank you, Majesty." Dylan forced herself to keep calm and relaxed as she sank into the chair in front of the desk. Balor couldn't see her toes, which scrunched in her borrowed slippers. All of her other tells were easily masked now that she'd had some sleep and anchored herself. Folding her hands in her lap, she did her best to look prim.

"Now I am all curiosity. What could you possibly have to tell me that would force you to brave the lion's den?"

Dylan plastered a cheery smile on her face. "I wanted to speak with you about something of great importance to me, Your Majesty." She let the smile slip away like a shadow. "I propose a bargain, King Balor. I have some questions. I doubt you would answer them strictly out of the kindness of your heart. You are fey, after all," she added with a half-smile quirking the corner of her mouth. Balor inclined his head. "I also know you have questions for me. So I would propose that for every one of my questions you answer, I will answer one of yours."

The king's brows rose. "You assume I have questions for you in the first place."

"All things considered, Your Majesty, it's a safe assumption to make."

He canted his head. "Very well. I accept your proposal. As sovereign, I shall go first." He leaned back in his chair and studied her long enough that only sheer iron will kept her from squirming. "Do you know that my son desires the extermination of the human race?"

Fey-like blue eyes locked with his. "Yes. Did you send, or were you in any way responsible for sending, assassins to the royal forest to harm Nuada and/or myself?"

Surprised that _this_ was her first question, the king replied, "No."

Warmth blossomed in Dylan's chest. A knot of icy tension loosened in her stomach. She should have done this ages ago. Days ago, weeks. Should have asked the Spirit, asked Heavenly Father, to help her discern the truth of Balor's intentions. But everything had been so hectic and crazy and she hadn't had a moment to think straight at all... until now.

And now she knew - Balor wasn't responsible for the dipsa serpents trying to kill them. Would Nuada be relieved? Would he even believe her?

"How can you ally yourself with someone who seeks the death of your entire species?" The king asked quietly.

"Because if I give him a chance, if I show him that humans aren't all bad, he'll stop wanting that. Stop thinking it's necessary. He doesn't want to kill the humans because he hates them. I know he _does_ hate them, but his hatred wouldn't push him for genocide. He thinks he must kill off the children of Adam to save the fae. Death for one species to save thousands, if not millions of others."

Dylan swallowed. She could only hope that she would succeed in showing Nuada that not all mortals were as evil as most of the ones he'd dealt with in his life. And if she didn't... if she couldn't... she didn't know what would happen. "Did you send the Butcher Guards to attack Wink?"

He raised a brow. "No, I did not." The mortal closed her eyes. Relaxed a fraction. Balor asked, "Did Nuada order Wink to attack my guards?"

"As far as I know," the mortal replied, "he did not. The last time Nuada had contact with Wink was when he came to help Nuada take care of me when I was sick." Seeing the king's raised eyebrow, Dylan sighed. "I got sick with the flu about two weeks before we came back to Findias. It's one of the reasons we took so long returning. I couldn't get out of bed for several days. Wink made some kind of faerie medicine for me. That was the last time we saw him."

Balor tapped his finger against his chin. According to reports, the Butchers had been attacked at an event in the mortal city of New York called Midnight Fest. A sort of impromptu festival put on by the fayre and other Hidden Folk in the city. There was no conceivable way the prince could have known the Butchers would be at the festival that far in advance. And he knew the human was not lying. Yet she might be wrong about when Nuada had last seen the silver cave troll.

"Did you try to have my brother killed or harmed in any way?"

Startled, the king wrenched himself back to the present conversation. "I did not." Dylan felt another wash of warmth. "I actually know very little about you or your family. I assume you have one. I know that your relationship with your parents is..."

"Fine," she replied, her tone clipped. "We reconciled before they died."

"How did they die?"

"Bus accident," Dylan said. "Right after I graduated medical school. Did you try to have my servants harmed in any way?"

"I did not," the Elven king said. Another flood of gentle warmth spread through Dylan's chest. He asked, "How exactly did you meet my son?"

Dylan swallowed. Closed her eyes. "I... had been attacked by a group of men in the subway on my way home one night. They... they, um... they forced themselves on me. Cut up my face; that's where I got these." She indicated her scarred countenance with one finger. "Nuada came to my rescue. He told them to leave me alone. Instead, they attacked him. He was shot several times. I knew he wouldn't make it if I didn't help him, and he'd saved me, so I helped him get to safety."

"I see." And that, Balor knew, was the absolute truth. "You couldn't leave him, could you? He was too badly hurt." He remembered that night, a year ago, when Nuala had collapsed, bleeding from strange wounds without obvious source. The king had tried to suppress the dark fear that his son would not survive whatever had happened to him that had hurt his sister. "You saved his life."

"I had to. He'd saved me. He was willing to die for me, someone he didn't even know. I couldn't just leave him to die. We saved each other. May I ask my question now?" Balor inclined his head. "Are you planning... are you going to... were you responsible for the compulsion spells or any of the other craziness last night?" Seeing the molten eyes blaze with hot bronze color, she held up her hands. "Please, Your Majesty! I mean no disrespect at all. I am only trying... I'm only trying to protect Nuada. I'm not accusing you. I'm sorry about last night. I was tired and shaken and it's no excuse and I beg your pardon, but I only want him to be safe! Please answer my question."

The king of Bethmoora fixed his gaze on her and said icily, "I am in no way responsible for the spells that were laid on either of you. Now I ask you this, Lady Dylan, and then we will end this interview. Have you completed the order I gave you and His Highness last night? Have you plighted your troth?"

Dylan held up her left hand. The three sapphires glinted upon her heart-finger in the golden light coming in from the study window. The Butchers lined up against the wall shifted restlessly. Balor sucked in a sharp breath.

"Where did you get that?"

"Prince Nuada slipped it upon my finger when I agreed to be his wife last night."

The king half-rose from his chair. Something too broken to be anger and too vicious to be grief flashed across his weathered face. "How dare you? Both of you? That was not his to give. How dare he bestow such a treasure upon you? You are not worthy of such a gift. How _dare_ you? Give it back! Now!"

She shrank back from him. "He told me his mother intended it for him to give to the woman he would take as his wife," she whispered.

Balor flinched. "His mother... intended... I see." He sank back into his chair on suddenly weak legs. Closed his eyes. "I see."

Dylan was suddenly reminded of what her hound had said the night before, about Balor being sick. He certainly looked unwell. She'd been right the previous evening - he _was_ a bit gray. He did not sit up as straight as he had only two months before. And he looked very, very tired. "Your Majesty," Dylan murmured, uncertain if she dared to say what was sitting on the tip of her tongue. "Your Majesty... are you all right? If I may, sir... you don't look well. Should I call someone? Or perhaps one of your guards should-"

"No, Lady Dylan. Thank you, but no. I am well enough. Merely a bit tired. I am an old man as well as a king, after all. So... you and my son are... are betrothed, then." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway. "That is... that is good. I know that my son loves you. As much as he can love anyone."

"Why do you say that?" Dylan ventured. The king opened suddenly weary eyes. "Why do you say, 'As much as he can love?' Nuada loves the way everyone else does. There's nothing diminished or deficient about him. He loves just as fiercely as any other fae."

He did not have the strength to argue with her. Instead, he merely sighed. "Are you happy that you can say yes to him without fear of reprisal?"

"It wasn't reprisals that kept me from saying yes before. My loyalty was divided. I told Nuada long ago that I was his, in all things and in all ways, but he would come second to my God in all things and in all ways. It wasn't fear of punishment that made me refuse him. It was that I love my Heavenly Father, and I did not wish to disappoint him. Just as Nuada does not wish to disappoint you... if he can help it." The king gave her a sharp look. She bowed her head. "Yes, I'm happy we're betrothed."

"You wished to ask me for a boon, didn't you?" Balor asked. "That is why you have come here. That is why you wished to test my intentions toward my son. You did not dare ask me for something that may expose one of Nuada's weaknesses. What did you want?"

Dylan bit back a sigh. And here she thought she'd been being so clever. "Can we have a couple days off?"

Despite himself, his eyebrow winged upward. "I beg your pardon?"

"Can we have a few days off?" Only the warmth of the Holy Ghost and her own instincts prompted her to say what she did next. "He's exhausted, Your Majesty. He's had no real time to recover, either physically or mentally. Please let him have just a few days to get his strength back. To rest his mind. He's... he's so tired. Please, can we have a few days before we have to do anything else?"

"What is wrong with him?" Balor demanded, concerned. "Is he ill?"

"No. Not... not ill. Just... he's tired. Can you understand that? Him being tired? He tries so hard, and he doesn't sleep, and he's just... I'm worried about him. He needs a few days. Please? Just until Midwinter. That's Monday. It's only Thursday. A few days. Please?"

The king sighed. "Lady Dylan, we have several events lined up over the next few days-"

"But you're the king, aren't you? Can't you just... postpone them? I'm really concerned for him." She started to bite her lip, but stopped herself. She could still remember the bleak look on Nuada's face when he'd asked her, _How much more? How much more can we take?_ She offered the king a beseeching look. "I'm really... it's not just me as his betrothed. As a healer, I'm concerned."

"Why are you so concerned?"

She sighed. "I can't tell you, Your Majesty. I'm sorry. It's called doctor - or healer, rather - healer-patient confidentiality. Anything Nuada tells me or that I notice that affects or relates to his health, either physical or mental, is confidential. I can't tell you, or I'd be violating the oaths I took when I became a healer. But he _needs_ a break."

Balor studied her intently for a long moment. There _was_ real concern in her eyes, in her face. In her professional opinion - which Balor was beginning to respect, as she had managed to save Nuada's life without the use of modern medicines or magic after the prince had been shot - the prince needed a rest from the politicking.

"Well, my lady," Balor murmured, sighing, "your request will no doubt give my housekeeper an apoplexy, never mind what it may do to my steward or my poor chamberlain, but the health of the crown prince is a great deal more important to me, both as his king and as his father. So I will see what can be done."

The relief and gratitude in the girl's eyes surprised him. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you so much."

"Nuada doesn't sleep?" The king queried. Dylan winced and looked away. "You did not mean to say that, did you?" She shook her head. "I see. Well, my dear girl, in exchange for acquiescing to your request for the prince to receive 'a break,' you will oblige me by remaining a guest in his bed for the foreseeable future." Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth. Bethmoora's king added, "Before you try to refuse, that was not a request or a bargain in the making. That was an order. Perhaps my son will sleep better with something to divert him."

Dylan clenched her fists in the skirt of the borrowed _leine_. "Why are you doing this? Why do things that you know upset us? Why force us into things we don't want? What are you trying to accomplish?"

"I have many reasons for the things I do," he replied wearily. "This specifically? To remind you that nothing comes from the fae for free. Everything costs, Lady Dylan, no matter how small or insignificant. Have you any more questions?"

"I have one," she spat, then visibly forced herself to be calm. "But if I ask it, it may offend you. I desperately wish to know the answer. However, as you may become angry by my inquiry, I will offer you this - for whatever level of insult you take from what I have to ask, you may ask me a question that is equally insulting."

Intrigued, the king nodded. "Ask your question."

"Do you even love him at all?" She saw the bronze eyes flash. Saw the way the old lips thinned with displeasure. The king's nostrils flared.

"I love my son," Balor whispered. "You were not there to see the day I first held him in my arms. I thought I could feel no greater love for him than I did in that moment, yet it only grew stronger with every day. I have never stopped loving my son. And that is why I do what I must." He pinned her with eyes of iced copper, as if furious molten bronze seethed beneath a layer of glacial, deadly calm. "And now it is _my_ turn. If I ordered you to my son's bed, would you go? And would you go to him a martyr, lying back and thinking only of duty? Or would you surrender your chastity to him as you have surrendered everything else, including your soul?"

She lifted her head. Her stare was cool and haughty. The old king wondered absently where this regal woman had come from. A moment ago she had been merely an irate mortal girl with eyes as blue as the heart of a flame.

"If you ordered me to Nuada's bed as his lover, Your Majesty, I would be given permission by my God to do what was necessary to keep him safe from your not-so-tender mercies. And permission extends to all things, including pleasure. I would not be surrendering anything. I would go to him, and we would be together, and it would be as Nuada wants it to be - pleasurable for us both. And every night when I kneel down to say my prayers, I would offer up a petition of mercy for your soul."

He blinked. "My soul? Why?"

"Because by ordering me to anyone's bed, holding the threat of physical harm to them over my head - that is rape. And it is not perpetrated by those you threaten and force to have sex with me, Majesty. It is rape by your order, if not your hand. The sin would fall on _your_ head. And the law of God punishes rape with execution. Yet a person can - usually - only die once. For every time Nuada and I would come together, it would be an act of rape on your part, as I would _not_ be willing, and death would be demanded of you. If it could not be exacted from your mortal form, it would be taken out of your spiritual one. And I would pray for you because to give such an order would make you my enemy, and we are commanded to pray for our enemies. Besides, no one does vengeance like the Holy One of the Lost Tribes."

More than a little shaken by the strangely regal fire that suddenly burned just beneath her voice, surprised by the cold light in her eyes, the king merely inclined his head and did not respond to her subtle accusations, nor her warnings. But he would think about them carefully. All he said aloud, however, was, "You may go, Lady Dylan."

She rose to her feet. Offered a short curtsy. "Majesty." The word was spat like poison on her tongue. Just at the door, however, he called her name. She turned back to him, her eyes flat and cold. "Majesty?"

He sighed. "Sit down, Lady Dylan."

"I'd rather not," she said softly, coolly, "if all you're going to do is threaten me."

The king raised his eyebrows. "I really could not care less what you would rather do, my dear. Sit down." When Dylan had taken her seat again, Balor sighed. "This always happens, doesn't it? Why is it that whenever I try to have a conversation with either you or my son, it ends up becoming an argument?" She didn't speak. Just raised one eyebrow at him in subtle challenge. "I have come to a decison, Lady Dylan. I am tired of allowing my son to escape when we quarrel so that nothing gets resolved. I am tired of letting you slip away when you anger me. So I am going to finish this conversation, and I am going to hear everything you have to say, and you will hear what I will say, and then we shall see what comes next."

Surprised, Dylan frowned and cocked her head. "You're actually going to listen to me? You really will?"

"You have my word. I expect complete honesty and disclosure from you. In exchange, I will consider what you have to say very carefully. And you will listen to what I have to say. You may speak your mind here, Lady Dylan. My first question is this: you do not like me, do you? Be honest."

Dylan sighed. "No."

"Why?"

She stared at him. "Seriously? You had one of the two people I love most in the world flogged and you want to know why I don't like you? He nearly died. Why does no one seem to care about that? He almost died and you didn't even care!"

"Of _course_ I cared," the king snapped. Irritation flashed across his face at her incredulous expression. He gestured to the four Butchers, who offered him the standard fist-to-chest salute before leaving the room. The door closed behind them with a soft _thump_, leaving Dylan alone with the king. "Of course I cared that I had to watch my only son suffer that way. I am not without a soul, whatever you may think. It was agony for me. I couldn't even look at him! What sort of monster do you take me for, that you think I could see my son take punishment like that and not feel anything?"

The mortal blinked, clearly taken aback. She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Struggled to find words. For a long while, none would come. She could only stare at Balor in shock. Finally, she whispered, "I... I'm sorry. I didn't... I'm sorry. I made an assumption, and I shouldn't have. You have my apology for that."

"You think I care nothing for him, don't you?" The genuine shock in Balor's voice made her feel just a little sorry for him. "You think I feel nothing for my own child."

She swallowed. "I _did_. I'm... I'm not really sure now, though." She eyed him warily. He was being awfully candid suddenly. "You flip-flop a lot, begging your pardon, Your Majesty. One minute you're putting Nuada under house-arrest and making him miserable. The next minute, you're the good guy and being all forthcoming and stuff. I don't know what to think. Maybe you're trying to confuse me on purpose." Dylan shrugged. "I have no idea."

"Is that what he thinks? That I care nothing for him?"

Dylan closed her eyes. Drew a breath. Opened her eyes again. "You could always ask _him_, Your Majesty."

"And would he tell me the truth, Lady Dylan? You seem to know my son better than anyone, including his twin sister. How is that? How did you manage to get the mighty Silverlance to confide in you so readily? Why does he tell you what is in his heart, yet he hides it from his family?"

"Because," she said without rancor, letting each word shape in her mouth until they held the proper weight, "I rarely judge him for what he tells me. And he knows it."

For a long while, there was silence between them. Balor watched her with fathomless topaz eyes. Dylan did her best not to fidget or scrunch her toes in her boots under the weight of his gaze. Finally, the king sighed and looked away. "I am not Nuada's enemy." She said nothing. Simply waited. The old king added, "I do only what is best for my people. As honor demands. What I do to or about Nuada is either because I absolutely must, for the good of the kingdom, or for his own good."

"That's what he told me," she confessed. Balor's eyes widened. "He says you are only doing what you feel is right. I'm sorry, King Balor, but I'm not a princess or a queen. I'm not royal. I wasn't raised to put strangers ahead of those I love. It's not natural to me. And I don't know anything, really, about politics. So maybe you _are_ doing what's best. I don't know. I only know that my priority is Nuada's health and happiness, insofar as it doesn't negatively impact any innocent people. But I don't understand how putting him under house-arrest or making me sleep with him - even chastely - is what's best. I don't get it."

"I have many reasons for everything I do as king, Lady Dylan. Nuada does not question me. Neither does Nuala. Nor do my other subjects. Why do you?"

She offered him an almost-apologetic smile. "I'm American, Your Majesty. And I'm a Latter-Day Saint. It's kind of in both my cultural and spiritual makeup to ask questions about everything." Her expression cooled just a little. "And it's my job to look out for Nuada's best interests."

"At the expense of millions of others?"

"Don't twist my words," the mortal said, exasperated. "Oh, my gosh, you are _just_ like him! He used to do that to me all the time. Cripes. That's not what I said and that's certainly not what I meant. But in my admittedly limited understanding, what I'm doing isn't hurting anyone, and it's protecting him. The only negative impact, it seems like, is ticking you off. Which I'm sorry for - I don't like making people angry if I can help it - but if that's the only fallout, then..." She shrugged.

"And angering a king of Faerie does not worry you?"

Blue eyes sparked. "Honor dictates I can't allow fear for my personal safety to influence my actions when it comes to doing what's right. Nuada taught me that."

One thin golden brow quirked. "Did he? Interesting." After a moment, Balor commanded softly, "Tell me what you know about my son."

Dylan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"When you think of Nuada, what comes to mind? How would you describe him?"

"Honorable," she said automatically. "Noble." Dylan paused, nibbling on her bottom lip as she considered the safety of confessing the next few words. "Lonely." She saw Balor jolt a little. He tried to hide it, but she was a trained observer. Catching little "tells" like that was what she did for a living. "Hurting. Angry. Desperate. Safe." Wondering if she were pushing the king too far, the human added softly, "In other words, Your Majesty, to me he's a lot like the way he describes you." _Except the "safe" part,_ she added silently.

The king scoffed. "We are nothing alike."

"Yeah, okay." Her indulgent sarcasm was not lost on him. Balor shot her an irate look. "Well, you're both male Elves of royal blood from the same kingdom, bearing the same scars on your faces, and you share at least thirteen chromosomes. Right there, you're alike in six different ways. Just saying."

"Semantics."

"Whatever makes you feel better," she replied with a small smile. "Majesty, have you considered what I do for a living? I'm a mind-healer. I know how the brain works. I went to eight years of advanced schooling to make sure of that. If Nuada was as bad as you seem to think, I would've picked up on it by now. I've known him for over a year. Maybe if you gave him a chance, you'd see he's not as bad as you think. He might surprise you."

"Give him a chance," the king echoed. Dylan nodded. "In exchange for what?"

"Really?" She tried and failed to keep exasperation out of her tone and off her face. "Is everything a bargain to you?"

"I am fey."

Her self-deprecating smiling was half a wince. "Good point. Silly question."

"So I asked you again, my lady - in exchange for what?"

"For crying out loud, what more do you want? I'm already agreeing to marry him! We're sleeping in the same bed. This isn't important enough to warrant me sleeping _with_ him. What else do you want from me? I don't have anything you'd be willing to accept in a trade."

"You could, perhaps, give _me_ a chance."

Dylan blinked. Stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"I will, as you say, give Prince Nuada another chance to prove himself if you give me the same."

Taken aback by the simple and uncostly bargain, she stuttered, "I, um, I... well, I... uh... I guess I could do that. Your Majesty. You might try fixing our issues, then."

"Our... issues."

"Yeah. Like how you threaten me every time I say something you don't like." She winced. "Sorry, that came out a little more snarky than I intended. But the threats are... um... well, you're a king. Supreme power in the nation, could have my head cut off just like _that_," she snapped her fingers. "All that stuff. So it's a bit scary when someone with your kind of power threatens me. Or Nuada. More than a bit scary, actually. Kind of a lot scary."

"Perhaps you should watch your tone."

The mortal bit back a growl and said in a carefully toneless voice, "Or maybe _I_ could do that while _you_ watch what you say. Thus we could compromise. Compromise is good. Nuada and I do it all the time."

"I am the king."

"You're still a human being. Erm, well... a faerie being. I mean, it's like you're provoking me on purpose. You could, I dunno, stop that. Might help forge a better relationship. King or not, you can't ask me to just stand back and let you break Nuada's heart day after day."

Balor scoffed. "His heart?" The king shook his head.

Dylan snapped her fingers and pointed a finger at him. "See? That. Right there. That is what I'm talking about. Why is that funny to you? He _has_ a heart. _You_ have a piece of it. You asked me a week or so ago how I could be so casual in how I handled Nuada's heart. What about you? At least he _knows_ I care about him. Can you say the same? And every time you laugh like that, that just reinforces the idea that you _don't_ care. You say you do, but you don't act like it!"

"Watch your tongue, mortal," the king snapped. "Who are you to say these things to me?"

"You said I could speak freely, Majesty. And I'm someone who wants what's best for your son. I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to show you that you have to stop doing this if you want to salvage any kind of relationship with him. I do parent-child counseling all the time, Your Majesty. It's my job. I know what I'm talking about. You're worried I think you don't care about him? What about what _he_ thinks?"

Coolly, he asked, "And just what do you suggest?"

"Family therapy," she said promptly. "I mean it. Talk to him. Listen to him. Or... something. What is it that made you think he was beyond reach?"

"That is none of your concern," Balor said.

Dylan made a sound somewhere between a kettle whistling and a cat with its tail caught in a mouse-trap. "See? You two are just the same! Except now he can't do that to me because he promised he wouldn't. But still! He used to say that all the time. I'd ask a question, and he'd say, 'Let it be, Dylan.' Or 'it's none of your concern.' Drove me nuts." She huffed an exasperated laugh. "Now I know where he gets it. Is Nuala like that?"

A smile surprised Balor by tugging at his mouth. "No. She shares your frustration with that little habit of Nuada's. And mine. How did you get him to make such a promise? That he would never give you such an answer again?"

"I'm an expert haggler. I make good deals." She grinned. "Something he didn't learn until recently. Although he's good at bargaining, too."

"Well, he _is_ fey. Very well, then. I will tell you, since you wish to know so badly. There was a war long ago, between the humans and the Kindly Ones. We-"

"Lost," Dylan supplied. "Yeah, I know, Nuada told me. Said that a lot of fae and humans died. The fae kings forged a truce with the humans to end the fighting. Nuada said the truce wouldn't work. He tried to convince you not to sign a treaty with the children of Adam, but you guys did anyway."

Balor stared at her, non-plussed. "He... told you all of that?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. So far I haven't seen or heard anything about that little incident that would make you think so poorly of him."

"He did not want the truce."

"Yeah; why not? He wasn't the only one, was he? Prince Zhenjin didn't want the truce, either."

"Zhenjin was not crown prince of his kingdom at the time. And Nuada believed the humans would betray the truce. He said their word could not be trusted."

Dylan made an "ooh" face and nodded. "Okay... but he was right, wasn't he? I mean, we did break the treaty, didn't we? And instead of reminding us of what we'd sworn, the fae allowed the humans to forget, so we just kept breaking it over and over again. The truce, as it stands, has done more harm than good, I'd say. Maybe you could try reforging a different truce.

"Well... actually, the UN kind of sucks. So maybe just allying with a world power. Like America. I mean, we've got enough crazies and Sight-gifted people in our country that if it came down to a vote, I'm almost positive you guys would be fine. Especially if you had the backing of the LDS Church - which you would, as I know for a fact our leaders know about the fae - since you guys have church wards and branches and church authorities here. That right there is at least fourteen million people world-wide. Why not let the world know you exist? Stop the humans from continuing to break the treaty? It's a lot harder to get away with that sort of deceit now, anyway. Nuada might be satisfied with that."

"He would be satisfied with nothing less than the extermination of all humans in both worlds."

She shook her head. "Nope. I don't believe that. I'm sorry, Your Majesty - I don't think you're lying. I just think you're mistaken. Nothing you could say would make me believe that. And that is _not_ what he's told me. He doesn't want us dead. He just wants us to stop bothering you guys. It's a fair request. It doesn't make him dishonorable or a monster or a coward. In fact, it makes him a darn good prince."

When the fae king only stared at her, she sighed. "Okay, I'll take you up on your bargain. I give you another shot if you give him another shot. You raised a good kid who became a great man, Your Majesty. Get to know him. Really know him. You might be surprised. And maybe spend some time with him in the next few days."

Balor sighed. "And if I do this, you think things will change between us?"

"If both of you stop being stubborn and try? Who knows? Maybe. That's all I'm asking for, Your Majesty. I'm just asking you to try."

The king regarded her for a long moment. "Very well, my dear. I will try, as you ask."

"Thank you. I really do appreciate it."

"Do you know why I had to punish Nuada at his trial?" The king asked suddenly. Dylan pursed her lips and shook her head. "He would not defend himself. I had testimony of his guilt and he would not speak one word in his own defense."

Dylan made that strangled tea-kettle sound again. "I _know!_ Gah, I wanted to _strangle_ him for that! That arrogant little... ugh. I asked him about that, actually. You know what he said?" Balor shook his head. "He said his pride wouldn't allow it. Can you believe that? Gah. He knows better than to try that again, though, I can promise you. He knows the consequences if he gets hurt because of his stupid, stubborn pride again."

Balor's lips twitched. "Oh? What punishment will you deliver?"

"I already warned him I'd never make him hot chocolate again. Ever."

"And that is such a hardship?"

The human smiled. "You haven't had my hot chocolate, Your Majesty. Although," she added, smiling slipping to be replaced by a grumpy look, "he had the gall to laugh at me when I told him about that."

His lips twitched again. "How very rude of him."

Her own smile widened a bit. "I know. The nerve of some people. He's always laughing at me, though. Like when he kicked my butt at snowball fighting." Seeing Balor's intrigued expression, Dylan sighed. "Yeah. Pitiful, I know. He's got that Elven speed thing going on, whereas I'm pitiful mortal me. No contest between one mortal woman and an Elven warrior." Then she grinned. "Though _I_ get the last laugh. He still doesn't know my cat's been sleeping on his face."

Balor didn't quite manage to swallow a laugh. "Indeed. I cannot quite picture that."

"Just imagine a black fuzzy tumor growing out of the side of his face. That breathes and purrs."

He choked on a second laugh. "I see. Any other fascinating anecdotes regarding my son you wish to share, my lady?"

Dylan studied the king from beneath her lashes. There was humor sparkling in his amber eyes now, and a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. Good. Maybe sharing stories about some of her good times with Nuada was just the boost he needed to see his son in a new light. "Um... did you know he can juggle?"

The king blinked. "You are jesting, surely."

She shook her head. "No. He showed me when he took me to the Troll Market. And he can catch a fish bare-handed. He did that when we were in the royal forest. Even taught me how to do it. Sort of. I caught one fish. He caught, like... five. Elven speed and all that stuff. Said he learned it in the army."

"I imagine he did. I suppose it is now my turn to tell you a story about Nuada."

A surprised smile flashed across her mouth. "Well, we _have_ been doing the quid-pro-quo thing, Majesty. It would only be fair. I actually have a question. When I get nervous, I always tell him, 'I feel awkward. Do you feel awkward?' And he always says he's never awkward. But everyone goes through that awkward stage growing up. I refuse to believe he's the exception to the rule. Do you have a story illustrating this denied awkwardness? He has to have been clumsy at some point."

Balor chuckled. "Oh, several. Such as the time when, attempting to impress _Ledi_ Polunochnaya, he jumped onto the railing of one of the bridges spanning one of the garden streams and attempted to traverse it with his eyes closed." The king smiled. "And then he promptly tripped because he was not looking where he was going and fell in the stream."

A hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no. She didn't laugh, did she?"

"No. Bruised his ego just the same, though. And his backside - he landed on riverstones."

She winced. "Ooh, ouch." Then she smiled. "Another one, another one. Please? I can totally use these as blackmail later."

The old king was suddenly reminded of his wife when Cethlenn had met Balor's own parents and begged them for stories of the old king's childhood. A smile curved Balor's lips as he recalled another fond memory of his son. "There was the time he stole my horse. He must have been... oh, no more than seven-hundred-fifty or so. Trying to impress his mother and sister. Thought he could ride a fully-grown phooka stallion by the name of Donas."

Her eyes widened. _Donas,_ in Gaelic, meant _demon._ "Oh, dear. What happened?"

"He fell off. Donas wasn't careful about where he dumped Nuada, either. He landed in mud. Broke his arm." Seeing the mortal's horrified face, he added, "We took him to a healer right off. His punishment for stealing the king's prize stallion and frightening the queen was most severe, however."

Suddenly uncertain again, she murmured, "What was it?"

"Being sent to bed right after supper." Balor smiled when Dylan did. "It would have been _without_ supper, but the healing magic required we feed him - to something other than the wolves." At that, Dylan laughed outright. "He was not allowed to play with his toy soldiers or his stuffed warhorse for two weeks. We let him keep his stuffed bear, however. Couldn't sleep without it."

She grinned. "Nuada slept with a teddy bear? That is so cute."

"Do not tell him I told you _that_," the king said solemnly, "or he shall never forgive me."

Dylan mimed zipping her mouth shut. Smiled. "My lips are sealed." This was okay. This was working. She was learning a little about the child Nuada had been, and Balor was remembering his son before whatever shadows from the war had transpired to drive a wedge between them. Maybe the king simply needed to be reminded. "Although I have to know... where did he get the idea to steal your horse in the first place?"

Balor sighed. "His mother made a comment about how when he was older, he would look very handsome riding on an equally handsome horse, just as I did. When he asked his mother what made Donas so handsome, she of course mentioned the look of him. My young son thought about this for a while, then went off on his way. The next time we saw him was astride my stallion. Upon falling off, he informed his mother that Donas was 'all right enough to look at,' but that what made him so handsome was the way he jumped."

A laugh caught in her throat. She coughed it out, imagining a young Elven boy clutching his arm, tears rolling unheeded down his face, informing his mother the queen that the horse was wonderful because he could jump over stuff. "That sounds like him."

"Indeed. Donas informed _me_ that what was best about my son was that it was easy to buck him off." At this, the mortal couldn't help giggling. "And the way Nuada squeaked when Donas tried to bite him."

"Oh, no," she laughed. "That's terrible. And hilarious."

The king indulged in a chuckle himself before remembering that he still had business with this mortal woman his son loved so much. With a sigh of reluctance, the king murmured, "This has been... surprisingly pleasant, Lady Dylan. I had forgotten some of those memories ere now. But there are three more things we need to speak of before I send you back to my son."

Now it was Dylan's turn to heave a sigh. "This isn't going to be another 'did he do this heinous crime to you' question, is it, Majesty?" He gave her a look. She sighed again. "I'm sorry. That was rude. Forgive me, Your Majesty. What are your questions?"

"Would you have truly accepted the other thousand lashes of Nuada's punishment that night in October?"

She paled, but nodded. "I was fairly certain I wouldn't have to, since I _was_ telling the truth and I knew it, but I would have accepted his punishment if I'd had to, yes. This surprises you?" The king canted his head. "I think... I _know_ I was in love with him even then. I didn't know I was, but I was. And I couldn't just let him suffer that way without trying to stop it. Not when he was suffering for _me_. For protecting _me_. Not when the only reason he'd been accused in the first place was because he just wanted to visit me, make sure I was all right after everything that had happened."

"He came to visit you?"

Dylan blinked. "Yeah. He took me to a hospital about three months after we met, once he was healed, because my wounds returned once I set foot on mortal soil. Er, mortal concrete, rather. That was this past February. I didn't see him again for a few months. I never expected to see him again, actually. But then one night a fae tricked her way into my cottage and was going to kill me. And my cat," the human added with a scowl. "Nuada had come to see how I was doing after... I think four months? Whether I'd healed all right and everything. He saved me then, too. Every night after that, he would come back. I think he was checking up on me. We'd talk and stuff. Then the thing with Eamonn happened and I didn't see him again until I came to Bethmoora that night."

"I see. My second question is this - do you have an explanation for your behavior last night?"

Thrown by the abrupt change in topic, Dylan blinked and stammered, "I... um... Majesty?"

The king steepled his fingers and regarded her with blank topaz eyes. "You were nearly hysterical last night. You thought I meant to harm Nuada; even, possibly, to kill him. Yet you also told me that Nuada did not warn you against me in such a way as to make you fear me so greatly. Do you have an explanation?"

Dylan swallowed. Looked down at her lap. "Do you know what Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is?" Balor shook his head. "Nuada says that the fae sometimes call it... suffering from battle-haunts? Dark memories and such from a time of extreme emotional turmoil. Things like war. Torture. That's what I have. Sometimes... sometimes, if it's triggered, I lose the ability to tell where I am, or when. I don't always recognize the people I'm with. A lot of the time, things get confused in my head. I won't remember... well, a lot of things. Like last night. I had a hard time remembering even who I was. I was... shifting, I guess you could say, between the adult-me and myself as the child I was during the memories that kept taking me."

Balor settled back in his chair. Considered several responses before finally settling on, "My dear... what you're talking about sounds very similar to madness."

Her eyes flashed. "I am _not_ crazy." Silently, she ordered herself, _Don't let it get to you. It's okay. Nuada knows I'm not crazy_. "A better example might be defensive reflexes. Have you ever tried to shake Nuada awake since he joined the army and started fighting in the war?"

"Of course not. One does not shake a warrior out of a sound sleep unless you want to risk life and limb."

"Why not?"

"A warrior will lash out, will attack what he perceives as a threat before he has a moment to tell the difference between friend and foe. Living in an environment of kill-or-be-killed hones one's survival instincts until that sort of defense mechanism becomes-"

"An ingrained part of them?" Dylan supplied. She met Balor's eyes. There was, the king reflected, an odd sort of hollowness in her gaze. "Exactly. Do you remember, Your Majesty, what I told you about my parents? That they locked me away in a dark hole for eleven years, where I was beaten, starved, isolated, drugged, raped, and tortured. Eleven years, from the time I was seven until I was eighteen. When something too similar to that time occurs, my instincts tell me that I'm in serious danger. Suddenly, even though I'm physically here, in the present, in the physical world, I'm taken back to whatever memory has been triggered. Just like a lot of soldiers who come back from war. Are they considered mad?"

The king canted his head in acknowledgment of her point. There was sympathy and compassion in his voice when he asked, "Why did your parents send you to such a place? Did they know what was being done to you?"

Dylan shook her head. "Of course not. My parents loved me. They had no idea. I didn't believe that for the longest time, and then I figured out they didn't know, but they wouldn't believe me when I told them. It would've been too hard on them to realize they'd sent me to a place like that. And they sent me away because I kept doing things that put my brother and myself in danger."

"Why did you not simply stop?"

She blinked. "Didn't Princess Nuala tell you? I was helping the fae. My parents didn't have the Sight. No one in my family did but my twin brother and myself. So when the local fae needed help, I couldn't convince anyone but John to help me." She shrugged. "It's in the past. It doesn't matter - at least, not in relation to the current situation. Was there anything else, Your Majesty? I do want to try and get back before Nuada starts to worry about me. I left him asleep. If he wakes up and I'm gone... well, he'll probably yell at Guardswoman Fionnlagh."

"Well, we cannot have that. There is one final thing. It might be painful, but I need you to be honest with me - for Nuada's sake. Are you barren, Lady Dylan?" Her mouth dropped open. Outrage filled her eyes like sparks of blue fire. Underneath the anger, however, was a grief as deep as any a fae might feel. "It is a valid question, as my son is heir to the throne. If you are unable to conceive a child then you cannot be his wife. If I were to die in your lifetime, he would be forced to abdicate the throne or divorce you in order to take up the mantle of kingship. My son says motherhood is a delicate subject with you. Is it because you-"

"I don't know," she said in a tight, low voice. She cast her eyes down. Her hands were folded in her lap so that her knuckles were bleached white. "I don't know if I can have children or not. I've never been to a healer to find out."

"My son seems certain you are not."

She could feel tears burning the backs of her eyes. Blinking hard to force them down, she met the king's gaze. Was surprised by the compassion in it. "We've never talked about it. I've never... never been able to bring myself to talk about it with him. He hopes for my sake, probably. He knows I want to have children. I also know that if I marry him, I can't, whether I'm capable or not."

Balor fought to make his voice gentle when he replied, "You will have to see a healer before your engagement to the prince becomes official, my dear. I do not say these things to cause you pain. It is-"

"Necessary, I know. I'll speak to a healer before... is before Monday acceptible?" The king inclined his head. "May I go now? Please? I don't mean to seem rude, but I... I, um..."

But the last note of the conversation had hurt her more than she was willing to admit, Balor thought. He hadn't meant for that to happen. The king was beginning to like this human woman - when she wasn't being uppity and disrespectful, she could be charming, and her compassion for others was plain to see.

"You may go," he said gently. Dylan stood before the door once again when the king called her name. She didn't turn back this time. Merely waited at the door, her hand on the knob. "Lady Dylan... in Faerie, all things are said to be possible. A mortal becoming fae, for instance, or losing the coil of their mortality in some other way... and thus being able to bear a royal faerie child - should she prove capable. A faerie king's power is very great, and a wise king helps his allies."

Dylan whirled on Balor. Her heart leapt into her throat and tried to strangle her as she fought for words. "Wh-what? What do you-"

"You may go now, Lady Dylan."

And she knew that no matter how she pleaded, he would tell her nothing more. He'd given her a brief glimpse of hope. Now he would wait, and see what she would do - and what, perhaps, Nuada would do - to learn more of whatever he was talking about. So Dylan curtsied and fled the king's study on trembling legs, feeling Balor's eyes at her back until the door swung shut behind her.

**.**

Somehow, Dylan managed to keep her face composed and her shoulders straight until she was out of the king's study, well down the hall, and halfway up the stairs leading back to the floor of the royal suites. Then she suddenly stopped dead on a step. Turned sharply to the wall. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her fists and pressed her forehead hard against the icy stone wall.

"Milady?" Uaithne ventured. "Are... are you all right? Did things not go according to plan? Milady?"

"I'm fine." She wouldn't cry. "Everything went fine, actually." The conversation had gone wonderfully well. Much better than she'd ever had reason to hope. Balor wasn't as much of a jerk as she'd thought. He'd forgotten, that was all. Forgotten the child Nuada had been within the man he was now. Forgotten just how _much_ he loved his son. She'd reminded him.

Even more surprising, they'd actually gotten along for more than five minutes. She'd been able to see Nuada's father beneath the mask of kingship. They'd struck a few bargains that would benefit both sides. The sleeping-in-Nuada's-bed thing wasn't ideal, but what she got out of it more than made up for any discomfort she might feel later. And last night hadn't been _so_ bad. She'd been asleep before any kind of inappropriate thoughts had entered her mind. Not that she could guarantee that later, but that wasn't a worry right now.

"Are you certain? You seem... distressed."

Dylan offered the Butcher Guard a wobbly smile. "Talking to royalty is a bit... um... intimidating. That's all."

"But... you speak to the prince all the time."

Her smile was real this time, and didn't wobble. "Well, that's Prince Nuada. His Highness isn't intimidating. At least not to me. He's a big teddy bear."

"The strange thing," young Guardsman Ailbho muttered to his senior partner, "is that she actually means that."

The mortal swallowed. It had been Balor's very last comments that now left her cold with quiet dread. She would have to see a healer. She would finally have to answer the question she'd managed to avoid her entire adult life. Dylan drew a breath. Táebfada. She would see Táebfada. The female healer put her at ease.

If... if she found out that she couldn't... that her dream of bearing children - and thus, her dream of being Nuada's wife - were unreachable... she would be able to handle it if Táebfada were the one to tell her.

And if she wasn't barren, if all the trauma and all the internal scarring didn't make it impossible for her to conceive...

Dylan bit her lip. She didn't dare hope. She couldn't let herself hope for that. Balor had said all things were _said_ to be possible in Faerie. Not that they actually _were_. To allow herself to dream for that - a life with Nuada, a child or children with Nuada, only to lose that dream to reality... she didn't know how she would handle that. So she wouldn't let herself hope that maybe, one day, she would be able to carry Nuada's child inside her. It was too much to pin her hopes on. Too flimsy a possibility. She wouldn't close her eyes and dream of Nuada laying his hand against her pregnant belly, feeling their baby kick inside her while he whispered softly to her in Gaelic.

But nothing helped the spike of hope that still lanced her breast. Nuada... their child... a family, just like in her dreams. Maybe they _could_...

Her fists clenched as she forced the daydreams away. She growled at herself under her breath before managing to relax them again. She sighed. Stepped back from the wall. _Worry about it later,_ Dylan told herself. _He's being... really decent right now, actually. Don't mess with it. Time to get back before Nuada wakes up._

**.**

Sunlight pressed against Nuada's eyelids, attempting to rouse him. He did not wish to wake. Not when he was surrounded by the scent of lilies and roses, a familiar perfume that teased his senses. Not when he had been dreaming of slender arms around his neck, soft lips beneath his. A silver ring gleaming with three sapphires. White- and gold-petaled lilies crowning dark curls. A dream, once denied. An answer, once thought impossible, finally given. He'd dreamed of ice melting away from a hawthorn tree in a garden that had once slept under a blanket of wintry enchantment. Dreamed of silver-swept blue eyes meeting his, brimming with happiness. A kiss that sealed a life-long promise.

No, Nuada did not want to wake. Not ever. Not from this dream.

Now a shadow passed in front of the sunshine dancing across his face, blocking the intrusive light. The mattress on which he lay dipped a little under a new weight. He had to open his eyes now. Part of him knew what he would see if he did. It was not the dream that teased him, but it was better, because it was real.

He opened his eyes to see Dylan seated on the edge of the bed. She still wore her pajamas, though her hair had been brushed and she looked wide awake. A soft smile curved her mouth. An answering smile spread across dark lips without Nuada having to think about it.

Dylan leaned down and touched her lips to his. She tasted of cinnamon from the toothpaste she used. He sighed. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, to hold her to him so he could relish the press of that soft mouth against his. Oh, to wake up every day to this. To this, and more. Nuada's free hand sought Dylan's left hand, braced against the mattress to keep her from lying on his chest. His fingertips whispered over her slender fingers until he found the ring on her heart-finger.

When the kiss broke, Dylan was more than a little breathless. Nuada's smile took on a hint of smug male pride. "Good morning, mo duinne."

"Good afternoon, Your Highness," she replied. Suddenly shy, she ducked her head and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

He reached up and laid his fingertips against her wrist, just a swift whisper of contact. "Dylan, are you well?"

She studied his face for a moment. _Translation: are you still as fragile as you were last night? Or are you back to normal? Do you need me to stay with you as I did last night, or is the crisis past now? Do I need to fear sparking one of your memories with a touch or a look?_ Dylan offered him a brighter smile. "I'm all right. Everything's fine. Mostly. See, I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

He arched a brow. "Bad."

"I talked to your father."

Nuada got to his feet and paced to the window without speaking. Dylan simply waited. Finally, her prince spoke. "You went to see him before I woke." It wasn't a question, but she nodded. "Dressed like that?"

Dylan scowled at him. "Nuala loaned me a dress, actually. I changed back into my pajamas after the meeting when I gave the dress back. Not that there's anything wrong with my Hello Kitty pajamas, thank you. And if I'd changed my clothes in here, you might have woken up."

"You went to see my father behind my back?" The words were coolly spoken and left her shivering. "You knew I did not want you to do this, yet you did it anyway?"

"I needed to speak to him."

"Why?" The prince demanded, whirling on her. "What possessed you?"

She sighed. Getting to her feet, Dylan stepped a bit closer to the prince. Stopped about halfway between him and the bed when he gave her a look. "Okay... okay, look. Like I said, I have good news and bad news, okay? Which do you want first? You'll get an explanation," she added when he opened his mouth, eyes flashing, "after you answer my question. Good news first, or bad?"

With stiff dignity, the prince replied, "Bad, as I said."

"All right. Bad news, then: I went to talk to your dad to make a bargain with him and- do not interrupt!" Nuada's mouth shut with an audible _click_ of teeth. His molten bronze glare threatened to scorch her. "I went to make a deal with him and ended up making him kind of angry."

"Kind of?"

She'd slowly been inching toward him again, but stopped at the grumbled words. "You want the rest of the bad news or not?"

A knife-thin blond brow quirked. "There is more?"

"Second piece of bad news - in exchange for the good news I have to give you, I am now sentenced to sleep in the same bed with you, to quote your dad, 'for the foreseeable future.' Which probably makes _you_ happy, since I know you like having me in bed with you, but I have no idea how I'm going to keep my hands off you, you're so hot, I don't know what I'm gonna do, because if you turn on the charm, even by accident, I'm probably gonna toss my common sense out the window and ask you to-"

"Do not try to turn my head with compliments, mo cridh," Nuada said, laughter just beneath the words. If that was all the bad news she had, then things were not as bleak as he'd anticipated. He allowed himself to relax a little. Gently he drew her the rest of the way to him. "And you must know that if you desire anything of me, all you need do is ask nicely."

She swatted him on the shoulder. "You are _not_ helping, Mr. Elven Casanova! Besides, there would be no asking. If anything," she added in a mutter under her breath, "there would probably be shameless begging."

Nuada caught her hand and brought it to his lips. A soft kiss against her knuckles had her eyes going soft and dreamy. "I do not think I would mind overmuch if there were begging involved," he murmured in a voice like black velvet against her skin.

Dylan yanked her hand out of his grip and smacked his arm again, trying to force down her laughter. "Not! Helping!" She folded her arms across her chest and tried to look as asexual as possible in her gargantuan Lord of the Rings t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajamas. "You are absolutely shameless. Bad Nuada! Behave."

"But you make it so difficult to remember my manners, my lady." He snagged her hand again. Dark lips pressed to her knuckles. She laughed.

"Oh, my gosh, you think you're so cute. You're a real Prince Charming, you know that?" Nuada's smug smile and raised eyebrow made her laugh again. "Do you want the good news now? I've got good news and great news."

"Great news? Save that for last. What is the good news?"

"Good news is, we're free to do whatever we want - so long as you stay in Findias - until Monday. No banquets, no balls, no fetes, nothing. I cleared it with your dad. He's postponing everything until the Midwinter Ball on Monday. Of course, he's probably going to announce our engagement that night, and that will cause crazy problems, but we're free until then. No stressful craziness, no royal politicking, nothing but what you and I want to do."

The relief that swept through him in a staggering wave surprised the Elven warrior. "Was that why you went to see him? To ask for such a thing?"

"Um... no. That was just a bonus. I went to see him for the great news." Dylan hesitated. "Maybe you should sit down."

He blinked. "Why?" She gave him a look, a perfect imitation of the flat expectant look he sometimes gave her. The prince inclined his head to her and sank onto the windowseat. "All right. What is this great news?"

"Okay." She ran a hand through her hair absently, unsure how to proceed. "Do you remember in the Troll Market, the day we got the kids? When you were talking to Tsu's'di and that wolf-shifter, and I knew the wolf-shifter was lying?" Nuada nodded. "If it's important, and I ask for guidance, and I actually _listen_, sometimes the Holy Ghost will let me discern the truth from lies. Everyone who follows the Star Kindler can do that, actually, if they meet those three criteria. Anyway, I realized I should've done this ages and ages ago, but it never occurred to me. I have no idea why. Nuada, I went to ask your father if he's responsible for the attacks."

The Elven warrior went very still. He considered several different responses, and discarded them all. Finally, all he said was, "And?" Compassionate blue eyes found and held his gaze. He swallowed hard. Here it was. Proof of his father's cruelty and duplicity. He trusted that innate sixth sense of Dylan's. Trusted it completely. It had never led them wrong before. So Nuada waited with bated breath for her pronouncement that would tear nearly everything he loved from his grasp.

"He didn't do it," Dylan said, once again feeling the warmth of the Spirit's confirmation deep within as she spoke. Nuada's eyes widened, but otherwise he remained perfectly still. "It wasn't him. He didn't try to kill us. He didn't try to hurt Wink or John or the children. He didn't put the spells on us last night, either. He can be a jerk sometimes, but he isn't responsible for any of that."

Nuada's eyes slid closed. He drew a shuddering breath that seared his throat. Let it out in a rush. Slowly, he nodded. "You are certain. I know that you are; you would not torment me with hope that might prove false. You are certain."

Gentle hands pressed lightly against his face and Dylan raised his head so that he had to look at her. "If I wasn't one-hundred-percent sure, I wouldn't have said anything. I _am_ sure. I'm sure that your father didn't try to kill you. He didn't try to kill Wink, or me, or my brother, or the children. He didn't try to hurt us. And I'm sure of something else." Her thumbs brushed against the royal scar etched across his face. "He may not act like it sometimes, but your father loves you."

Her words were like thorns in his heart. He tried to turn away. "Enough, Dylan-"

"Nuada, I swear to you, he loves you. I asked him. He told me the truth. He loves you. You're his son. He'll always love you." She caressed his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "No matter what happens, he'll always love you. Just like I will. Okay?"

It was too much. He couldn't... couldn't think right now. Couldn't process any of it. So he shoved it down, and away, to think about later. For now, he would focus on something else. Something simple.

"All right," Nuada murmured. "All right. Well," strength returning to his voice now, "what shall we do with ourselves, since we have no engagements today?"

She smiled. "I don't know. Whatever you want, I guess."

"In that case..." He grinned. "You'll want to change into rough clothes, I think. Kennels first, then stables, then gardens."

Her eyes widened. "Why?"

"You will see when we get there, won't you?"

"What about breakfast? Or lunch? Whatever, I haven't eaten yet; it's breakfast. What about breakfast?"

He sighed. "After the kennels, then, before the stables. I have a surprise for you for breakfast, anyway." But no matter how she pleaded with him, he would not tell her what the surprise was. The prince would only say, "You will have to wait and see."

**.**

"Okay, why are we going to the kennels, again?" Dylan asked as Nuada led her toward the entrance. "I don't think I can handle more than two dogs sleeping on my bed, Your Highness. Especially, you know, with you there."

A smug smile curved Nuada's mouth. "You may want to lower your voice, mo duinne. What might people think?"

She shot him a mock-scowl as they stepped out of the frigid winter cold and into the warmth of the antechamber at the kennel entrance. "Shush and answer my question, you." Dylan shook the snow out of her hair before tying it back in a loose ponytail with a scrunchie. "You're not giving me another dog, are you?"

"No. However, I had promised to introduce you to some very important people some time ago, and I realized I had not done so yet. So here we are."

Dylan eyed the prince warily. His smile held just a touch too much little-boy mischief. "Am I going to like these people?"

"Knowing you, I would imagine so." And putting thumb and forefinger to his lips, he whistled sharply.

There came a thundering rumbling sound, like a stampeding herd of small cattle. A roiling mass of white, rust, black, brown, gray, and copper turned the corner and raced forward. It turned out to be a pack of large puppies - the smallest reached the middle of the Elven prince's shin at the dog's shoulder, and the biggest stood a touch shorter than mid-thigh - hurtling toward him.

Dylan squeaked and stepped back from the charging animals. The Elven warrior folded his arms and simply waited. As expected, the pack of fey Irish wolfhound pups skidded to a halt about a foot from the toes of Nuada's boots, the puppies all wagging their tails hard enough to half-knock themselves over. These pups were much younger than the two youngsters Nuada had picked to be Dylan's guards. In fact, nearly all of them still had their milk teeth, though they were all trained enough to be around people. But after Flannán had told the other she-hounds about Nuada's lady, and they in turn had told their offspring, the demand to see their master's lady had been impossible to ignore. And Nuada was certain that Dylan, lover of all things infantile and cuddly, would enjoy being swarmed by small puppies.

*It's the prince! It's the prince!* One of the lead puppies, a bundle of brindled fur, bounced up and down. *It's the prince!*

*It's the lady!" Another puppy, with warm brown eyes and chocolate brown fur, sprung up on her hind legs for a couple seconds to get a better look at the new female two-legger their mother had told them so much about. She smelled really nice. Happy. The puppy popped back down to the ground. *She has good smells!*

*Me smell next!* Another hound pup cried, squirming over his brothers and sisters to get close. *Me smell next!*

*No cutting in line!* The brindled puppy exclaimed indignantly. *Me first!*

*Why are you first?* Demanded a gray pup. *I'm cuter!* She turned her little face to Dylan. *I am, huh? I'm cuter. You should pet me. My fur is soft.*

"Ahem," Nuada said loudly. The puppies immediately stopped vibrating, gyrating, squirming, wriggling, dancing, and bouncing. They fixed their eyes on their master. "Is this any way to behave in front of a new person? Especially my lady?" The pups' heads and tails drooped. "What would Miyax say? And what would your mother say?"

*I know exactly what I would say,* said a coolly regal voice. Dylan looked up from the puppies to see the massive, long-muzzled head of a dog with long, slightly curly fur the color of pale ash propped up on two ginormous paws of the same color. One pale green eye flicked open to regard the hound pups. *I would say, "Master should be ashamed of you." That is what I would say.*

The puppies whined and sank down onto their bellies. Dylan snagged Nuada's hand and asked, _Who's that? Their mother, I assume._

_Yes. My second-best she-hound, Iúile_ _Lachtna._

_Do all of your dogs have two names?_

_Of course,_ the prince replied. _Is that not how breeders do it in the mortal world?_

Dylan frowned. _You know, I have no idea. I don't know much about dogs, other than they've got four legs and teeth, and they wag their tails when they're happy. And that they're carnivores._

_Dogs are omnivores, mo duinne._

She huffed. _See? What did I tell you?_

*I would say, "No more squeaky balls after dinner,"* Iúile added without pity. *"No more tug-of-war with the horses. No more chasing and playing with the palace cats. Straight to bed with all of you." That is what I would say.*

The whining intensified. Nuada's mouth twitched.

The she-hound's voice only grew more stern as she added, *I would say, "No more chasing rabbits through the snow until summer comes. No more playing with sheep in the town. No more running with servant puppies until spring. No more splashing in fountains."*

There were tiny squeaks and yips of horror. Nuada focused on the ceiling to avoid having to look Dylan in the eye. Dylan swallowed a laugh at the adolescent canine grief in several pairs of puppy eyes.

*_And_ I would say...* The hound trailed off, then closed her eye. Yawned, showing miles of long pink tongue. In a gentler voice, she concluded, *And I would say, "Even though you sometimes do bad things, I still love you, and so does Master." That is what I would say.*

Nine tiny puppy tails gave hesitant _tick-tock_ motions through the straw. Nine pairs of heartbroken eyes fixed on Nuada's face. *You still love us, Master?* Catching Dylan's eye, Nuada gave a short nod. The puppies bounced off their bellies back onto their paws, wagging their tails. *Master still loves us!*

One of the puppies, the "cute" gray one, ventured a bit nearer and rolled onto her back, showing a soft white belly. *I love you, Master.*

*Us, too! Us, too!* The rest of the puppies yipped. *We love you, too!*

"They're very young, aren't they?" Dylan asked her prince. He rolled his eyes and gave an aggrieved sigh. Dylan grinned. "They're like... three or four, aren't they?" He gave her a piteous look. A look of masculine suffering that informed her that while he loved his hounds, dealing with them at this stage when they were _this_ excited was a task he only undertook for _her_ benefit. "Oh, poor Nuada."

*You are Master's lady,* yipped a puppy, sniffing around Dylan's boots. *You smell like Flannán's puppies. They are lucky. You are Master's lady. You are his mate. Are you going to have Elf puppies? When will you have Elf puppies?*

Dylan's mouth fell open and she glanced at Nuada, who had the grace to look abashed.

"I..." The prince began. "That is..." He closed his mouth. Opened it again. Shrugged and gave up. "Never mind."

*You must have Elf puppies soon so we can play with them and love them like we love Master,* said another hound pup. *Or perhaps you are a playful female. Master, you should chase her. Maybe nip. She will like that.* Dylan had to cover her mouth to muffle her snort. Iúile made a soft growling sound. The puppies hunched down for a moment at the reprimand.

*That's not what you do.* The brindled puppy from before nosed over to smell Dylan's boots, too. She knelt down, and the puppy began sniffing her knees. *You bring her something nice. Presents always make people happy.*

*Like a rat!* Cried another. Dylan laughed.

*No, like a wabbit!* The other pup cried. *Everybody loves wabbits.*

*Or you could play chase,* said the brown puppy who'd declared Dylan to be in possession of good smells. *Then you could wrestle after you catch her, Master.*

Dylan gave their master a look. In a carefully controlled voice, Nuada said, "My wolfhounds are a type of dog called a sighthound. Sighthounds specialize in pursuing prey by keeping it in sight and overpowering it with speed and agility. Pups practice by play-coursing - chasing and then wrestling their 'prey' to the ground. It does not mean anything, mo mhuire, I promise you."

"Oh. Okay. That's actually kind of neat."

*Two-legger females do not like to wrestle with their clothes on,* the brindled pup informed his siblings. Nuada nearly choked on his tongue. Dylan bit her lip to keep from laughing at his expression. The other puppies paused in their sniffing to stare at their brother in absolute and bewildered shock.

*They don't? Why not?*

Nuada opened his mouth, more than likely to tell the pups to be quiet, but Dylan put a finger to her lips so she could listen to the brindled puppy explain to his siblings in a lofty voice that two-legger females only liked to wrestle without clothes because females were strange like that. Even two-legger males did not wrestle wearing _all_ their clothes. Nuada glanced at Dylan, who was smiling. His lady was enjoying this far too much. He grasped her hand. _Why do you want to listen to this drivel?_

_Hey, they're_ your _dogs. Besides, I'm just listening to this riveting explanation of two-legger behavior. Children come up with the weirdest explanations for things. It's fascinating. I'm a child psychiatrist, remember? And I'm waiting to see if you'll blush._

He gave her a flat look. _Never._

The gray puppy who'd insisted she was cute studied Dylan and Nuada for a moment. *Well... why not take off the clothes and _then_ play chase?*

Dylan got one look at Nuada's face and burst out laughing. "Okay, guys," the child psychiatrist said once she'd calmed down, before the prince could growl something. "First of all, two-legger females do like to wrestle with their clothes on. Second of all, you guys shouldn't say stuff like that to people."

*Why not?*

"It's... inappropriate. You might make someone uncomfortable. If you've got a question about something regarding two-leggers, you should ask your mother. Or your father?" She flicked her eyes up at Nuada, who nodded. "Or your father. Okay? You don't talk about stuff like... like mates, unless you have permission from your parents and from the person or people you're talking to. That way you don't upset someone or make them uncomfortable. All right? You understand?"

*All right. We understand.*

The brindled puppy gave her a pitiful look from honey-gold eyes. *Can I ask you a question not about mates?*

"Um... sure."

*Have you seen the kitchen dragons yet? The babies will be hatching soon! You will like it! Trust me. You should show her the kitchen dragons, Master.*

Dylan shot Nuada a startled look. "The _what_, now?"

**.**

After being nearly nuzzled and licked to death by a pack of faerie puppies intent on giving Nuada advice about taking his mate to see the kitchen dragons, whatever _those_ were (Nuada had only said he'd explain later) while they investigated nearly every aspect of Dylan they could get their noses near, the prince and his lady escaped to their joint suites once more. In the front room of Nuada's suite, the prince asked in his most formal voice if his lady would be willing to join him for a (very) late breakfast in his study. Sensing an interesting surprise looming on the horizon, Dylan acquiesced. Her eyes went wide when she stepped into Nuada's suite.

"Oh. My. Gosh," she murmured, staring at the repast laid out on his massive desk. There were two trays, each laden with identical fare: a bowl of _rote grütze_, the red berry dessert doused with vanilla-cream; a plate of still-warm chocolate chunk cookies; a slice of hot apple pie on a saucer, topped with whipped cream; a plate of sliced winter apples, sweet raspberries, strawberries, and blackberries; fresh, soft white bread; and a large bowl of lemon custard crowned with more whipped cream. Two cups - one filled with sweet cider, the other with milk - graced each tray, as well. Little bowls of jam, butter, and honey for the bread sat off to one side.

She turned to Nuada, heart in her mouth. "You remembered. You actually remembered."

He inclined his head. "Of course I did. I-"

Dylan throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him cut off the words. "You're amazing," she whispered against his neck. "You are so amazing. I love you so much. I can't believe you actually remembered! With everything going on, you actually remembered."

A smile tugged at the corner of Nuada's mouth. "Of course I remembered." He enfolded her in his arms. Pressed his cheek against her hair. "You are my betrothed. My very heartbeat. Why wouldn't I remember something that was important to you?" He drew her toward the desk. "Come on. You need to eat."

Not only had Nuada remembered what she'd said about cookies, pie, and custard - he'd also asked for _rote grütze_, the fruit dish that had first prompted her to tell him she loved him. And apples, which always reminded her of those two months of storytelling in her cottage. Dylan couldn't suppress her smile. Instead of trying, she set to on the cream-doused berry dessert, devouring it as if she'd been starving. After that, she pounced on the apple pie.

Halfway through the custard, she glanced up at her prince, who looked far away even as he ate. "I need to do something nice for you," Dylan decided. Nuada raised a brow. "I don't know what it'll be yet, but something. I'll figure it out."

"You have already done something very important for me, Dylan," the prince said softly. "You have given me back my father. You have eased the fear that I would have to challenge him. And you have agreed to be my wife. What more can I ask of you?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something at some point," she replied, taking a hefty bite of apple-cinnamon goodness with a heaping forkful of deliciously flaky crust mixed in with it. "John says that all the time, but he always comes up with something later on to inflict on me."

Nuada frowned. "Dylan... what happened to your brother?"

She blinked. "How do you mean?"

"When he disappeared, when you were a girl. What happened to him? You have sometimes made mention of it, but never actually explained it."

Her fork _tink_ed against the pie plate. She stared down at the swirls of golden filling and crumbles of pie crust. Sighed. "I don't... actually know. Not exactly. He was walking home from school one day, a couple weeks before our birthday. The ground just... opened up beneath his feet. He fell through this darkness. There was no light, no scents or anything. Nothing but the sound of his own voice. And he stayed in the dark until suddenly there was light, and then he landed on our driveway."

Now it was the Elven warrior's turn to blink. "That is all?"

Dylan shrugged. "Pretty much. For him it was... maybe a handful of hours. For me, it was six years. Everyone thought he was dead but me. I'd seen him... the day I gave myself this." She tapped her chest, right above the scar over her heart. "John was yelling for me to stop. He told me later he saw a few glimpses of me during the first year he was gone. That was the worst of it for him - seeing me in trouble and not being able to help. He showed up three days after our eighteenth birthday, still twelve years old. My parents didn't - couldn't - believe it was John, and my sisters couldn't afford to take care of him. I suppose I couldn't either, but... he was my twin. My Uncle Thaddeus and his wife helped us out the first couple years. Insisted John go to doctors and see therapists and stuff for everything that had happened. It seemed to help. He used to have horrible nightmares about being locked in the darkness, I think I told you?"

He nodded, remembering words in a dimly lit kitchen in the wake of his own brutal nightmare. _I used to make it for John when he had nightmares about... we call it the Soul-Sucking Hell Dimension... my hot chocolate always helped him fall back asleep_. She'd said this while preparing hot chocolate for a shaken Elven prince who'd found comfort in the sweet drink and in the companionship Dylan offered.

"Well, for the most part, he doesn't have them anymore. Maybe every couple months or so. He doesn't think I know, but I do. I'm his twin. He's not so scared of them anymore, though. I mean, it's not like anything actually happened to him while he was trapped there. He just sort of floated and saw stuff. His nightmares aren't flashbacks so much as what-if dreams - what if he got trapped there forever? He's not so worried about that anymore, now that he's the government's golden boy." She smiled with obvious pride. "Apparently he forced a rift between dimensions or something with his psychic ability. The feds were impressed."

Now was his opportunity to speak to her about resolving the issues they had discussed last night. But he would go carefully, for he knew he was missing at least some information. _Why_ was Dylan so fragile _now_, when she had not been two months ago?

The slow breaking of Nuala's spell was one reason, Nuada knew. And of course, the spells that had hit them both last night. The Elven warrior had no doubt her mental state had been exacerbated by magic. Two spells working against her... but there were other reasons, as well. Lack of sleep. Mental strain from political games; had he been too quick to assume she could handle such things? The emotional distress of relying on her medicines to allow her to keep up. Was there more? All of these things had to be addressed, and taken care of swiftly, for her safety as well as his.

"Why did you not attempt therapy?" He asked, giving nothing of his thoughts away. "For your own memories?"

The mortal popped a bite of apple pie in her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.

"Couldn't really afford it myself. Therapy costs. The feds kept us fed and clothed, 'cause we were on government welfare. Everything else came out of my pocket or my Uncle Thad's. My church attendance was really shoddy so it never occurred to me to get help from my bishop, although I could have. None of my sisters who were grown were doing well enough that they could afford to really help out, except Mary - who refused. And I wanted John to have a normal life. Or as normal as he could have. So instead of therapy for me I made sure he got into football and stuff. I still saw a psychiatrist every six months, but that was for my medication. Not so much therapy. And the medication was paid for by my government aid. Because John was a minor, his therapy was covered, but mine wasn't, because I was eighteen."

"Your second time in the institution, the three moons you spent there - did that 'cost,' as you say?"

"No. It was a Church place. A lot better than the institution I was in as a kid, I can tell you. I still struggled with being there, though. A lot. I only agreed because for almost two weeks, I didn't get out of bed. I just... couldn't. John called my uncle. Uncle Thad came and talked to me, then forced me to talk to my bishop and set me up with this place. Uncle Thad and Aunt Niamh took John for me, made sure he came to visit. They visited, too, with my cousins Renee and Dolph. I could tell it was hard on them, though. To see me like that. They took care of John until I was okay enough to go to this Church rehab place, then took care of him for a few months after I got out while I got my feet under me."

"Rehab?"

She nibbled on a slice of apple from the plate of fruit. "Rehabilitation. For my drug addiction. And the alcohol."

After a moment, Nuada asked, "How did a woman such as you get into such things as narcotics?"

"Actually, it was my prescription meds. They all have the potential for dependency. I'm more likely to become addicted to things anyway for several reasons. My mother smoked when she was pregnant with John and I, for one thing. Actually, she smoked while pregnant with all of us." Nuada gave her a look of sheer outrage. She huffed a laugh. "And she wondered why some of my sisters took up smoking later.

"Shock therapy, too; stimulates some interesting parts of the brain." Dylan saw the Elf's eyes flash copper. "Nuada, I know it seems barbaric to you - and it is. I'm not going to argue that. Ever. But it was standard practice up until the late eighties. It wasn't done out of malice. A lot of the people at Saint Vincent's really _were_ honestly trying to help us. It could've been worse. If I'd been in there in the fifties or sixties..."

She shivered, suddenly cold. Popped a raspberry in her mouth. The burst of sweetness washed away the sour taste left in the wake of such thoughts. "Anyway... then there was my drinking when I was twelve, and of course I was on anti-psychotics for eleven years. There's just no way, back in the seventies, you could be on those kinds of drugs for that long and not get hooked. Dependency-awareness wasn't such a big thing back then. It didn't actually start picking up until about five or six years ago.

"Too late," she added with a rueful smile and a shrug. "The more things you've been addicted to in your life, the more likely it is that you'll pick up another addiction, even if you drop the others. That's what happened to me. I even fell off the wagon about the alcohol thing around the time I started college. That's what they call it," she explained, seeing his look, "when you've shaken an addiction and then get back into it again. So I was taking six addictive drugs and drinking. It wasn't even a lot to drink. But I couldn't get through a day without my glass of whiskey-and-coke. That's one reason I quit drinking soda; it made me want alcohol."

The prince pursed his lips in thought. Lacing his fingers and pressing them to his lips, he stared off over Dylan's left shoulder, eyes distant and glittering topaz. She simply kept nibbling on fruit. She'd never liked raspberries in the mortal realm, but the ones in Faerie were _really_ good. Nuada's vacant gaze didn't bother her. Before last night, it would have, but not anymore. He knew... pretty much every dark secret she had, and he hadn't turned her away. So Dylan simply waited.

"When you fall into a memory... are you still yourself?" He asked suddenly. Dylan cocked her head. "What I mean is, are you an adult re-experiencing these memories, or are you a child again? It seems as though you become a child once more, yet I hesitate to presume-"

"It depends," she replied. "Sometimes I'm myself as I am now. It's easier to handle then. But when things are really bad, my life now is... it's almost washed away. As if it hasn't happened yet. There will be bits and pieces sometimes, but it all gets jumbled together. I'll still be a kid. Or at least, my mind thinks I'm a kid. Sometimes I'm seven. Sometimes I'm twelve or whatever. It just depends." The human sighed. "That is one aspect of my PTSD that I tried to keep a sharp eye on at all times, this blurring of myself, because it has the potential to turn into something much worse. I was getting intense therapy to make sure I didn't just fall into the memory without at least trying to get out of it again. I haven't been keeping up with it, though."

Nuada said nothing for a long moment. A faint line creased between his brows as he considered everything she'd said. Finally, the prince asked, "Dylan, do you trust me? If I command something of you, so long as that sixth sense of yours does not warn you against it, will you obey? Will you trust that I would never ask something of you that you cannot do?"

She blinked. "Of course."

"I wish for you to speak to Healer Lóegaire today," he said softly. She frowned. "She is a mind-healer here in Findias. I want you to tell her everything. You may see your own mortal mind-healer as well, if you wish it, but I would very much like for you to speak to Lóegaire today. Will you do that for me, beloved?"

Her mouth fell open. She tried to speak. Failed to make a sound. She could only stare at him until finally she managed to croak, "I... I... okay." She knew she couldn't stay like this - so open and fragile. She was a huge liability to Nuada. If anyone found out she was so unstable, Dylan had no idea what would happen. And if she was going to marry Nuada, actually marry him and be a princess... she couldn't use the coping methods she'd established over the last ten-odd years to handle this kind of stress. It wouldn't work, and whatever she _did_ do would _have_ to work. So she would have to do this. "All right. As you wish. Was there anything else?"

"I believe..." He trailed off for a moment. Frowned. "I suspect that there is magic at work in you." Her eyes widened. "Do you remember when we fought, before my battle against Zhenjin? How it seemed that the littlest transgressions would set off a quarrel between the pair of us?" Dylan nodded slowly. "You asked me if I thought there might be magic at work, and I brushed your worries aside. I have since reconsidered. I think perhaps there may be a spell upon us both. One too subtle to detect if one is not looking for it. We both felt it, however."

"We did? When?"

"When we left your cottage to go the royal forest. Do you remember?"

Dylan's eyes blew wide. "Oh, my gosh. That... that dark magic. That malevolence when we crossed Becan's wards at the front gate." She paused. Frowned. "Ever since that night... we've been having fights. Over stupid things, I mean. I mean, everyone argues. It's normal. But..."

"But _we_ are usually much better at keeping our tempers, are we not?" Nuada asked. "I believe that spell is a subtle form of emotional manipulation. It leaves us more open to anger-"

"And fear," Dylan muttered. "Which would explain why my flashbacks were so bad. They've _never_ been that bad before, but... if there was magic involved..." He saw a muscle flex in her jaw as she clenched her teeth. "One thing I _hate_ is people screwing with my mind. It's messed up enough. _Someone's_ gonna get their butt kicked."

Nuada allowed himself a small smile. "I have missed your spark, mo cridh." Dylan flushed with pleasure and ducked her head. "I have also considered that perhaps part of the spells laid on me last night were of a similar type. Subtle emotional manipulation. I have never been very skilled at detecting small magics such as those. Nor has my father. They are Nuala's specialty. Yet that would explain much of our mindsets last night."

Now something flared hot in Dylan's eyes. "Why I freaked out _so_ badly. Why you... why you felt so guilty. When your father broke the spells on you, most of that fear and guilt faded. Whoever this is was totally playing us. And I was so open to it because my mind is so messed up. And someone was messing with _you_... oh, I am going to hurt somebody. You just let me get my hands on them and I will..." She trailed off when Nuada chuckled. "What? I'm scary and fierce, remember?"

Something that might have been relief brightened his eyes to honeyed gold. "Oh, I remember, mo duinne. When you see Lóegaire today, she will be able to detect any traces of such magic in you. Even if it was laid by a monarch. Such spells are small and weak by their nature, and so once detected, are easily broken."

Dylan nodded. "It makes sense now. I've wondered why my flashbacks were so bad. I thought... I don't know, that I was going crazy or... something. But if you combine my fragility with two freaking mind-bending spells, no wonder I was _so_ screwed up last night! No wonder I couldn't shake it. Cripes."

"And Nuala's spell is breaking." He hadn't intended to tell her, but once the words were out of his mouth, he realized he did not regret saying them.

She sighed. "Oh, great. As if I don't have enough to deal with. As if _we_ don't have enough to deal with." Then she blinked. Her eyes widened with yet another realization. "Oh, my gosh. I feel like an idiot." Nuada frowned. "My nightmares. The ones I can't remember. They're of _Eamonn_. That's why I wake up so freaked out all the time. The spell that protected me from the emotional fallout and dulled the memories is breaking. But Nuala said that would only happen when my mind could handle it all."

"Then it seems that you can," he said. "However, all of these things are only aggravating a condition you already have, Dylan. You do know that?" With another sigh, she nodded, and snagged another slice of apple from the fruit plate. "You _must_ do whatever it takes to treat that. You understand?"

"Yes. I understand. And I will. I'll see Lóegaire today. I promise. Nuada?"

"Yes?"

"What about your father?"

He raised a brow. "What of him?"

"Well... it just seems like... seems like he changes tack a lot. Like, first he hated me, then he was sort-of trying to be nice sort of while convinced you were a homicidal serial rapist, then he's all great, and then he's a jerk again. I mean... what if _he's_ under the same kind of emotional spell we are? Sétanta said he smelled as if he were sick."

Aurulent eyes flashed. "_What?_"

"Yeah. With everything that kept happening last night, I forgot, but he said he thought the king was sick. And when I talked to your father, he seemed... changed. Different from when I was here in October. And he keeps being nice one minute and horrible the next. What if someone's put the same kind of spell on him?"

Nuada sat back in his chair and tried to process what his lady was saying. Ill? His father was ill? That could not be right. Nuada would have noticed. Nuala would have noticed. Or _someone_ would have. And the king hadn't said anything. Balor could not be ill. Tired, yes. His father was very tired, actually. He knew that. But ill? No. As for a spell... "Last night... well, we had proof of our claims, did we not? The spells upon me were proof enough. So my father would have had no reason to punish me, as he believed me innocent of any crimes. As for how he handled _you_..." Nuada gave her a look. "You have a talent for provoking him."

She narrowed her eyes. "He's a jerk." Then she remembered the smiling man from earlier and amended, "Sometimes. I'm only giving back what he's dishing out. He's nice to me, I'm nice to him. Just because he's king doesn't mean he can treat me like-"

"Dylan," Prince Nuada said in a tone of warning. "We have already spoken of this."

"I know. Sorry. So you think he was just reacting to my irritating self?"

Nuada's mouth twitched. "Do I think he was acting on a misapprehension regarding my splendid and quite beautiful betrothed? Yes."

"Ohhhh," Dylan muttered, trying not to smile. "You. _You_ are slick. You know that, don't you?"

He inclined his head. Then the half-smile curving his mouth faded away and the prince drew a breath. "There is something else I require of you, Dylan. I can understand why you would not wish to take medications, no matter their intention, after all that you have experienced, but I have a very great and grave favor to ask of you, my lady. I ask this only because I am concerned for you."

Knowing where this was going, she shook her head. "No. No, Nuada, no. I can't. I _can't_. You can't ask me..." Seeing the look in his auriferous eyes, she whispered, "Please. Please don't ask me."

"I ask only because I worry for you. Dylan, this cannot continue. You know that. Simply try it. A trial period. If it affects you so adversely, you can stop, and we will find another way."

It took a lot to refrain from sinking her teeth into her lip. Every time she did lately, she tasted the salt of blood. She closed her eyes. Drew a slow, calming breath. "If... if it messes me up, you won't make me take anymore?"

"My word on it."

"And... and you'll help me if I can't just..." If she couldn't just knock back the plastic-coated poisoned pills that would turn her into a mindless doll.

"I will help you, beloved." He would _have_ to help her. If they did not at least find a way to treat this - he knew they could not remedy it; only time, more time than a mortal likely had, would ever cure such an ailment - Nuada knew he would not be able to marry Dylan, for her sake as well as the sake of the kingdom. Her sanity would not be up to the strain. He would _have_ to find any way possible to help his truelove through this. And by the stars, he _would_.

Slowly, Dylan nodded. "Okay. All right. For you, I'll do it. Starting tomorrow?" Nuada inclined his head. "Okay. Oh, um... I made an appointment with my therapist while you were asleep. Before I woke you up. I have to go see him tomorrow, too."

"So quickly?"

She half-smiled. "They had a couple cancellations. I got lucky; called at just the right time." She hesitated. "I don't know... with the meds in my system, and everything, the therapy, I don't know... what kind of shape I'll be in tomorrow. Should I stay in the mortal realm, do you think? I was thinking the sanctuary if I'm not up to coming back here, but if that interferes with royal business or whatever-"

"I will meet you at the sanctuary tomorrow, mo duinne. If you are not well enough to return to Findias, we will stay the night there. As I promised, whatever you need, it is yours. I will help you in this." Her relief was so obvious it hurt him. "Did I not say as much last night?"

Dylan smiled. "Yeah, you did. Thank you. How come you're not fed up with me by now?"

Nuada cocked his head. "How do you mean?"

"Well, you did the soul-purging and you took care of Westenra for me and helped me with my flashbacks that first night in Findias and I'm _still_ messed up and _still_ relying on you to help me. Aren't you... I don't know... tired of having to worry about me?"

The Elven warrior took a moment to consider his reply before he said, "Dylan... what happened with Eamonn back then may seem as if it was a long time ago, but it has not even been two months. Sweetheart, he mind-raped you. He shattered the barriers you had so painstakingly erected between yourself and your other dark memories. Do you truly believe that I would expect you to 'get over' such a thing in less than two moons?"

Dylan blinked, stunned. "Two months? It hasn't even been two months?" She shook her head as if dazed. "It feels like longer. So much has happened..."

"And the soul-purging left you even more vulnerable, and that was less than a moon ago. Such healing takes time, sometimes even years. Even for the fae, but especially so for a mortal. I expect no miracles from you, my lady. Now that you have agreed to start taking proper care of yourself," and though his voice was still gentle, there was a hint of steel and just a smolder of suppressed anger beneath his words, "things will get better.

"And there is one other thing. I know that some of the medicines that you've taken in your life have left remnants in your blood. That such a thing distresses you a great deal. The healers here... I cannot be certain, for I myself know very little of such magic, but they may be able to cleanse the poison from your body over time."

Silver-swept blue eyes widened. "They... okay. I'll talk to Táebfada about it later on today. After I see Healer Lóegaire." She smiled. "I'll try not to get my hopes up, just in case, though. But that reminds me," she murmured. "Your father said something just before I left, and refused to elaborate on it. He... implied that... that he could make me immortal." Nuada, who'd been taking a sip of cider, choked. She waited for him to get his breath back before continuing. "And he hinted that if I _did_ become immortal, we... we could have children. Do you know what he was talking about?"

He shook his head. "If I did, I would have told you. I... I will speak to him. I have no idea what he's referring to, Dylan, I swear to you."

"Okay. I believe you. I just wanted to tell you."

Nuada pursed his lips. "I have heard tales of humans becoming fae, but only through something specific to the particular faerie race. A human receiving a seal-coat, for example, to become a selkie. That option is not viable as it concerns us, I fear." Seeing her puzzled look, he added, "Bethmoora is mostly landlocked. Ciocal and Eirc take up the majority of the coastline. A selkie deprived of the sea would go mad, or pine themselves to death. I would not sentence you to such a fate."

She huffed a breath. "Well, that sucks. Okay. And there's another thing. Your father wants me to see a healer before he announces our engagement, which he probably will do on Monday at the ball."

"A healer? Why? Are you ill?"

Dylan shook her head. "No, he wants me to-" A rapid knock at the door cut her off. "Who's that?"

At Nuada's command of "enter," the door opened and a scarlet-and-gold-clad pageboy, hunched over with his hands braced on his thin knees as if he'd been running, managed to gasp out, "Your Highness! Your presence... is requested... in the Lesser... Receiving Hall... by the king. Lady Dylan... can come, too. You have... a visitor."

Sudden tension whipped through the Elven warrior. "What visitor?"

"It's Master Wink, Your Highness. He's back."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _everybody cheer for Wink! Now the only person we're missing from our little reunion is Becan - and Bat - who will appear in chapter 76, yay! So, I promise that this chapter will be the last discussion of any depth about Dylan's mental issues for at least several chapters. They'll get brought up as they're worked on in the hopes of mending them, but the explanations have been gotten out of the way, so now we're on to fixing stuff! And back to oversexed evil faeries intent on seducing Nuada. Hehehehe. Among other issues. Seriously, though - you guys gotta trust me. There's always a method to my madness. Promise. Kisses and hugs for everyone who wants them! And onto the review prompt! Huggles, bye!_

_1) Now, I'm always interested, when I do a scene involving Team Bres, what you guys think. So... what do you think? Does this change how you feel about Dierdre or Bres or Ciaran at all? And what do you think Bres means to do in order to fix Dierdre's mistake?_

_2) So my beta reminded me that Dylan would eventually think to go before the king and test him using the Spirit. I felt kinda dumb for forgetting. Thoughts on the entire interview? It ended on a happy note - they don't hate each other! A cease-fire has been called! What do we think? Will it last? Will the king continue to be so generous? Will he continue to share stories of itsy-witsy Nuada? And what did he mean about possibly being able to make Dylan immortal, hmmm?_

_3) Who thinks Nuada really_ would _kill Dylan's guards if she died on their watch?_

_4) Dylan and Nuala's sisterly moments. Who's happy? Who wants Nuala to stay a pseudo bad guy? Where do we see this going?_

_5) Dylan and Nuada moments - thoughts?_

_6) The return of Elf puppies! Gah, I love faerie dogs. Who thinks, with a little canine encouragement, we'll be seeing some half-Elf puppies after our lovebirds potentially marry?_

_7) Favorites, of course._

_8) So, I know a lot of you guys want closure on Dylan's mental issues. I was getting to it. Now that plans have been put in motion to try to fix her problems, how do you guys feel about this?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _the song Nuada sings in the last chapter is called "Vagabond," by Blackmore's Night, and in it, the narrator says during the chorus, "You can see me through different eyes." I thought that line fit very well for everything in this chapter because Dylan and Balor both see each other differently after their conversation, Balor sees Nuada a little differently (or starts to), and Nuada starts to view his father as less of an enemy again._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- In order to accurately portray how a woman would possibly react to a beating like the one Bres delivers to Dierdre (and the way Bres acts with her), I relied a scene from a Milla Jovovich (see movies like _The Fifth Element_ and _Ultraviolet_) film on Youtube, although I can't remember what the movie's called. But in this scene, Milla Jovovich plays a woman with an abusive boyfriend who beats her and then threatens her with a knife. She goes from angry and defensive to simply defensive and then almost... placating? Almost if she believes what her boyfriend is saying about how the beating is for her own good. I also drew on several similar scenes from novels such as _Raven_ by VC Andrews and _Spires of Spirit_ by Gael Baudino.

- Mistress Fitzgibbons is the name of the housekeeper in _Outlander_ by Diana Gabaldon.

- Master Collin, the head gardener in Findias, is named for Collin Craven in _The Secret Garden_ by Frances Hodgeson Burnette.

- There is no way Dylan could go before the king in her pajamas (unless so summoned, as in chapter 72). Ever seen _The Wizard of Oz_ with Judy Garland? How there's that song about how they're gonna doll everyone up, and they give Dorothy a new dress and do her hair and they restuff the Scarecrow and buff the Tinman and all that? That's actually how it works. If you don't look your best (or your best isn't good enough) going before a monarch, unless it's an absolute emergency, they'll make you look nicer. You can kind of see it in _The Princess Diaries 2_, as well - everyone who goes before the Queen and Mia is dressed in their best clothes.

- In one of the _Princess Diaries_ novels, I believe it's book 10 (_Princess Mia_), Mia wears Hello Kitty pajamas (which her mother then tosses in the incinerator).

- Dylan does the discerning-the-truth thing in chapter 46, "Where the Freaks All Come Around," as well.

- Dylan asked Nuada why he didn't simply defend himself during his trial in the one-shot "Once Upon a Time: Good Night, Moon."

- Donas's opinion of Nuada squeaking is inspired by the gelding Peachblossom in Tamora Pierce's _Protector of the Small Quartet_.

- The kitchen dragons were for my husband. He is a dragon freak (in case you missed it from his name, Lord Dragonclaw).

- I explained what happened to John in chapter 34, but apparently not in enough detail. So just so we're clear, John didn't actually spend that time in Hell. He spent it in... basically Limbo. And for him, time barely seemed to pass. And as mentioned in chapter 30 (the italicized dialogue Nuada remembers is from that chapter), he did have some issues adjusting.

- In school, they taught us that studies show that if a woman smokes while pregnant, the odds of her child becoming addicted to something (alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, etc.) is increased.

- The spell Nuada mentions shows up in chapter 51. It was one of the "secrets" I've been hinting at since chapter 55, I think.

- The idea of a human becoming a selkie is inspired by Heather Dale's beautiful song, "The Maiden and the Selkie."


	76. Rumor Has It

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _okay, I am seriously concerned, you guys. Why do I keep getting reviews saying, "Please don't hate me?" Why would you guys think I'd hate you? I mean, are you guys really concerned that I'm going to be mad about reception that's less than 100% super-duper ultra-positive, or are we playing? I can't really tell, and I'm a bit worried that I've said or done anything to make any of you think I'd ever be upset with you just for being politely honest. So just so we're clear, I love all of you, I am truly grateful for all of you, I consider myself blessed that you would write to me as you do, and I don't hate you. Okay? So can we stop saying, "Please don't hate me" or "don't take it personal," 'cause I totally don't and I worry that you guys think I would and I worry I've offended you all somehow. So hugs for everybody? *holds out hugs with other nice stuff, like cupcakes*_

_Okay, there's some stuff in this chapter to explain/remind people of stuff that popped up and/or was explained a while ago and has been forgotten/never explained to the readers' satisfaction, so please bear with me. And of course, our favorite cave troll returns. And some important questions are answered. And of course, due to the title, some rumors pop up. Good or bad? You decide. More hugs for everybody!_

_- LA_

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**Chapter Seventy-Five**

**Rumor Has It**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Reunion, Introductions, Mind-Healing, Confessions, Approval, Bearing an Heir, Chances, Family Time, a Potion, and ****Cíaran's Discovery**

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At the doors to the Lesser Receiving Hall, Nuada took a moment to breathe. He had raced to the Hall as quickly as he could with Dylan in tow. Now he paused to consider what might await him beyond the carved rowan doors looming over his head. His father, according to Dylan, was not responsible for the Butchers' attack on Wink at Midnight Fest. Would the silver cave troll believe that? And what did that mean regarding his father's reception of the prince's vassal? Had the king believed Dylan when she'd told him Nuada had had nothing to do with the attack on the Butchers, either?

"You okay?" Dylan murmured, laying her hand on his arm. "Should I stay out here?"

He shook his head. "No. I want Wink to see..." The ring on Dylan's finger. Nuada needed to know his brother-in-soul's reaction to what the sapphire ring's presence on Dylan's heart-finger meant. "He'll want to see you. And I need to speak to my father about you, anyway, if he is within. Come." He offered his arm. She took it without hesitation, and Uaithne and Fionnlagh pulled open the double doors. The crown prince and future princess strode into the room.

The first thing Dylan noticed was that the king wasn't in the room. The first _person_ Dylan noticed was the one-eyed, gray-skinned behemoth standing near a large, round wooden table in the center of the small receiving hall. She noticed him because, upon seeing the Elven warrior and the mortal woman, Wink roared a troll greeting. Nuada picked up his pace.

Troll and Elf met each other halfway. Wink clapped Nuada hard on the shoulder. The prince, in turn, grasped Wink's forearm and clapped him on one great shoulder with his other hand. For the first time in a while, an unshadowed grin spread across Nuada's face as golden eyes took in the towering troll warrior before him.

"It is good to see you, old friend," the prince said. "You are _most_ welcome."

"Thought you might need me to dig you out of trouble," the troll grumbled good-naturedly. "Although, you have the lassling for that, don't you?" And then Wink turned to Dylan and grasped her shoulders with both hands. His single eye studied her for a long moment before he turned to look at Nuada. In the troll tongue, he asked softly, "How bad are things?"

"Not as bad as they could be," the prince replied in the same language, wondering what Wink had seen in his truelove's face to make the troll ask. Dylan's brow furrowed. Nuada knew she was trying to make sense of what they were saying using the few words in Troll she actually knew. Ignoring her for the moment, the Elf quickly explained nearly all that had happened since the last time he'd seen his vassal. He left out only one thing - the events of the previous night. There would be time for _that_ explanation later, away from potential prying eyes and ears.

Wink sighed. "You always were one for trouble, my prince, even as a lad. Speaking of trouble, we've ignored it long enough, I think." With a grin, Wink turned a little to gesture to the two fae that had accompanied him to Findias. "Has the lassling met Erik yet?"

Nuada smiled. "Not yet." To Dylan, he said, "Come and meet a friend of mine, mo duinne. And reacquaint yourself with an old friend of mine, as well."

Erik Ashkeson offered a charming smile and bowed over Dylan's hand, kissing the air just above her knuckles. His long black hair hung in a horsetail that fell over his shoulder as he did so. "Milady," the dökkálfr murmured in a low, rough voice, "it is an honor for a simple blacksmith to at last meet _Hátign Þína Prins_ Nuada's fair and most esteemed lady. I have heard much of you from _Hátign Þína_. I can see for myself it was all true. You are a vision of loveliness."

The Elf prince cleared his throat. "Remember that you are married, blacksmith," Nuada mock-grumbled. "I'll not have your wife coming for my blood - or my manhood - because _you_ complimented my lady too freely."

A smile spread across the pale Nordic Elf's face. His garnet eyes twinkled. "_Prins_ Nuada is mortally afraid of my lovely Brünnhilde." Dylan grinned before she'd even thought about it. "I beg your indulgence, milady. Among the álfar, my people, a woman with scars is considered a rare beauty."

She blinked. "Oh. Thank you." Well, that explained Prince Askel's compliments at the banquet during the dancing.

"Forgive us, Lorelei, for ignoring you until now," Nuada said suddenly. Dylan looked away from the charming dökkálfr to see the ivory-skinned, midnight-haired water faerie smile at the Elven warrior, revealing the delicate points of her rather sharp teeth, so white against her blood-red lips. Nuada gestured to Dylan. "You of course have met my lady, Dylan of Central Park. My lady Dylan, allow me to reacquaint you with Lorelei von der Strom."

"Of course I remember her, _Eure Hoheit_," the rhinemaiden replied with an even wider smile. She inclined her head and her ebony hair fell around her like a curtain of midnight silk. The river maid held out her left hand to shake. Her fox-like smile invited Dylan to play along, as if the two of them had not spoken less than twelve hours ago. "Lady Dylan."

Dylan took the proffered hand with her own left hand. "Lady Lorelei."

"No lady of the fae courts am I, Lady Dylan. I am simply Lorelei."

"Does that mean I can get you to call me 'Dylan' instead of 'Lady Dylan?'" The mortal asked. "So far the only people who do that are Her Highness and Moundshroud."

Jet-black brows winged upward at the mention of the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, but Lorelei said nothing to that. Only canted her head again. "Dylan, then." Eyes gleaming like newly-minted coins fixed on Dylan's captive hand. "That is a very lovely ring. We daughters of the River Rhine have an eye for such things. It is Iaran, isn't it? Wherever did you get it?"

Those eyes of dragon's gold noted Erik's professional interest in the silver-and-sapphire ring on the mortal's heart-finger. Noted when realization filled his scarlet eyes. More importantly, she noticed both Nuada and Wink stiffen behind the human woman. Face carefully expressionless, Nuada turned his head just enough to attempt to read Wink's expression - which was also deliberately blank. Reaching out with her empathic abilities, Lorelei let the feel of the tangle of emotions wash over her like surf surging over a seashore.

From Wink, there was confusion and surprise and uncertainty, a hesitancy to jump to whatever conclusion his mind was attempting to form for him. Razor threads of sharp concern that reached out to both the Elven prince and the mortal woman. But also, beneath it all, hope smoldered like the banked coals of a fire being coaxed back to life. From the Elven warrior came unease aimed at Wink, forlorn hope that was so at odds with what the rhinemaiden knew of her old friend, and an almost defiant pride and happiness extending toward the human woman. Underneath all of that was the usual tangle Lorelei always picked up from the prince when she attempted a cursory reading of his emotions, though one thing stuck out as so very, very new.

Love. What the prince felt for the mortal in front of him burned in his heart, nurtured by softer emotions such as joy, hope, tenderness, affection, concern. Desire was there as well, hot and golden. It was there in both of them. Yet eclipsing the desire and any dark emotions from the prince was that love, glowing bright as a star and smoldering like the embers of a never-dying fire. And the love the mortal bore for the prince shone just as brightly. Lorelei smiled.

Nuada asked, "Has the king ordered you to remain here? Has he been to see you?"

Wink nodded. "Yes. He welcomed me back as if nothing whatsoever had occurred since last we saw each other." Anger growled beneath the troll's words. "Said that as soon as you arrived, I was free to do whatever you would command of me." Softly, he added, "I brought Erik as a guard for you. One that could be trusted not to put a knife through your back at the king's command. Lorelei is here for Dylan as much as for me if you feel the lassling needs another guardian."

Nuada considered. "Actually... if she's willing, I'd like her to train my lady's young guard, Tsu's'di, in sword-work; you remember the youth?" The troll nodded. "I have not had the time of late and he _does_ need more training, but I would just as soon not alert the Butchers to any of his weaknesses."

The troll nodded thoughtfully. "I shall speak to her. And then, my prince, we shall talk, you and I."

The Elven warrior canted his head. "As you wish, old friend. I need speak with my lady for a moment." While Wink spoke with Lorelei about possibly acting as tutor for the ewah youth, Nuada pulled Dylan aside and leaned in. "I need to speak with Wink, mo duinne. About many things."

She nodded. "I should go talk to Healer Lóegaire, then, unless you need me for something."

Hesitation kept him from merely sending her on her way to do just that. "Will you be all right?"

"I think so." She would have to be, Dylan reflected. She couldn't afford to not be right now. The human psychiatrist knew she basically had until Monday to get her act at least partially together in time for the Midwinter Ball. "Don't worry, Nuada. I'll be okay."

Her smile was bright and cheerful, and just a trifle false. Because of that, despite the presence of the Butcher Guards, Erik, Lorelei, and - most importantly - Wink, Nuada leaned forward to press a kiss against Dylan's forehead. He caught a breath of scent from her hair, lilacs and vanilla. "Send for me if you need me, mo duinne."

"I will."

Nuada offered a fleeting smile before turning to the troll. "Come, then, Wink. We have much to speak of, you and I."

**.**

They parted ways at the doors of the receiving hall. Lorelei was escorted to the rooms she would share with Wink by an exhausted-looking hob maid with curly brown hair who bobbed an awkward curtsy and introduced herself as Fiona. Later in the day, the rhinemaiden would meet Tsu's'di. Nuada snagged a page just outside the hall and whispered instructions in the boy's ear regarding refreshments for the prince and his large guest. The Elven page scampered off to obey. Erik and Wink then followed Nuada and his retinue of babysitters back to the royal apartments. Dylan's guards escorted her to the Healers' Wing.

One of the novice healers, discernible by their robes of pine green trimmed with white at the sleeves and collar, showed the mortal and her guards to the workroom of Healer Lóegaire. On the way they passed one of the maids that Dylan recognized as Fiona Hob. The mortal waved to the hob chambermaid. Fiona bobbed a curtsy and smiled. Although the smile was bright and the chambermaid looked genuinely pleased to see the human woman, a faint unease shivered down Dylan's spine as she passed Fiona.

Once at Lóegaire's, Dylan asked her guards to stay in the hall. After a hasty conference between Uaithne and Fionnlagh, the Butchers reluctantly acquiesced. Then the human woman rapped on the door.

It swung open to reveal an Elven woman who had to be nearly as old as King Balor, in the robes of a healer. Unlike the white-trimmed robes of the novices or the plain clothes of the fully-trained healers, however, this woman's robe was a soft seafoam green, almost like a monk's habit, tied about the waist with a woven heather-blue belt. Her moon-pale face sported the tiniest lines, so that her face resembled very old parchment. A grandmotherly glow painted the apples of her cheeks with a soft golden blush. She had a mouth thinned by age and framed with wrinkles that made Dylan think she smiled more often than she frowned. Unlike every other Bethmooran Elf Dylan had ever seen, she had loosely curled hair as white as snow tied into a very loose braid over one shoulder.

Dylan swallowed. It felt like she'd swallowed a cup of sand. "Are you Healer Lóegaire?"

The old Elven woman blinked. "Oh. Why yes, I am. Hmmm. Scars and blue eyes, and you're mortal, so you must be His Highness's truelove. I've been expecting you. What can I do for you, my lady?" When Dylan could only try to speak, failing to produce a sound, the woman frowned slightly. A tendril of Elven power whispered between the mortal and the Elven healer. "Come inside, child. Come, come." Lóegaire guided Dylan into the workroom and closed the door behind her. She ushered the human to a comfortable sofa. "Sit down, child. There now."

Lóegaire sat in a well-worn leather armchair beside a small wooden table. She waited patiently while Dylan glanced almost helplessly around the room. There wasn't much in the mind-healer's "workroom." Only the chair for herself, the sofa for whomever required her services, and two small goldenwood tables carved with symbols from the tongue of the red mountain trolls. A pale green music crystal gleamed on a marble stand on the table beside her chair, and a handful more of the dwarf-made crystals were nestled in a velvet-lined wooden box beside the stand. A pitcher of sweet cider and two cups of fine Annwn porcelain waited on the other small table. Bookcases lined two of the four walls. There was a window, but of the ensorcelled type. Currently the window showed a wintry sunset, the golden light setting the snow to sparkling like diamonds. A cheerful little fire crackled in the fireplace that took up the entirety of a third wall. The faint wisps of smoke smelled of applewood.

When Dylan finally looked at Lóegaire again, the old woman sat back in her chair. "Now, my dear, why don't you tell me what I can do for you? I've no obligations for several hours, so I am at the service of His Highness's lady."

In a rush, the mortal blurted, "Prince Nuada wanted me to talk to you."

The healer's brows rose. "I see." In truth, she'd known that already. A message had come to her perhaps a couple hours before saying exactly that. Lóegaire had made sure she would be available to the king's son and his lady. "He wished for you to speak to me about... something that ails you. Something beyond the physical." The mortal nodded. "How you got those scars, perhaps?" Lóegaire was surprised when the prince's lady shook her head. "Oh?"

"Not these," she murmured, gesturing vaguely to her face. "These." Extending her arm, she rolled up her sleeve. The razor-thin silvery lines criss-crossing her forearm caught the light. So did the mound of white scar tissue at the bend of her elbow. "I... I don't really know where to start. I've been seeing a mind-healer in the mortal world, but Nu- the prince doesn't trust human healers. So I agreed to talk to you today. He wants me to tell you... everything."

"And do _you_ want to tell me?" Lóegaire asked gently. After a moment, the human nodded. "Well, in that case, do you mind, child, if I play some music? I've found it soothes some of the initial uneasiness and can make such things easier to speak of."

At Dylan's nod of acquiescence, Lóegaire put the music crystal on the table back in its box and pulled out another, this one of soft blue banded with stripes of sandy gray and sparkling in its depths with glittering mica. She set the crystal on the marble stand and whispered in Gaelic, "_Sing_." At first, there was no music. Only the sudden soft shush of ocean waves lapping at a beach. The whisper of the wind. And then Dylan heard the faintest chime of crystal and silver, the hum of a plucked harp string, and the croon of a driftwood flute. Every tense muscle in her body relaxed, once by one.

"Now," said Lóegaire. "Where would you like to start? Do not worry if you have no words yet. Silence has its own voice, you know."

Dylan swallowed. "Yeah. I know." She took a deep breath. Opened her mouth again and, finding the words suddenly on the tip of her tongue, began to speak.

**.**

Only the troll followed Nuada into the Elven prince's study. The page Nuada had spoken to had managed to fulfill his orders before the prince's arrival, so that when Elf and troll walked into the study, a small cask of Elven ale and two steins waited on Nuada's desk. The fae warrior took a seat in his own chair. The page had also brought a reinforced chair for the troll. Wink sank into it. Nuada filled both mugs with the strong, dark Elven ale. Offered one to Wink. The troll took it. Both fae touched their steins in a silent toast and took a long drink.

After an interminable silence, Wink sighed. "So... you're betrothed, then."

Nuada seemed to contemplate the candlelight reflected in the surface of his drink. Finally, aurulent eyes met Wink's gaze. "We are."

The troll nodded. Sipped his ale. "That was your mother's ring I saw on the lassling's finger, wasn't it?" Nuada canted his head. "Not just betrothed, then." Wink heaved a sigh. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

Golden eyes slid closed. There was no inflection in Wink's voice. No hint as to the prince's oldest and dearest friend's thoughts. "I have not forgotten the plight of the fae. I still have my agents searching for the third Golden Crown piece. I still anticipate a war with the humans and I mean to fight to reclaim what we've lost. I have not betrayed our people."

"That is not what I asked you, Nuada." Wink set his drink on the desk and fixed his prince with a fathomless look. "You're in love with Dylan, aren't you?"

They regarded each other across the ebony desk. Brothers-in-soul, comrades-in-arms. To Nuada, Wink was father, brother, and truest friend. To Wink, Nuada was his son and brother, his friend and his liege lord. The troll watched the internal struggle in the prince's golden eyes. Watched Nuada come to some sort of decision.

Without looking away from the troll warrior's gaze, Nuada said, "I love her with all my heart and soul. Condemn me for that if you deem it just but I cannot change what is. Nor would I wish to. If that makes me a traitor, then..." He drew a sharp breath. Exhaled. "Then so be it."

To Nuada's complete and utter shock, Wink grinned. "By the gods, it's about time you realized it. I did not think you would before I died of old age."

"What?" The Elf sputtered. "You knew? How? For how long?"

"The socks gave you away, my prince. Not only that you knew she would love them as she did, but that you bought her so many, and they were nearly all so very ridiculous. And the penguin socks... show a little faith in my intelligence, puppy. You would not humiliate yourself by purchasing such a thing for someone you did not love. You certainly would not brave Aso's sharp tongue. Though I realized how _much_ you loved her when you gave her the book. It was one of your most treasured possessions, after all."

"But... then... then you approve?"

"Approve?" Wink rumbled. "Of _course_ I approve. The lassling's been in love with you for _months_. Poor girl; I thought for certain that I would have to dent that thick Elven skull of yours with a stick eventually. How long have _you_ known she loved you? Tell me you knew before you proposed to her."

Affronted, feeling as if someone had turned the entire planet upside-down without even warning him first, Nuada said, "Of course I knew before I proposed. I am not a complete fool."

"Debatable," the troll replied. "I'd wager an entire case of troll beer she had to _tell_ you she was in love with you." Nuada opened his mouth, then closed it with an audible _click_ of teeth. Wink grinned in smug satisfaction. "I'll have Lorelei put it on your tab, Your Highness. Though I cannot help but ask, how did you _not_ know she was in love with you all this time? How did you not see it?"

"How did _you_ manage to see it? Did she tell you?"

The troll rolled his eye. "Of course not. I realized it the day I went to see her, after you told me she'd betrayed you. I could tell simply by how very heartbroken she was over the fact that you would think she would ever turn against you. 'Magic,' she called you. 'Extraordinary.' The look in her eyes when she spoke of you said it all." When he noticed the somewhat sappy look on his prince's face, Wink added, "Though I will admit... I am surprised you asked her to marry you."

Nuada sighed. Took a long draught from his mug of ale. "It is by my father's order. I am happy for it, and she seems to be, yet I know it will cause much contention among the nobles. I fear for Dylan's safety. Her... her sanity." Nuada passed a hand over his face, and Wink noted the lines of strain and tiredness around his eyes. "My friend, I... I have things of great import to tell you."

Over the next few hours, the prince related the previous night's events to his oldest friend. Explained, with as little detail as possible, Dylan's relevant history and why the prince was so concerned about her mental state.

"My prince... Nuada." Wink's tone was sympathetic, but firm. "Madness like that must be gotten in hand quickly, or things may become even more dangerous than they are now. Such a weakness can be used against both of you. You know you cannot wed her if she does not at least begin to control-"

"I _know_, Wink," the Elf snapped. Closed his eyes. "I know. She is with Healer Lóegaire now. It will be taken care of."

"And if it is not? If the damage runs too deep?" Nuada's eyes flashed copper, but Wink's expression was kind when he added, "What will you do then, my prince? Abdicate? Others have done so for lovers considered unacceptable by the Crown."

Nuada shook his head. "No, I... no. I cannot abandon my people. My kingdom. I love my sister, but she is not fit to take my father's place and be queen." He sighed. "No. It will be taken care of, Wink. I'll not allow for failure. I shall do what is necessary to ensure Dylan and I can marry a year and a day from Midwinter." Tired golden eyes met the troll's gaze. A great weight had lifted from Nuada's shoulders with the simple words _of course I approve._ Now he could speak plainly to his brother-in-soul. "I want her, Wink. I want a life with her. I want..." _A family with her,_ he'd been about to say, but bit back the words.

Wink poured himself another mug of ale. Sipped meditatively for a moment. "You're concerned about something else," the troll said. "What is it?"

"You once asked me if I really expected her to give up her whole life to be with me," Nuada murmured. "I know now that even though I do not expect such a thing, Dylan will give up her life in every sense of the phrase, whether I should desire her to or not. But…" He sighed and took another long quaff of his ale. "In marrying me, she gives up more than her life. She surrenders every last hope of having the family that has always been denied her."

"Why?"

Nuada tore his gaze away from his mug and looked at his friend. "What?"

"Why does marrying you mean she will not have a family?"

The Elf prince fixed him with a gaze that clearly indicated that he believed the troll was perhaps more affected by the alcohol than either of them would have thought or Wink would have admitted. Otherwise why ask such an obvious question?

"She wishes to have a child," Nuada said. "And why should she not? She would be an excellent mother. I have seen her with 'Sa'ti and A'du, and other children. She wants to be a mother desperately. Wants so much to have a child of her own. But I cannot give it to her." He stared into his mug, as if the answers to all his questions were to be found in its depths. "I would give her a child," he said softly, more to himself than to Wink. "I wish I could. Nearly more than I've ever wished for anything for myself. But I will be king, and I will need an heir for the throne. I cannot risk the safety and well-being of the kingdom by siring a child weakened by mortal blood."

At that, Wink snorted, drawing Nuada out of his brooding.

"You listen to me, puppy," Wink growled, setting down his mug so he could look his prince in the eye. "You give Lady Dylan far too little credit. Mortal she may be, but you can bet your lily-white arse that, while any child that comes from her will be a great many things - including trouble, just as you were," here Nuada smiled, "it will not be weak." Wink picked up his ale again. Drained it to the dregs. "Heal her mind, and the rest will fall into place."

"You think so?"

The troll nodded. "I absolutely believe it. She would do practically anything for you, Nuada. Even if it killed her. She'll heal herself because you need her to. And once she's healed, though she'll always bear scars, she'll be strong enough to stand at your side as your princess."

Wink refilled his mug again. Nuada shook his head almost imperceptibly in exasperation and sipped his own ale. _He_ was only on his second mug. Wink was on his fourth. Of course, the troll warrior was also three times the Elven warrior's size.

"She'd make a better princess than that sister of yours," Wink said over the rim of his mug. "Just between you and me."

Nuada sighed. "Wink."

"Merely an observation, Your Highness. So, the king. Is he our enemy, or is someone else pulling the Butchers' strings? And was he responsible for last night's fiasco?"

**.**

Far off and away in the Healers' Wing, Dylan brushed back her hair and met Lóegaire's kind amber eyes. The Elven mind-healer smiled.

"Well, dear. We have made quite a bit of progress today." She sipped from what had to be her tenth glass of cider and glanced out the window. Night had fallen long ago beyond the ensorcelled window, but in the real world of Faerie, twilight was only just deepening to the velvet dark of night.

This initial session had lasted nearly four hours. The final hour had involved the mind-healer giving Dylan some advice on how to begin healing - meditation and calming techniques, as well as discussing ways to help the mortal get more rest. Exhaustion would aggravate battle-haunts and other such things like salt in a wound. They'd eventually decided on a sleeping potion, just on a trial basis.

And Lóegaire had been able to detect - and effectively shatter - the spell Nuada had thought was winding around the vulnerable mortal woman. When that spell had broken, Dylan had suddenly felt exponentially better.

The Elven woman had also swept away the remnants of the dark magic that the king had broken asunder and removed from Nuada, but not from Dylan, the night before. That spell, rooted within the Elf prince, had only needed to be broken at its source to end its direct influence. The crown prince's own innate magic had rid his body of any remnants of the enchantment. That hadn't been true for Dylan, though no one had realized it at the time. Only Lóegaire's sharp magical senses and healing ability had purged the spell fragments from the human woman. Dylan hadn't realized until that moment how much weight she'd been carrying around simply because of the dark enchantments.

"It was brave of you to come to me," Lóegaire added with that same gentle smile. "I know you did it for His Highness's sake; that is even braver, as I know it is often easier to simply suppress the shadows and ignore how they deepen instead of shining light upon them. Will you come see me the day after tomorrow?"

The mortal blinked. "The day after tomorrow? I... well..."

"I would like to see how the mortal medicines affect your mental and emotional state, my dear. I would also like to see how effective the sleeping potion I am going to prescribe for you will be. It will not react with the human medicines, I promise you, and it will help with your nightmares. And I want to see how you're doing with the meditations for handling your fear that we talked about today. Will you come back the day after tomorrow, Dylan?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Thank you, Lóegaire."

"Anytime at all, my lady."

"Lóegaire? I have a question about... about mind-healing, as the Elves do it." Seeing she had the older woman's attention, Dylan explained, "His Highness did a soul-purging for me around three weeks ago. He rid my memories and my psyche of the... I suppose the mental rot that had accumulated around them. All the suppressed, condensed hate and anger and everything. So why am I still so... so..."

"Fragile?" The mind-healer supplied. Dylan nodded. "My dear, you are yourself a healer of the body, are you not?" The mortal nodded again. "Imagine there is putrefaction in a broken bone. Fluid and swelling surround the break, the body's natural reaction in order to protect the damaged bone, but the putrefaction remains, rooted in the marrow, unable to be accessed due to the shields the body has already erected. What is the first step of healing such an injury?"

Dylan said softly, "Reduce the swelling and drain the fluid around the break, to give yourself room to work."

Lóegaire smiled. "You _are_ a healer. Once the shields the body has put in place are taken down and the rot in the bone is cleansed, the injury is not healed. The bone is still broken, is it not? Not only that, but it is even more raw than it was, aggravated by the putrefaction and the cleansing. And it is more delicate, less stable, lacking the stabilizing protections the body has placed around it. The pain is far worse."

Confusion clouded Dylan's features. Feeling like a dunce, she said, "I'm sorry, I... I don't understand."

"The Zwezda Elf, Eamonn, punched through the shields you'd spent years erecting around the wounds in your mind. This mortal Westenra ripped away the shreds, leaving you with tattered pieces. And when His Highness forced you to confront a few of your memories before the purging, it swept away everything that was left. This left your mind open, both to the rot and to the memories. When His Highness performed the soul-purging, he stripped away the rot as well, leaving only the wounds themselves.

"It is similar to extracting the decay out of a rotten tooth, exposing the raw nerve. With the rot, the nerve is being damaged, but the damage can rarely be felt until things begin to come to a head. Without that rot, that final layer of flawed protection is gone. You are left with nothing, and thus are left vulnerable to everything."

"But then... why did he do it?"

The elderly Elven woman sighed. "His Highness is a good man, and all can see that he loves you very much. All Elves with a strong gift for mind-touch are trained to do such things as soul-purging - more to avoid entangling one's self by accident than anything else. Only mind-healers are taught how to heal broken minds. What _should_ have happened if you were Elven was that, with proper rest and relaxation, your mind would have begun to heal itself over time - a year, perhaps, or two. There would be scars, but the wounds would heal. This process would have been sped up with the help of a mind-healer.

"But you are not Elven. You are mortal, and your mind is very different from a fae mind. And instead of resting, you came back to Findias, with very little time to recover even somewhat from the ordeal, and have had no peace since before your arrival. That raw nerve is being pricked by a needle, scraping away more and more at the wounds you already bear, widening and deepening them. The magic I stripped from you was only making it worse. But there was no way the prince could have known such things would happen - I do not think a soul-purging has ever been done to a human before. And I would be willing to hazard a guess that he was afraid for you. Afraid that without such a thing, your sanity wouldn't hold. He _was_ trying to help you, Dylan. He certainly did not mean to make things worse."

She nodded. "I know he didn't. So it's just bad timing?" Lóegaire inclined her head. "I see. But if I see you and my own psychiatrist and start taking my meds, things will be okay?" The older woman smiled and nodded. "Okay, then. That works."

"You think you can do it?"

"Well, I kinda have to, don't I? If I'm going to be a princess, I can't break down all the time."

Lóegaire's smile widened. "True enough, my lady. Now, anymore questions?" Dylan shook her head. "Well, then, you need to see Healer Táebfada, don't you?" A nod. "By the time you reach her, she will have a week's worth of the sleeping potion ready for you. And remember, Dylan - no matter what happens, there is always hope. Do you believe that?"

"I try to," Dylan said. "All the time."

Lóegaire smiled so that a dimple appeared in her cheek. "Good. Now, Táebfada is waiting for you. I shall see you in two days."

**.**

Uaithne and the other Butchers in Dylan's retinue were waiting in the hallway on chairs provided by some of the younger novice healers. When the door opened and the mortal stepped out, the guards rose to their feet. Uaithne studied his mortal charge. She'd been a bit pale when entering the Elven mind-healer's workroom, but now she seemed... different. Lighter. Easier. She still seemed a touch nervous about something, but the dread that had been in her eyes was gone now.

The leader of the six Butcher Guards offered the human the standard fist-to-chest salute and asked, "Do we go now to Táebfada's, milady?" The prince's truelove nodded. Smiled. "And then where would you have us escort you?" Uaithne asked.

"Depending on how late it is and if he's available, back to Prince Nuada."

Táebfada, as one of the senior healers in Findias, also had a workroom. This one, however, was more recognizeable as a healer's work space. There was a somewhat low wooden table for basic examinations, complete with a small black pillow if lying down was necessary. Táebfada sat at an elegant, polished mahogany desk boasting several drawers, one of which was open and showed a stack of black ledgers. A trio of comfortable-looking wooden chairs that matched the desk lined one wall. Against the opposite wall stood a small bookcase stuffed with various leather-bound tomes. A full-sized scale stood in one corner. In the opposite corner stood a silk dressing screen painted with a soothing mural of a lakeshore decorated by cattails and reeds, the lake playing host to a few swans and other waterfowl.

The slender Elven healer glanced up from the two glass vessels she'd been eyeing and offered Dylan a smile. "Lady Dylan. It is good to see you up and about this evening. Are you feeling better, then?" Táebfada tilted one of the glass containers so that the thick red juice inside dripped into a translucent flask. Satisfied with the amount in the flask, she capped it and set it aside. "Your sleeping potion. Now, Lóegaire said you wished to speak to me about something important."

"Um... yeah. So..." Dylan trailed off, unsure of how to explain. _Straight-forward is probably best,_ she thought. "Prince Nuada and I are engaged."

Golden eyes widened and a smile crossed the Elf's face. "Oh, but that is wonderful! But why... ah." Understanding filled the topaz eyes. "You need to be certain of your fertility before the betrothal can become official. Is that not so?" Dylan nodded. Táebfada gestured to the table. "Have a seat there, my lady. This will not take long."

Dylan hoisted herself up onto the examination table and tried not to fidget. She wished she'd asked Nuada to come with her, but... _But I don't_ need _Nuada to be with me and hold my hand for every little thing. Or even every big thing. I'm a big girl. I can handle this._ She straightened and met Táebfada's eyes. "So, what do I do?"

Táebfada came up and placed one hand on Dylan's upper back. The Elf's touch was gentle. Dylan barely felt it through her tunic. The healer placed another hand against Dylan's stomach. "This might feel a bit strange to you. I am going to use my power to examine you internally. You will feel a warmth in your body, followed by a tingling sensation. You might become a little disoriented. Do not be alarmed. It is merely my magic passing through your body. It may help to close your eyes."

Dylan obeyed. After a moment, a soft warmth began to build deep in the pit of her stomach. It was like feeling the sun on her skin, except inside, as if she'd swallowed sunshine. It grew steadily, but never reached the point of discomfort. A faint pins-and-needles feeling tingled down her spine and across the surface of her stomach.

Then it was over. Dylan's eyes snapped open as the feeling abruptly faded. She met Táebfada's golden stare. There was a wealth of sympathy in that ethereal gaze.

"W-well?" Dylan whispered. She cleared her throat and attempted to smile. "What's the verdict?"

The Elven healer sighed and drew her hands back. "There is a great deal of internal scarring, milady. It would make conceiving a child difficult." Dylan's eyes widened, then slid closed. Her mouth trembled. "However, having difficulty conceiving and being barren are _not_ the same thing."

Blue eyes like autumn rain locked with Táebfada's as hope lanced the mortal's chest. "They... they're not?"

"Those scars do not affect your actual fertility. There would be no negative impact on the kingdom if you were to marry the prince and one day become queen. If you were barren, there is a risk your infertility would infect the kingdom and its people. Even the land would suffer. But you are not barren. Conceiving an heir for the prince would be difficult, but with time, I may be able to reduce the scarring inside you so that you would not have such difficulty. I could also do the same for the scars on your face."

Dylan started to bite her lip, but managed to stop just before her teeth touched it. "I'll... think about my face later. But I thought a half-mortal child couldn't sit on a fae throne. Wouldn't that hurt the kingdom or something? Potentially infect the rest of that country's population with mortality or something like that? That's what I've always heard."

Táebfada shook her head. "Only if the child is less than full-blooded fae and more than mortal. It is even-odds as to whether your child would be fully fae or not. Fifty-percent likely that the faerie blood would breed true; a one-in-four chance that your child would be half-Elven; or one-in-four chance that your child would be mortal with some very powerful magic. Faerie blood is strange that way."

The mortal woman thought of Ravus the Apothecary, who'd had an ice troll for a mother and a mortal man for a father, yet was a full-blooded troll. She thought of Aoife Grayson and Dean Nails, both of whom were half-human and who possessed the strengths of their human fathers and the weaknesses of their fae mothers. Dylan realized that she had a fifty-percent chance of giving birth to a fully Elven child... a child that would age one year for every century of its life. Even if she _did_ have Nuada's child, and it _was_ Elven - and thus eligible for the throne - she would die while it was still an infant. Would it even remember her?

"So..." Trying to marshal her thoughts, the human asked, "What would happen if my child was half-Elven? How do they age, anyway? I know for an Elf it's one year of physical maturity for a chronological mortal century."

"Half-Elves age one year for anywhere between thirty and fifty chronological mortal years, depending, my lady," the healer replied gently. "As for your child being half-Elven... it would be another fifty-fifty chance that your child have the necessary magic to be the heir in the first place. It is not given to the eldest child automatically. It is earned by power. They must have that connection to the land. It simply happens that Prince Nuada possesses the magic needed to hold the title of heir to the throne. A half-Elf with the power of an heir, however, _could_ negatively impact the kingdom, yes."

"And what if my child were mortal but with strong magic?"

"They would age as a mortal would, and he or she could never be heir to the throne," Táebfada replied. "There is no magic strong enough to form the requisite bond with the land that can reside in a human child without driving them mad, and such instances have only occurred with very powerful fae parentage. Fae with the strength of Master Moundshroud of Samhain, for example. A Bethmooran prince siring such a babe? Impossible."

As she was getting down from the examination table, Dylan asked, "Táebfada... is there a way to make a human immortal? And would that alter a child?"

The healer was quiet for a very long time, as if considering the psychiatrist's question. Finally, she nodded. "There _are_ ways to make humans immortal. Many of them are very, very dangerous. The most common I know of is to simply fill them with pure, undiluted wild magic, but the results are... unpredictable. Humans have died in the attempt. There are less dangerous ways - swanmane coats, selkie skins, werewolf fur. All of them come with great risk or consequence. And then there is..."

"What?" Dylan demanded, eyes wide. "Then there is what?"

Táebfada murmured, "With the permission and aid of the faerie kings of Eirc, Ciocal, or Bethmoora... or perhaps all three, I am not certain, for great magic is needed to make this quest... a mortal may journey to the island of Mag Mell. The two fae who are twin kings there are said to know a way to make a human woman into an immortal, as like unto the Fair Folk as if she had been born. She would have no magic, no powers, nor even glamor of her own. But nothing would stand in the way of her bearing the children of the Elven prince she loved."

Seeing the look on Dylan's face, Táebfada added, "But I warn you, my lady - great and terrible is the price demanded by King Tethra and King Manannan. And the price would not be asked of you, but of one whom you loved dearly." She watched the import of her words sink in. "Do you understand?"

"I understand. Th-thank you, Táebfada."

The healer bowed slightly. "My lady."

**.**

With the instructions for the sleeping potion written out on a slip of paper tucked into the pocket of Dylan's jeans, and the flask of potion guarded by Ailbho, Dylan made her way back to the floor containing the royal apartments. She knew it wasn't _too_ late - maybe seven or eight in the evening - and that, since Balor had given them the next few days off, she could probably have dinner with Nuada in his study if she wanted. But her mind whirled, the thoughts tumbling too quickly for her to do anything but lay down on her bed and try to sort them.

_Two-in-four chances I'll have an Elven child that can be the heir to the throne and won't hurt Nuada or the kingdom in any way, but I'll probably die before I ever hear them say "Mama,"_ she thought, sinking onto her gargantuan four-poster. _One-in-four chances I'll have a half-mortal, half-Elven child, which would infuriate the nobles of the court and possibly start a civil war because there's a fifty-percent chance my child could be the heir and thus has the power to destroy the kingdom. And though I might get to hear my child call me "Mama," and Nuada, "Daddy," I'll die before they'll be old enough to really remember me. Or I could have a mortal child, and they would die so quickly compared to the faerie courts. What would that do to Nuada? Losing me, and then losing our child?_

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Rolled onto her side. _It doesn't matter. I knew when I signed up for this that we couldn't have kids. I'm not going to let my hopes get crushed all over again. I'm not barren - and isn't that a miracle? I'll be able to marry Nuada. I will only think about that, and be happy for it. And I have A'du and 'Sa'ti and Tsu's'di. Three children who need me. I_ will _be happy for that._

Resolved, Dylan sat up and slid off the bed. She'd wallowed in doubt and unhappiness for far too long, at the expense of the children who depended on her. She would go see them now, and spend some time with them. It was probably almost their bedtime, anyway. Almost time for the stories, family prayer, and the lullaby.

A smile spread across her face as she stepped into the warmth of the sitting room. Her smile only widened when she found Nuada seated in an armchair, staring into the fire, while 'Sa'ti stretched out on the floor at his feet, reading haltingly but determinedly from an orange pasteboard book. Dylan recognized the book as the _Strawberry Shortcake_ book she'd bought during her outing to Threads-N-Things with Francesca a couple weeks prior. The mortal had the feeling the prince wasn't even actually listening to the cougar girl reading about how Raspberry Tart kept trying to set up hang-out dates with her friends only to be rebuffed (due to their being busy planning Raspberry Tart's surprise birthday party), but his presence in the room was enough for 'Sa'ti.

A'du'la'di was apparently arm-wrestling with one of Nuada's guards. Dylan recognized young Guardsman Lorcc, the friendly junior guardsman paired up with the taciturn Gaurdsman Mahon. Dylan grinned as the cougar child, pressing on the guard's hand with both paws, stood up to put all of his body's weight behind him. Lorcc grunted, "Ah, ah. I think I am done for! T'is no use! No Butcher can stand against such might! Ah!" A'du "forced" the guard's hand flat to the table. The Butcher cried, "Alas! I am defeated by this mere cub!"

The ewah boy jumped up and down, fists pumping in the air. "Yeah! Oh, yeah! I'm cool!"

'Sa'ti looked up from her book. "Shhh! I'm _reading_ to the _prince_."

A'du rolled his eyes. "What_ever_. His Highness doesn't care about Blueberry Pie and Lemon Meringue and whatever they're doing."

"On the contrary," Nuada said, roused to look from the fire to the cougar child. "I am most interested in what your sister is reading to me." Dylan forced back her laughter. Somehow she sincerely doubted _that_. More likely, Nuada had been pestered into sitting down while 'Sa'ti read to him and was tuning her out while waiting for his mortal truelove to arrive and rescue him. "A warrior is always polite to a lady, A'du'la'di. When a lady speaks, it is the chivalrous thing to listen to her."

"Oh."

"And you should know better than to be anything less than on your best behavior in front of Lady Dylan," the prince added, glancing at the mortal leaning against the doorframe. "Good evening, milady."

Dylan inclined her head before stepping into the room. "Good evening, Your Highness. Hey, guys."

"_A'ge'lv! A'ge'lv!_" 'Sa'ti and A'du scurried over to her and clasped her hands. The two hounds in front of the hearth lifted their heads and whuffed softly in greeting before returning to their naps.

"Where have you _been_?" A'du demanded. "It's almost bedtime, and you didn't tell us about the banquet last night or bring us any treats or anything! And we made a friend today!"

"Did you?" Dylan sank onto the loveseat, leaning against the sofa arm so she was closer to the chair where Nuada sat. "Who?"

"This girl named Abigail," 'Sa'ti replied. "She can turn into a polar bear." Dylan's eyes widened in realization, but she just let the cougar girl continue with, "She's really nice. A'du helped her get apples out of the apple tree and we played stalk-and-pounce in the snow and Mistress Fitz let us wash potatoes, there is a _lot_ of dirt on potatoes, did you know that?"

"And you have to wash it all off or the potatoes are crunchy," A'du informed her gravely. "Which is just gross."

"I'll bet." Dylan smiled and listened to the two cubs talk about the day they'd spent. Nuada watched the human and the ewah from the corner of his eye as he considered what he and Wink had discussed earlier that day.

Wink had, thank the stars, believed him about Dylan's innate warning system. Not at first, of course. Only once Nuada had told him about her warning just before the dipsa attack, as well as the other times she'd alerted him to danger, did Wink understand why his prince put such faith in the mortal's assurances. So now, Wink no longer suspected King Balor of trying to have him and Lorelei murdered.

The darker side of this news was that someone, somewhere, had influence over the Butcher Guards. The question was, had those Butcher companies been working against the royal family? Or had they been working under the mistaken belief that the king had ordered the attack? If the first, there was treason - possibly even revolt - brewing in the King's Elite and perhaps in the Golden Court itself. If the second... who among Balor's household had the power to give such orders and not be questioned? And who among them would do so?

There was the Lord Chamberlain, his father's closest and oldest friend and his most trusted servant; the Lord Steward, who held dominion over every aspect of castle life, the king's right-hand Elf, who commanded even the highest-ranking servants; the Lord Seneschal, who even Captain Phelan and Captain Sáruit of the Butcher Guards answered to; the Lord Provost, who kept a sharp watch on any crime in Findias and its township and worked often with the Butcher Captains and their underlings; and the Lord Chancellor, the king's most trusted advisor and his man on the Council. All five of them were powerful enough that they _could_ have been behind the order... but they were also men Nuada had known all his life, men the king had known for many thousands of years.

Wink had gone back to speak to Lorelei on the matter. As a very observant empath, and someone Nuada trusted nearly as much as Wink - though not quite with _everything_ - the prince and his vassal thought that perhaps the rhinemaiden might be able to pick up something pertinent to the situation during her stay in Findias.

Thoughts of the lovely river faerie reminded Nuada of Tsu's'di. As per the Elven prince's request, Lorelei had taken the youth aside and introduced him to one of her many talents - shortswords. Just as Wink had been leaving the prince's suite, Tsu's'di had stumbled down the corridor, moaning quietly about his various aches and pains. Lorelei had strode behind him, a dismissive half-smile curving her red mouth. Upon seeing Nuada, however, the boy had straightened up and stopped whining about his shoulders aching, and bowed to the rhinemaiden, thanking the river fae for the lesson.

"That youth," Wink had murmured so only Nuada could hear, "has one goal in mind when it comes to this and any other such lesson he might have with Lorelei."

Nuada had raised an eyebrow. "Oh? He is her type, but he's a bit young, is he not?"

The troll's chuckle had rumbled like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. "His aim is not to impress my lady, Your Highness. It's to impress _you_. He wants to make you proud of him. I recognize that determined look in his eyes."

"From where?"

Wink had chuckled again and clapped Nuada on the shoulder. "You used to look at your father - and me - in the exact same way when you were a lad. Did you forget?" To Tsu's'di, the troll had called, a laugh in the words, "Stretch and then soak out those aches in the tub, lad. Elsewise you'll be hurting sore in the morning."

Nuada had sent the boy to the servants' baths to soak. Now a knock sounded at the sitting room door and the ewah youth came into the sitting room. The youth looked much refreshed, in a clean shirt and trews, in boots not caked with dust, his hair still damp from the bath. When he saw Dylan seated on the loveseat, a grin broke out and his ears and whiskers pricked forward. Still, happy as he was to see his human mistress, he bowed to the prince first. "Your Highness."

"Guardsman Tsu's'di," Nuada said in acknowledgment, remembering Wink's earlier words.

Pride made Tsu's'di's smoky blue eyes brighten. Then he turned to Dylan and bowed once more. "_A'ge'lv_."

Smiling even wider, Dylan said, "Hey, Tsu's'di. Where've you been? How was your day?"

**.**

Later that night, after her typical "happy bath," saying her prayers, and finishing her nightly scripture study, Dylan sank onto the edge of her bed and stared at the translucent flask filled with the scarlet sleeping potion. She'd managed to avoid thinking about it all through talking with the children, getting them settled in their room, and the nightly ritual of stories, family prayer, and lullaby. Had only given it a passing thought while she and Nuada had enjoyed a quiet dinner in his study and discussed their plans for the next few days. In point of fact, Dylan had actually forgotten all about the potion... until now.

Ever since leaving Lóegaire's, she'd felt... different. Better. Stronger. Perhaps it _had_ been the two spells twisting her up. Then again, she'd begun to feel better just after the first couple hours with the mind-healer. She hadn't realized how much strain _not_ seeing her therapist had been putting on her. Dylan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now if she could force herself to take the potion to help her sleep without dreaming...

"Are you well, my lady?"

Dylan glanced over to the door joining her bedroom to Nuada's. The prince stood there in dark sleeping clothes, the moonlight through the window soft and silver against his face, his starlight hair still slightly damp from the shower. She smiled at him. "You are not coming to bed with wet hair."

A smile curved dark lips. "As my lady wishes. We have things to speak of, anyway, do we not?" Nuada sat beside her on the edge of the bed and took her hand. His thumb brushed back and forth across her knuckles. "You went to see Lóegaire today." He knew without having to ask. He could see it in her, feel it. Deep shadows had haunted her for weeks, yet he had not seen them. Only now that they were gone did the Elf realize the difference. "Thank you."

She shrugged. "Don't thank me. I should have... I should've realized that neglecting myself to try to help you would only make me a liability. I've made a habit of trying to pretend I don't need anyone or anything to help with my problems over the years. It stops now."

"You have decided this for me?"

The mortal shook her head. Nuada noticed the way one damp tendril of hair curled darkly against the paleness of her throat. Even in one of those ridiculously large t-shirts he had a feeling she would insist on wearing to bed for the foreseeable future, she was so very beautiful.

"Not _for_ you, exactly. Because of you. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten. How much I was letting slide. When I thought about it, when I realized how dangerous it was for both of us, I decided that was it. I needed to be an adult. I take care of everyone else, or try. I need to start taking care of myself, too, or soon I won't be able to help anyone. So therapy and meds it is, I guess."

He studied her for a moment. "You are frightened."

"I don't know what they'll turn me into," she mumbled. "The medication. I don't even know what I'll be taking. I'll have to tell my psychiatrist that I haven't been taking my meds and she'll have to re-prescribe me. I really hope she doesn't put me back on Ambien. I hate that stuff. It can cause hallucinations and amnesia, for crying out loud. And other things. Although they didn't know all of that back when I was taking the stuff. Now they moderate the dosages accordingly." She pushed her hair out of her face. "I can do it, though. I can."

"You are certain? Do you need me to go with you tomorrow?"

"Huh?" Blue eyes flicked from the sleeping potion to the prince's face. "Oh, no. No, I'll be fine. Really. I..." She got a good look at his face. "If I ask you to stay here, you're going to be fretting about me all day, aren't you?"

The legendary Silverlance lifted his chin and offered her a haughty look. "Begging my lady's pardon, but I am an Elven warrior and a prince. I do _not_ fret."

She grinned. "Yeah, you don't fuss, either."

"Indeed." He lowered himself off his dignity enough to smile at her. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertip caress the rounded top of her ear, he added, "If you need me, Dylan, there is no shame in that. I will come with you if I must."

Dylan shivered. "You're under house-arrest, Your Royal Hotness. And stop molesting my ears. Unless you want some of what you're dishing out."

Nuada's blood caught fire at the mere thought of his truelove caressing the delicate Elven points of his ears. She'd done so before, by accident, on perhaps three or four occasions, but to have her do it deliberately... the brush of a fingertip, perhaps, or the warm whisper of her breath... He swallowed and shoved the thought away. "House-arrest or not, if you have need of me, I _will_ come to you."

"You'd disobey your king for me?"

He lifted a shoulder in a negligent half-shrug. "You may have forgotten in light of our deeper feelings, but at the start of all of this, my father ordered me to court you in earnest. What manner of man would I be if I claimed to love you, only to abandon you when you had a need of me? Besides, tending to your sorrows is part of what courting you means. I'd be following my father's orders - technically."

She dropped her head onto his shoulder and hugged him. "I adore you, Nuada. Really. But I'll be okay. I'll meet you at the sanctuary and if I break down in floods of hysterical tears again, at least it'll be there, so it won't last very long. Technically you're not breaking house-arrest by going there, are you?"

"Technically? I am breaking the spirit of the punishment, yes." Seeing her eyes widen, he offered her a dark and feral smile. "However, it _is_ still in Faerie. It is in Elphame, not Bethmoora, but I am not forbidden to go there. My father said I must have an armed escort of Butchers with me at all times save in my chambers. The sanctuary _is_ one of my many homes away from home, which makes its rooms my chambers, as well. Now, are you staring at the potion hoping it will be absorbed into your body through osmosis?"

Dylan blinked up at him. "How the heck do you even know what osmosis means?"

One silver-blond brow quirked. "I am not a barbarian, mo duinne. Now take your medicine like a good girl."

She eyed him. "Are you baiting me on purpose?"

"I am." Quick flash of teeth in a mischievous little-boy grin. "Are you going to let me?"

The mortal couldn't help it. She laughed. "No, I'm not. So _myeh_." She stuck her tongue out at him before reaching for the flask. Lóegaire had said to pour the potion into the cap on the flask, and that would be one night's dose. Dylan followed the Elven mind-healer's instructions. Stared at the capful of gleaming liquid as dark as red wine. Sighed. "Sip it or shoot it?" She wondered aloud, then shrugged. "What the heck? Bottom's up." Closing her eyes, she knocked back the potion.

Its taste and its feel were so at odds she almost choked on it. It slid down her throat like a long, unpleasantly warm slug. Dylan grimaced at the sensation even as the somewhat tart, fruity taste blanketed her mouth. Her tongue felt fuzzy. Licking the roof of her mouth helped dispel the fuzziness.

"Blegh," she muttered. "That was weird. Whoa." She blinked as the world blurred for a moment, then focused once more. The human held her breath. When it didn't happen again, she nodded. "Okay. Bedtime for mortals who just took sleeping potions. I- hey!" Nuada slid an arm around her shoulders and another beneath her knees and scooped her up. "What are you doing?"

"You are on my side of the bed," he informed her, carrying her to the other side of the massive, silk-and-velvet-covered four-poster. With one foot he managed to shove back the black velvet coverlet on the freshly-made bed and laid his tired mortal lady on the cool fitted silk sheet beneath. He drew the covers over her.

"I can tuck myself in, you know, Your Highness," Dylan murmured, smiling.

Nuada shrugged. "Allow me to claim the privileges with which chivalry entitles me." Once he settled into bed, too many feet between him and his lady for his own wishes - how he longed to hold her, to fall asleep to the scent of her, the warmth - he added, "Good night, Dylan."

She snuggled down into the blankets. Already the potion was working on her, pulling her closer and closer to slumber. "Mmmm. Good night, my handsome prince."

Only when the Elf prince was certain she was asleep did he reach out and tenderly brush back that one rebellious curl that always fell across her forehead with gentle fingers. "Good night, my princess."

**.**

"Come now, love," Cíaran murmured in the hob maid's ear. His fingertips trailed lightly over her cheek, leaving sticky trails of gancanaugh venom. She stared into eyes of midnight jade as he caught a chestnut curl and twined it around his long, pale finger. "I know you had cleaning duty in the Healers' Wing this afternoon. And you want to tell me what you overheard, don't you?" He brushed his lips against hers and she gasped. "Be a good girl and tell me what you heard."

And so the hob maiden told the disguised gancanaugh that while she'd been cleaning one of the empty rooms in that part of the castle, she'd overheard a few of the Butcher Guards assigned to protect the prince's lady talking about the human and why she'd needed to see a female healer just now. One of them had mentioned they'd overheard Lady Dylan and King Balor speaking of the mortal bearing the prince's child. Overheard the prince the previous night saying something that had sounded an awful lot like, "I will give you a child." And neither prince nor mortal had risen for the day until past noon, and they'd spent the night in the same chamber - a first for them, apparently.

Cíaran continued to caress and pet, keeping the chambermaid focused on giving him every piece of information in exchange for soothing her with his poisonous and addictive touch. This hob, Fiona, was really becoming a favorite of his. She was so lovely, and she seemed to enjoy his company even more than he enjoyed hers. The gancanaugh nuzzled her cheek before pressing a kiss to her mouth.

"Stay here, poppet, and I'll be back shortly," he murmured.

"Don't go, my lord," she whispered, reaching for him as he stood up from the edge of the bed in his room. Yes, she was falling in love with him. Darling girl.

It happened everywhere he went. Expose a maid or other servant girl to the Tears secreted by every gancanaugh and after a few nights in Lord Cíaran's bed, the wench was willing to do anything he asked of her. Usually such favors did not involve gathering intelligence on a traitor and his whore, but when he'd playfully asked Fiona where she'd hidden herself away to all day and the maid had let it slip that she'd been in the Healers' Wing in the hopes of seeing the prince's lady or hearing _more_ gossip from the human's guards, Cíaran had pounced on the information like a feral cat on a helpless bird.

Now Cíaran bent down and kissed her upturned mouth. "I'll not be long, sweeting. Be patient. And I'll have a gift for you when I return. Make yourself comfortable."

The gancanaugh slipped out of his bedroom to find Bres reclining on the long couch in the front room of the guest suite, his head in Dierdre's lap. Cíaran's sister ran her fingers through Bres's golden hair and she giggled over something the Fomorian prince had said. Cíaran barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Neither Dierdre nor Bres loved each other, but they _were_ fond of another - Bres had once said Dierdre was the only woman he could stand to have in his bed for more than a week - and they both lusted after each other and enjoyed the dalliance. Dierdre's brother thought it was ridiculous. Take a mistress for a time, enjoy her charms, then rid yourself of her. No unnecessary attachments. And never make a mistress out of a friend; that always led to complications and risks. The biggest investment _he_ ever made with any leman was in the traditional gifts, and cheap trinkets were enough for most of the servant girls he'd tumbled.

Which reminded him. Clearing his throat to announce his presence, he strode to mantel and picked up the small leather pouch he'd dropped there earlier that evening. At Bres's order, he'd gone down to the township to listen for any gossip concerning Silverlance and the harlot. While there, Cíaran had seen a ribbon-seller with bright blue satin ribbons for sale. On a whim he'd snagged a couple and tossed the woman the proper coin.

Now he untied the leather bag and withdrew the mazzarine hair ribbons. Well-made but surprisingly cheap, they were the appropriate first gift for a wench he was bedding.

"Before I return to my previous engagement," Cíaran said, drawing his sister and his prince's attention, "I've stumbled onto some very intriguing castle gossip you may find of interest, my prince. Sister. It seems Silverlance's slut went to the healers this afternoon."

"Oh, dear," his sister drawled, mock-sympathy dripping from the words. "I do hope she hasn't fallen ill. Perhaps someone took the initiative and poisoned her."

Cíaran shook his head. "That's not what her guards think." He waited, savoring the words heavy on his tongue. Finally, Bres ordered him to share whatever news he had or to be silent altogether and go back to his chambermaid. Grinning, Cíaran murmured, "Rumor has it Her Ladyship is with child by His Highness."

Silence descended. It was finally shattered by Dierdre's shriek of outrage.

"_What?!_"

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_**Author's Note:**__ and if this were an anime, they'd do a zoomed-out shot of the castle shaking as Dierdre screams her head off, with the sounds of glass breaking and maybe some explosings in the background. Hehehe. You know, in some ways, Dierdre reminds me a bit of Marguerite in_ Ever After. _I wonder if I'll have her throw a tantrum in front of a rosebush at some point and then claim there was a bee there. Hmmm. *ponders* Anyway, so in the next chapter, we get to see a bit of Nuada's spy network! Fun stuff! And more of his search for the Golden Crown, as well as dealing with the various murderous plots, and Becan and Bat return! Yay! Excitement! And Nuada asks Dylan a_ very _important question. And there's Dierdre's revenge, of course. It won't be what you expect, I think, though. Well, I hope not, anyway. I want to take you guys by surprise, since you've all been so patient with me. I'm especially grateful because I've been going through just a seriously rough time lately. So hugs! I love you all! Laters!_

_And onto our review prompt!_

_1) Wink's back! Yay! Who's excited? And he brought friends! Where do we see this going? Who's glad Nuada has his troll buddy back?_

_2) Who thinks __Lóegaire__ might be a bad guy? Who thinks Táebfada might be a bad guy?_

_3) Since I bring up Nuada's quest for the third Golden Crown piece in this chapter, how many of you guys think Nuada's going to tell Dylan about that before it actually gets found? Where do you see his quest going? How will it affect their relationship?_

_4) Wink and Nuada's talk - thoughts?_

_5) So I'm going for Dylan being more, "Okay, I_ have _to do Thing-A and Thing-B, no matter what. Let's do it." What's the word for that? Stoic? I dunno. Anyway, but I'm trying to show her with a new resolve to do what needs to be done. How am I doing?_

_6) Dylan can have babies! Who's imagining Elf puppies in the future? AND Táebfada said she might be able to do something about Dylan's scars. Who thinks she should take Táebfada up on that? Who thinks no? Who thinks Táebfada's story of the Island of Mag Mell is a viable possibility? What do you think the price would be?_

_7) Who do you guys think is behind the Butcher Guard thing?_

_8) Of course, any favorites._

_9) And of course... Dierdre. And rumors. And Ciaran. And the whole last scene. Thoughts?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ apparently there's a song called "Rumor Has It," by Adele. I only know about it because Glee did a mash-up of it with another song called "Someone Like You." Anyway, so that's where the title comes from, is that song._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- So I didn't do this on purpose, but after writing Nuada and Wink's reunion scene, I realized that "You are most welcome" was something Aragorn said to Haldir when the Elves show up at Helm's Deep in _The Two Towers_ film. Didn't do it on purpose, but thought I'd mention it anyway, just to cover my bases.

- Erik is the awesome blacksmith from chapter 40 with the scary wife, lol. Sort-of friends with Nuada, but not trusted with information about the Golden Army, as Erik's policy on humans is "live and let live, forgive and forget" kind of deal, and so he would NOT approve of what Nuada's planning.

- Prince Askel is one of the princes Dylan danced with in chapter 71, who complimented her a LOT. He's about sixteen (hundred).

- Saying something is "Iaran" means it's basically South American, but faerie-style.

- I don't know if anyone remembered but Lorelei IS an empath (someone who can read emotions like telepaths read thoughts).

- I got the idea of music crystals from _The Black Jewels Series_ and _The Seventh Tower Series_ by Garth Nix (since magical people wouldn't have CDs).

- Nearly all the therapists I've had played "relaxing music" during our sessions. Generally something cool, with ocean waves or rain or something as a backdrop for the music. I have a lot of music like that on my computer. They do it not just to relax the person, but to prevent being overheard by people on the other side of the door.

- The song Lóegaire plays for Dylan is called "Dance of the Water Nymphs" by Ed Van Fleet. I have it on my computer, and you can probably find it on Youtube. =)

- Some other really good songs are by this guy who's name escapes me right now, but they're on Youtube, called "Morning Dew," "Evening Breeze," and "Night Mist." They rock. They're so beautiful and relaxing.

- "Silence has its own voice" is a quote from a very wise old man in the novel _Shalador's Lady_ by Anne Bishop.

- The conversation with Dylan that Wink is referring to takes place in chapter 35, "Going Under."

- The part of Nuada and Wink's conversation where they talk about Dylan having Nuada's child and him needing an heir and stuff was written by the inestimable WhenNightmaresWalked, with only minor tweaking from me.

- So was the part where Wink says Dylan would make a better princess than Nuala.

- So I mentioned in chapter 48 that Dylan would be fragile after the soul-purging, but I guess everyone forgot? So I wanted to remind everyone, and explain why, which is why Dylan has that conversation with Lóegaire about how mind-healing is supposed to work. I figured the dental explanation (seeing as how I'm on such intimate terms with MY dentist that I invited her to my wedding, lol) would be the easiest to understand.

- In _Valiant_ by Holly Black, Ravus mentions that while he had a human father, he and his siblings are full-blooded troll.

- Aoife Grayson from _The Iron Thorn_ had a faerie mother, which opened Aoife up to iron sickness, but her human father gave her the ability to manipulate machinery (technopathy, for lack of a better word). While she's half-fae and half-human, she has none of the strengths of the fae and lacks any sort of magic.

- Dean from _The Iron Thorn_ had an Erlkin mother and a human father, and while he has issues because of being half-Erlkin, he also possesses a couple weird talents inherited from his mother as well. Which just goes to show, between Ravus, Aoife, and Dean, that fae blood can affect you in bizarre ways.

- The idea of faerie magic (and other sorts of magic) driving someone mad has been explored in various works, including: _The Black Jewels Series_ by Anne Bishop, _The Gemma Doyle Trilogy_ by Libba Bray, and short stories like "Words Like Pale Stones" by... I forgot their name. I'll find it later.

- The idea of making someone fae by filling them with pure magic is from the _Meredith Gentry Series_ by Laurell K. Hamilton, but the guy they did that to... eh. Wasn't what he expected. Didn't die, though! =)

- Dylan bought the _Strawberry Shortcake_ book in chapter 64. I actually owned that book as a kid. But then I sold it like an idiot. *sob*

- I first heard the phrase "sip it or shoot it" from the television show _True Blood_. It means "sip the medicine, or just grit your teeth and swallow it in one go."

- So I found out from Ariana Lussier, author of "Orchid," who's a genius, that nobles who take commoner mistresses (usually from servants and pretty girls in town and such) usually give them presents, even if they don't love them. I was like, "What?" But apparently they do. And a common one is apparently ribbons. Ciaran views Fiona as a lover. Not a sweetheart, but like... "Hey, babe, you're hot. You, me, my place, let's do it, and I'll drop you like a hot potato in a few weeks or a month or two." He doesn't view what he does with the Tears as rape. To him, it's just another means of seduction. *shrug* Hence why he's "fond" of Fiona and bought her hair ribbons. And the poor girl is totally addicted to him now, too. *sigh*


	77. There's No Comfort in the Truth

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _So guess what, everybody? The wonderful Yifrodit did a beautiful bit of artwork on Photoshop for OceanFire9's lovely "Once Upon a Time" Wink & Lorelei fic, "Caves and Rivers. Check out my Facebook or my blog to see them. And my beta and editor, Lorien13, did a trio of quick-sketch comics about "Once Upon a Time" as well, also on my Facebook and blog. Two of them are about edits she had me do, toning down the fluff and romance in chapters 57 and 76 (this chapter, incidentally) and one is just what she imagined when Dylan called Nuada an "angsty panda." I love them, they're funny, check them out._

_Also, for all of you guys who visit your local and school libraries, please request that they purchase my book_, Glass. _I'd love to get it circulating in the libraries. Remember, it's available on Amazon for $10._

_Finally, check out "Rue's Lullaby" as arranged by JuleMarie on Youtube. While Sting did the singing and arranging for_ The Hunger Games _official movie soundtrack, JuleMarie's version is better, in my opinion. Lyrics for both were written by Suzanne Collins, author of_ The Hunger Games Trilogy.

_**Necessary translations**_**:** Wángyé _is the Chinese honorific used when addressing a prince._

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**Chapter Seventy-Six**

**There's No Comfort in the Truth**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Wolves and a Child, Concerns, Spy Reports, Naya's Orders, a Good Memory, Watchers, Mag Mell, Stolen Scent, and Dylan's Confession**

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Arrachd the nuckelavee stamped his hooves to shake off the snow before stepping into the Drunken Dwarf. He was to meet an informant here. Someone wise to the movements of a particular human child gifted with the Sight. For weeks, now, the Scottish bogle had been tracking the mortal girl-child he'd foolishly left alive the night he'd raided the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But he would rectify that mistake very soon now.

The place was crowded, since it was early Friday evening, but three pairs of eyes - two of ethereal silver, one pair of molten copper - caught the nuckelavee's Cyclopean, red-veined gaze. His toxic yellow eye fixed on three wolf-shifters tucked around a table far back in the corner of the bustling main tavern room. Arrachd approached slowly as he assessed the three shifters.

Two were the shaggy, dark-haired French-American wolves known as _rougarou_. Each had feral silver eyes. The shorter, stockier of the two had his hand wrapped tightly in a bandage, two fingers splinted. It looked as if someone had broken a few of delicate bones in his hand. The taller black-haired shifter's arm was bound tight to his chest by an amateur sling. His splinted fingers stuck out at strange angles. They introduced themselves as Cuan and Conri.

The third wolf was a copper-eyed fenris, who nodded to Arrachd before knocking back a shot glass brimming with a dark red liquid. The metallic sting on the air told the nuckelavee the fenris was drinking human blood mixed with vodka - a favorite of theirs. With blond hair cut in a deliberate shag and a goatee that might have looked a bit djinn-like and sinister if it had been black instead of golden, this wolf-shifter appeared nearly harmless... until he smiled. The wolf-shifters known as fenris possessed no glamour, so there was nothing to hide the crimson-stained, pointed teeth of a very large predator. The fenris introduced himself as Geri.

"Saw your little human kid about two weeks back," Geri said, sipping from his glass of blood and vodka. "Walkin' on the street with a woman. Human, but there was something weird about her. Thick dark hair, kinda wavy, dark eyes, Eastern European. The kid looked like a Bethmooran's human bastard. White-blond hair, golden-brown eyes, pale skin, walkin' around with a sign over her head that reads, 'Have Sight. Please eat.' That the kid you're lookin' for?"

Arrachd inclined his head and shrugged. The greasy, skinless black muscles of his shoulders rippled nauseatingly. Cuan and Conri barely fought back grimaces. "It could be her," the nuckelavee in Crown Prince Bres' employ replied. "I will have to find this child and have a look myself. Where is she?"

"New Jersey," Cuan said. "We tracked them all the way to this large building. Squeaky Clean Waste Management Services." A black brow quirked. "Obviously someone is hiding in plain sight. We are simply uncertain as to who it might be."

"That child is a favorite of Silverlance's lady," the nuckelavee murmured. "You got a whiff of the brat, and you've smelled the prince's harlot before. Is the child the spawn of Prince Nuada and his whore? Does she have royal blood?"

Hunting down and killing a human child was one thing. Killing the daughter of Nuada Silverlance, even a bastard daughter of the shameful mortal variety, was something else entirely. Just as killing Nuada's current plaything was one thing, but butchering the mother of his child was another. If the bratling was the prince's daughter, Arrachd would have to report back to Bres before making his next move.

Conri shrugged. "She smelled of magic, but we couldn't get close enough her to discern more than that. Someone," glaring at Geri, "kept nearly blowing our cover."

"If you'd gotten a whiff of that human woman, you'd have had trouble keeping your fangs in your mouth as well," the fenris replied with an air of indifference. "Did you see the legs on her? I could enjoy all sorts of things with a woman like that." Even as he spoke, more jagged teeth sprouted from his mottled gums. He quickly closed his mouth to hide the lapse in his shapeshifting control.

Arrachd waved the comments about the adult mortal away. "I care not what you do with the human guardian. Rape her, kill her, eat her for all I care. But find out if that child is the Silver Lance's brat or not. If she is, report back to me, but do nothing else until I tell you."

"What if she's not?" Geri demanded. "Then what?"

The Scottish faerie grinned, revealing his own jagged teeth. "Well then, by all means, have your fun. But bring me back her heart - so that I might present it as proof to my master that she is dead."

If the child _was_ Nuada's, and Bres still ordered her death, Arrachd would still let the wolf-shifters have their fun. And when they were finished, he would cut what was left of the brat's corpse into pieces and send them to her treacherous father and whore of a mother in a box, so they would know the price of betraying the Fair Folk.

**.**

Giggling alerted Prince Zhenjin to his sister's return from whatever childish event she'd attended in honor of Midwinter early that Friday afternoon. Balor, it was well known, longed to have his two children married and producing grandchildren. The old king of Bethmoora had a fondness for young children. It was one reason why so many younger royals were in attendance for this year's Yule festivities. Ming Xian's presence in Findias had been for an altogether different reason, of course, but now that all the unpleasantness about betrothals and who was to marry Nuada was out of the way, the Dilong princess had found playmates in some of the younger princesses, such as Princess Lily from Eathesbury.

_It is good Ming has something to occupy her time,_ Zhenjin thought, glancing from his sleepily giggling sister back to the window. _I have little enough to occupy my thoughts at the moment._ And his thoughts currently revolved around one person.

Lady Dylan of Central Park.

When he'd arrived, Zhenjin had been certain Nuada was faking his attachment for political or militarial reasons, or being forced into the relationship by the One-Armed King. Seeing the Elven prince with the mortal woman had shattered that belief. All one had to do was watch the two of them to see how in love they were. Feeling bitter and betrayed, the Dilong prince had confronted his old friend. Confronted him, and been shown just how the Bethmooran prince had managed to fall in love with a member of a despised race.

_Perhaps_, the prince thought now, _Nuada is reminded a little of Yukihime_. Zhenjin briefly let his thoughts touch on the Onibi maiden that had saved Nuada's life decades ago. Saved his life, and lost her own. The ice fae whose death had convinced the Tuathan prince that the humans had to be exterminated in order to save the fae. _Maybe because Lady Dylan saved him, just as Yukihime did, she reminds him of her a little. Perhaps that is how it began._

Then again, perhaps not. The mortal looked nothing like the young Onibi faerie. Acted nothing like her, except that they were both gentle, both compassionate, and both healers. So what was it that had turned Nuada's respect for Dylan into affection, before setting that affection afire and turning it into love? Was it her looks? The fact that she refused both to hide or to hide from the evidence of the attack that had brought Nuada and the human together?

While Nuada had been shoving all of the horror of the human woman's life into the Dilong prince's skull, Zhenjin had picked up several little tidbits from his old friend. That he loved the feel of the mortal's scars beneath his fingertips; adored the way silver mist softened the strange blue of her eyes when she looked at Nuada; relished the brilliant smile Dylan seemed to reserve solely for the crown prince of the Golden Court.

Was that it? Was it simply that for Dylan, there was no one else but the Tuathan prince? That could be a heady enticement for a man. Zhenjin wondered if he would have been able to resist such devotion at all, much less for the amount of time Nuada had. Dylan made loving her a sweetly-baited trap. What man _would_ turn away from someone who would devote herself to him so completely and irrevocably?

I _would not,_ he thought with a sudden pang of loneliness. _To find a woman who would look at me as Dylan looks at Silverlance... I would never turn away from such a woman, human or not. No wonder Nuada fell so fast and so far. Will that woman make traitors of us all by the end?_

Zhenjin glanced down at the sheathed knife he held. His thumb traced over the grooves of the dragon engraved into the jade hilt. _I am the Azurefire Prince. I am the heir to the Jade Dragon Throne. I am son of Emperor Huizong Tilung, the Dragon Emperor. My course should be clear - to eradicate the threat of the children of Adam to protect the_ Jing-Ren _from the predations of humankind. Yet I have accepted my comrade's choice of a human woman. Is this not a betrayal? Does this not cast shadows on everything we are attempting to accomplish with this final war? What is it about this woman that makes it so easy to forget these questions, these doubts?_

Unprovoked, the memory of kissing Dylan's hand came back to him. The slim coolness of her fingers grasped ever so lightly in his. How Zhenjin had caught just a soft misting of perfume from her slender wrist when his lips brushed her knuckles. No chemical-laden mortal fragrance for Nuada's lady. Only the barest touch of plum blossoms and orchids mingling with the natural scent of her skin. Was that it? How she was so different from so many humans? Because she tried to fit in with the fae?

_We have to figure out how to explain it,_ the prince thought. _I have to find a way to make it make sense. Because if I cannot explain it, even to myself, when I already know how close their bond is and how loyal she is to Nuada, to the fae... how will we ever explain it to the others? And if we can't do that, what will happen to her then? To both of them?_

The crown prince of Dilong had no answers. Only a quiet dread slipping down his spine like a spill of dragon venom and, strangely, the delicate fragrance of plum blossoms and orchids teasing his senses as he stared out into the creeping dusk.

**.**

Nuada paced the length of the cottage living room, ignoring the little beastling that attempted to twine between his feet like a furry black ribbon. Feral bronze eyes slashed to the crystal-and-gold clock on the mantel. Nearly six in the evening already. Where was Dylan? He'd come to the cottage when she hadn't returned to the sanctuary as expected. He'd thought she might be here. Yet the cottage had been empty of anyone save brownie and cat upon his arrival. Nuada frowned and continued to pace.

Upon waking that morning, she'd seemed... off-balance. More subdued than she'd been the previous evening, although she'd still been much easier at heart than she had before going to see the Elven mind-healer the previous day. She'd taken her time getting dressed and completing the rest of her morning ritual. Her movements had lacked the brisk efficiency the prince was used to seeing. Yet every time he'd asked if she were all right, she'd responded that she was fine, and there had been truth in her voice and in her eyes. Nuada had wondered if perhaps she were simply thinking.

They'd gone to the sanctuary together that morning. Only Wink knew the prince intended to accompany the human woman to the mortal realm. Nuada didn't fear reprisals from the king; he _was_ still obeying the very letter of the king's sentence of house-arrest, if not the spirit of it. Yet he knew if something were to happen in Bethmoora and Balor needed his son to return, someone would have to tell the king where the Elven warrior was in the first place.

Saying goodbye to Dylan that morning had been harder than the warrior had expected. Even now, Nuada could recall with perfect clarity how pale and uncertain the mortal had seemed as he'd brushed his lips against her forehead. He hadn't dared to take a more passionate kiss than that. Not with what she might have had to deal with the day before with Lóegaire, and especially not considering what she intended to do this day.

Yet she'd seemed firmly in the present as she'd walked out of the sanctuary to meet up with her secretary, Ariel, at the subway station ten minutes away. Unlike most humans, Dylan didn't own a car, and while she was willing to take the subway to work now, she'd confessed at breakfast that using the New York Underground alone, today of all days, had seemed like pushing her luck. So the secretary had been summoned. As it was Friday, the other human had still been "on call." Nuada was glad of that; this Ariel seemed to be someone Dylan cared for and trusted, which meant the mortal would be taken care of.

While his truelove had gone out into the true world of mortals - to speak to her mind-healer, a Brother Kenner, and then to see the woman who would decide which medicines to give her - the crown prince of Bethmoora had filled his hours with long-neglected work.

First, he'd sent out a call via will-o-the-wisp to his agents in the city. They'd sent back their written reports via wisp and jack-o-lantern. Only four of the aforementioned agents had been summoned to see him - not at the sanctuary, but in the abandoned tunnels nearby. Was that bending (or in truth, breaking) the terms of his house-arrest? Yes. But _this_ was for the good of his people, and so he'd had no qualms about it. Rarely would he defy his king, but for his kingdom? Always.

Nuada stopped pacing and stared into the depths of the fire crackling in the cottage hearth. Many of the reports had been merely reports of failure: no, So-and-So had not seen a hint of anyone plotting against Bethmoora; no, there was no whisper of someone looking for an assassin to take down the mighty Silverlance; and worst of all, no, they had not found even a hint of the location of the third Golden Crown piece.

Except for four of his people. _They_ had had more interesting news. The first of his agents had come within an hour of Dylan leaving...

**.**

_A slender, golden-haired korrigan woman glided along the concrete tunnel floor in white leather boots, coming to a halt less than six feet from the Elven warrior. She dipped a curtsy, using the folds of her white wool-silk dress to expertly hide the sixth and seventh fingers on each of her hands. Nuada supposed it was habit more than anything else. A korrigan could pose as an oddly-proportioned mortal midget if they wore contact lenses to cover the scarlet of their eyes and kept their extra fingers hidden. When she straightened, the flickering fluorescents made the mother-of-pearl comb in her hair gleam._

_The diminutive fae, perhaps three-and-a-half feet tall, kept her gaze lowered as she whispered in a voice like crunching gravel, "There are rumors in Brooklyn, my prince, in Little Budapest in the Troll Market there. Rumors that an Elf - or something like an Elf - has been seen prowling Central Park of a night, yet only for perhaps half an hour before the fir and oak trees chase him out beyond the borders of the hamadryads. No one knows his name or from whence he comes. Only that his hands are as pale as the moon, like the Elves of your kingdom, and some others. He speaks with a strange accent - neither Zwezdan nor Bethmooran. I have heard conflicting reports, but most agree he sounds of Annwn. His face is covered by a hood. No one I have spoken to has ever seen what he looks like. Rumor has it, though, that he is badly scarred. I believe he may be at least partially blind, as well."_

_Nuada pursed his lips in thought, then inclined his head. "You have done well, Eglantine. Keep your eyes and ears open, and perhaps learn more of this Elf. He may be Eamonn, the Elf of Zwezda that attempted to kill myself and my family. Do_ not _approach him yourself, however. Eamonn has a very strong gift for mind-touch, and he is a dangerous warrior."_

_The korrigan, Eglantine, curtsied again. "Yes, Your Highness. I will heed your warning, and do as you command, for it is my deepest honor to be your eyes and ears in the City."_

_"I am grateful for your service. You may go, Eglantine."_

_The Elf prince watched the korrigan leave, his thoughts already turning to his next meeting. His second informant came from a bit closer by, slipping up on the prince on feet as silent as a cat's paws, nearly taking Nuada by surprise. Only recognition at the last instant halted the Elven warrior's sword a mere breath from Ren's throat._

_Eyes the burnt orange of autumn leaves widened slightly in surprise as the Elven silver touched a vulnerable throat. Whiskers twitched. A wry grin curved a thin-lipped mouth. The light glinted off of reddish-gold-tipped lashes. "My humblest apologies_, Wángyé, _if I startled you."_

_Nuada sheathed his sword. "Ren, I have told you countless times -_ never _do that."_

_The prince studied the húli known as Ren Fei. Because Ren's job was to blend in with the humans and with the fae, he wore baggy black trousers and a slouchy black sweater. The trousers were roomy enough to allow the Dilong fox fae to plaster the thick russet brush of his tail against his thigh, where it would be out of his way in case of a fight. He carried a messenger bag and rode a goblin-made bicycle to sometimes pose as a mortal courier. Nuada knew the fox even dyed his hair with potions bought at the Troll Market, to hide the scarlet and orange markings in his otherwise uniformly-dark hair. His whiskers could blend into his skin, to appear as simple line tattoos against his cheeks. Only his eyes stood out. There was nothing the húli could do about them besides wear sunglasses._

_Without another sarcastic word - which, for a fox fae, was extremely deferential - Ren went to his knees and bowed low until his nose was barely an inch from the concrete, in the common form of obeisance made in Dilong and Onibi known as_ kòu tóu. _"I have news_, Wángyé. _I have been in the East Village and in China Town, and bring to you the whispers I have heard."_

_"Tell me what you have heard, Ren."_

_"There is talk of a shadow in my home country of Dilong. Whispers of a festering rot that strangles the roots of the imperial family. They say..." Ren paused, lifting his face to meet Nuada's eyes. "They say that from his prison in the Yue Mountains, Prince Shaohao of Dilong plots against his brother, the Azurefire Prince. That he means to remove any and all threats to his next attempt for the Jade Dragon Throne - including Prince Zhenjin's allies. Including you_, Wángyé. _There are rumors that he means to enlist any enemies his brother may have, as well, and I know that you and Azurefire have many common foes. I was informed that Dilong Elves have been seen in the Troll Market and in the subways, searching for something. A place, it seems. Not a person. I fear they seek your lairs."_

_The Elven warrior leaned back against the cool, damp concrete wall and stared off into the dimness of the tunnel. Shaohao? Zhenjin's older brother, who'd been placed under arrest and exiled to the White Jade Palace in the Yue Mountains for attempting to assassinate his father more than a half-dozen times. Could Shaohao have been behind the maverick Téngshé's attack on the king of Bethmoora after Nuada's duel with Zhenjin? For what purpose? A set-up, perhaps; an attempt to trick the One-Armed King of Elfland into killing the Dragon Emperor and his family for the death of the crown prince?_

_He would have to think about that. And he would have to speak to Zhenjin, as well. Even if the Dilong prince hadn't been Nuada's friend, he would still have volunteered such information. Shaohao was a madman, hungry for innocent blood and indifferent to the well-being of his people. His insane bloodlust and cruelty couldn't be allowed to infect Dilong, one of the most powerful fayre kingdoms in the Twilight Realm._

_"Is there more to your news?"_

_"Know this_, Wángyé - _I am loyal to you. You saved my mate and our kits that day decades ago, when fire and the shaking of the earth would have robbed me of all I held dear. For that, I and my family followed you across the wide country to this City to pledge our service. If what I have told you this night is but a mere whisper, then what I tell you now is no more than a ghost of thought, yet I would have you heed my warning and be on your guard nonetheless."_

_Nuada inclined his head. "A fox's ears may catch the faintest whisper of warning before anyone else. I will hear you."_

_Because he, too, remembered that day a little more than a century ago in San Francisco. Remembered all too well the terrified cries of húli kits and their mother's frantic struggles to free them from an apartment crumbling to rubble during one of the worst earthquakes in American history. Nuada still remembered how the smoke in the air had choked him, dust and grit stinging his eyes and coating his throat. How the last and littlest of the kits - Yun, a tiny girl not yet old enough to walk - had slid her arms around his neck and clung for dear life as he'd forced his way through the fragmenting building and out into the cacophonous night._

_"Shaohao has an agent within the walls of the palace of Findias. I know not who, only that it is_ not _someone of the imperial family. I think - though I am not certain - this agent is not even of Dilong, but again, I can't be sure. However_, someone _is in your castle, and they are the tool of the Mad Dragon Prince."_

_Someone in Findias. Perhaps a Bethmooran. Not even a whisper of rumor, but a warning from one Nuada trusted never to betray him. Nuada inclined his head. "You have served me well, Ren. I thank you. Is there other news you would tell me?" The húli shook his head. "Then return to China Town and continue to listen to the whispers of the fae there."_

_Ren rose to his feet, placed his palms together and bowed lowed. "_Wángyé, _my daughter Yun wished me to offer you a gift. She is apprenticed to an instrument maker in China Town and her master says it is her best work, so she wished to gift it to you, the prince who saved her life that day in San Francisco." Ren withdrew from his messenger back a package wrapped in vibrant red silk embroidered with golden cranes. He held it out to Nuada, still slightly bowed. The prince took it and pushed back a fold of the crimson silk._

_A smile quirked Nuada's mouth. Nestled within the silk was a well-made_ pái-xiāo, _a set of Dilong vertical panpipes carved of bamboo that had been oiled and polished until the instrument shone almost like glass. The young húli he had saved decades ago, a young woman now, still remembered that her prince had a fondness for music from the countries he had most often frequented during his exile - including mortal China and fae Dilong. He was no expert at these pipes, certainly, but he could coax a tune or two from them. He draped the silk back over the pipes and canted his head in thanks._

_"Please convey my gratitude to Mistress Yun Fei, Ren. I am honored by the gift."_

_Ren bowed and left. While waiting for his final two informants, Ke'ka'toh and Urraca, he tried his hand at the pái-xiāo, just to see if he was still in practice. Half an hour later, he'd managed a simple, halting tune. He'd been better at the Chinese panpipes a few centuries back. But his attempts were stalled by the arrival of his agents._

_For a_ mishibijiw, _Ke'ka'toh was considered small. The Great Water Lynx of the Algonquin, now nearly extinct except when hiding in plain sight on Indian reservations in northeastern America, had once been some of the largest shapeshifters amongst the Native Americans. Over the centuries they had grown smaller, yet Ke'ka'toh was considered diminutive even by their more modern standards. But his size was what often served Nuada best, for a small lynx could squeeze into a place to eavesdrop where a larger one couldn't. He left no fingerprints or other evidence behind, save an occasional tuft of fur. Because he was a_ mishibijiw, _a water lynx, he gave off little body heat, and didn't trigger the humans' infrared sensors. And thanks to his mate, a Spanish water faerie named Urraca, Ke'ka'toh had extra protection against the iron and other human metals found in the places Nuada had taken to sending them lately._

_Nuada waited as Ke'ka'toh prowled toward him in lynx-shape. The fluorescents blended the dappling of shadow-spots and banding of stripes along his rusty-gray fur. The wide tufts of fur along his face made the feral head seem much wider. His tufted ears swiveled at every sound. Yellow eyes with wide, black pupils fixed on Nuada as the lynx-shifter padded closer._

_On Ke'ka'toh's back was a slender water faerie with thick wavy hair the color of burnished copper, held back by an insubstantial-looking silver butterfly clip. Impossibly long golden lashes framed midnight blue eyes. She rode the lynx "side-saddle," webbed toes and metallic-scaled legs emerging from the damp hems of pale blue capris spattered with golden paint like droplets of sun-splashed water and sprinkled with silver glitter like flecks of river mica. Water dripped from her silver-painted toes onto the cement. Her black windbreaker was decorated with a copper heart over the left breast. A tiny glass bottle filled with an iridescent powder, hanging from an electrum chain, settled at her scale-sprinkled throat. This was Urraca, the xanin, wife of Ke'ka'toh._

_When they drew close to the prince, Urraca slipped from her husband's back and knelt. The lynx fae bowed, belly to the floor. Urraca murmured, "Prince Nuada, you honor us with this summons."_

_"Urraca. Ke'ka'toh. You have news for me?"_

_"Yes, Sire." The xanin's voice was as sweet and clear as water singing over crystal. Nuada knew that voice could turn deadly in an instant. "There are rumors of an exhibit coming to one of the human museums in the City. An exhibit of pre-Christian European artifacts. The human drones wonder why such things are to be put on display for the public when they are worth millions of mortal dollars. They speak of gold and silver relics that are thousands of years old. And there is a rumor that a human storyteller, an expert of Irish mythology, is coming to this exhibit's opening. A mortal who knows many myths and legends about the People of Danaan."_

_An electric current jolted through the Bethmooran prince at this. Forcing his face to remain expressionless, ignoring the sudden pounding of his heart, Nuada kept his tone even when he asked, "Have you dates? Times? Do you know which museum it will be?"_

_Urraca shook her head. "Not as yet, Sire. A thousand apologies. We will seek out this information for you, and anything else you desire to know."_

_*I do know this,* Ke'ka'toh rumbled. *The humans are concerned because these artifacts are worth much monetarily. Their security will be impressive, even by fae standards. There may even be supernatural protections placed around the exhibit, if this storyteller is more than what they seem. If what you seek is to be found there, my lord, I do not think Urraca and I are skilled enough to retrieve it.*_

_"Ke'ka'toh is right, Sire. My glamour is weak, and no siren fae am I. I can lure one mortal, perhaps two, but I can't force them to do my bidding, and I certainly can't control a whole room, much less an entire building."_

_Nuada nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Who among his agents_ was _skilled enough to retrieve the third Golden Crown piece if it_ was _at this human exhibit? Or rather, who among them was both skilled enough and trustworthy enough? Many believed in the necessity of war against the humans, but few believed King Balor had been wrong to send the Golden Army to sleep. Even among those in his personal employ, such thoughts festered. He could not truly blame them. The Golden Army was capable of... much. Even he still had nightmares about it. About what the Army had done to the humans on his father's order. Sometimes he still wondered, How did Balor sleep at night when all that blood stained his hands?_

_Yet without the Golden Army, and other such instruments of war slumbering in the other fae kingdoms, put to sleep by order of their monarchs, the fae stood no chance in a war against the humans. Not with the weapons they currently employed. Chemical warfare. Incendiary devices. Biological weapons. Nuclear warheads..._

_A face flashed across Nuada's vision, dark slanted eyes and a waterfall of black hair, and his stomach twisted. The high, sweet giggling of a young girl taunted him. For a moment he tasted snowflakes on his tongue. Smelled the sharp crispness of ice. He shoved it away before the memory could do more than make his eyes burn with the sudden reminder of why the humans had to be exterminated. It was for the good of the fae. For the good of innocents like... no. He wouldn't think about_ her. _Not right now._

_"Bring me everything you can on this... exhibit. What is to be displayed, and when, and where. The name of this human storyteller. The details of their security, if it is to be had without risking yourselves. Bring me everything."_

_*By your command, my lord.*_

_Urraca pressed her fist to her chest. "We live to serve His Highness Prince Nuada."_

_Once returned to the sanctuary, he continued with the task he'd told Dylan of a few days prior - trying to find a way to send aid (that was, aid that the king wouldn't object to) to the desperate villages on Bethmoora's borders. He only paused when the cramped handwriting of the reports began swimming in front of his eyes. He tried his hand at the panpipes again, then went back to work until his skull threatened to split. Finally he stretched out on his bed and considered several matters, all of them relevant to his lady. And when he realized that it was nearly four-thirty in the afternoon, and Dylan had been gone since nine-thirty that morning, the Elven warrior decided he'd waited long enough. He wouldn't use the ring to find her - not yet. Instead, he would check to see if she'd retreated to the cottage to deal with her shadows. If she wasn't there... he would wait for her._

**.**

In the present, in an attempt to focus on something other than Dylan's absence, Nuada sank into an armchair and propped his boots on a footstool. Bat mewed imperiously from the floor. When Nuada ignored him, the chubby black cat leapt onto the black leather boots and plunked himself down to wash a hindleg. Nuada continued to ignore him. Like with the problem of the struggling villages, his thoughts regarding his truelove had found no resolution, and now left him with an even longer list of things to give him a headache.

Dylan would, of course, have to be elevated to peerage. The ceremonies and bureaucracy revolving around _that_ little adventure would be enough to give his lady even more nightmares. The ceremony, especially. He knew Dylan didn't like to be stared at. She handled it well, but it made her uneasy. She'd have to get over it if she wanted to be a princess. Especially as she would have to be introduced to not only every noble at court, but shown to the people of Bethmoora, as well - just as he had been as a young man before taking his formal oaths as crown prince. She would _not_ like that.

Or perhaps, Nuada thought, an idea taking shape in his mind, she would... if presented to the _right_ people in Bethmoora. If there was one group Dylan could be counted on every time to charm into adoring her, it was children. And once his people could see how she was with faerie children, perhaps they would then see that she was not like the humans who looked on the Shining Folk and saw only monsters to be feared, hunted, killed. Perhaps they would begin to accept her, be willing to learn more of her.

_Or they will remember that a war is coming,_ said a cold and unrelenting voice in the recesses of Nuada's skull, _a war with_ her _people. A war that will end in the destruction of either the fae or the humans. A war that will soak the earth in blood and turn the sky to fire and ash. Will the Kindly Ones accept a princess, a potential future queen, who comes from that accursed race?_

A war _was_ coming. It had to come, stars curse it. The fae could not continue to dwindle away, fading into the twilight of the world, until their magic and their lives were lost. If the fae died, the world would be poorer for it. All those lives - countless millions - rested on his ability to find the third Crown piece. Rested on his willingness to sacrifice everything he had to protect his people.

His father had often called him a monster. It wasn't true - yet. He was not the soulless beast yet. But when it came time to don _Órga Na Corónach_, the Golden Crown, and command the Army... Nuada knew he would be the monster then. His father and sister would never look on him with any warmth ever again.

And Dylan... would she still care for him? Would she still love him as she did now? Would she still be able to?

There were others he would lose when the dust settled and blood fell from the sky like rain to wash the earth with so much death. Lorelei. Somehow, he was certain, she wouldn't stand by him for the slaughter. Not after what she'd experienced in Germany. Erik, who believed in leaving the humans alone. Aso, who had grown weary of war and left the Anansi. How many others would turn their backs on him for what he meant to do?

If another way existed, then by the gods, he would have taken it... but there _was_ no other way. Not now. Perhaps long ago, before the fae had dwindled into myth for the children of Adam. Perhaps something could've been done then. Or would any such attempts simply have resulted in another war like all the others?

All he wanted was a simple life with Dylan. All he wanted was to be his father's pride once more. For his kingdom to be prosperous and his people to be well looked after. Why could things not be that easy?

Because of the humans. Because of their festering, gluttonous ways. Because greed had burned black holes in their hearts that could never be filled and so his people would _never_ be safe, never be allowed simply to be, so long as the children of Adam plagued the mortal and faerie realms.

Unable to bear the weight of such dark thoughts, Nuada turned his attention back to what the next year and a day would hold for him. Dylan being endowed with the rank of princess. Being shown off by the royal family around the kingdom so that the people might get a good look at her and possibly get to know her a little. That alone could take a few months. Of course there would be state visits to certain closely-allied countries, such as Nyame and Shahbaz. "Princess lessons" for his lady, as well. And knowing Dylan, she would want to take part in truly _being_ a princess, which meant sessions with the council.

_Speaking of the council,_ Nuada thought with no little grimness, _they might attempt to stop me from marrying her. While Bethmoora is ruled by monarchy, not council, the councilors do have a strong voice in the government. The king listens to them more often than to anyone but Nuala. Alienating the council would be unwise - they could make things very difficult for me, and for Dylan_. While he was the crown prince, and technically need not fear the council, they possessed the power to hinder him in future endeavors if he angered them now. He would have to persuade them. _I will need an ally in this._

Which meant only one thing: Lady Jocasta of Reedus.

Lady Jocasta was _the_ most powerful human sympathizer in the Bethmooran court. Her estate was vast, her political influence subtle but cunningly networked, and her holdings prosperous - thus making her extremely wealthy. With a Bethmooran father and Alakan mother, she didn't _look_ like a noblewoman of the Golden Court. Her exotic beauty helped draw some of the younger male courtiers to her side when she needed extra aid in council. Her wealth and influence drew the rest of the allies she needed. And she had already written to him to tell him that she desired to be a friend and ally to Dylan.

There was only one problem in all of that, really. He despised Lady Jocasta. She was a traitor to the kingdom. All human sympathizers were. But if she proved a true friend and ally to Dylan...

"Mreow!" Bat stood on Nuada's knee, glaring at him with narrowed amber eyes. He gave the prince's leg a smack with one paw. "Mew!"

Nuada quirked a brow, giving the cat a look that succinctly said, _Do you want something?_

Arching his back and fluffing out his tail, Bat kneaded Nuada's knee for a moment before scampering to the floor. He slipped and slid a little on the polished wooden floor and smacked smartly into a wall. After giving the offending wall a generous buffet with both paws, he turned back to the two-legger his human liked so much and bounced, arrowing for the Christmas tree. The prince simply watched this display with mild curiosity.

Bat whacked a large, blue-wrapped package beneath the tree and yowled. Whacked the package again. When Nuada didn't react, Bat grumbled under his breath and plopped down on his side. Time for a change of tactics. Stretching out completely, he rolled onto his back on top of the package and blinked at his human's two-legger. Mewed. The message was clear: _I am cute, and my tummy is cute. Come over and pet it._ Then the two-legger would see the package and open it!

Intrigued despite himself, Nuada propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and studied the cat. What was the little beast trying to accomplish?

The sound of the seven bolts on the door sliding back jerked Nuada's attention to the door. He straightened in the chair as the door opened and familiar laughter blew in along with a gust of icy winter air. Bat hopped to his feet and jogged to meet the humans coming into the cottage.

"D, I'm glad you're happy, but you're gonna crash in a few hours." A muscle flexed in Nuada's jaw. He recognized that voice. That irritating voice. It belonged to that feckless whelp. "Maybe you should stay at the cottage for tonight."

"No way! I want to see Nuada! Oh, hey, Bat!"

Nuada settled back in the armchair and raised two fingers from where they rested on the leather arm. Instantly Becan stood atop the side table, bowing to the prince. When the brownie straightened from the bow, the Elf prince jerked his chin toward the kitchen, where Dylan's voice echoed. The brownie skampered off the table and vanished from the warrior's sight. After a minute, Nuada heard the low murmur of Becan's voice. Dylan actually squealed. Bat yowled; Dylan had dropped him back onto the floor.

The Elven warrior was on his feet when Dylan rushed into the room. She paused to drop her leather coat on a chair, toss her white scarf and her black leather gloves after it, then practically flew to him. Throwing her arms around his neck, Nuada's truelove jumped up to press a fleeting kiss to his lips. Nuada wrapped his arms around her. His fingers tangled in the soft knit of her cream-colored sweater.

"Hi! What are you doing here? I thought I was going to meet you at the sanctuary." Then, as if she couldn't help herself, she pressed her face against where the muscles of his neck met his shoulder and breathed a sigh of contentment. The heat of her breath on his neck raised gooseflesh across Nuada's skin. "Oh, my gosh, you are so warm." She nuzzled him. Her lips brushed against where his pulse suddenly pounded at his throat. "And you smell _so_ good. Is that new soap?"

"Just to warn you, Your Highness," John said from the doorway, mouth twitching, "she's high right now."

Dylan whirled on her twin. "I most certainly am not!"

John scoffed. "Right." To Nuada, he said, "They put her on Ambien - among other things. The first dose was just to keep her from freaking out about the meds and the rest is to help her fall asleep later tonight. Anyway, during 'the initial start of the treatment,' side-effects are more likely and of greater intensity than they will be once her body gets used to the drugs again. One of the side-effects is 'intense euphoria.' So she's really happy right now."

Seeming to ignore the mortal man, the Elf prince turned Dylan to face him. Cupping her chin, he tilted her head back to give him a better view of her eyes. Her pupils were dilated, black nearly swallowing the silver-washed blue. Nuada laid his palm against her cheek. Swept his thumb across the delicate edge of her cheekbone. She sighed and leaned into the caress.

"Are you all right?" Nuada asked softly. Dylan nodded. "You are certain?"

"It wasn't as bad as I'd expected," she told him. "Although Brother Kenner and Dr. Forno both wanted to strangle me. So I'm on the same meds. Ambien, Rohypnol, and Valium. But!" She held up a finger as if stumbling upon a great discovery. "Reduced doses. By like, a lot. I am _so_ okay with that. However, because my reactions are a little... um..."

"Because she's high as a kite," John interjected, "she doesn't want to go back to Findias yet."

As if illustrating the point of Dylan not being quite her usual self, the mortal psychiatrist spun on her brother again and mock-hissed like a cat. "You shush. Or I'll sic Bat on you."

"Sis, how 'bout you go count Christmas presents or something while I talk to His Highness?"

Dylan gave her brother a narrow-eyed look. "Talk to him about what?"

"Secret masculine rituals to become more manly. Now scram."

"I can think of no 'secret masculine ritual' that could help you in your endeavors, whelp," Nuada said as Dylan kicked off her shoes and did a running slide down the hallway toward her room. "I am a prince, after all, not a miracle worker."

John rolled his eyes. "You're a chuckle a minute. Anyway, Your Highness, I wanted to give you a head's up. She's supposed to take her meds every twelve hours. Two of everything, and just two, except the Ambien - that's only before bed. Once she comes down off being ecstatic and in love with everything, she might give you a fight about it. Don't let Dylan tongue them; she got good at that when I lived with her. When she takes her pills, after she swallows, have her drink an entire glass of water, and then make her open her mouth to make sure she's not hiding them under her tongue or anything."

"She wouldn't attempt to deceive me that way," Nuada protested. John sighed.

"Better safe than sorry. You didn't know her back when she was... well, anyway. And if she starts acting weird - out of character, I mean - it's probably the drugs. She's going to come crashing down off the Ambien in about two to three hours, the Valium in about five hours or so. You'll know because she'll probably start crying and when the Valium wears off she may get a bit agitated. It won't last long. And once she's used to the drugs again, in a couple days, she won't have this problem."

The words were sour on his tongue and the need to ask sat uneasily in his belly, but because this was for Dylan, and because Nuada knew John loved her, the fae prince asked, "Will she be all right?"

A smile warmed the mortal's expression. "Sure she will. She's got you and me, right?"

"Are you guys done talking yet?" Dylan came trudging out of her bedroom, rubbing one eye with a loose fist. She'd exchanged her sweater for a baggy white t-shirt with vibrant red letters across the chest that read _Flashdance_. The shirt's hems were tattered enough that Nuada assumed this was a pajama shirt. With it she wore her favorite pair of black jeans and red socks patterned with little black starbursts. "Go away, John. You have to babysit the munchkins, remember?"

Something akin to extreme pain flashed across the human male's face. "You love reminding me of these things, don't you, Sis?"

"Oh, c'mon. Ari's not so bad," Dylan said. "Neither are David or Kevin. Just bank on playing _Legend of the Undead Ninja King_ with your nephews and you'll be fine. You're almost at the Chocolate Zombie Squirrel Dungeon."

"Well, yeah, but..."

Nuada blinked, and stared from his truelove to her idiotic twin. Throbbing had taken up residence behind his right eye. "What 'munchkins' are you referring to?"

"My oldest sister Petra's three kids," Dylan explained. "My nephews David and Kevin - they're six and eight - and my niece, Arianna. She's thirteen. Petra's recently divorced, and she's been working late a lot, so she needs someone to watch the kids. They adore John."

"If Ari has her friends over, I'm going to be surrounded by squealing teenage girls," John lamented pitiably. "Who squeal. About _everything_."

"You mentioned the squealing twice," his twin pointed out with unholy glee. "Just focus on the boys unless Ari asks you a question about makeup. You'll be lots of help then! It's one reason Petra asks you to babysit the kids sometimes. You and Ari can talk about nail polish. Sparkly royal blue nail polish."

John slanted her a look. "You are cruel and unusual."

Dylan laughed. "Seriously, just show her Michelle Phan's latest tutorials. And show her the Lindsey Stirling video for 'Starships.' She'll like it."

"Yeah, and probably watch it twenty times. Then the boys will complain about the girly music."

"Then distract her and the boys with Lindsey Stirling's 'Legend of Zelda' and 'Skyrim' videos. Even Ari likes _some_ video games. Now stop whining and go." She spun John around and began pushing him toward the door. "I love you," she said loudly, in order to be heard over John's laughing protests. "Now begone. Be careful. Don't hit on strange women. I love you. Have fun. Bye!"

Thanks to Becan's magic holding the door open, Dylan managed to shove her twin out the door. He couldn't prevent her; he was laughing too hard. She waved as the door swung shut. The bolts slid home. Dylan zipped back into the living room, sliding across the wooden floor in her sock feet to sail right into Nuada's arms.

"I'm good at that, huh?" She slid her arms around his neck. Pressed close. "Can I have a kiss?"

"If you answer a few questions. What is... _Legend of the Undead Ninja King?_ And what is a Chocolate Zombie Squirrel Dungeon?"

Dylan giggled. "It's a video game my nephews are playing that John likes. And the dungeon is supposed to be, like, the hardest dungeon in the game or something. I don't know. I don't play video games. Less talking. More kissing."

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" Nuada murmured, brushing his lips across hers. "So impatient, milady. Come sit with me in the den."

Once in the den, Dylan curled up on the loveseat and leaned against him, seemingly at ease, but he could feel a sort of thrumming tension in Dylan's body. Not unease or agitation. A restlessness. As if she were brimming with energy and it was all she could do to sit still. Her palm lay against his chest, over his heart, holding his heartbeat in her hand. Blue eyes captured him in their fey-like depths.

"Nuada?" A soft murmur in the firelit dimness of the den. Night was falling beyond the cottage walls. "Are you going to get in trouble for being here and not in the sanctuary?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"Why did you come to the cottage? Shouldn't we go back to the sanctuary?"

Common sense would have dictated that to be the best course, but something in Nuada rebelled against the idea. He shook his head. "No, love. We'll stay here for now. And I came to the cottage because I was worried for you when you didn't return. I feared today would be... difficult for you."

Dylan shifted closer, turning to angle her body toward his. She slid her hand from his heart, up and over his chest, to lay against his shoulder. Her fingers twined in his hair. The soft weight of her head on his other shoulder settled him a little.

"You always worry about me, don't you?"

Feral eyes scanned her face: every long, elegant scar gracing cheek and brow; the soft shadows beneath her eyes, indicating how exhausted she was; the flat space at the bridge of her nose from being broken twice. What did she see when she looked at him?

Nuada knew. When those blue eyes gazed up at him, she saw an honorable warrior prince who lived for and loved the Fair Folk. Even though they were so different, Dylan saw _him_, when so few others that he allowed this close to him truly did. There was Zhenjin and Bres and his other comrades that would stand with him during the coming war against the humans, but that wasn't quite the same. He need not always be the hardened soldier with Dylan. He could also be the gentle lover, or the mournful prince when the shadows grew too dark for him to hide. Until Dylan, rarely had he possessed the freedom to show all sides of himself.

"I love you," he whispered, feeling as if the words were being torn from him. It was still so difficult to say those three simple words. She said them so easily, but he... he couldn't be so carefree with his heart, even now. "Of course I worry for you."

"I worry about you, too," Dylan said. She cuddled her cheek against his shoulder. "There's so much going on that just sucks. So much that hurts you. I don't ever want to hurt you. Not again." She lifted her head to look him in the eye. "I want to be what you need. Whatever that is. Just like you are for me. Okay?"

He brushed back a lock of her hair. "You are what I need." And that still managed to surprise him. "How are you, though? Truly?"

"I'm really fine. Or mostly fine. I'm a little... um..." She made an odd whistling noise and circled her temple with her finger to indicate the current state of her emotions. "Once I level out, I'll be fine. Another day should do it, I think. And I just did preliminary work with Brother Kenner today. I only had an hour with him. So I'm not flashing back or anything. I'm surprisingly good, actually." Suddenly Dylan bounced off the sofa and grabbed his hand. "I'm hyper, though. Without the -per. Let's do something."

Nuada raised a brow. "Hyper without the -per?"

She grinned. "You know. Think about it."

The Elven warrior considered. _Hyper. Hy... high..._ He slanted Dylan a look. "That is truly terrible, mo duinne." The mortal giggled and hauled him off the couch. "Where are we going?"

"The kitchen. I'm gonna teach you something extremely useful!"

"And what is that?" He asked as she pulled him down the hall toward the kitchen.

"How to make pumpkin cookies. Come on!"

**.**

In far away Findias, in a corridor cloaked in shadows glamoured by a powerful fae lord, the Elven healer crept down the hall. A few paces behind walked _Ledi_ Polunochnaya, her heavy velvet skirts rustling along the icy stone floor of the hallway as she followed her compatriot. Their master had summoned them, and he had seemed in an ill humor. So many threads of their master's plan could have snarled. Naya had no idea what could be the problem just now. Neither did her companion. So the two Elves walked in silence to the room where they would receive the news - and a possible reprimand.

"Have you any notion what this is about?" Polunochnaya demanded in a whisper as she drew abreast of the other Elf.

A casual shrug of shoulders. "Only that it has something to do with a child."

"The one the Ladies of Bradley Woods poisoned? Is the child not dead by now?" Naya barely refrained from biting her lower lip at the thought of her master wishing to discuss a child. It couldn't be concerning those two cat-children in Nuada's service, could it?

She hadn't spoken of them to her master. Didn't want to risk losing the argument if he demanded their lives to keep his secrets. Of course, she would have to get the little cat-girl somewhere secluded and glamour her again to make sure the little one never remembered what she'd seen or told the Zwezdan noblewoman. After all, the younger a child was, the more difficult it became to glamour them effectively. And Naya did _not_ want to kill two faerie children simply because they'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not if she could help it.

The two Elves stole into the abandoned room in the Healers' Wing as quietly as possible, shutting the door behind them without so much a click. Their master was waiting in a chair on the other side of the room. His dark eyes glittered with irritation. Polunochnaya and the Elven healer made their obeisance to him and waited.

"The halfling child is not yet dead," their master hissed. "In fact, I've heard it from Jenny Hob that she improves daily. There have been _no_ relapses since the prince's mortal went in and did whatever witchery she used on the babe. Which means our plan has stalled." Pinning them both with a frigid glare, he demanded, "Have either of you any excuse to offer me?"

Both Elves shook their heads.

"If I may, my lord," Naya murmured, "perhaps this is for the best. You know it didn't sit well with me, what you meant to do to that child, halfling or not. Perhaps this is merely Fate stepping in our way-"

In a voice dripping icicles, her master said, "When I require your opinion, Polunochnaya, I will tell you. Don't forget who it was who brought you out of Zwezda to Bethmoora and ensured you had a place here at Princess Nuala's side. Will you forget what you owe your benefactor so quickly?"

Naya lowered her head. "No, my lord. My apologies."

But she thought of Nuada. Not the man he was now, but the youth he'd been when she'd come to him all those centuries ago, and he had held her in his arms while she wept into his shoulder at the thought of having to be parted from Nuala and Na'ko'ma, who were like sisters to her.

Those two - and Nuada himself, Jenny Hob and the other higher-up servants who cared for the royal twins and their little household, and even the distant but still kindly King Balor - had been the only family she'd known from before the death of the Bethmooran queen. But then Polunochnaya had been called back to Zwezda by her uncle, to be married to someone she'd never met, never to see her true family again.

Then the man who became her master had spoken on her behalf to the king, and somehow she'd been allowed to stay.

Everything had been as it was before the summons... except that she was now in her master's debt, and she never forgot the feel of weeping into Nuada's shoulder on what she'd thought to be her final night in the Golden City, his strong arms around her, the warm whisper of his lips against her ear as he'd comforted her. That memory hadn't faded, even to this day. It plagued her now as she plotted the slow and cruel demise of the man that youth had become. The man who was still her friend. Still someone who held a piece of her heart.

_But my debt supercedes my feelings,_ she thought, twisting her fingers in her skirt until they ached. _And it is better to lose the man who is my friend, and the youth I once loved, than allow him to become a monster, and to allow that monster to become my king. Nuada, forgive me. Torn between honor and your own heart, between a debt and your own wishes, you would do the same in my place, if your hatred hadn't poisoned and blinded you._

"I want that human dead," her master said, shattering her thoughts like a sheet of ice beneath the blow of a stone. "But it needs to suit our purposes. The prince has been trying to convince His Majesty to send aid to the northern villages. With Princess Nuala's help, we shall convince the king to acquiesce, and to send the prince himself. Nuada will bring his human. It would be so very sad, wouldn't it, if his mortal lady became the victim of the very humans Balor seeks to protect? If they see her fighting or aiding the villagers, they'll kill her. You know they will. It would be so very sad if the attempt to give aid to the villages ends in the prince slaughtering the humans for the death of his lady."

The Elven healer at Polunochnaya's side ventured, "The king will not be easily swayed to allow the prince to go to the northern villages in the first place. He's still under house-arrest."

"And," Naya added, a strange desperation winging through her stomach like insects, "I sincerely doubt Nuada would put his lady in danger by taking her on such a journey. He has no reason to do such a thing. And killing her any other way would be pointless."

Her master raised a brow and steepled his long, pale fingers. "The king listens to Princess Nuala. Princess Nuala, in turn, listens to you, _Ledi_ Polunochnaya. Convince the princess of the wisdom of her brother's plan. Balor won't stand against both his children, not when our people on the council stand at their backs as well. As for Nuada taking his human pet... if he believes her safety to be compromised here without his presence, he will take her with him readily enough. I will merely arrange for an assassination attempt. Such things are easily done."

Naya's heart beat mercilessly against her breastbone as she thought of what would happen to Nuada when Dylan was killed. What if he didn't return to the half-mad prince full of rage and hatred for all humanity? What if he became a broken shell of a man, as Balor had in the wake of Cethlenn's death? She wasn't certain she could bear the sight of Nuada like that. Did she wish for him to embrace his fury and hate again, simply to spare herself that pain?

"Now, go along. I want you to speak to Nuala as soon as may be, Polunochnaya. As for you," and one long, thin finger pointed at the Elven healer. "Keep your eye on the mortal woman. If the prince gets her with child, I want to be told immediately. Do you understand?"

Golden eyes gleamed as the healer nodded. "I understand, my lord."

**.**

John had been right, of course. It took about three hours - the dough for the cookies had been made from scratch, molded into the appropriate shapes with a set of wooden cookie cutters Dylan had commissioned from an Amish woodworker a few years back, and baked by this time - for the medications to wear off enough that Dylan crashed from the chemical-induced euphoria. It was as she was pulling the last batch of cookies from the oven. As she set the cookie sheet atop the stove, the hot edge grazed her finger.

"Ow!" The mortal stared at the slight burn on the side of her index finger for a moment in stricken surprise. Nuada stepped away from the counter, toward Dylan, just as she burst into tears. "Ow."

"Let me see," he murmured, taking her hand. Dylan shook her head.

"It's not that bad," she wept. "Dang it. I'm just... I think the Ambien's wearing off a bit. I think I'm crashing. Sorry." She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "But dang it, that really hurt. I..." She trailed off as Nuada brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, a kiss as soft as moonlight. Soothing magic chilled the stinging heat from the small burn. Dylan sniffled and a smile curved her mouth. "You're so romantic and incredible."

Nuada inclined his head. "I do try. Is there aught else I can do?"

Dylan pointed vaguely at a tray of cookies. "Eat a cookie."

"How will _me_ eating a cookie make _you_ feel better?" The prince asked. Dylan just looked at him. He sighed. "All right. Female logic," he muttered to himself. He picked up one of the cookies from the first batch, which Dylan had insisted on cutting into little heart-shapes. While Nuada had tasted Dylan's pumpkin cookies before... she'd made him help with these. And while he could cook serviceably well - how else was he supposed to survive in exile? - baking was not something he knew how to do. Which meant these might not be as delicious as his lady was expecting.

_Or even edible_, Nuada thought darkly.

His lady sniffled and swiped at her eyes again. Nuada bit back an oath. It was one thing if she had a reason to cry. Then he could fix whatever was wrong. But this was simply a side-effect of her medication. Which left him with no other choice. He took a bite of cookie.

"Well?" Dylan asked when he didn't speak. "How'd they turn out?"

The prince shrugged. Swallowed. "Not as well as yours normally do." Dylan made a soft keening sound. Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill over. Nuada noticed Becan standing on the counter behind her, waving his arms frantically in a negating motion. "But they are good," Nuada hastened to add. The brownie offered him a thumbs' up.

"Really?"

He broke off a piece of the cookie and offered it to her. "Do you not trust me, milady? Open your mouth." He put it to her lips. The tip of her tongue just brushed the edge of his thumb as she took the proffered bite into her mouth. A lick of heat caressed the Elven warrior's spine. "See? Did I not tell you truly?" Dylan nodded, unable to look away from eyes of intense gold-kissed ivory. She licked her lips, remembering the feel of Nuada's fingertips against her bottom lip. The prince took a step toward her. "Mo duinne..."

Someone tiny clearing their throat with a high-pitched squeak snagged the Elf and mortal's attention. Dylan looked over her shoulder to see Becan studiously scrubbing at a spot of smeared cookie dough on one of the counters, his brown cheeks dark from blushing.

"Perhaps we should go into the living room," Nuada murmured. Despite feeling weepy, Dylan found herself smiling.

Settled in the living room, Dylan stretched out and sank back in her armchair. The heat of the fire felt wonderful against her legs. How long had Nuada been waiting for her? What had he been doing while he waited? Knowing him, he'd stared darkly into the crackling flames and brooded. Dylan wondered what he might have been brooding about. Her prince had lived a long time and had a lot of brood-worthy stuff to choose from.

She realized, suddenly, that Nuada rarely shared the darker moments of his life with her. He often asked about her own life, her own dark memories. In the hopes he could do something about them? Yet he almost never spoke of any darkness in his own life, save his memories of his mother's death - and even those were brought up rarely and spoken of sparingly. And yet Nuada had lived for such a long time, and seen so much in his forty centuries. Why had he never shared any of it with her? Because he didn't want? Or because she so rarely asked?

She peeked at Nuada from beneath her lashes and cocked her head when she caught him watching her. "What are you thinking?" The mortal asked on impulse.

"I was about to ask you the same," the Tuathan prince murmured.

Dylan smiled. "Just wondering."

"Oh? What was it you were wondering?"

"I was just wondering why you never really talk about yourself." Seeing his look, she shrugged. "I just mean... you know practically everything about me. Or all the imporant stuff, anyway. And I know you. What kind of person you are and all that. But what I don't know is how you got that way. You know, life experiences."

Nuada sat back and flicked his gaze to the fire. He always did that, she realized, when she asked him something that made him uncomfortable in some way. He would look somewhere else, instead of at her. Not that Dylan suspected Nuada of lying to her. No, it was just hard for him to look at her when he was uncomfortable. Why?

"What do you wish to know?"

Something about the tone of his voice gave her pause. She chose her next words carefully. "Well, anything you want to tell me, I suppose. I mean, you've lived so long. You must have experienced so much. You've been around for so many important historical events, for one thing. Like the discovery of America," she realized with a jolt. "Holy mackerel. And the invention of the printing press. Woodstock. Well, maybe not Woodstock," Dylan added when Nuada shot her a dirty look. "But you were around for the Renaissance! That must have been amazing. You've seen so many wonderful things."

"And many dark and terrible things," Nuada murmured. "Wars and massacres and holocausts, civilizations laid waste, so many crimes against so many innocents. That, I have seen, as well."

"There's gotta be something good you can think of," Dylan said softly. "Something nice. Maybe a memory of your parents or something? Or you could tell me about one of the dark things... if you wanted."

He studied her for a long moment before saying, "A good memory from my life?" Nuada's eyes slid closed. "Imagine one cold winter's night, with the moon shining like a luminous pearl upon the snow at your feet, the stars like diamonds glistening against the velvet blackness of a clear night sky. Though winter's bite can be felt through coat and cloak, it doesn't matter, because there is a warmth in your heart, as if embers from the home hearth still smolder there. Your breath curls like mist to mingle with the crisp air. You can smell the sharpness of ice and the spice of evergreen trees. A few snowflakes drift down to caress your cheek with a cool touch. You are following a set of footprints through the trees into a clearing. You're greeted by laughter like silver velvet and a smile as bright as sunlight. You look into eyes as familiar as your own heartbeat, and though all the world spreads before you beneath a blanket of winter, you know you are home."

Nuada opened his eyes to look into a fey-like blue gaze, a gaze as familiar as his own heartbeat, and remembered one cold winter's night in the Park at the faerie metal playground. Dylan's expression was one of mingled wonder and tenderness as understanding filled her eyes. She smiled, a smile as bright as sunlight.

"This is why I say you would've made a great bard."

He canted his head. "I thank you, milady, for the compliment."

"Nuada... you know you don't have to hide your past from me, don't you?" She asked suddenly. "If you ever want to talk about... about anything... about your past... you know I won't judge you for that, don't you? I already know you, but I want to know _about_ you, too. If you ever want to tell me." Dylan tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's only fair, you know, since you know so much about me."

The Elven prince smiled. "Darling, even if I were blessed with centuries to unlock your secrets, I would never know all there is to know about you."

She grinned. "Yeah, I'm a woman of mystery. I _will_ find out all your secrets, though, Prince Charming. Someday."

"Perhaps, my lady," Nuada murmured. "Perhaps."

**.**

From beneath his hood, Iolo watched the Bethmooran prince escort his mortal lady along the garden path leading to the gate in front of the cottage. They were an incogruous picture - the prince in his customary sable and scarlet, a sword at his side, the starlit strands of his hair around his shoulders, every inch the Elven warrior; and the human in jeans and a leather coat, unarmed but for a dirk in a belt slung around her hips, her hair in a loose ponytail, clearly out of place beside the prince. But that was not Iolo's business. His business was to make sure the other fae in the woods that were allied with his master did nothing to ruin his master's plans.

Crown Prince Bres had come to his master a little more than a year ago with the news that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance had taken a mortal lover and forsworn his oaths to eliminate the human threat against the fae. Iolo's master had taken this revelation... poorly. Nearly as poorly as Bres (but then, Elves were known to have more explosive tempers than the fae of Annwn).

The Welsh Huntsman wondered how his master would explain this ploy once the plan against Nuada came to fruition. How would it be explained to the young Annwn princes, that their hero had to die in order to save the Twilight Realm from the Fair Folk's greatest enemy?

"I have little time, Iolo," a voice murmured from behind him. He turned to see a cloaked figure standing beneath the snow-laden boughs of a hawthorn tree. A pale hand rested on the pommel of the sword at the figure's side. Despite the fact that merely three feet separated them, Iolo couldn't see into the depths of the dark hood. "Where are they going?"

"Do I look like a lapwing to you, that I can read the wind and taste the air?"

The hooded fae sighed. "You are a Huntsman, are you not? Can you not track them to wherever they're going?"

Iolo bit back a growl. "I _am_ a Huntsman. I am the Senior Huntsman of Cwn Annwn, the Welsh Wild Hunt. I have more important things to do than follow Nuada Silverlance to whatever love-nest he plans on absconding with his tramp. Who knows what that deviant will do with her there?"

"More than likely, he'll plow her into the mattress."

The Huntsman grimaced. "Well, _that_ is a lovely picture. Have one of your own trackers follow them."

"My trackers do not have your skills. I want to know where they're going. I have heard it said that the Silver Lance has a sanctuary somewhere in the abandoned tunnels of the New York Underground. A place of healing saturated with protective and recuperative magics. Even the Zwezdan Elf is convinced of its existence. No one, except the prince and Wink Ironfist - and, perhaps, the whore - knows where it is. If we can find this place and find a way to get in, we might be able simply to kill him without involving the princess."

Iolo hesitated. He knew that Bres' plan for executing Nuada involved the prince's twin in some way. That was all he knew, and even that little bit didn't sit well with him. Unlike the prince, Princess Nuala had never pledged her aid to the cause of eliminating the human threat. However, the Huntsman knew he also owed his master his allegience. If his master said Nuala's involvement was necessary, then it was. And yet...

"Attempting to follow Prince Nuada to a place he would guard as jealously as a sanctuary like what you describe without proper preparation would be suicidal," Iolo replied at length. "Allow me to put together a team of trackers instead of simply hunting Silverlance and his slut myself. The Gabriel Ratchets will make short work of any attempts at concealment, but I must prepare them first. Now make yourself scarce before the hamadryad's trees chase you out of the Park again."

Without another word, the cloaked fae faded into the darkness between the trees. Iolo turned back to the cottage in time to see the Elven prince walking side by side with the mortal, one hand at the small of her back in an intimate escort's gesture, as they went down the path that led out of the Park.

**.**

"How do you feel now?" Nuada asked as Dylan sank onto the bed in the healing sanctuary. She offered him a thumbs-up and bounced on the mattress, but it lacked the hyperactivity the mortal had exhibited hours before.

They'd finally returned to the underground haven after Dylan had polished off an entire batch of cookies. Apparently increased appetite was a potential side-effect of one of the drugs. Now Nuada debated whether to return to Findias, since all Dylan would likely do was go to sleep, or stay with her here in the sanctuary while her body adjusted to the medicines.

"I have to take my second doses soon, don't I?" She asked, idly kicking her feet in the air. The words were casual, but he saw the glitter of anxiety in her eyes. "The Ambien's gonna knock me out. I slept it off in Ariel's car earlier before she dropped me and John off, but... should we go back to Findias? I don't want you to get in trouble. We're sort of on a good note with your dad, so I don't want to mess it up by making him angry. And you sort of left Wink all by himself back there."

Nuada settled into the single chair. "Wink is likely still in the township, keeping his ear to the ground for more rumors. Gossip can be incredibly helpful when trying to ferret out an enemy." He paused to consider. "We could stay here for a bit if you prefer."

She flopped back on the bed. Kicking off her boots, she swung her legs up and curled up around the pillow, snuggling her face into the clean linen. Idly, one hand stroked a gold satin square of the quilt Nuada's mother had made for him just before her death. "I love being here. It's so peaceful."

"It is part of the magic of this place," he replied. "It heals the mind as well as the body."

There was silence for a while, as the prince merely watched Dylan rub her cheek against the soft pillow for a moment. Then his lady murmured, "I have to tell you something." Nuada fought the instinctive tension that whipped through him and raised his eyebrows. "So... remember I told you your father wanted me to see a healer? It wasn't because I was sick. He said that before we got engaged I had to make sure I wasn't bar-" A low snarl cut her off.

"It was not his place, to speak to you about such things. I _told_ him-"

"He was only doing what he thinks is best. He's the king. His priority is the kingdom. And he's your father; do you really think he wanted to stick you with the job of interrogating me to make sure we could get married? What if I _was_ barren? You'd have felt ten times worse if you'd been in charge of the whole interview thing."

Nuada quirked a brow. "You are defending my father?"

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, then smiled. "Only on a case-by-case basis. Don't get excited. Anyway, my point is, Táebfada checked me out. I'm fine. We're good to go. And..."

"And?"

Dylan drew a breath that seemed ready to crush her suddenly-tight chest. She found that for some reason she couldn't look at Nuada as she spoke. "Táebfada mentioned... I asked her whether she knew anything about a human becoming immortal. She mentioned a place we could go. An island. The island of-"

"Mag Mell," Nuada rasped. The undercurrent of fear in his voice surprised her. Fey-blue eyes flicked to the Elven warrior's face. Nuada shook his head. "No. No, Dylan. No. Not to the island of Mag Mell. That is madness. A fool's errand. Forlorn hope at best, suicide at worst. No. Do not tempt Fate. Do not tempt _me_ with such things. You cannot go there. Táebfada should never have spoken of that place to you."

She pushed herself up, frowning. "Why? What's so dangerous about it? Would the kings there hurt us?"

The short laugh that ripped out of him was bitter and brittle. "Hurt you? Oh, no. Not you. Not unless _I_ asked for them to bless you with immortality. If you asked, they would offer you no harm. Those kings are true monsters. Demons from the mists beyond the edge of the world. They wait like spiders in the center of their webs. Wait for the unwary to come and beg boons of them. They will grant the wishes of the desperate, but the price to be paid is beyond reckoning. Don't put your hope there, my love."

"But... but Nuada, there has to be some way we can bargain with them or-"

"No," he snapped. She flinched, and he gentled his tone. "No, beloved. Only fools seek to bargain with King Tethra and King Mannanan. They will make you pay such a price for what you seek that you'll find no joy there.

"My father sought their aid once upon a time," Nuada added, staring with topaz eyes at the table. "He begged them to bring my mother back from the dead, something that was easily within their power, but no other's." Catching a glimpse of her puzzled expression, the prince added, "Mag Mell itself grants vast power to the one who rules over it. More power even than the Keeper of the Samhain Tree and his ilk. The kings of Mag Mell had brought fae back from the dead before, my father knew, so why not now? They agreed to do it, for a price. Even between the fae, there need always be a price." The words festered on the air, bitter as wormwood.

Hesitantly, Dylan asked, "So what happened?"

"When my father left on his voyage to Mag Mell, my sister and I were overjoyed. We would have our beloved mother back. Our father would no longer wander the castle corridors like an old shade, a shell of his former glory and strength. We would be a family again. We would be happy again. The kingdom would prosper and the land would be renewed because my father's heart would no longer be encased in ice. That was what Nuala and I thought.

"Yet when he returned to my sister and I in Renvyle, our childhood home, our father was alone. Our mother was not with him. Athair told us that for our sake as well as our mother's, he couldn't pay the price Tethra and Mannanan had asked of him."

Only a last-minute mental reminder kept Dylan from biting her lip. She stared at Nuada for a long moment, trying to understand. It was clear from everything she'd seen and heard about Balor that he had loved his wife more than his own life, that losing her had broken something within him that had never healed. So what could've been so terrible a price for the old king? He was willing to barter his kingdom for the truce with the humans. What was he unwilling to give for his wife's life?

"What was the price?" She had to force the words. "Why didn't he pay it?"

Nuada's aurulent eyes were bleak when he replied, "The price was simple enough. If my father slew Nuala and I with his own blade, if he cut our throats and watered the Royal Eildon Tree with our blood, leaving our corpses for the carrion-crows, the kings of Mag Mell would bring my mother back to him.

"Do you see, Dylan? The price they ask will always be terrible. Will always be something you can't pay. Don't court heartache by hoping things will not be so in your case; Tethra and Mannanan enjoy playing such twisted games. Do not look to hope from that corner." He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hand, two fingers at his temple and his thumb touching the line of his jaw. "There must be another way."

Gentle hands smoothed over his shoulders. Deft fingers began to knead the tense muscles there. Nuada sighed and leaned back, giving himself up to the feel of the expert pressing against the sudden knots of tension. Dylan murmured, "It's okay, Nuada. It's fine. I'm not getting my hopes up. I know it's not likely I'll become immortal. It's okay. If there's another way, then we'll find it. If there isn't, then we still have right now, right?"

He reached up and covered one of her hands with his own. "From the moment I realized I loved you... I wondered if I dared to let myself. Wondered if I dared to tempt the Fates by loving you, because _if_ I dared, what would become of me? Mortal, fragile as you are, I knew you would die one day and then where would I be? Heartbreak is love's cruel companion and loneliness its master. That's what I told myself. I wondered what new pain awaited me, foolish as I was to allow my heart to yearn for you, a human woman - mortal, ephemeral, as fleeting as a whisper in the dark, like motes of dust that fade into obscurity so quickly, it's a wonder they existed at all. I would walk the world over to find a way to keep you, Dylan. I dread the day when I wake up and the knowledge that you are no longer in this world pierces my heart like a knife. I don't want to lose you."

Her arms came around him and she hugged him. "You won't lose me, Nuada. We'll find a way to be together. We just have to keep trying. Keep looking. We've got time. Don't worry." She pressed her lips to his cheek, just where the royal scar ended. "We'll be okay. We're in this together, right?"

"Yes." He squeezed her hand. "Yes, we are." The Elf prince sighed, and forced away the melancholy. "If you feel you are up to it, my lady, we can go back to Findias whenever you are ready."

Dylan smiled and nodded. "I'm fine. Let's go."

**.**

Getting back to the palace was simple enough. After having to sneak back into Findias a few times, Nuada had arranged it so that when he and Dylan both ended up in the mortal world, they could still get back to their chambers without alerting the king to their absence. A small crimson stone, etched with the same symbol as the one on the backs of the stones in his and Dylan's rings, was nestled in a small box in the desk drawer in the prince's study. It allowed Nuada to use his own ring to bring himself and Dylan back to Findias without being detected.

In Nuada's study, Dylan sank into the visitor's chair. The day had left her more physically and emotionally drained than she'd thought. Still, she felt more solid than she had in a long time - which, considering the drugs still fading out of her system, was saying a lot.

The Valium was such a subtle influence, for one thing. It wasn't a smothering blanket sucking her down into unconsciousness. It was more a soothing whisper. She'd never been on a dosage this low before. Not since becoming an adult, anyway. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Although she had to take the second dosage of everything soon. She'd be down for the count in seconds, most likely.

Dylan yelped when Nuada snapped his fingers in front of her face. "What? What?"

"Are you listening, Dylan? You cannot afford to lose focus right now. I was saying something."

"Oh." Sheepish, she swept her hair out of her face and sighed. "Sorry about that. I'm a little..." _Ready to make excuses_, she thought suddenly. A realization crystallized in her mind as she stared at Nuada. There were tiny lines of strain and exhaustion around his mouth and the shadows around his eyes were dark. Yet he was still wide awake, and still focusing on their problems. _Well, he's not drugged up and he's an Elven warrior. I'm just a mortal civilian. But,_ Dylan reminded herself, _I need to be more than that now, if I'm going to be the princess of Bethmoora and help Nuada take care of his people._ "Never mind. I'm listening."

Nuada cocked his head, studying her. He'd seen something flash in her eyes for a moment before she'd straightened up a little and finished speaking. Determination, maybe. But he shelved that observation for another time. "Will you be all right enough to deal with royal business by tomorrow?"

She blinked. "If I need to be. But I thought we were free until Monday."

"There are a few things that need to be dealt with, and I'd prefer we deal with them sooner rather than later."

"What things?"

The Elven warrior leaned his hip against his desk and folded his arms across his chest. "We need to discuss our engagement announcement with my father and his steward, and that will take a couple days."

Dylan raised her eyebrows. "Why a couple _days?"_

The crown prince offered her a wry smile. "Darling, I'm the crown prince of a great and noble fayre nation, and these things must be done with the proper pomp and circumstance. It isn't simply the announcement we must deal with. There is our engagement announcement and dance during the Midwinter Ball; our engagement banquet sometime after that; your elevation to peerage; an engagement... party, for lack of a better word, which is a ladies' social..." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "All of which my father will insist happen within a few days of our betrothal being announced. Which gives the Lord Steward and Mistress Jenny until Monday to get their plans in order." Nuada took a moment to glance at his truelove. She looked a trifle pale. "Dylan?"

"I have to do some prissy princess party? Without you? Surrounded by... people I don't know? Without you? Why?"

"Nuala will be there," he assured her. "Do you truly think I would simply throw you to the wolves?"

She sighed. "Describing them as wolves doesn't reassure me," she said with a small smile. _But I'm not a little kid. I don't need reassurance all the time. I'm an adult. I can do whatever needs to be done._ "But I'll be fine. Don't worry. Although... why aren't you going to be there?"

"It is more of a female gathering. Surely you would not inflict that on me."

"I'm thinking about it," she replied with a more genuine smile. Then her smile slipped away. "Nuada, is everything all right?"

Nuada blinked. "What do you mean?"

"It's just... you've seemed preoccupied with something ever since I met up with you at the cottage. Worried about something. Is everything okay?" Dylan made a face and sighed. "Okay, lemme rephrase that. I know that pretty much nothing is okay right now. But is there anything you wanna talk about?"

_There is a war coming,_ he thought, but didn't say. _A war between your race and mine. Billions will die. Many of your people will die by my hand. Countless others will die by my order. All of that blood will be on my hands. All of those deaths will be on my conscience. Will you still look at me as if I am the center of your universe when I walk off the battlefield soaked in the blood of your people? Will there still be that gentle light in your eyes, and will you still hold me in your heart? Or will you look on me and see nothing but a monster out of the very worst of your nightmares?_

Her fingertips against his cheek jolted him from his thoughts. "Hey," she murmured. Worry glimmered almost like tears in rainswept blue eyes. "Nuada? What's wrong? Are you still worried about me? I'm fine, really. I'm doing okay. What's the matter?"

He shook himself. Shoved his thoughts down and away where he wouldn't have to face them just yet. "I simply have much on my mind. That is all, Dylan. Now, you should get to bed. It is late."

"Oh, the kids! I missed bedtime-"

"They will understand," Nuada replied. "Yet if you are concerned, allow me to make your excuses to them if they are still awake. You have things that need doing before you sleep, do you not? And you are tired."

She touched her forehead to his shoulder. "Oh, my gosh. Prince Bossy." Then she sighed. "I _am_ tired. I didn't think I would be. At least, not this tired. You'll check on the children?" Nuada murmured assent. "Then I'll go get ready for bed."

"Medicine first." So saying, the prince poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk.

Dylan slumped in her chair. "Seriously? Fine." She picked up her purse and pulled out three small brown bottles with white caps. Shaking six pills into one hand, two from each bottle, she popped them in her mouth and then washed them down with the water. When the glass was empty, Nuada refilled it. Dylan gave him a look. "That's what you were talking to John about, wasn't it?" He inclined his head. She drained the glass of water with a grimace. "Oh, brain-freeze. That water is _cold_. And just to make your life easier, my prince," she added, and opened her mouth to show that she'd actually swallowed the medication. "Satisfied?"

Nuada nodded. "Did John do this for you when the two of you lived together?"

"Yeah. He'll make a great nanny one day," she said, and smiled fondly, thinking of her twin.

**.**

Dierdre smiled at the hob maid Lilé, her brother Cíaran's other favorite among the chambermaids, as the palace servant brough Dierdre the stoppered crystal bottle of scent. The disguised gancanaugh knew she would have to be quick. Lilé had to get the crystal bottle back to _Ledi_ Polunochnaya's room as soon as possible, before it was discovered missing. So, barely pausing to savor the scent of the perfume, Dierdre unstoppered the glistening bottle and touched the scent-wand to her wrists, behind her ears, the hollow of her throat, and between her breasts. Then she returned the bottle and stopper to the maid.

"Is my sweet Lilé not a treasure?" Cíaran stroked the chambermaid's cheek with gentle fingers. The maid sent Dierdre's brother a fawning look of absolute adoration and leaned into the caress. "Thank you for running this errand for me, poppet. I shall make it up to you tonight." Cíaran's smile turned wolfish as Lilé giggled. "Now, run along with you before you get into trouble."

Lilé bobbed a curtsy to the disguised gancanaugh siblings and scurried from the room. Dierdre shook her head. "I do not understand why you must collect lovers the way little boys collect marbles, my brother."

"They're simply so... stimulating," Cíaran replied. "Each one is different, each a delectable new flavor to be savored. Fiona is like winter raspberries, sweet with just a hint of tartness to make things interesting. Lilé, on the other hand, is like a plum - lush, sweet, juicy. You know I like my women well-endowed, Sister."

Dierdre rolled her eyes. "And Nuada's whore? I know you mean to enjoy her before the end. What flavor is she?"

Cíaran folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall of his sister's dressing room while she fussed with her hair. "The whore? _She_ is a peach - sweet but with the tart tang of all citrus fruit, a spirit in want of breaking. She's fragile, of course. I'll have to take care not to bruise her before I'm ready to show her the difference between being my leman and being my whore. Yes, she is a peach, nearly ripe for the picking. When she's ripe, I'll have her, and enjoy it, too. I dare say she may enjoy my attentions as well, considering my many talents."

His sister snickered. "I still think she'd enjoy it more if I got my hands on the Silver Lance first, and then we locked them in a room together. Do you think, when the final stages of Bres' plan are in place, he'll let us try that?"

The gancanaugh lord shrugged. "If it is feasible, I don't see why not."

"Good." Dierdre's grin was sharp as a blade. "Well, how do I look? Will the prince be intrigued, do you think? Will he like it?"

He gave her a slow once-over. "You look absolutely beautiful, sweet sister mine. Nuada will be unable to resist."

**.**

"The children are sleeping soundly," Nuada murmured as he stepped back into Dylan's bedroom. The mortal was stretched out on her bed, cuddled beneath the blankets, yawning. "Did you-"

"Yeah," she mumbled, "I took my sleeping potion. So sleepy. No more talking." She snuggled deeper into the blankets and yawned again. "I love this bed. It's so warm and comfy. And I love this room. It's beautiful. Who decorated it? They're a genius, whoever they are. I love the nook-room, too. Did you really make that chess set?"

Nuada sat on the edge of the bed beside her and brushed back her hair. He was beginning to like this more talkative Dylan. He had the feeling, however, that the stream of sleepy chatter would only be something he'd experience in the few minutes before she fell asleep each night. "Yes, I made the chess set. You like it?"

She nodded through another yawn. "S'pretty. They... dance."

Her cheek was soft as silk under his caressing fingertips. "Yes, they do." Nuada could tell she was drifting away now. Impulse and a sudden strange sense of desperate freedom forced his next words from his lips. "Dylan, I need to ask you something." _No,_ his common sense raged. _No, do not ask this. Not now. Not yet._ She would never look on him with any warmth ever again. Yet he couldn't stop himself from asking, "If I did something terrible, Dylan... something unforgiveable... would you still love me?"

He wanted her to say yes. Longed for her to promise him that she would love him no matter what sins darkened his conscience, no matter how much blood stained his soul. Even though it was a hopeless dream, that was what he yearned for her to tell him. Instead, she looked up at him with a soft smile on her face and murmured, "You'd never do something like that, Nuada."

The Elf prince closed his eyes. Clenched his teeth. "But if... but if I did? What then? Would you love me even then? If I really was the monster my father believed me to be? Would you love me? Would you forgive me?"

Dylan blinked sleepily. "'Course I'd love you. You can't help who you love. An' of course I'd forgive you. I'll always forgive you, no matter what."

Elation, hope, shock - they crashed through and against him, drowning him for a moment in sheer utter relief. He could... he could tell her. He could _tell_ her! About the Golden Army. About the war that was to come. Even his plans for the human race. He could tell her _everything_ and-

"Even though we couldn't be together, even though I'd hafta... hafta walk away... I'd still love you."

The words lodged in Nuada's throat, burning like dragonfire. His heart stumbled in his chest. Only several hard swallows forced it to resume its proper rhythm. Where elation had sung through his veins only moments before, now a poisonous cold mingled with his blood, turning it to cruel and jagged ice. His chest tightened so that he could scarcely breathe. "W-walk away?" He whispered. "What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't be able... to stay with you... if you did somethin' real bad," she mumbled. Nuada's heart began to hammer in his throat until he thought he might choke on his own pulse. "Not somethin' like that. Somethin' unforgiveable. I'd hafta leave. Couldn't be with you anymore." She reached out and grasped his suddenly-icy fingers. "But you'd never do that." She offered a yawn and a sleepy little smile. Squeezed his fingers. "Love you. G'night, Nuada."

"Good night, Dylan," he managed to whisper as his truelove sank into slumber. Disentangling his fingers from her grip, he shoved to his feet and nearly staggered out of her room and into his own chamber. Only a last-minute whisper of warning reminded him to keep the joining door ajar, since her guards weren't in the room with her.

Sinking onto his bed, he stared through the half-open doorway at the woman sleeping so peacefully on the bed. His eyes roved over her recumbent form as if he sought to memorize the shape of her. Perhaps he did. She would walk away from him. Would walk away if he pursued his quest to find the third Crown piece and use it to raise the Golden Army against the humans. If Nuada fulfilled his oaths to his people, to the Shining Ones, to his comrades... Dylan would walk away from him.

Would she look back, even once, as she strode out of his life? Would she leave him forever, or only until the last drop of blood had been spilled and the world was quiet again? Would she allow him to protect her during the war? Protect her family? Nuada knew she would want that, but would she let him?

He choked on the ice in his chest and had to drop his head into his hands as dizziness overtook him when a stray and terrible thought slipped into his mind. Oh, gods... oh, _gods._ What if she... what if she tried to fight against him? Against the Golden Army? What if she deliberately put herself in the way in an attempt to stay his hand or belay his orders to his armies? Dylan was reckless enough to do it. Compassionate enough to try saving the humans. And she loved him enough, believed in him and trusted him enough, that she wouldn't balk at putting herself in the way of his blade, believing he would never hurt her - because he wouldn't. Not ever.

Yet... what would he do then? How could he win such a confrontation? His allies would insist he kill her, treat her as just another enemy. No, he couldn't do that, he could _never_. What else, though? Imprison her, to keep her safe? To protect her from his allies and from the fighting? Everything in him rebelled against the idea of locking Dylan up and keeping her in a cage.

But if not that, then how to keep her safe? How to protect her during the war? How to escape that brutal shadow looming on the horizon without losing one who meant the world to him?

How to keep her from breaking his heart into a thousand jagged pieces by slipping out of his life like lifeblood slipping from a fatal wound?

The questions circled and circled in his mind, yet no answer came.

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_**Author's Note:**_ _and hopefully I have given everyone what they want - politics, Golden Crown piece problems, evil plots of evil (to quote WhenNightmaresWalked), and some angst for Nuada instead of Dylan. I'm actually very fond of that final scene. Poor Nuada. I wanna give him a cuddles. And I brought back a few characters we haven't seen in a while - Cuan, Conri, Geri, Bat, Becan, Iolo, Tiana, Anya, and Lile. Yay for recurring characters!_

_Anyway, can I have some reviews for poor sick allergy-ridden LA? I ended up half-unconscious for most of Monday and Tuesday because I was so doped up on allergy meds. Loves for me? Love me! *ahem* Anyway, hope you guys liked this chapter. Huggles for everyone!_

_And now onto our review prompt!_ =)

_1) Oh, crud. Tiana. Danger. Wolves. Look out, Little Red Riding Hood! What do you think will happen? Will Arrachd and the wolves get their hands on Tiana? Will there be a showdown with our favorite red demon? Does Tiana have Bethmooran blood, do you think? I'm curious as to your thoughts._

_2) What do you guys think is going on with Zhenjin?_

_3) Nuada's still looking for the Golden Crown piece. Of course he is. Thoughts on the reports given by Nuada's intelligence agents?_

_4) Dylan on drugs. I was going for levity. Her mental issues have been so dark, I wanted to shed some light and laughter on the situation. Did I succeed?_

_5) Who do you think the Elven healer with Naya is?_

_6) I realized I hadn't brought Iolo in for a while and was worried you guys had forgotten about him. He's in charge of the creepy stalker detail on Dylan's cottage. I believe the last time you saw him was in chapter 42. Anyway, he is part of Team Bres, but his master is Bres's ally. Theories on his master's identity and what his plots and plans are? Especially considering Iolo is the Master Huntsman of Cwn Annwn, the Welsh Wild Hunt... underneath Arawn Death-Lord. *gasp* I mean, what?_

_7) Is there any way you guys can see that Mag Mell might be a viable option for Dylan and Nuada? Maybe offering up Balor as a not-so-virgin sacrifice?_

_8) Favorites, of course._

_9) Oh, Dierdre and Ciaran. What ARE they up to? And why would Dierdre want Naya's perfume? Hmmm..._

_10) Last but not least... Nuada and Dylan's little Q&A session at the end of the chapter. Thoughts?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**_ _"There's no comfort in the truth" is a line from the song "Careless Whisper" by WHAM. At least, I think it was originally done by WHAM. My version on my comp is a cover by Seether. The full line is "To the heart and mind, ignorance is kind. There's no comfort in the truth; pain is all you'll find." I thought it fit the final scene of this chapter very well._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- The two _rougarou_ are those bozos from chapter 46 that tried to attack 'Sa'ti and clawed up Dylan's arm.

- Geri is a wolf-shifter from Ocean's "Caves and Rivers." He's made a couple of appearances at Fafner's Cave in this fic as well. He's got the hots for Lorelei and loathes Wink with a heat that rivals a thousand suns.

- Arrachd raided the Metropolitan Museum of Art in chapter 32.

- The Drunken Dwarf is a tavern in the Troll Market, mentioned in previous chapters.

- The woman the wolves saw Tiana with is BPRD agent Anya, Dylan's friend.

- Squeaky Clean Waste Management Services is the pseudonym for the BPRD.

- Yukihime is a character we're going to go into later. She is Nuada's "final straw" regarding the humans. Her name is pronounced "Yoo-kee-hee-may."

- In Breton folklore, a Korrigan is a fairy or dwarf-like spirit. The word means "small-dwarf." Their name change according to the place. Among the other names, there are _kornandon, ozigan, nozigan, torrigan, viltañs_, and _poulpikan_.

Other authors use the term only to refer to siren-like female fairies who inhabit springs and rivers, "lovely lustful golden-haired women who tried to lure men into their beds - and into a watery death." These creatures are very beautiful when seen at dusk or night, but by day their eyes are red, their hair white, and their skin wrinkled; thus they try to avoid being seen by day.

Korrigans have beautiful hair and red flashing eyes. They are sometimes described as important princesses or druidesses who were opposed to Christianity when the Apostles came to convert Brittany. They supposedly hate priests, churches, and especially the Virgin Mary. They can predict the future, change shape, and move at lightning speed.

Like sirens and mermaids, they sing and comb their long hair, and they haunt fountains and wells. They have the power of making men fall in love with them, but they then kill the ones who do. In many popular tales, they are eager to deceive the imprudent mortals who see them dancing or looking after a treasure, and are fond of stealing human children, substituting them with changelings. On the night of 31 October (All Souls' Night), they are said to be lurking near dolmens, waiting for victims. According to the Breton poem, _Ar-Rannou_, there are 9 korrigan, "who dance, with flowers in their hair, and robes of white wool, around the fountain, by the light of the full moon."

- Little Budapest being in the Troll Market was the brilliant OceanFire9's idea, first used in her Wink & Lorelei installment "20 Minutes."

- Hamadryads are the Greek tree nymphs of oak trees (and in many cases, various evergreens)

- Húli or húli jing are Chinese fox spirits. Húli jing literally means "fox spirit" in Chinese.

- I named Ren after someone from Chinese mythology, but I forgot who. *face-palm*

- If you remember, I mentioned Zhenjin's elder brother, Prince Shaohao, in chapter 59.

- The earthquake Ren and Nuada are talking about is the Great San Francisco Earthquake of... 1906? I think that's the year.

- Pái-xiāo is an ancient Chinese wind instrument, a form of pan pipes. It is no longer used, having died out in ancient times, although in the 20th century it was reconstructed. A major difference between the Chinese Paixiao and the panpipes used in European and South American traditions, is that at the top of the Chinese instrument the pipe holes are each cut angled or with notches. This allows for bending the pitch in similar capacity to the dongxiao down a minor second. This allows Chinese paixiao to be fully chromatic without loss in timbre, even though the included pipes are tuned diatonically. I have no idea what most of that means; I got it from Wikipedia.

- Ke'ka'toh is named after the wiseman from Disney's Pocahontas.

- Referencing "water lynx" - underwater panthers were powerful creatures in the mythological traditions of some Native American tribes, particularly tribes of the Great Lakes region. In Ojibwe, the creature is sometimes called Mishibizhiw ("Mishipizhiw", "Mishipizheu", "Mishupishu", "Mishepishu"), "Mishibijiw" to the Algonquin, which translates as "Great Lynx," or Gichi-anami'e-bizhiw ("Gitche-anahmi-bezheu"), which translates as "the fabulous night panther." However, it is also commonly referred to as the "Great Lynx," "Great underground wildcat," or "Great under-water wildcat." Sometimes it is referred to as the Spirit Otter.

Mishibijiw were said to live in the deepest parts of lakes and rivers. Some traditions believed the underwater panthers to be helpful, protective creatures, but more often they were viewed as malevolent beasts that brought death and misfortune. To the Algonquins, the underwater panther (Mishibijiw) was the most powerful underworld being. The Ojibwa reportedly held them to be masters of all water creatures as well as of snakes. Some versions of the Nanabozho creation legend refer to whole communities of water lynx.

In this fic, water lynx have four forms - human, humanoid, lynx-shape, and the actual mishibijiw form involving various weird body-parts (just as the mishibijiw appear in mythology).

- The xana (or xanin) is a character found in Asturian mythology. Always female, she is a fairy nymph of extraordinary beauty believed to live in fountains, rivers, waterfalls or forested regions with pure water. She is usually described as small or slender with long blonde or light brown hair (most often curly), which she tends to with gold or silver combs woven from sun or moonbeams. I made Urraca's hair more reddish because Asturia is in Spain, and Spanish hair tends to be various shades of brown, red, and black.

- The People of Danaan is another name for the Tuatha de Danaan, or the Children/People of Danu.

- Flashdance is an awesome movie! Just saying. Except for the one scene with all the nudity. So watch it on TNT.

- The Chocolate Zombie Squirrel Dungeon is an homage to Conker's Bad Fur Day for the Nintendo 64.

- The sparkly royal blue nail polish comment is a reference to chapter 36.

- Everyone should check out Lindsey Stirling's videos for "Starships," "Skyrim," and "Legend of Zelda." For realsies. =)

- The "hyper without the -per" is actually from real life. A middle-schooler said it.

- The Ladies of Bradley Wood are the hags who poisoned the baby.

- Nuada's "good memory" is actually him remembering some of the events of chapter 31. Hence why Nuada says, "Imagine one cold winter's night..." The title of chapter 31 is "One Cold Winter's Night."

- A lapwing is a type of bird found in Wales.

- The line "mortal, ephemeral, as fleeting as a whisper in the dark, like motes of dust that fade into obscurity so quickly, it's a wonder they existed at all" is paraphrased from a word-prompt by WhenNightmaresWalked.

- _"Yeah. He'll make a great nanny one day," she said, and smiled fondly, thinking of her twin_. Of course John will make a great nanny - just like in movie 1.


	78. Just a Kiss

**Author's Note:** so apparently this chapter got lost somehow! Eeek. I tried to fix it as quickly as possible. I'm pretty sure this is the correct version, but I'll double-check when I get home from work. Until then, enjoy!

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**Chapter Seventy-Seven**

**Just a Kiss**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Questions, a Trap, Bruises, Spells, a Kiss, a Confession, Wandering, Words with a King, a Choice, What Nuada Saw, and What Dylan Did**

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How to keep Dylan safe? How to protect her during the war? How to escape that brutal shadow looming on the horizon without losing one who meant the world to him? How to keep her from breaking his heart into a thousand jagged pieces by slipping out of his life like lifeblood slipping from a fatal wound?

The questions circled and circled in Nuada's mind, yet no answer came.

Suddenly, Nuada lunged to his feet and strode back into his lady's bedchamber. He stopped only long enough to gaze down at her face, empty of any distress, and brush back that one rebellious curl that always insisted on putting itself where it would. Then he went into the sitting room, where the Butchers waited in order to give the prince and the mortal a bit of privacy.

"Lady Dylan is asleep. I'm going out, so she will require your services," he informed Uaithne in a short, clipped tone. It was all Nuada could do to prevent his hands from shaking with the cruelty of the thoughts circling in his mind. "My own guards may accompany me if they must, but you _will_ maintain your distance."

Siothrún inclined his head to the prince. His voice held hints of a knowing and disdainful smirk when he replied, "As you wish, Your Highness."

**.**

Siothrún was to be sorely disappointed, Nuada thought savagely as the prince prowled the nearly-abandoned castle corridors. From the Butcher's tone of voice, the Elven warrior imagined the guard had thought the prince meant to tryst with a chambermaid or other woman due to frustrations with the prince's lady. Instead, all Nuada had done was walk.

Just as he'd done during those weeks apart from Dylan in the aftermath of their fight and Nuada's abandonment of her. Walking had done nothing in those weeks to clear his head or give clarity to his troubled thoughts, but it'd been better than stewing in frustration in his lair.

And what would he be doing now if not walking? Fuzzing the edges of his thoughts with whiskey, and _that_ was a dangerous trap to fall into. Balor had often found solace in a bottle in the first years after Cethlenn's death. Nuada refused to be that way. Refused to give into such weakness. Even if his thoughts kept ricocheting off the confines of his skull until his head began to throb and the blood pounded through his temples in time with his heart. The pain only served to sharpen his already lethal temper to a razor's edge. Thank the stars his guards were maintaining a respectful distance. So long as they could be certain the prince didn't escape their watch, they would leave him well-enough alone.

Which was why, when Nuada strode down an oddly empty corridor and heard the soft sound of a woman weeping, he motioned for his guards to halt in their advance. The quiet sobs would've been inaudible to anyone lacking an Elf's superior hearing. Those pointed ears weren't for nothing, after all.

Nuada gestured for his retinue of Butchers to remain where they were as he approached one of the curtained alcoves that littered the castle walkways. His sharp ears picked up nothing beyond the muffled weeping. Whoever it was, they were alone in the secluded alcove. Honor - and the prickling feeling that Nuada should have _known_ the owner of that voice - had him approaching on silent feet. With a careful hand he pushed the velvet curtain aside just enough to see who was beyond it.

Auriferous eyes widened in shock. It took him a moment to find his voice. "Lady Dierdre," he whispered. There was a soft gasp and the Fomorian noblewoman's head, currently cradled in her hands, shot up. Nuada's entire body stiffened in outrage. Bruises marred the moon-pale features. A healing cut graced Dierdre's left eyebrow, another her right cheek. A dark bruise surrounded her left eye. Her velvet gown bared pale shoulders also marred with bruises. Nuada saw a few bruises on her arms, illuminated by two candles in a double-candlestick on the bench beside her.

"I... Your Highness, I... I..." Her chin quivered. Tears spilled down her cheeks like drops of liquid crystal. Nuada slipped past the curtain, allowing it to fall closed behind him as he approached the Elven woman with his hands spread in the universal gesture of "no-harm."

"I mean you no ill this night, my lady. May I sit with you?" He kept his voice gentle and unpressing, using the tone he often employed with Dylan when she seemed near tears. Dierdre bowed her head. Nodded once. Nuada carefully perched on the velvet-cushioned bench in the alcove and braced his forearms on his knees. "My lady. Who did this?"

Dierdre covered her mouth with a hand that trembled and shook her head. "I cannot... I... please don't ask me, Your Highness."

She laced her fingers together, twisting them so hard Nuada bit back a wince of sympathy. The delicate hands continued to quiver. On an impulse, Nuada reached out and took hold of Dierdre's hands. They were slim and cool in his grip, the skin damp with her tears. Emerald eyes locked with a golden gaze. The noblewoman sniffled. After a moment, her hands stopped shaking.

"Who did this, Lady Dierdre? I swear to you, on my honor as prince of Bethmoora, that I'll punish whoever dared to lay hands on you this way. You have my protection from whoever it was. Even if it was another royal. Tell me who harmed you and I shall see them suffer for it, I promise you."

"No, Your Highess! Please, don't concern yourself. The man who struck me, he... I love him very much. He had to do it, you see." She pulled one hand away to wipe at the diamond tears on her cheeks. Nuada saw she wore no makeup. It made her look vulnerable and young. The candlelight turned her tears to drops of liquid gold and accented the shadow of the bruise around her eye. Dierdre stared at her lap. "It was for my own good. He had to do it."

Something had Nuada bringing up his hand to cup Dierdre's chin. He lifted the bowed head until he could look into jewel-like green eyes glimmering with tears of pain and sorrow. "No," the Elven prince murmured, shaking his head. "No, milady. A real man does not strike a woman, especially like this." Thoughts of the swanmane from the Troll Market invaded his mind. Memories of what Nuada had done to her exquisitely lovely face. He shoved them away. "A man who would hurt you this way isn't worthy of your love."

"I must love him, my prince," she whispered. "As you must love Princess Nuala, though many know there are shadows between the two of you." Nuada frowned, but didn't speak. "I cannot turn my back on the man who struck me, Your Highness. He's all I have in this world. My only family."

Nuada's eyes widened. She meant Cíaran. Her own brother had done this? The Bethmooran prince would never, _ever_ strike his sister. Even as children, when they'd been prone to fights and little spats, he had never hurt her like _that_. Never left bruises. How could Cíaran do this? In a way, the Tuathan prince understood why the Fomorian lord had gone after Dylan. She was human, and in the eyes of everyone who fought for the fae cause except for Nuada himself, Wink, and Zhenjin, she was the enemy. But why would Cíaran do this to his own sister?

"Promise me you will not speak of this to anyone, Your Highness," Dierdre whispered. Like a striking serpent, one trembling hand snaked out to grasp Nuada's shirtsleeve. "Please. My brother is under so much strain. So much weighs on his mind. He didn't want to hurt me like this, I swear to you. I know he didn't. Please do not seek to punish him."

"My lady-"

"Please," she begged, grasping his tunic with both hands. Fresh tears welled up and overflowed. "Please, Your Highness. Do not seek to harm Cíaran, I beg you. He's so ashamed of what he did to me, and he wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been needful. I couldn't bear to see him shamed further. Please." As if all the life had gone out of her, her slender shoulders drooped and her head dropped against Nuada's shoulder. Warm tears wet his shirt. "Please, Your Highness. Nuada. Please." Then she broke, and wept into his shirt, those frail shoulders shaking with the force of her silent sobs.

The Elven prince thought back to every time Dylan had cried in his arms. Carefully, so as not to frighten the Fomorian woman, he put his arms around Dierdre. What else was he to do? Allow her to simply cry, as if he were some churlish youth afraid of a few female tears? Unlike with Dylan, he had to think about where to put his hands - one arm around her waist with his hand at her back, the other hand resting on her shoulder. It was a little awkward but it seemed to comfort her.

After a time, her sobs eased.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Dierdre murmured, affecting a sniffle as she pulled back ever so slightly from the crown prince. _Now_, she thought, barely suppressing a smile. _Now to trigger the third spell_.

The first spell had been to clear the corridor of maids and errant pageboys and other such servants. The second had been a delicate little piece of magic to snare Nuada's protective instincts and stoke the affection brought on whenever he was around the disguised gancanaugh, but only enough that he wouldn't find her behavior strange or questionable, not so much that he'd fly into a rage and go after Cíaran. And the third spell Bírog had given her to unleash was a very subtle enchantment, fed by the tiniest brush of Branwen's Tears when the prince had taken Dierdre's hands.

"Forgive me," the gancanaugh whispered. With one trembling hand she brushed at a tendril of garnet-dark hair. Satisfaction bloomed in her chest when she caught the Elven prince's eyes following the path of that one curl against her throat. "I'm not usually so emotional. I... my control was overcome by the moment, it seems." She sighed, deliberately aiming a soft rush of warm breath toward the exposed flesh above Nuada's collar. Feral emerald eyes caught the sharp movement of his throat when he swallowed reflexively.

_Not the fourth spell,_ she reminded herself. _Not yet. I have to be careful this time. It has to be subtle. Very subtle. And it cannot be anything that will make him go to the king about it. Move too quickly and he may suspect. I must take my time._

It helped that on top of the myriad of spells Bres and the sorceress Bírog had set up for this moment, there was still the three very subtle glamour spells twining around Dierdre herself - one to make her look like a scarlet Fomori, one to induce a deep fondness and affection for the disguised gancanaugh, and one to make the Elf prince feel just the tiniest sizzle of male appreciation. Not attraction, no. That would surely alert the prince that magic was at work. The enchantment only drew Nuada's eyes and attention to Dierdre's more alluring features. He did the appreciating all on his own - with attraction fueled by Dierdre's innate poison, of course, a magic more passive than overt.

"You have nothing to apologize for, my lady," Nuada said softly. A sudden impulse had him reaching up to brush the hair back from the cut over her eye, to see it better in the dim candlelight. The flesh around it was bruised green and yellow. It looked as if the cut had been made by a strike with a ring. He gently probed the bruise. Dierdre's hair whispered against his fingers. "Only a fool would fault you for your distress." His fingertips moved to the bruised cut on her cheek. She winced. "My apologies. I... should summon you a healer, my lady."

Dierdre shook her head. The candlelight caught on the glossy threads of her spun-garnet hair. "No, please. I do not want Cíaran to be... I would have no trouble come to him for this. He was angry, you see. About... about our dance together."

Nuada stared at her. "Our dance? It was but one dance. Nothing happened to warrant such a reaction."

"You don't understand how it is for him. He sees you dancing with me, Your Highness, and perhaps he fears what others of your court will think to see their prince dancing so intimately with a woman of the fae when he is courting a mortal. I only know that this... punishment was due to how I behaved with you at the banquet." She flicked her eyes to him, then gazed at the floor. In a tremulous voice she murmured, "It was clear to my brother that I had angered you-"

The Elven warrior turned her face back to him with a touch as gentle as he could make it. Her skin was fragile as porcelain and soft as satin beneath his fingertips. "My lady, if my displeasure somehow brought this harm upon you, you have my deepest apologies. Yet whatever anger I might have felt is still no cause for Cíaran to wrong you this way - his own kin. If you won't allow me to speak to my king, I might speak to Bres. He will most certainly-"

"No, you mustn't. His Highness Prince Bres is Cíaran's dearest and oldest friend. It is likely to break both their hearts for honor to compel them to contend with each other as they would have to if you spoke of this to His Highness. Please, my prince. I would do nearly anything you would ask of me if you will but keep my secret."

Desperation shone in her eyes like the gloss of tears in the candlelight. Another tear spilled over. Nuada brushed it away with his thumb without thinking. "I can't do that, my lady. If nothing else, my honor forbids such cowardice."

She wiped at her eyes before clasping his hands again. He could feel the warm wetness of tears on her skin. Dierdre gazed up at him beseechingly, the candlelight sending vibrant flecks of silver and glimmers of crystalline green dancing in her eyes. She looked away briefly, and slender threads of dark ruby brushed against the bruised ivory of her cheek and throat. A sudden whisper of heat bloomed in the pit of Nuada's belly. When those silver and green eyes slid back to him, the plea in them had the Elven warrior leaning in a little, protectively, as if in an attempt to shelter the teary-eyed woman beside him.

"Please, Your Highness. I beg you to say nothing." Dierdre's shoulders slumped, and her forehead dropped to Nuada's shoulder again. "I beg you not to hurt my brother, nor to shame him. Please say nothing to Prince Bres about this, either. He will be furious with Cíaran if Cíaran makes another mistake. Bres may even harm him. I couldn't bear that."

She reached up and her fingers twisted in the shoulder of his silk tunic. She lifted her head to lock eyes with him. Scarcely a few inches separated them now. Her gaze was so desperate, like that of a trapped bird frantic in the face of a predator, Nuada couldn't have forced himself to look away if he'd tried.

"I will do nearly anything, my prince," Dierdre whispered.

Her breath came in short, shallow bursts in the wake of her tears. Warm breath caressed Nuada's mouth. The thought entered his mind that he should put some distance between them, but she was so shaken, it would be cruel to do that. Besides, it wasn't as if anyone was here to see him. He merely meant to comfort her. He paid no mind to the way the soft golden light played along her lips like a lover's teasing caress. None at all.

"Please, my prince." Silently, the disguised gancanaugh thought, _And now the fourth spell. Look at my mouth, Silverlance._ She'd already caught him glancing at her mouth once already. That was how she'd known to use the spell in the first place. Only one more after that and he would be hers. _Look at my lips, and wonder. Do I taste sweet? As sweet as your whore? Sweeter? Wonder, Silverlance, and let the thoughts drive you to distraction_. Aloud she only pleaded, "My prince," in a voice like crimson silk, the words a caressing whisper, "my prince, I beg you. Please."

"My lady... Dierdre." Nuada didn't mean for her name to pass his lips like an endearment, spoken with tenderness. She didn't seem to notice, however. And he only spoke gently to her to reassure her that no ill would befall her for giving him permission to share her secret.

Technically, revealing such a thing without her consent would be a violation of faerie law - as it had been when he'd been called to give an accounting of himself regarding the execution of Dylan's attackers. His honor forbade him from keeping silent, yet in turn forbade him from moving against Cíaran without Dierdre's leave. So he said gently, softly, "Dierdre. I will let no harm befall you. Trust in me. Let me help you. You're safe here with me, you have my word."

There was something... strange about the way he looked at her, the Love Talker thought suddenly, an odd flutter in her stomach. There was a protectiveness in his gaze that she'd never seen in Bres'. She'd seen it in her brother, but never in the prince who was her lover. Yet she saw it here with the Silver Lance.

"Say it again," Dierdre whispered, forcing a tremor into her voice and a quiver into her bottom lip. "Promise me again."

"You are safe with me," Nuada murmured. "Let me help you, Dierdre. I will ensure that you're safe from any who might seek to hurt you, Cíaran included." When she ducked her head as if to escape the very idea of confronting her brother, Nuada brushed the hair from her face to force her to look at him and raised her chin again. For some reason, he couldn't seem to draw his hand completely away once she'd met his eyes. He let his fingertips linger just beneath the bruise on her cheek, though he couldn't understand why. Only continued with, "And while your brother must be punished for hurting you, I promise it will not be beyond the bounds of justice. Trust me, Dierdre. I will take care of you."

The Fomorian noblewoman closed her eyes for a moment, her lashes making wine-dark crescents against her cheeks. She wet her lips with the very tip of her tongue so that they glistened in the candlelight. Those wine-red lashes fluttered. Emerald eyes met topaz. "I trust you, Nuada." And she closed the scant inches between them and touched her lips to his as she triggered the fifth spell.

Nuada's first response was shock, followed swiftly but briefly by the impulse to push her away. Yet as suddenly as that impulse flared to life, it faded, seemingly smothered beneath his body's response to the silken touch of Dierdre's lips against his own. The hand he'd been unable to draw away from her face slid around to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in thick auburn hair. Something hot and sharp lanced his chest, an exquisite pain. His lips tingled faintly as Dierdre pressed close and opened her mouth to him. As a wave of something delicious and golden and hot as summer sunlight washed over him, Nuada's tongue delved into her mouth. Dierdre moaned softly. All rational thought fled Nuada's mind. There was only the sweet taste of the woman in his arms. The feel of her fingers tangling in his hair. The heat of passion burning through a kiss. Yet something was missing. Something...

A single feather-soft fingertip whispered over the very tip of Nuada's ear. The sharp spear of desire that ripped through him had him pulling away from her, more to catch his breath than anything. Then he was on his feet, stepping back from temptation. The heat and sweetness of those full, lush lips lingered against Nuada's mouth in opposition to the frigid stone wall so cold against his back. He could still taste her on his tongue, sweet as blackberries.

"My lady, I... forgive me, I... I don't know what came over me. Forgive me. I am ashamed to have taken advantage of you in your time of-"

"Your Highness, no, forgive me. I didn't mean... I should not have... you're not to blame, my prince." She pushed at her hair, a gesture that reminded the Elven prince sharply and strongly of Dylan.

_Oh, gods,_ he thought, still with the taste of Dierdre's mouth kissing his lips and tongue. _Oh, gods, Dylan. Forgive me, mo duinne._

"We need never speak of this," the Fomorian woman hastened to say. "I'll not tell a soul, Your Highness, if that's what you demand of me. I meant no disrespect. I only wanted... you see, I... I thought that you wanted... forgive me." Dierdre bowed her head. In that instant, she released her hold on the five spells upon the Bethmooran prince. They would fade quickly enough, but not _too_ quickly. "I should go."

She got to her feet. Dipped him a curtsy. Cast the sixth and final spell, the one that would make the kiss linger in Nuada's thoughts and make him dream of her. Such subtle magic worked wonders. "You'll keep my secret, Your Highness, won't you? For me, if not for Cíaran. Please. It's all I ask." _Because everything else, I will simply take._

And slipping into a simple "don't-look-at-me" glamour, grabbing the double-candlestick, she practically fled the alcove.

Nuada sank onto the bench and touched icy fingers to his mouth. Shades, what was the _matter_ with him? How could he have done that? Kissing a woman in obvious distress. Yes, she'd kissed him first, but... but of course she had. He'd been offering her safety and protection during a very emotional time and allowed her to get far too close, been far too intimate while attempting to comfort her. No wonder she had misconstrued his intentions.

Nuada was fond of her, of course, though he knew her scarcely at all. She reminded him of Cethlenn, and in many ways, of Naya. They even wore the same perfume. He'd treated Dierdre as if she _were_ Naya, instead of a member of the envoy from Cíocal.

_Fool,_ he berated himself. _Such a fool._

What would he tell Dylan? What could he say, to excuse his actions? To justify them? There _was_ no justification for this. Kissing another woman. Kissing her so intimately. He would have to tell Dylan something. Have to confess. He was no coward, to hide such transgression from his lady because he feared her ire. Even though telling her of it, when he knew it would _never_ happen again, could break her heart...

Dylan had already expressed insecurities about Naya and Lorelei. Now she would worry over Dierdre, as well. And they couldn't afford to alienate another member of the Cíocal envoy. If both Cíaran and Dierdre took offense to Dylan, what would Bres do? The Fomorian prince wielded more power than most people knew, and he held Nuala's heart in his hands.

How was Nuada supposed to handle such a situation? On the one hand, potential political problems with Bres should Dierdre take offense in some way. On the other, there was the personal dilemma between himself and Dylan, and the added complication of Nuada's beloved twin being halfway in love with Bres.

And he could still taste Dierdre's kiss.

_I,_ Nuada thought with no little amount of irritation and self-loathing, _am an idiot._

**.**

When he finally retired for the night, sliding into bed beside Dylan, he still hadn't made a decision.

By telling Dylan, he risked hurting his sister's heart, possibly endangering his truelove, or at the very least endangering any hope of enlisting Bres' help in championing her to the other royals; never mind if desperation finally _did_ drive Nuada to seek out the island of Mag Mell, for which he would need the support of King Rennan and King Elatha (and thus Elatha's son, Bres). Though the feral-eyed Elven warrior didn't see himself risking the mist-shrouded island, long centuries had taught him never to discount _anything_.

But by not telling Dylan, he placed falsehood and lies of ommission between them. Yet did he not do the same by not revealing to her his plans for the Golden Army and the human race in the coming war? Golden eyes fixed on the canopy of the bed and Nuada sighed. What to tell her?

_Perhaps I'm a coward after all,_ he thought with no little disgust. _No. I cannot accept that. I shall tell her in the morning. If she turns away from me for it, it's no more than I deserve._ Nuada's mind dredged up memories of Dierdre's lips parting for him, the way she'd moaned as he'd deepened the kiss, suddenly so hungry for the taste of her. He shoved the memories away. _I will tell Dylan in the morning._

Dread settled like a stone in the pit of his belly. Nerves replaced them when Dylan rolled over in her sleep and scootched against him, sliding her arm across his chest. Nuada nearly choked on his tongue as his truelove nestled her face against his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his neck. Slender fingers twisted in his tunic, just as Dierdre's had done. When Nuada tried to detach Dylan from him, remembering her words about being unable to hold each other while in bed, her grip tightened and she made a small sound of distress, burrowing closer. The prince sighed and desisted.

"I'm sorry," Nuada whispered, brushing a kiss across Dylan's forehead. "For everything."

For the Golden Army. For the coming war, and the extermination of the human race. For all the blood that would stain his hands then; for not knowing what to do with her and her brother and the rest of their family; for the danger being his truelove had set upon her and the danger being his princess would bring into her life. Because he couldn't simply snap his fingers and give her immortality. Because she was giving up so much to marry him. And because of Dierdre.

"I'm sorry, a ghrá mo chroí. I hope you can forgive me." He pressed his lips to her hair and closed his eyes, seeking sleep. Eventually, late in the night, it finally came to him, and he dreamed.

He dreamed of bloodshed and war, of desire and death. He dreamed of Naya, of when they'd been young together before the first war against the humans. Dreamed of Dylan, and all that could be and all that never could. Dreamed of Yukihime, the Onibi girl that had saved him, only to die in his arms. And for the first time, he dreamed of Lady Dierdre, and a kiss that burned him still, burned him with lust and with shame. When he woke just before dawn, it was with _her_ name on his lips. He swallowed it back and found that Dylan had moved her head to his chest. Nuada wrapped an arm about her and forced himself back to sleep again. This time, he only dreamed of Dylan.

**.**

When morning came, and Nuada had dressed for the day, he waited in his study for Dylan. Words flitted through his mind, to be considered and then discarded. How to explain himself? Was there any way to do so without making excuses? But these thoughts fled when a soft tapping at the door heralded Dylan's presence. He bade her enter and offered her a seat. She sank into it, smoothing down the skirt of her black dress. A puzzled frown turned down the corner of her mouth and furrowed her brow.

"Good morning, Lady Dylan," the prince said softly.

Dylan blinked in surprise. So formal so early in the morning? Her mind skittered back to when she'd woken alone, her face cuddled into the pillow Nuada had slept upon. Beneath the scent of wild forests, she'd caught an unfamiliar fragrance. Delicate and subtle. Not a smell she usually associated with Nuada. But she hadn't had time to think more about it before being told he wanted to see her.

Now she sat tense and still across from him, wondering what had happened to put those lines of tension and worry around his mouth. "Good morning, Your Highness. Is... is everything all right?"

"I have a confession to make," Nuada began, and told her of what had occurred between him and Dierdre the previous night. He refused to be a coward and look away from her face, even as shock and hurt flashed through those rainswept blue eyes.

When he'd finished, he waited for a long time for her to speak. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and gazed down at the toes of her boots peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirt. The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip. She said nothing. Her face was unreadable.

"Dylan?" Nuada ventured. "Say something." When there was only silence, he broke enough to add, "Please."

She licked her lips. Drew a long breath before letting it out slowly. "You... how... why would you do something like that? How could you do that? To me? To us?"

He struggled for words, and finally settled on, "I don't know. I have no excuse."

Twisting her fingers together, Dylan stared at the smooth polished expanse of Nuada's desk. No excuse? That was _all_ he had to say? He had no excuse? He'd kissed another woman. Allowed her to kiss him and instead of rebuffing her, he'd made out with her! Barely two days after asking her to marry him for the second time! Unable to process that, the enormity of it, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. "Why are you telling me this?"

Nuada hesitated, then said, "I have wronged you."

"But why actually tell me?" Eyes like cobalt ice flew to his face. She scanned his expression, as if searching for the answer to some riddle. "Why not just hide it?" Dylan demanded. Her voice trembled a little. "You could've kept it a secret; why didn't you?"

"Do you truly think I would do that? Lie to you in such a way, regarding something such as this?"

It was harder than she'd have imagined to force the words out past the thickness in her throat, but Dylan managed it anyway. "No, but I never thought you'd shove your tongue in another woman's mouth while you were engaged to me, either. If it were an engagement because of the king, that'd be one thing. I wouldn't expect you to stay trapped in a loveless marriage without some kind of... outlet. But you asked me to marry you because you loved me. Or so you said. So... what do you want me to think?"

"It was a mistake, Dylan. It has nothing to do with how I feel for you."

"Really?" Such disbelief in that one word.

"Should I have kept it to myself, then?" The prince demanded. "Should I have hidden it from you? Pretended I'd committed no betrayal? Is that what you'd prefer, for me to lie to you?"

She glared at him. "The fact that you would do this shows that lying to me isn't exactly anathema to you, so it's a valid question as to why you'd 'fess up, since you could've just kept quiet and enjoyed screwing around with your new bedroom bunny without having to worry about your stupid mortal betrothed. What, did you have a sudden attack of conscience?"

Affronted, Nuada demanded, "My bedroom _what?_ Dylan, how could you think I would lie to you about this? Do you think I make a habit of this? Of 'screwing around,' as you put it, with other women? You think I'd do that to you?"

"You _kissed_ another woman. An Elven woman. What does that say about us, Nuada? Because from here, what it seems like, is that I'm too human for you. That you were getting tired of sporting with the mortal and wanted a 'real' woman. One of your own kind. You expect me to be okay with that?"

"Of course not!" He snapped. "Not with any of it! But that is _not_ what it means. It had nothing to do with you, Dylan, or how I feel for you, I swear it. It was a mistake. One I regret with every part of me. I only told you about it so I could... so I could begin making reparations. So I could learn what you wish me to do to atone for this." Nuada sighed and passed a hand over his face. "I didn't ask you to come in here so that I might argue my innocence. I wish only to make amends."

Dylan folded her arms and tilted her head back against the chair, closing her eyes. He'd _kissed_ another woman. After all of his promises, he had gone and kissed someone else. _I will never play you false, Dylan._ She couldn't even fathom it. He'd _lied_ to her. And now he wanted to know how he could make it up to her? As if it was something simple, something insignificant, like forgetting her birthday or some other trivial nothing. Dylan fought the automatic urge to chew her bottom lip. Nuada wanted to fix it. Just fix it and be done. But it didn't work like that. Out of all the things he could do that she'd expected might hurt her, this hadn't been one of them. She knew she was supposed to forgive all trespasses, but... but he'd lied to her. And he'd kissed someone else.

She opened her eyes. "You lied to me. I trusted you. More than I've ever trusted anyone, I trusted you, and you..." Feeling her composure threatening to crack, Dylan surged to her feet and headed for the door. She couldn't talk to him right now. She couldn't deal with him first thing in the morning, couldn't deal with _this_.

Nuada clasped her hand before she could get to the door. "Dylan, wait. Please-"

"Don't touch me!" She wrenched away from him. Dashed her fist against her cheek to wipe away even a hint of tears. "What else happened last night? What aren't you telling me? Did you just kiss her, or did you sleep with her, too?"

"What? No! Dylan, I would never-"

"Would never what?" The mortal demanded. "Would never make out with someone else? Would never come back to my bed, to _our_ bed, smelling of another woman's perfume?" Because that, she'd realized, was what that delicate scent on the sheets had been. "You... what? Wouldn't ever get fed up dealing with my stupid rules and go find some gorgeous perfect Elf girl to screw because you're tired of waiting for me to put out?"

"No! _You_ are the one I want. You are! There's no other-"

"Then why did you kiss her?" Dylan demanded, and a few more tears spilled over. Tears of pain, yes, but also tears of anger. She forced them back. "You talk about how you love me. How I'm everything to you. Then you shove your tongue down some slut's throat behind my back?"

"Dammit, I'm sorry!"

"Liar!" The moment the word snapped out of her, she could see it hurt him. Could see the flicker of pain in his eyes. She pressed on anyway. "Liar. You _promised_ me. 'I'll never play you false, Dylan.' That's what you said, and you _lied_. What else have you lied to me about?"

Nuada hesitated a fraction of a second too long before murmuring, "Nothing." Thoughts of the Golden Army taunted him.

She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to ward off a chill. Her face was pale but her eyes were dry of tears now. "I don't believe you." Images flashed through her brain, too quick and too sharp to ward off without inflicting more pain. She saw Dierdre in Nuada's arms, saw her kissing the dark lips and scarred cheek and pale throat while Nuada's eyes slid closed in pleasure. Saw Nuada in her mind's eye, his hands all over the Elven woman, murmuring sweet Gaelic nothings in her ear as he brushed slow kisses over the alabaster skin. Tears threatened to clog Dylan's throat. She swallowed them down. "You know what? Fine. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Go play with your new girlfriend. Screw her blind. I don't care."

"She is _not_ my girlfriend."

"I... it doesn't matter." She backed up toward the door. "You don't owe me anything. You're the crown prince, right? You can do what you want."

"That is _not_ true and you know it." He pursued her, relentless as a prowling wolf, but his eyes were bleak. "Tell me what you would have me do. Tell me how to fix this. I would do nearly anything for you, Dylan. You must know that. I'm sorry. It was a stupid mistake. Tell me what you want me to do. You have but to command me and it is done."

"You want to know how to fix this? Give me some time to think about whether it's even fixable or not. I don't want to see you for the rest of today." Because she couldn't think rationally when he kept looking at her as if it actually hurt to see her. Because it hurt _her_ to look at him and see an auburn-haired Elven noblewoman draped all over him. "I know we've got stuff to deal with, but can it wait?"

Nuada didn't move or speak or even so much as blink for a long moment. _I don't want to see you for the rest of today._ He managed to nod. "It can wait."

"Fine, then." She started to turn away. Firelight sent brilliant blue glints cascading across her vision when the light caught on the stones in her ring. She paused. Stared at the band of white gold with its three Iaran sapphires. Held up her left hand. "Do you want this back?"

Her words slid between his ribs like a poisoned knife blade. Nuada swallowed back the cry of instant denial and forced his expression to remain neutral. "Is it your wish to return it?" He asked tonelessly. "I will take it back if you so desire."

The fingers of Dylan's right hand flexed toward the ring on her left heart-finger. She curled both hands into loose fists. Was she really going to reject Nuada completely, was she really going to break both their hearts to countless jagged pieces, over kissing? Intimate kissing, but kissing nonetheless? After all they had done for each other, after all they had come to mean to each other? She looked at her prince, who looked braced as if for a fatal blow.

"No," she murmured. "No, I don't want to return it." She hesitated, then glanced away and added, "I love you, Nuada. Maybe more than I should, but I love you. But right now... I kind of hate you." Dylan didn't see the way his eyes widened, the way a shudder went through him. Weakness flooded his limbs, though his lady didn't know it. Cold claws raked his chest as the words throbbed inside him with a dull ache. _I hate you._ "And I need some time to myself. I'm not going to leave Findias, but I wanna be alone. Because I just _can't_ be around you right now. All right?"

The prince swallowed. Inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Then he watched her leave without another word, closed his eyes, and cursed himself for a fool.

**.**

She didn't break down and bawl like a baby. Dylan was very proud of herself for that. Instead, she retreated to the bathtub. Once out of the bath, Dylan realized that if she didn't get out of the suite she'd go crazy because she could sense Nuada in his study and knew if she didn't get away from him to give herself some time to think, she'd end up going back into that suite and either kick him in the shins or break down crying - which the psychiatrist absolutely _refused_ to do. Instead, she mumbled something to Uaithne about giving her some space and left her suite, followed by her guards. The children had already gone down to breakfast with the other servants, so the mortal didn't worry about them.

It seemed like she wandered the castle corridors for hours. She must've looked imposing somehow - or the guards glared at the other people passing in the hallways - because while servants bowed or curtsied to her, none of the nobles who passed said anything to her, though they bowed and curtsied as well. Vaguely Dylan recalled what Nuada had said about her outranking everyone in Findias except the king, the crown prince and princess, and the chamberlain, simply because the heir to the throne said so. She wondered if she'd continue to outrank them when Nuada finally ditched her for the scarlet Fomori.

_Don't think like that,_ she admonished herself. _It was a mistake. He didn't mean to do it. He loves me. He said so. People make mistakes. It happens._ But Nuada had said a lot of things, hadn't he? _I'll never play you false, Dylan._ Lie. The thought seemed so impossible. Nuada had _never_ lied to her before. Or so she'd thought. Yet barely a week after promising he would be hers and hers alone until they _had_ to be parted, after asking her to marry him _twice_... after all of that, he'd kissed another woman. Maybe she was focusing too much on a little kiss, but... but it wasn't just a little kiss.

Only once had she and Nuada kissed as passionately and intimately as he'd kissed Dierdre, and they'd been under a spell. Nuada had confessed to _willingly_ kissing someone else after pledging himself to her. Didn't that mean something? _Every touch, every embrace, every kiss: that is your gift to me_. So he'd told her only a few nights ago. Was that a lie, too?

He'd said he regretted it with every part of himself, but did he really? Or had he liked it? What had he felt when he'd touched Dierdre's lips with his own? Was kissing an Elf different from kissing a human? Dylan had only willingly kissed one person before other than Nuada, and that had been a drunk teenage boy, so she had no real basis for comparison.

Did Nuada think about the kiss? Did he wish it had been more than just a kiss? Unless it _had_ been more. Had her prince spent the night doing more than enjoying Dierdre's lips? The images that thought conjured made her stomach twist and knot until she thought she might be sick. What if he _had_ slept with her? She'd caught a whiff of a strange woman's perfume on the sheets where Nuada slept. If they'd had sex... had it only been sex? Or had Nuada spent at least part of the night making love to Dierdre? She wasn't sure which would be worse. Was he falling for her? Had he already fallen?

_I'm being an idiot,_ Dylan growled silently. _Am I really this insecure? It was just kissing._

Except it wasn't. She knew it, and so did he. There were so many ways that that those kisses were a betrayal. Because in Faerie kisses had power. In some ways, they had even more power than sex - though sex had power in Faerie as well. Because it was just stupid to do, politically. Because Nuada knew how much value Dylan herself put on any physical affection between the two of them. And just because you didn't go around kissing people when you were engaged, dang it!

Her stomach rumbled, distracting her from all the hurt and anger churning there. Dylan went to one of the corridor alcoves and sank in a plush red sofa. The burgundy velvet curtains blocking off the alcove from the rest of the hallway draped the little antechamber in shadow. She settled against the arm of the loveseat and closed her eyes, resting her head on her folded arms. Her guards were a reassuring presence just beyond the curtains.

_The question is, what will I stand for?_ Dylan thought to herself. _Am I going to say, "Well, he's a crown prince, and he's used to having girls falling at his feet - and falling into his bed - so I should just let him do what he wants," or will I protest? Will I do more than protest? What are the political ramifications if anyone finds out about this? I can't just complain about Nuada to the king; who knows what Balor will do to him? But can I really go back to my suite tonight and share a bed with Nuada after what he told me?_ And the questions she did _not_ want to ask herself: _what if he doesn't stop? He says he regrets it, but what if he goes back to her?_

Medicinal sleepiness whispered beneath all of her thoughts. Sleep had often been a retreat for her, and now Dylan found herself drifting into a light doze. When Fionnlagh peeked behind the curtain, she saw that her charge was stretched out on a sofa, head pillowed on her arms.

"She's sleeping," the female Butcher murmured to Uaithne. "I think she and His Highness had a fight."

Uaithne nodded thoughtfully. "Guardsman Mahon mentioned the prince was distracted last night after going for a walk through the corridors. Something might have happened. It might not even be a quarrel. They'll work it out, though. They're very devoted to each other."

Fionnlagh shrugged. "As long as they don't anger the king, they should be fine. I'm not concerned about either of them regarding their little spat. They'll work it out or they won't. It is nothing to me." Despite her words, the Butcher glanced back over her shoulder as if she could see the recumbent mortal behind the velvet curtain, and she thought, _If the prince breaks her heart, he's a bigger idiot than I thought._

**.**

"Naya, the truce expressly forbids such a thing," Nuala reminded her lady-in-waiting as the two Elven women began to dress for dinner. Due to some request Dylan had made of the king - Nuala wasn't quite clear on what it was - the formal banquets scheduled for the nights between the opening banquet and the Midwinter Ball had been made into informal dinners for anyone who wished to attend, but attendance wasn't mandatory and nothing special or structured was going to occur. Still, Nuala knew she would see Bres, so she wanted to look her best.

Naya picked up a silver-backed brush and began running it through Nuala's spidersilk hair. "No, it doesn't. Nuala, Nuada only wishes to give aid to the northern villages. Have you read the reports?"

"Have you?" The princess asked. "My father does not share such things with me. It's a wonder Nuada shares them with you."

The Zwezda Elf chose her next words with care. "Nuada believes that if one possesses power and authority, it should be used to help those in need. That's all he seeks to do. He wants to defend his people. Surely a single company of Butcher Guards, or simply a company of the army, wouldn't break the treaty with the humans. Especially if they go with orders merely to fend off the enemy, not to attack or to kill them outright."

"My brother would not be satisfied with such a thing."

"He's dissatisfied _now_," Polunochnaya replied, setting the brush aside and beginning one of the intricate braids she intended for her friend to wear tonight. "If the king gives in a little, perhaps the prince would be less likely to strain against the king's orders next time."

Nuala sighed and gazed into the mirror as her friend worked on her hair. After a long moment, Nuala murmured, "I'll speak to my brother and see what he says of such a plan. A single army company is not too much, surely. Only twenty men. If they go with explicit orders... perhaps my father will agree." Glancing at Naya, the princess added, "You truly think it necessary?"

A memory of long ago flitted through Polunochnaya's mind like a deer fleeing through the forest. A memory of people dying in the streets from hunger. Children begging for a bit of bread or a single scrap of meat from more prosperous tables. Blizzards that destroyed all the people had, leaving them to starve. So it had been in Zwezda when Naya had been a small child. The terrible winter that had struck long ago had been one reason her uncle had sent her to Bethmoora.

"People are starving, Nuala," the Zwezdan Elf murmured, tying off one slender braid and pinning it in place. "Children and the elderly are no doubt falling ill from the cold and lack of food. Predators, those that walk on four legs and two, are preying on the helpless. How can you ask if it's necessary?"

The princess bowed her head. "My brother has always concerned himself with such matters. Yet if Nuada persists in what he means to do... if he means to attempt war on the mortal realm... perhaps it's time to take on the duties of heir to the throne. I will think on your words, my sister, and speak to Nuada."

**.**

Dylan jerked awake to the knowledge that she'd been dreaming about something horrible, something she couldn't quite remember. When she strained to grasp for the memory, all that flickered through her mind were lightning-swift glimpses and flashes of muted sound. Moon-pale skin in the darkness. Low firelight on dark red hair like spun garnets. Nuada's soft laugh, the one he used only when he was alone with Dylan. Light reflecting off silvery eyeshine. Someone whispering Nuada's name. Though she couldn't remember it all clearly, she was pretty sure she knew what she'd been dreaming. Just thinking about it sent fresh anger churning in her stomach again.

A quick glance at her phone - which had been tucked into a pocket of her black dress - told her it was a little after one o'clock. She got to her feet, smoothed the wrinkles out of her wool-silk _leine_, and stepped out of the alcove.

"Sorry about that, you guys," she mumbled.

"You were tired," Uaithne replied with a shrug. "Mortals don't have fae stamina. We've managed to keep ourselves occupied, milady, never fear."

Fionnlagh thrust something at her. "Here, milady. Thought you might be hungry." Dylan took what turned out to be a pair of rolls stuffed with bacon, sausage, and egg and wrapped in a cloth napkin. "I had a page bring them a bit ago. They're cold, but the stable lads say they taste just as good even so."

A tired smile curved Dylan's mouth. "Thank you for thinking of me, Fionnlagh. Everyone."

"It is our duty," said Ailbho. "Besides, we like you well enough, milady." Dylan could tell the young guardsman was smiling at her just by the tone of his voice. "Do you wish to walk some more, or would you rather return to your chambers? The prince might be free. Perhaps he could..." Ailbho trailed off when Dylan's smile slipped away like a wisp of fog. "Never mind."

"I'd like to walk around a bit more," she said, half-apologizing. She didn't want to go back to the suite yet, especially if Nuada was there. Especially after her dream. Dylan curled her hands into fists for a moment as she briefly contemplated going back to her room after all just so she could give her prince a good sock in the arm. Except she didn't _want_ to hurt him. Well, maybe a little bit. Kicking him might have possibly made her feel better. But it wouldn't solve anything. She relaxed her fists and started walking.

The few brief bits of the dream she could actually remember kept playing out in her mind as she prowled. Her eyes kept flicking to the different curtained alcoves that littered the halls. Every time velvet rustled, something sharp and bitter hit her low in the belly. Dylan realized suddenly that she was actually _looking for_ the place where Nuada had kissed Dierdre. She wanted to smack herself. Instead, she whirled around and strode purposefully to the servants' portion of the castle. There was only one door to the gardens that the mortal knew of off the top of her head, and it was there. She'd go outside, get some fresh air, and clear her head. Maybe the cold winter air would help.

It wasn't until she got to the doors that she realized - there was snow on the ground outside and she didn't have a coat. Her leather coat and mink-lined cloak were both hung up in her closet in her bedroom on the third floor. In order to get them, she'd have to go through Nuada. Possibly. Probably. Which she did _not_ want to do. Not until she could sort out exactly how she felt about the whole thing. But she didn't want to freeze, either.

"You look a bit unhappy, Lady Dylan," said a familiar voice, and Dylan felt her heart thump hard against her breastbone. She turned slowly toward the speaker. Her eyes stung as she took in the kind eyes and understanding smile. The mortal nodded. "Anything I can do?"

"Well," she mumbled, "I... I don't know."

Moundshroud smiled, showing yellowed teeth. "What's troubling you, my dear?"

"I left my jacket in my room and I wanna go outside," she said before she could censor the words.

"And you don't want to go back up to your room to get your jacket because..." The elderly eldritch fae eyed her speculatively. Glanced at her guards, who were a few paces away for privacy's sake. Turning back to her, the king of Weir grumbled, "That buffoon of a prince did something to hurt your feelings, didn't he? Shall I go up and box his ears?" When the mortal didn't laugh, his sharp brows rose. "As bad as all that? Come walk with me, Dylan my dear. You needn't fear the cold when you're with me."

The old fae king offered her his bony arm. She took it, and despite the graveyard chill that always seemed to cling to him, the velvet of his black tunic sleeve was warm under her hand. As Moundshroud led her out into the gardens, warmth seemed to envelop her the way it had the morning after her first date with Nuada - when it had begun to snow on their walk back to the cottage from the apartment rooftop and he'd used his magic to keep her warm. The beauty of the snow and the winter afternoon were lost on her as she walked with Moundshroud along a garden path.

"Now, my dear," he murmured once they'd walked a ways away from the castle. "Why don't you tell me why I'm going to be digging a very deep and lonely grave for a Bethmooran prince tonight?"

And because it was Moundshroud, because she had always trusted him and knew he would never use this information against her or Nuada, would never _really_ harm Nuada, she told him. She told him everything - about what had happened in the Queen's Garden because of the spells, about Balor's commands, about her goals for trying to fix her mental state. Finally, Dylan told him what felt like the worst thing: that Nuada had kissed another woman (though she didn't say who).

"I don't even know why I'm so upset about it," Dylan confessed as they passed beneath a fir tree. "It's not like he slept with her. At least... I don't think he did. I mean, why tell me about kissing her if he was going to lie about _only_ kissing her? You know? And it's a jerky thing to do, kissing someone else, but like I said - it's not like he's been screwing around behind my back. I don't get why this hurts so much."

Moundshroud was quiet for a long while. Finally, he said, "Because you love him. It is as you were saying about your jealousy of _Ledi_ Polunochnaya. Even though you had no reason to be jealous, you were, and the prince was not very understanding at first, and teased you. You placed value on something, and he demeaned the value you'd placed. Do you understand what I mean? Your feelings of jealousy, irrational though they may have been, deserved respect because they were your feelings and he claimed to value them.

"In the same way, you place value on a kiss. For you, kisses are important. They mean something - more than what they may mean to some others. Prince Nuada knew that, yet he chose to demean the value you'd placed on the bestowing of a kiss by kissing someone else. It isn't the act that's so hurtful, my dear - it is what the act implies regarding whether the prince values your feelings. Especially considering your conversation about _Ledi_ Polunochnaya and Lady Lorelei beforehand."

He paused to consider. "Do you want me to speak to King Balor about this forced engagement?"

"I thought you'd get in trouble if you interfered with another fae kingdom."

The old faerie shrugged. "Most likely. That doesn't answer my question. Do you want me to speak to him about it?"

Dylan shook her head. "No. I don't want you to get in trouble or anything. Or for Nuada to get in trouble with the king. It's fine."

"Do you want me to castrate the prince for you?"

Uncertain if the Keeper of the Samhain Tree was joking or not, she replied with wide eyes, "No!"

"Are you certain?"

"Yes!"

He nodded. "Very well, then." Thin, wrinkled lips pursed in thought. "It doesn't _have_ to be castration, you know. I am sure I could get it across to him that your heart is not one to be trifled with using some other method. I could-"

"No!" Dylan said sternly. "Thank you, but no. I don't want you to hurt him." Softly now, she added, "I don't want anyone to hurt him. Ever."

"Even when he has hurt you?" Moundshroud asked. Dylan shook her head, and the old fae snorted. "The boy's a blind fool to even look at another woman. Young idiot. And what about this noblewoman, this Lady Mystery? What shall I do about her?" The black eyes slanted in Dylan's direction. "Shall I kill her for you?"

The mortal sighed in exasperation. "Moundshroud - _no_. You can't go around killing people who hurt my feelings. I know you're a crazy-powerful fae monarch and stuff, but seriously. No. Although I would laugh if you magicked a frog into her bed or something. That would be pretty great."

He cackled, a sound like autumn leaves scraping over mausoleum stone. "I shall see what I can do, my dear." Those dark eyes whipped to a curve in the path. "Will you do something for me, child?" Puzzled, Dylan nodded. "I'm going to leave you now. I have business to attend to. I want you to keep walking. Turn right at that fork in the path up ahead. Will you do that for me?"

"Sure, but... why? And after that, can I go inside? Or will the warming magic still work on me?"

"By all means, you may go back inside afterward. Thank you for humoring an old man." He turned to her and pressed a grandfatherly kiss to her forehead. It left a chilled spot on her brow. "Goodbye for now, my dear."

"Thank you for listening, Mr. Moundshroud."

"It was my pleasure. You know you have a friend in me if you need one, Dylan. Never forget that."

She watched him walk back the way they'd come, and sighed. Talking to Moundshroud was a bit like talking to a crotchey uncle or grandfather - it made her feel a lot better, but at the same time, he was a very powerful and very dangerous faerie king. If she wasn't careful, someone could get hurt. But Dylan knew the Keeper of the Samhain Tree wouldn't hurt Nuada. She wasn't so sure about Dierdre, which was why she hadn't given out the Fomorian woman's name. The mortal wouldn't have wished an infuriated Moundshroud on anyone - not even the woman who had made a move on her prince.

Shaking away her thoughts, Dylan started down the path as Moundshroud had asked. She'd have to make this quick. The warmth from Moundshroud's spell was already fading.

**.**

For lack of anything better to do, Zhenjin wandered the public gardens of Findias, absently admiring the dark winter blooms. He'd just leaned down to examine a frosted winter rose, tiny ice crystals making it glitter in the afternoon sun as if it were studded with diamonds, when he heard a familiar voice yell, "Ow!"

Reptilian jade eyes glanced up in time to see Lady Dylan leaning against one of the garden walls, holding her foot in one hand. She grimaced and glared down at a displaced flagstone from the garden path. Clearly she'd tripped over the protruding edge. With a scowl, she lowered the offended foot and lightly kicked the flagstone. Winced.

"Are you all right, Lady Dylan?" Zhenjin asked, straightening.

The mortal cried, "Oh," lost her balance, and stumbled over the flagstone's edge again. Dylan growled, "Really?" Making certain to give the tricky stone a wide berth, she trudged through the snow toward the Dilong prince. She offered a curtsy. "Good afternoon, Prince Zhenjin. I'm fine, thank you."

Except that the only reason she wasn't frozen solid was due to the fact that her wool _leine_ had long sleeves and she'd only been outside without magical protection for a few minutes. Stubborn pride - and the fear that Nuada was waiting for her in their joint suites, or somewhere else in the castle - kept her from going back to get coat or cloak.

Which, Dylan acknowledged, was stupid... but she didn't care enough to go back inside. She wanted to feel the biting cold while it numbed the tips of her fingers and her nose. It gave her something to feel miserable about besides knowing Nuada had kissed someone. Was Nuada thinking about her? Wondering when she would come back up to their rooms? Was Nuada watching from her bedroom window? The royal suites were too far away to be able to tell with simple mortal sight or Sight. But why would he be watching for her, after how she'd left him?

Her words to Nuada just before leaving him came back to her with all the force of a slap. _I kind of hate you,_ she'd told him. The memory of the words burned her throat. Why had she said that?

Suddenly Dylan realized Prince Zhenjin had been talking to her and she hadn't heard a word he'd said. She blinked and shook herself, trying to focus on the present, and the prince in front of her. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Did you say something?"

"Are you certain you are all right, milady? Where is your cloak? You look half-frozen."

"Oh, I... hadn't thought about it before coming out here. I was preoccupied. I..." She trailed off when Zhenjin shrugged out of his _beizi_ and draped it around her shoulders. The pine-green Dilong cloak settled around Dylan as lightly as a cloud. The silk brocade was surprisingly warm. Dylan folded her hands in the lapels and pulled it tight around her. "Thank you. But won't you be cold?"

Zhenjin offered a negligent shrug that reminded Dylan painfully of Nuada. "I am an Elf. I'll be fine."

He paused, considered. Nuada's mortal looked pale, lost to her own thoughts. She also looked sad. Missing the mortal realm, perhaps? The Dilong Elf could understand being homesick. His own home country had very little in common with Bethmoora, and though he and Nuada were good friends, the heir to the Jade Dragon Throne had been gone from Dilong for a while now, and missed his home.

"My lady, where are your guards? It's dangerous to be unescorted. Where is Silverlance?"

The prince knew he'd misstepped the moment he spoke Nuada's epithet. The light in Lady Dylan's gaze dimmed and she looked away. Fighting to keep the exasperation from his voice, he asked, "Did Nuada do something foolish? He can be a bit of an idiot sometimes-"

"Don't talk about him that way," the mortal snapped, then flushed. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but... he's not an idiot." _Usually,_ she added silently.

Zhenjin canted his head. "I have offended you. Forgive me."

She shook her head. "No, you didn't. It's fine. I just... I'm having a bad day. I don't know where Nu- His Highness is right now. Somewhere in the castle, I think. And my guards are keeping a respectful distance since I told them I wanted alone time."

"Then I'm disturbing you. My apologies. I will take my leave-"

"Oh, no," Dylan said. Suddenly she didn't want Zhenjin to go. He reminded her so much of Nuada. Especially the fact that they used the excuse of being Elves as justification for being pretty much "perfect." Dylan pasted on a smile. "You don't have to go. I've been having alone time pretty much all day, so I wouldn't mind some company. It's not considered inappropriate or anything for you to escort me around the grounds or anything, is it? I mean, we're in plain sight. Nothing hinky going on."

A smile quirked the Elf prince's mouth. "'Hinky?' This is a mortal term?"

Dylan grinned. "More like a 'Dylan' term. What I mean is, obviously there's nothing... untoward going on, as we're in view of anyone who wants to look. My guards are right there." She gestured to the Butchers standing perhaps ten yards away. "So you could walk with me or something if you wanted. I'd like to talk to you."

"And you don't wish to give my cloak back just yet, I should think," the Dilong prince added with a conspiratory smile and a wink, "seeing as the silk is ensorcelled for warmth and it's quite cold." Color painted the mortal's cheeks in a blush. Zhenjin thought she looked much better when her face wasn't quite so pale.

"Caught me."

It was a small thing, to be sure, but Nuada would no doubt appreciate his friend looking out for the human in rather unfamiliar territory while the Bethmooran prince was busy doing... whatever he was doing. So Zhenjin offered Lady Dylan the proper Dilong bow of a prince to a noblewoman and, gesturing with one arm, asked, "Then shall we?"

**.**

Nuada bowed to his father as the door to the king's study closed behind him with a soft _thump_. The king had summoned him shortly after Nuada had returned from the stables. While Dylan was having her time alone out in the gardens - he had seen her walking past one of the garden gates earlier in the afternoon - the prince had taken time to deal with things that required his attention.

After reviewing reports from the stewards of his private estates and going over new reports from the northern villages, he'd spent part of the morning training in the salle before going to see his dogs. He'd spent a few hours putting the newly-trained pups through their paces. Nils had come to him during a break in the training to inform him that one of his rarer, more exotic horses had foaled in the night. The mare had died, but the newborn _lóng mâ_ colt was doing well under the care of one of the senior stablehands. Nuada had taken a look at the little thing and liked what he saw. If it survived, it would do very well, indeed. He'd taken Lóman out for a ride, as well. All of it had been a feeble attempt to drown out Dylan's last words to him. _I hate you._

Now the king wanted to see him. Why? Had Dylan asked for their engagement to be broken? Or had the king's spies somehow found about his kiss with Dierdre from some other source? But Nuada let none of these thoughts show on his face.

"Have a seat, my son."

Surprised, Nuada sat. Remembering what Dylan had said about his father possibly being ill, he took a moment to study the old king. Had his father's face been so lined when he'd seen Balor back in October? Did the king seem worn? Nuada couldn't be certain if he did, and if it was because Balor was aging or because there was something amiss. When had his father gotten so old?

"Are you all right, Nuada?" The king asked, and Nuada was brought back to the present. "Is everything well with you?"

The prince blinked, clearly taken aback. "I... Father?"

"Your lady seemed concerned for you. For your health. Are you well?"

Warmth seemed to settle over the Elven warrior. His father was concerned for him? "I'm well enough, Athair. Thank you. And... are you well? I know much has happened these past weeks. Are you all right?"

Balor smiled. "I am fine, my son. I'm not so old as all that." Leaning back, the old king steepled his fingers. "Now, I am afraid we've some business to attend to. First... congratulations on your engagement, Nuada. I know you would have preferred less interference from my end, but I also know you are happy to be betrothed to Lady Dylan. I can tell by that sentimental look on your face." Nuada quickly neutralized his expression. Balor's eyes twinkled. "However, this seems a bit too easy, all things considered. Is there anything I should know?"

At first Nuada wasn't sure what the king meant. Then he remembered the conditions Dylan had laid out. He quickly listed them for the king: Dylan's dress being white, and modest by Latter-Day Saint standards; her sisters being in attendance at the wedding; her twin brother being elevated to peerage to protect him with a title; wanting as much control as possible over the wedding plans; and finally, the location of their wedding night, although all Nuada said on _that_ subject was that she wanted it somewhere other than Findias.

Much to the prince's surprise, the king agreed to every stipulation except the last. Nuada had expected more of a fight. However, it seemed Balor was saving up all his stubbornness for the last condition.

"My son, it isn't safe for the two of you to be somewhere so insecure. Everyone will know you to be distracted - not to mention exhausted - because of your wedding. You'll need guards, and bringing Butchers to the mortal world-"

"We're not going to the mortal realm, Father," Nuada said quietly. "We're going somewhere in Faerie. It is quite secure. No one will be able to so much as find us, much less harm us. Only Dylan, Wink, and I know its location. I have promised her this, Sire," the prince added firmly. "I'll not renege on my word to her. This, more than nearly anything else, is important to her. She _will_ have her way in this. What price must I pay for such a thing?"

Balor sighed. "Nuada... sometimes your stubbornness reminds me so much of your mother." Seeing the look on his son's face, Balor forced himself to smile. "You remind me of her sometimes. More often than not, actually, save when you're angry. Your sister is a lot like me, but you... you're like Cethlenn. I see much of her in you."

"You do?" The words were barely a whisper Nuada managed to force past numb lips.

His father nodded. "Now, I will grant this last stipulation on three conditions. One, that you ask for your lady's hand publicly at the Midwinter Ball. We can put off Nuala's betrothal for a while; I doubt she'll mind. She seems to enjoy having Prince Bres courting her. Two, Dylan is to be given her rank and title before the Frost Moon. It will afford her more protection, and will show the rest of Faerie you're in earnest about her. And three, both of you shall attend council meetings."

"But Dylan has her job. Her Sight children need her in the mortal realm."

The king of Bethmoora raised his eyebrows. "She'll have to make time for her new responsibilities, Nuada, if she truly desires to wed you and become a princess. If she is not capable of committing to the kingdom, then you cannot marry her. The kingdom comes first; you know that."

Sparks of irritation sizzled beneath the prince's skin at the reminder. Of _course_ he knew that. Hadn't he always put the kingdom and people first, even when doing so nearly broke him? Yet he wouldn't argue with Balor. Not when his father seemed willing to actually _listen_ to him. "I know, Father. I'll speak to her." Nuada hesitated, then pressed on. "Father? You spoke to Dylan the day before yesterday. You told her you could... make her immortal?"

"Did I?" Balor raised his eyebrows. "What of it?"

The air seemed too thick and heavy in Nuada's chest. He could barely breathe past the taloned hand squeezing his heart. "You can make her immortal?" He demanded, straightening in his chair. "Truly?"

"Perhaps." Now it was the king, not Nuada's father, looking at him from across the hawthorn desk. "The question is, what are you willing to sacrifice to preserve your lady's life?"

"What would you have of me?"

Deliberately spacing the words, Balor said, "Forfeit your claim to the Golden Army. Swear you'll never attempt to awaken it. Abandon your quest to wage war on the mortal realm and the human race."

Shock stole the breath from him. Pain, sharp as winter's claws and cold as the north wind, raked him. "You would demand this of me? You would ask me to choose between the woman I love and my people?"

"War is not the way to help the fae, Nuada. You must choose a different path. It is our time to fade into the twilight of the world."

"I... Father, I..." He pressed two fingers to his temples. Closed his eyes. "You cannot ask me this. You cannot ask me to abandon my people for my own happiness."

"My son-"

"_You_ would not do it!" Nuada snapped, piercing his father with betrayed eyes. "You wouldn't choose one over many! When you had a choice between Mother's life and the lives of your children, you chose us. How can I make the choice you want? One woman for all of my people, for all the fae? I cannot do it."

Gently, Balor asked, "Then you would steal from her all her dreams of family? Of motherhood? You would condemn your love to a mortal life?"

"Stop it," Nuada whispered.

The king continued, merciless, though his voice was still gentle and filled with compassion. "You would condemn her to grow old while you remain as you are, condemn her to suffer as she ages until Death comes to steal her away from you-"

"_Stop it!_" Nuada was on his feet, backing away. "You know my choice, Father. My kingdom and my people come first." He looked down at the crimson and gold patterned rug. "Will that be all, Sire?"

Balor bit back a sigh. He'd hoped that, with the right incentive, his son would make the correct choice. It seemed not, however. "You may go, my son. But Nuada? Think over all your options before you discard them. Truly think about it."

"There's nothing to think about," the prince whispered, and left the room.

Nuada moved through the castle corridors as silently as a phantom, trying to ignore the memory of his father's words. _You would condemn your love to a mortal life. Condemn her..._ The Elven warrior gritted his teeth and tried to shove the words away. He'd known what it would mean to fall in love with a mortal, stars curse it. He'd known he would have to say goodbye one day. He'd been resigned to it. Yet his father's words of hope, and Táebfada's talk of Mag Mell to Dylan, had allowed hope to slither into his heart and now... now the thought of losing her was like a knife in his chest.

"Oh! Your Highness!" That familiar - and right now, _most_ unwelcome - voice wrenched him back to reality. Nuada glanced up from scowling at the floor to see Lady Dierdre seated at one of the castle windows overlooking the gardens.

In her gown of russet velvet, she was like an autumn faerie looking out at the world through a window of ice. She'd glamoured the bruises away. If he'd chosen, he could have seen through the glamour, but he didn't choose to do so. He didn't even want to look at her. When he did, Nuada tasted the sweetness of blackberries on his tongue. Remembered the satin smoothness of Dierdre's skin under his fingers.

He offered a stilted, truncated bow. "Lady macAengus," he muttered. "Excuse me."

"Wait, Your Highness," she murmured. "Please." Peering around him to see that his guards had maintained a careful distance, she added, "We're in plain view of anyone who might come down the corridor. Nothing will happen. I've apologized for last night. If I've offended you, I can only ask your forgiveness."

"Lady macAengus, if you will-"

"Dierdre," she said softly. "Please, Your Highness. You said I could trust you. Does that not make us friends?"

Forcing his face to remain stony and his voice like ice, he replied, "No. It doesn't. Excuse me."

As he walked past, she asked, "Did Lady Dylan find out? Is that why she's in the gardens being charmed by Prince Zhenjin? To punish you for a simple mistake?"

Nuada stopped. Anger at Dierdre's words and surprise that she'd mention Dylan and concern for Dierdre's injuries mingled together until there was no distinguishing between the different flavors of emotion. Nuada turned to her, expressionless. There was no malice in the Elven woman's face. No anger. Only a quiet sadness and what might have been regret in her emerald eyes.

"What did you say?"

Dierdre gestured to the wide window out of which she'd been looking. "Down there. I like looking at the gardens. Some of them are like the gardens back home. I noticed them some time ago. Prince Zhenjin is a most attentive escort. I am not sure if Lady Dylan is merely enjoying his company, or if she seeks to punish you for what I have done. I would not have such a thing happen."

"My lady does not play such games," Nuada replied, stepping to the window. He caught a brief whiff of Dierdre's perfume, poppy and snowdrop - identical to Naya's. He put it from his mind and looked out the window. Sure enough, he saw Dylan seated on a bench wrapped in a green cloak the Bethmooran prince recognized as belonging to Zhenjin. The Dilong prince sat beside her, talking animatedly. The mortal laughed at something he said. Zhenjin grasped Dylan's hand and kissed it. She grinned. The Elven warrior clasped her hand in both of his and said something else. She laughed again and leaned toward him. What were they talking about? What was going on down there?

"Your Highness?" Dierdre murmured, touching his wrist with the tips of her fingers. Nuada felt that delicate touch all the way down to his bones. It took everything he had not to jerk away from her. "Are you all right?"

The prince tore his eyes away from the scene beyond the window. "Well enough," he said. "Excuse me, Dierdre." He turned away from her and continued down the corridor, missing the satisfied smile curving her lips. He'd called her Dierdre.

_And he didn't even notice. I doubt he noticed the dream spell I put on him last night, either, or that it latched onto his little human toy. How interesting. He's more distracted by our kiss than I thought._ Which, to Dierdre's way of thinking, was perfect. _Maybe I should try for another one soon. I'll have to speak to Bres._

**.**

Dylan couldn't seem to stop laughing. For the last two hours, Zhenjin had regaled her with stories of his youthful adventures - and misadventures - with Nuada. Including just what the three eldest Dilong princes and the crown prince of Bethmoora really _had_ found the night before King Anterion's coronation instead of naked Greek dancing girls. Now the mortal and the Dragon Prince sat on a bench in a patch of late-afternoon sunshine while Zhenjin told Dylan about the last time he'd ever seen Nuada rip-roaring drunk.

"So then he kissed the barmaid's hand before clasping to his chest," Zhenjin said, grasping Dylan's hand and brushing a swift kiss across the back of it. She had such small hands compared to Elven women, the prince reflected. Amazing to think these mortal hands had tended Nuada's wounds for three months. The Elf brought the mortal's captive hand to his heart. "Just like this. Never mind that her hand was nearly twice as large as both of his. And he proceeded to inform the barmaid that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, that he'd been struck by love's cruel arrow, and that she was now the sun and moon to him, the very stars themselves, and without her he would forever dwell in darkness."

The human woman had already laughed until her sides hurt, and they'd yet to recover, so when she laughed now, she leaned over a little to relieve some of the strain on her aching ribs. "Oh, my gosh, really? What was the barmaid, again? A cave troll or something?"

Zhenjin shook his head, grinning. "A _likho_," he replied. "A one-eyed goblin hag. They've hair like swamp weed, doughy skin the color of moldy bread, black-rotted stumps for teeth, a snake's tongue, and sixteen fingers with nails like gnarled tree roots. And she was likely old enough to be Nuada's grandmother. I do not think Silverlance has ever been that drunk since."

"He didn't... I mean..." Blushing, Dylan ventured, "He didn't... sleep with her. Did he?"

"I don't know if I should answer that. He might hurt me."

She laughed. Zhenjin was surprised that her laugh didn't irritate him at all. In fact, he'd enjoyed hearing it during the last few hours he'd spent in the human's company. Most women of the Dilong court were taught that men preferred quiet wives, and so rarely laughed as freely and openly as Dylan did. And the way the scars on her face moved when she changed expression was interesting.

"Don't worry, Your Highness. I'll protect you from him. He thinks I'm scary and fierce."

The prince choked on his own laughter. "And are you?"

"I can be." Her grin was infectious and self-deprecating. "When I want." She sighed then and glanced up at the sky. "Wow. It's almost sunset. It must be late. Thank you for staying out here with me, Your Highness."

On impulse, he said, "Zhenjin, please."

Dylan inclined her head. "All right, then. Thank you, Zhenjin. It's been wonderful. I was having... a really bad day, but you've made it a lot better. Thank you."

"It is my pleasure, milady. If I may," he added, speaking hesitantly to give her time to protest, "I would imagine you and Silverlance quarreled, and that's the source of your sorrow. Am I wrong?" After a moment, she mumbled that no, he wasn't wrong. Zhenjin nodded and leaned back against the stone wall of the Fomorian garden they'd stopped to admire. "Forgive me if I am too forward, milady, but... you are angry with him? He's caused you some grief." She nodded. Zhenjin sighed. "I know Silverlance, and I know he would never purposely hurt the people he loves. Whatever it is, whatever he has done, I know he didn't do it with the intention to hurt you. One need only look at him to see how very much he loves you, milady."

She hunched in the warm, silken confines of the _beizi_ and sighed. "People hurt the people they love all the time. Love doesn't change the hurt."

"The hurt does not change how he feels for you, either," Zhenjin murmured. "Though, as I've proven to you several times already today, Silverlance can be a bit of a blockhead sometimes. Has your heart changed toward him?" Dylan shook her head. "Then that which matters most remains unchanged. Everything else will fall into place eventually. There is an old Dilong proverb. 'Even the dragon must follow where the heart commands.'"

Dylan looked up at the tall Elven warrior prince. His dark hair was tied back by a green band to keep it out of his eyes. Strange, that such a reptilian gaze could seem so comforting and friendly. He bore but one scar on his cheek, pale against the copper of his skin. He looked younger than Nuada, but not by much. The late afternoon sun made the tracery of emerald scales along his brows and neck gleam. Yet for all he was so alien, he seemed suddenly very human to her.

"Do you... approve of mine and Nuada's relationship, Zhenjin? I know it's this big scandal to some people."

He considered for a long moment before answering.

"I believe... I _know_ that Silverlance has lost many people he cared for. Lost many that he loved. He bears a heavy burden, what with the responsibilities of the crown prince and the weight of all the lives he carries on his shoulders. Yet when he's with you, that burden is lifted somewhat. I've never seen him as he is with you. At the banquet mere days ago, he laughed over something you'd said. I had not heard him laugh like that in a long time. You make him happier than I've seen in many years.

"I have seen what Nuada has seen of you. I have felt what he's felt. If anyone is worthy of his regard, it is you, Dylan. So yes, I approve of you being together. I am happy for my friend, that he has at last found someone to love him as he deserves. And all those stuffed-shirt nobles who take issue can go hang for all I care."

Dylan smiled. "Thank you, Zhenjin. I'd like us to be friends."

The prince inclined his head. "Then friends we are, my lady. It would be my honor. Are you going to forgive Nuada?"

Her smile slipped away. "You're a good friend to him, but... it isn't that simple. Forgiveness takes time. I'm working on it, though. I do love him. Don't think I don't."

"I would never dream of accusing you of not loving him, after all you've done for him," the prince replied. "I would be a fool to doubt you. I am merely concerned for him. He has shouldered many burdens and suffered many losses over the years. I don't want to see him hurt."

"Neither do I." She sighed. Glanced toward the castle. "I should go talk to him. Will you walk me back?"

"You just want to keep my cloak a little longer."

Knowing he was trying to make her smile, trying to ease her sudden melancholy, made Dylan like Zhenjin even more. It wasn't like he had a reason to be nice to her. She was more than grateful. So she obliged him by smiling and lightening her tone. "Well, yeah. It's all nice and toasty."

Zhenjin laughed and got to his feet. "Very well, my lady. If you insist, I can do no other than oblige you. Let us return to Findias' stone walls, so that I might have my cloak back before I turn into an icicle."


	79. Shed One Bitter Tear

_**Author's Note:**_ _So here's the latest chapter, posted because - I'll admit it - I'm a review hog. I love reviews. And I haven't gotten as many as I expected. I'm only depressed about this because my mouth hurts and because I miss writing to you guys. I love you all, and love writing to you. I miss you and miss hearing from you and writing to you. Your interest makes me sooo happy. I can't even tell you._

_Also, just so you know, yes - there is some drama/angst in this chapter (of course, considering the events of last chapter). However, there are lots of other things, as well. Outside situations and influences and external conflict and blah-blah. I'm trying to balance here so you guys stay interested and enjoy the story while still being realistic._

_Loves to you all! Huggles!_

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19200

**Chapter Seventy-Eight**

**Shed One Bitter Tear**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Visit, Wolves, Back at the Crime Scene, More Confessions, Orders, Poison, Slipping & Falling, Sticks & Stones, a Conversation, and a Scent**

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Nuada felt the frigid chill right before a knock sounded at his study door. He glanced up from the glass of Elven wine he'd just poured in an attempt to cleanse the taste of blackberries and Fomorian woman from his mouth. Even as the Elf watched, frost crept across the full glass. Ice crystals swept across the surface of the dark red wine. The fire in the hearth crackled once before going eerily dim. The lamps flickered. Wisps of smoke like tiny ghosts were all that remained of the suddenly-extinguished candle flames. When Nuada laid his palms flat against his desk, the polished wood burned his skin with cold. The mildewy stink of moist graveyard earth assaulted his nose.

The door creaked open with all the ominous weight of a mausoleum opening to release some desiccated, undead _thing_. Although Nuada knew his guards were in the front room, although he'd heard no sounds to indicate a fight had occurred, the only thing he saw beyond the entryway was impenetrable shadow. The Elven warrior stood and unsheathed his sword.

"If I chose to kill you, stupid boy, that puny weapon would avail you nothing," said a voice as sere as October wind. Something began to emerge from the darkness beyond the doorway. Two pinpricks of unearthly green burned from the shadowy depths. "But _I_ am not as rude as some. I would not accept an invitation and then turn around and murder my host - or my host's feckless dunce of an heir."

From the dark stepped a tall, skeletally thin fae with a beaked nose and a bald head marked with age-spots. The withered mouth sported stained teeth that had taken on a sharpness like a wolf's. Long yellow nails sprouted from worm-like fingers. And when those burning green eyes fixed on Nuada's face, the prince tasted cold damp stone and rot and the crisp bitterness of autumn wind.

"My lord Moundshroud," Nuada murmured when he'd found his voice.

"Prince Nuada Silverlance," the old fae growled. "I have one question and then I shall decide how to proceed. Are you trifling with my girl?"

"Your-" He cut himself off the moment he realized who the Keeper of the Samhain Tree meant. "I'm not trifling with Dylan, my lord. On my honor."

The elderly fae king nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. I would hate to have to kill you. Getting blood out of velvet is such a chore for my servants, and my wife complains." Moundshroud stepped into the study and strode to a chair. Without waiting for permission he sat. The door slammed shut behind him. "Your guards are still alive, if it matters."

"I thank you for sparing them," the prince replied, sheathing his sword. He took his own seat, moving slowly, keeping a wary eye on the faerie in front of him. "What can I do for you, my lord?"

"What are the odds that I can have the name of the trollop you kissed last night, Your Highness?"

Nuada stiffened. "My lady told you, then."

Moundshroud scoffed. "I pried it out of the dear girl eventually. As if she could hide anything from me. Now, the name of the trollop, if you please, so that I may rid Dylan of the nuisance?"

"I can't do that," the Elven warrior said, "since you clearly mean to kill her."

A cruel smile tugged at Moundshroud's thin, wrinkled lips. "Kill her? Your little tart? No. I need not kill her to punish her for poaching on my girl's territory. I'm a bit more creative than that, young prince. Besides, if I kill her, I'll have to deal with her sovereign, whoever they are, and _that_ would be a nuisance to _me_. Dealing with the other kings is a bit of bother. Hence why you can yet count yourself a man. Well, you have the bother to thank, and your lady pleading your case. She asked me not to hurt you, so I won't." Voice deepening to an almost savage growl, Moundshroud added, "Although I ought to."

"What happens between my lady and I is none of your concern," Nuada said coolly.

One of the king's knife-thin eyebrows winged upward. He steepled those long, wormy fingers. The thick talons clicked together. Moundshroud leaned forward. The taste of rot and mold on Nuada's tongue doubled. He smelled ice and wet earth. The faintest prickle of pure, raw power washed over him.

"I've known that girl for nearly ten years. Much longer than you, you arrogant brat. You hurt my girl. Do you think just because you're the crown prince of this little dung-hill of a kingdom, I'll stand by and allow you to hurt her again? I don't care about the other kingdoms. I don't care about politics and treaties and alliances. I have my interests. Dylan is one of them. A fortunate favorite. Anyone who hurts one of my favorites will live just long enough to regret it."

In a carefully controlled voice, the crown prince of Bethmoora demanded, "How dare you threaten the king's heir?"

Moundshroud smiled. His teeth gleamed. That odd green light burned in his dark eyes. "Oh, I'm not threatening you, boy. I am merely informing you. When I offer someone my protection, I expect the other monarchs and their spawn to respect that and leave well enough alone. Yet you have the audacity to toy with her. I'm not to blame for your suicidal tendencies."

"I'm _not_ toying with her!" Nuada snapped. "And if you care so much about her, why speak to me? Why not speak to my father about how he treats Lady Dylan?"

"Because _you_ are the one who can reduce her to tears, you selfish Elven whelp, and _you_ are the one she loves. How dare you dally with some whore after asking my girl to marry you?"

"I don't have to listen to this."

Dark eyes, gleaming with otherworldly light like St. Elmo's fire, narrowed dangerously. "Will you roust me from your sanctuary, little prince? With what power? Have you forgotten I outrank even the once-legendary King Balor? You will shut up, you will listen, and you will heed me. If you hurt Dylan again, if you tryst with that slut again, I will kill your tart. I don't like anyone interfering with my people. Remember that. I don't care if you have to paste on a smile and pretend to be madly in love with Dylan, you will-"

"I don't need to pretend," Nuada informed the old fae sharply. "I love her."

"If you really loved her, you wouldn't hurt her." Moundshroud shoved to his feet. Nuada rose to his. "I've warned you. Touch that bitch again, and I _will_ kill her, and it will be a long, slow, brutal death. Keep that in mind." He started to turn away. Paused. "Does Dylan know you plan to wage war on the human race?"

After a moment of silence, the prince replied, "No."

Moundshroud raised an eyebrow. "A coward as well as a philandering cad. Interesting." Without another word the door flew open and the king of Weir swept out of Nuada's study. The door slammed shut behind him. Nuada sank into his chair on legs suddenly gone weak.

_I will kill your tart._ Dierdre. The Keeper of the Samhain Tree would kill Dierdre if... if what? Nuada didn't know, and _that_ was a problem. The Elven prince couldn't avoid her forever. There were events coming up in the next several weeks that would bring them together. Honor dictated he seek to protect the scarlet Fomori. It wasn't _her_ fault Nuada had given her the impression he wanted anything more than to comfort her in her distress. It was his own fault for allowing the Elven woman so close. He couldn't let her be harmed.

What did Moundshroud consider "trysting?" If Nuada kissed Dierdre again? Not that such a thing would happen; Nuada had already sworn that it never would. But what if the old fae's definition were broader? A touch, a glance? What would put Dierdre in danger? _Touch that bitch again, and I_ will _kill her, and it will be a long, slow, brutal death._ Shades of Annwn, what was he supposed to do? Ask Dylan to speak to the old king? And how would such a conversation go?

_Badly,_ Nuada thought with no little bitterness. _What would I say? "Forgive me, darling, but can you please plead my case to one of the most dangerous kings in Faerie regarding the woman I betrayed you with, even though you refuse to speak to me?" Yes, I see that going over_ very _well._

Topaz eyes landed on the wineglass on his desk. Slivers of ice still floated in the burgundy liquid. He touched the glass. The chill was just as icy as the one shivering down his spine at the thought of what a fae like Moundshroud could do to a helpless Elven woman. Anger simmered in Nuada's blood. A kiss - even several kisses - wasn't a crime punishable by death.

There was no help for it. For Dierdre's sake, he would have to speak to Dylan when she returned.

**.**

"Tiana! Tiana, where are you? Tiana!"

In the mortal realm, in the state of New Jersey, Anya looked around the park for a familiar head of blond hair. Where was Tiana? Dylan was going to kill her, the BPRD agent thought with no little trepidation.

Of course Anya had no real experience with children. Only what she remembered of her own childhood and the things she and Dylan had talked about over the years. So naturally, not knowing what she was doing after only a month with the young survivor of the attack on the Met, Anya had managed to lose track of the little girl for a minute.

One minute, the BPRD operative thought, sudden unease prickling along the back of her neck, was all it took sometimes.

In another part of the park, just out of earshot, Tiana trembled as she scrunched against a bench. The man standing over her wasn't _really_ a man. She could tell. She could See the way his eyes glinted copper in the wintry late afternoon sunlight. The way fangs protruded from his gums in rows. Fur had begun sprouting in mangy patches along his arms. His bones ground together, crackling and crunching, as his jaw elongated into a stunted muzzle. Claws replaced his fingernails.

_Oh, help,_ Tiana thought, but fear evaporated the scream in her throat. She could only stare wide-eyed at the wolf-man looming above her, his shoulders hunching as the change continued. Suddenly, he stopped shifting. Half-wolf, half-man, he glared at her. Leaned down until his shaggy blond fur brushed her face. _Help!_

A breathless squeak shuddered out of her mouth.

"Quiet," the wolf-man growled, and took a deep sniff at Tiana's neck. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to get enough air in her lungs to scream. The wolf-man sniffed her again. His slimy tongue slid like a warm slug along her cheek. She whimpered and curled up into a tight ball on the bench. "Ah, crap," the monster growled. "Gonna have to report back to that pony bastard. Great."

With that, the man ripped through the change so that a mangy-looking, emaciated wolf-like creature snarled at her before loping off into the trees of the park just as Anya called Tiana's name. Tiana saw her coming up one of the paths. Terror galvanized the little girl. Scrambling off the bench, nearly tripping over her _Brave_ sneakers, she ran for the BPRD agent as fast as her legs could carry her.

**.**

Sergeant Matlock, who despised working with Lt. Charlotte Peabody and _her_ sergeant, James Donovan, wanted to be anywhere but in the private office of the late Doctor Lucian Westenra, looking for more evidence as to who might've killed him. The crime-scene sweepers had already been through the place, so Matlock had no idea why they were there. A personal favor to Dr. Myers from her old buddy Peabody? Maybe. If so, why? Or was Peabody desperate since the case had gone cold over the last few weeks?

"I still say the good doctor got whacked by a pro," Matlock muttered as he scanned the desk. The pool of blood had been cleaned up a long time ago, but Matlock remembered the way the congealed pool had still gleamed under the office's fluorescent lights the day Westenra's body was discovered. Where had all that blood come from? There'd only been one wound on the body - a single stab to the chest, just nicking the lung. Why hadn't the old psychiatrist fought off his attacker? Gone for help? There'd been no sign of restraints or even defensive wounds. Had Westenra just lain there and let someone kill him? "Though who would hire a professional killer to take out one shrink?"

Peabody and Donovan exchanged a look that told lieutenant and sergeant they were thinking the exact same thing: Dylan Myers. Not that Dylan would've hired anyone to kill anybody, but what if someone had killed the psychopathic doctor _because_ of the younger psychiatrist? Peabody thought back to earlier, in February, when she'd spoken to Dylan about the brutal attack in the subway tunnels.

_Those men will never hurt anyone again. I promise you that_, Dylan had said regarding the members of the Rojos that had attacked her. Peabody had never pushed her about it after that initial conversation where the other woman had made it clear she couldn't - or wouldn't - explain where she'd been for three months.

_She has someone to protect,_ the lieutenant thought as she scanned the filing cabinets along the walls like they would give up the information she needed. _Someone special. The question is, is this person, whoever they are, trying to protect her, too? Did the person who saved her back then have anything to do with this? And if they were involved, would Dylan tell me? Or would she try to hide it? And why would anyone worried about Dylan go after Westenra now?_

Donovan knew what his boss was thinking. Dylan, her history with Westenra, all the things Westenra had been accused of but never been convicted of. The Blackwood brothers' involvement might've crossed Peabody's mind, too. Maybe those punks had had a hand in this somehow, trying to shake Dylan up, or lay the blame for the murder on her doorstep. The police sergeant frowned. What _if_ the Blackwoods had killed Westenra? Then what? There was no way to bag them for it. Those scumbags could slip out of any cop-noose, no matter how tight. They were slippery as slime. He hated them, and not just because of Dylan.

He'd have to give her a call, he decided. There was just no way he could avoid it and not feel like crap. He'd known Dylan a long time, and she was a good kid. A good doctor, and a great therapist. She really cared about her kids. Really cared about people in general. Leaving her in the dark about the possibilities revolving around Westenra's death felt wrong. But he'd have to be careful how he did it. There was bending the law, and then there was breaking it. He was a cop, but Dylan was his friend. He couldn't just let her hang like that. Westenra had been a problem for her when the douche bag was alive, and Donovan wasn't going to let him be a problem for her now that he was dead. Not if he could help it.

The sergeant decided he'd call Dylan tomorrow. No, Monday. She almost never answered her phone on Sundays. He'd call her Monday and let her know what was in the wind.

He noticed Matlock eyeing him, and went back to perusing the crime scene. That guy was a pain in the neck.

**.**

Nuada sat in Dylan's sitting room, watching the fire smolder, wondering many things: whether his father had meant to rip his heart out; whether there was something going on between Dylan and Zhenjin, though his suspicion made him feel petty and hypocritical; and whether he'd lost his truelove because of a single moment of foolish passion with another woman. He wondered until pain throbbed behind his eyes. Then the door of Dylan's sitting room pushed open and Dylan poked her head inside.

The moment he saw her, words snapped out of him. "Leave us," he commanded his guards, who made their escape. Nuada rose to his feet and watched his lady come into the room. After an interminable silence, he murmured, "I've been waiting."

"I've been with Zhenjin in the gardens."

"Yes, I know."

She hesitated. "Is that a problem?"

He opened his mouth. Found he had no words. She'd done nothing wrong, yet in his mind's eye he saw the way her face had lit up with laughter at whatever Zhenjin had told her. He imagined the way color must've crept into her cheeks when the Dilong prince kissed her hand. Nuada cleared his throat. "No, it isn't. I saw you from one of the palace windows. You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

Dylan nodded. "Yeah, he... he tells good stories." She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dark dress. Dylan wanted to run to Nuada and give him a good kick in the shins. Punch him in the shoulder until her knuckles ached. Slap him, maybe. She wanted to throw her arms around him and ask if he still loved her for real, or if he was lying for some ulterior motive. Instead she stood there and watched him.

Finally Nuada could bear the silence no longer. "Have you come to a decision?"

She frowned. "A decision?"

"Are you going to leave?"

The surprise in her gaze morphed quickly into hurt and suspicion. "Is that what you want? For me to leave? So you can say I broke my word and abandoned you after agreeing to marry you? Which I guess you should've expected since I'm human."

"What? Of course not." Nuada hesitated. "You're never going to forgive me, are you?"

"I... I don't know." Dylan leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. "I want to. I don't want to fight. I don't want to be at odds with you. We're supposed to be a team. Did you tell Wink?" She asked abruptly.

No. No, he hadn't told Wink. For one thing, Wink and Lorelei had been in the township most of the day. For another, he wasn't certain he could bear to see the same disappointment and anger in his vassal's eyes that he saw in Dylan's now. And though Wink would never forsake him for such a spectacular piece of idiocy, that didn't mean the troll wouldn't hold it against him - which was no less than the Elven prince deserved. Nuada shook his head in answer to Dylan's question.

"Did you like it?" She asked suddenly.

The words were a slap. Nuada swallowed. What to say to such a question? The truth? It would devastate her. Should he lie, then? Not if he was ever to regain her trust. "Dylan... why does it mat-"

"Just answer the question."

"Dylan-"

"_Did you like kissing her?_"

After a long silence, he forced himself to meet her eyes. "Yes."

Her eyes widened fractionally before she managed to school her pale face to blankness. She nodded as if having an awful truth confirmed. "If I... didn't put limitations on our physical relationship, would you still have kissed her?"

"Your rules have _nothing_ to do with it. Is that what you think? That I'm punishing you for denying me? You truly think I would do that?"

"I don't know anymore." She bit her lip before remembering she was trying to break that habit. A sigh escaped as she dragged her gaze from the floor to Nuada's face. "Why'd you do it, then? Why did you kiss her?"

"She kissed me first." It was a paltry excuse and he knew it.

The words were tormented when Dylan replied, "You kissed her back. Why?"

"I... I don't know. But Dylan, I swear, it had nothing to do with you."

Her eyes flashed. "So, what, you thought I wouldn't care? Or you just forgot we were engaged? You didn't think about me at all?"

"No, I did, but-"

"But what? You just decided I didn't matter?"

"No, dammit!" Nuada slammed the side of his fist against the stone mantel. Pain throbbed up his arm. "No. The moment I realized what I'd done, my first thought was of you. Of how I'd betrayed you. I couldn't believe I had betrayed you that way." Reluctantly, he met her eyes. "Dylan, I may be many things, and I have wronged you in many ways, but you must know this - what happened between Dierdre and I doesn't mean I don't love you. You must believe that."

The breath she drew threatened to choke her. It shuddered as she released it. "Are you falling for her?"

"No. You are the one I love."

Dylan hugged herself. "I... I'm so angry with you," she confessed. "I've never been this angry with you before. It's like I'm choking on it." She squeezed herself tighter. "Did you sleep with her?"

He shook his head. "I swear to you, Dylan, I have not."

"Did you want to?" She asked, her voice choked. Nuada flinched. It was barely perceptible, but Dylan knew him, and she saw it. Her eyes widened and she stared at him in utter betrayed shock. "You wanted to. You... you wanted to sleep with her. Oh, my God. Gosh," she corrected herself automatically. However, Nuada knew his lady was devastated to have even said it in the first place. Dylan's eyes were accusing when he met her gaze. "You bastard."

Nuada raked a hand through his hair. "I didn't bed her."

"You _wanted_ to. Deny it if it isn't true. Tell me it's not true, that you didn't want to." When he said nothing, she felt the first tear slip down her cheek. "What is it? Am I... am I not enough for you? Am I so inadequate that you have to go to some whore for-"

"Dierdre isn't a whore." It was the wrong thing to say; he knew it the moment her eyes widened and her face went pale.

"You're defending her?" Dylan demanded. "To _me?_ You're defending..." She covered her face with both hands for a moment, and a chill whispered down Nuada's spine. Was she going to break? Suffer a flashback? But then she simply lowered her hands and stared at him with exhausted, lifeless eyes. "You know what I was thinking today? Just before I made it back here, I thought, 'Why does stuff keep happening to try and force us apart?' It's like Fate's trying to screw with us or something. I'm just kidding myself, aren't I? There's no way we're going to end up together. Have you been lying to me all this time about how you felt?"

"No! Gods, Dylan, no. Never think that."

"What am I supposed to think, Nuada?" She ran her hands through her hair. Sighed. "Nothing's working out for us. Everything stands against us. Maybe we should just accept it and... and go our separate ways before it all blows up in our faces."

The look on Nuada's face was as if she'd decked him. It was only there for an instant, but that was long enough for her to see and recognize it for what it was before it vanished. He fixed his gaze on a point somewhere past her left shoulder. "You mean give up? You, who never gives up on anything, who fights for everything and everyone she holds dear - _you_ want to give up on us? Truly?"

"I don't know, Nuada," she muttered. "Okay? Everything seems to go wrong for us. What if it's destiny or something?"

"Then to Hell with destiny!" The Elven warrior snapped. "I am master of my own fate. I make my own choices. If you want to be with me, if I want to be with you, and the Fates want to keep us apart, then I'll fight them. I'll fight Fate, and the gods. I'll change the stars in their courses if they set themselves against me in this."

Her voice quavered when she asked, "So you would fight for me? To keep me?"

"Until my dying breath. How could you doubt that?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "You ask me how I could doubt you after what you've told me?"

"Dylan... I cannot change the past. I would if it were possible, if only to spare you this grief, but I can't."

The mortal woman drew a long, slow breath. "Do you think I'm being stupid about this? Do you think I'm being unreasonable?"

"No," he murmured. "I don't. In fact, I was surprised you didn't throw my ring back in my face and return to the mortal realm this morning. I was grateful. You must believe me - I wouldn't hurt you for the world, mo duinne."

She flinched. "Don't call me that."

Surprise and pain twisted into icy knots in his belly. _I love it when you call me "mo duinne,"_ she'd said less than two months before. And now... "Dylan... beloved-"

"Don't call me that!" She yelled, turning away from him. "Don't ever..."

Everything he'd told her crashed around inside her head, battering down her defenses. He'd enjoyed kissing Dierdre. Wanted to do more than just kiss her. Had _defended_ Dierdre. After everything they'd been through together, he... _Dierdre isn't a whore._ Wasn't she enough for him, Dylan wondered? Why would he fight for her if she wasn't enough? But if she _was_, why go to someone else? It was all too much. She couldn't think.

"Do you intend to leave me?" Nuada asked softly. "I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I... I would ask... Dylan, _you_ are the one I want. The one I love. Only you. I have loved others, and I have been with many women over the centuries, but none of them compare to you. No one lifts my heart or soothes my sorrow as you do. No one fires my blood with such ease. No one knows me so intimately or truly. I would never throw away what we have."

"But you did," she said wearily. She was suddenly so tired. So tired, and her heart hurt in a way she'd never known before. "You did throw it away, Nuada. Even if it was for just a few minutes, you decided I didn't matter. That _we_ didn't matter. I trusted you as I've trusted no one else and then you... but maybe it's for the best."

Icy dread crystallized inside him. "What is?"

"Maybe... maybe we should just forget everything that's happened between us the last few weeks and stick with the original plan. Finding a way out of the whole marriage thing, and if we can't, then just being married in name only. That way you can do... do what you need to. Whatever that is. I won't get in the way."

"What I need? Dylan, I need nothing but you. I love you."

"Don't say that. Don't lie to me, please."

"It isn't a lie." His voice was an agonized whisper. "May the gods damn me to Hell if it is. I love you, Dylan. Allow me to prove it."

She shook her head. "I don't want you to try and prove it. Just... just don't say that anymore." She couldn't think when he said it, especially when it sounded as if the words were being torn from him. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to... this has all been so fast. Of course we jumped to conclusions. With all the stress and everything, of course it heightened our emotions. But it was stupid of us to think that a month-long relationship meant love and commitment. Stupid of me to think..."

"Stupid?" The word rumbled like thunder. Nuada's expression turned stormy. "Stupid? You're saying it was stupid for us to fall in love? Stupid to think anything between us could work? That it was stupid to believe in us? In what we have? Is that truly what you're saying?"

"Well, wasn't it? Everything's going wrong-"

"If you are going to forsake me for what I've done, say so and do it!" Nuada thundered. "Don't act the coward and lie to me about not loving me and how what we have is a mistake!" He turned away to stare into the fireplace. When next he spoke, his voice was hoarse with pain. "If you can't forgive me, then well enough. I have no choice but to accept that. Leave, if that is your wish. I'll not stop you. But don't torture me as you do it. If your intention is to seek vengeance by ripping out my heart, at least be merciful and do it quickly, then get out so I may bleed to death in private."

"What do you want me to do, Nuada? Am I not supposed to second-guess everything, doubt everything, because of this? Because I can't do that. What am I supposed to think? It was hard enough thinking you could ever want me in the first place, and now I-"

"If you're going," he muttered, "then go, and leave me in peace." In his mind echoed a litany that was almost a prayer. _Please don't go. Please don't leave me._

Dylan's eyes widened. "You're throwing me out?"

He turned his feral gaze on her. "You're the one who wants to walk away, Dylan. After all your promises. After everything we've been through. _You_ are the one who wants to walk away from _me_. From _us_."

"That isn't what I said." _He doesn't want me anymore,_ she thought. _How could he...but I... he doesn't want me?_ Somehow Dylan managed to keep her voice steady when she added, "I'm not walking away. I still owe you my fealty."

Nuada's fist slammed against the mantel hard enough to rattle a few of the snow globes Dylan had set upon it. He whirled on her.

"Your fealty? You still owe me your _fealty_? Damn you. I don't want your Fates-cursed fealty. I don't want you here if you do not wish to be here. I'm not a monster, stars curse it! I'll not keep you chained to my side! Walk away if that is your wish. I've already said I'll not stop you."

"You... you don't want me here?" She echoed. His mouth opened, closed. He looked away. He couldn't lie to her, so he said nothing. "So this whole thing with Dierdre was what? A way to get me to leave?"

His gaze snapped to her face. Anger made his eyes glitter like icy topaz jewels. "I have already explained myself more than once. I'll not do it again."

Without looking away from his face, she whispered, "I hate you." Nuada jolted as if he'd been struck. He tried to speak, but he had no breath, no voice. He swallowed hard. It felt like swallowing glass. "I hate you," she repeated. "How dare you stand there so arrogant and cold when _you_ started this? I didn't stab you in the back. _You_ betrayed _me!_ I hate you!"

"Don't... don't say that."

"Why not? Isn't that what you want to hear?" Anger simmered in her blood, but it cooled when Nuada, stricken, mutely shook his head. The misery in his eyes clawed at Dylan's heart. He took a step toward her. The hand he held out to her shook slightly.

"Dylan," he said. "Dylan, that's not true. Is it? You said you could never hate me."

Surprised, she could only stare at him for a minute. She _had_ said that, hadn't she? And she loved him, didn't she? So much it hurt to look at him and see the pain so brutal and raw in his eyes. But she couldn't bear for him to just stand there, so icily aloof, and tell her to go away, either.

"I... I don't... I can't see you right now," Dylan whispered, the words agonized. "I need to get away from you."

She couldn't cry in front of him. If she didn't get away, she'd break down, and if he tried to hold her, she didn't know what would happen. Would she forgive him? Tell him he could do what he wanted, so long as he promised to always be with her? So long as they just stopped fighting? No. She refused to give in that way. To be that weak.

And if she _did_ give in... nothing would ever be right between them. This had to be hashed out but she still didn't have the strength to do it. She'd thought she would, but she didn't. Not after... _If you're going, then go._ Go. Perhaps that _was_ best, at least for now.

"I have to go."

"Go where?" The prince demanded, struggling not to sound stricken. _I hate you_ pounded through his skull. "Don't go."

"I don't know," she mumbled. "I don't know. Just... stay away from me."

He reached for her again. He couldn't help himself. "Dylan... Dylan, my love, please, I'm sorry, I-"

Dylan wrenched away from him, just as she had that morning. _My love._ The words made her chest ache. Made the anger and hurt and betrayal twist into thorny tangles inside her. She'd thought she was ready to talk to him rationally and calmly but there was just no way. Not right now. _Dylan, my love... mo duinne... Dierdre isn't a whore... leave... get out... Dierdre isn't a whore..._

"This is not my fault," she said. "I didn't start this; you did. If you tell me to walk away, that's your choice. You're my prince," she added bitterly, "which means I'm honor-bound to follow your orders. But I'm walking out that door because I need to be alone some more. I can't be near you right now because I can't think straight. I can't think when you're looking at me like that. If you ever want this to be right, you need to let me walk away for a while."

Nuada swallowed. His throat and chest were so tight they ached. "And when you return?" _Will you return?_ "Will we talk then? Will it finally be finished? Or will you continue to attempt to break me to pieces?"

"Me? _I'm_ breaking _you_? You ripped my heart out and you have the gall to stand there and-"

"And what do you call this? You speak of walking away, of leaving me with _nothing_, when you swore you would never-"

"You told me to go!"

"You told me there was nothing I could do that would ever make you stop loving me! Nothing I could do that you wouldn't forgive! Was that a lie? You forsake me, with those promises still warm in your mouth, and then dare to accuse me of breaking your heart? Don't you know I would rather cut my own throat than hurt you? But it was just a mistake-"

"Just a mistake? _Just?_ A mistake is when you miscalculate on a math test or accidentally knock over a glass of milk. What you did wasn't a mistake; you did it in purpose! And you... I... we... you know what? Go play with your whore," she snapped, perilously close to tears, "and leave me alone! Don't wait up for me." Without another word she swept back into the hallway where her guards waited, leaving him standing in her sitting room, staring after her, his heart bleeding.

**.**

"It'll have to be soon," the Elven healer murmured to Naya. They were whispering in one of the rooms in the Healers' Wing, using a bit of shielding magic to ensure they weren't overheard. "Our master is concerned by what he saw in the gardens earlier this afternoon."

Polunochnaya blinked in surprise. "What did he see?"

"The prince's tramp flirting with the heir to the Dilong throne," the healer snarled. "Filthy slut. Rutting with the crown prince one day, trying to get with his child, then spreading her legs for another prince the next. Flirting with him under our prince's very nose. Silverlance may be a monster and a traitor to the Crown, but he is still _our_ prince. How dare that little trollop shame him that way?"

Naya shook her head. That didn't sound like Lady Dylan at all. Her devotion to Nuada was obvious even to the blind. "Perhaps our master is mistaken."

"No. His spy among the prince's guards said Silverlance saw it as well. The prince was most upset. And that's not all." The Bethmooran Elf looked around to ensure they were alone before leaning in and whispering, "The prince has taken a mistress from the Fomorian envoy. Lady Dierdre macAengus."

Cat-slit silver eyes widened in disbelief. Nuada unfaithful to one he'd pledged himself to? She shook her head. "Now I know this information cannot be correct. Nuada would never do such a thing. He's far too honorable in that regard. He wouldn't take a lover when he already courts his lady. They're to be married. I had that from Nuala herself. She saw the queen's ring on the mortal's finger. Nuada would never gift his mother's ring to a woman he didn't love, and he would never betray a woman he loved."

"Be that as it may, our master says that with these developments, the assassination attempt must happen soon, no later than the Midwinter Ball. You must be on your guard. The right words must be planted in Silverlance's head before that time comes. Nuala trusts you. She'll listen to you. Also, our master bids you keep an eye on the prince's cat-girl. He's caught her looking at both our master and me in a strange way. She may know something. You have the ability to get close to Lady Dylan through the princess. Find out if the child has said anything."

Forcing the words from a suddenly dry throat, Naya asked, "And... if she has? If she's seen anything? Knows anything?"

"Kill her."

"But she's a child," Polunochnaya protested. "Surely-"

"The fate of the kingdom is at stake," the healer snapped. "Don't allow your soft heart to blind you to what's necessary. For the good of the kingdom, for the good of the fae, all must go according to our master's plans. There's no room for failure. Understand?"

"Yes," she replied with numb lips. "I understand. As our master wishes."

**.**

With Wink's help, Lorelei slid from the saddle to the ground. As her feet touched the stable floor, something sharp and frigid pierced through the shields around her empathic senses. Pain. Pain deep as bone, a festering wound of the heart. She frowned and glanced quickly around the stables. The horses seemed well enough. The stable-hands were all off-duty save the overnight staff, and they were allowed to sleep on cots in a back room. The shivering cold of grief wasn't coming from that far back in the massive royal stables, anyway. Perhaps one of the empty stalls?

"Lorelei?" Wink rumbled softly. "What is it?"

"I'm not certain," the rhinemaiden murmured. "Someone is upset. Heartbroken. They feel vaguely familiar, but I don't recognize them." But the river fae recognized one thing. Whoever it was, they wanted nothing more in that moment than to be left alone. "Never mind. What will we do now? Return to our rooms, or check in with His Highness?"

Wink frowned. Something had been weighing heavily on Nuada's mind that morning when he'd asked the cave troll to take Lorelei into the township to scout out the rumor mill. Something to do with the prince's mortal lady. The silver troll wanted to know if whatever it was had been resolved. Nuada couldn't afford to be distracted - especially with what he'd told Wink regarding the possible arrival of the Golden Crown piece in New York City sometime in the future.

"I'll walk you to our rooms," the grizzled warrior told his companion. "Then I will speak to the prince."

The cave troll was as good as his word. After seeing Lorelei safely to the double-room they shared and giving her snow-white cheek a brief caress with the very tip of one finger, Wink took himself to the prince's suite. He found A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti hunched on either side of the prince's study door, each of them clutching a picture book to their chests. When Wink entered, they looked up with a brief flare of hope in their eyes before it dimmed.

"He won't come out," 'Sa'ti mumbled, licking her hand and swiping at the fur on her cheeks. "He just keeps telling us to go away."

"He locked the door," A'du muttered. His bottle-brush tail lashed back and forth. "He's not s'posed to lock us out. What if we're in trouble? What if there's monsters?"

Cocking his head to one side, the troll rumbled curiously.

Taking a guess, A'du said, "We heard him and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan yelling at each other. Then she left, and he went in there and won't come out. Guardsman Siothrún said the prince is sulking." The little boy's whiskers pricked a little bit. He smiled wanly. "Guardsman Lorcc said Guardsman Siothrún should go soak his head in a bucket, so Siothrún left. Said he had to go make his report." The smile vanished as if it had never been. Troubled gray eyes met Wink's cyclopean gaze. "What's wrong with the prince? Why won't he come out?"

Wink had no idea, but he was going to find out. Striding to the door, he rapped on it with his metal fist.

"I told you to cease pestering me," Nuada said from the other side of the door.

Wink raised an eyebrow, drew a deep breath, and _roared_. 'Sa'ti squeaked. A'du yelped. Both cubs flattened their ears and covered them with their hands. Nuada's retinue of royal babysitters jumped a mile high. The door actually rattled a little.

When silence descended, A'du'la'di gazed up at Wink with absolute awe and breathed, "Awesome."

There was the _click_ of a lock disengaging. Wink turned the doorknob and strode in, pushing the door shut behind him with one hoof-like foot.

Nuada slouched in his desk chair, the firelight casting shadows across his face and in his eyes. He didn't even glance at his vassal as Wink came in and settled into the reinforced chair meant specifically for someone of his enormous size. Only asked, "Was the roaring truly necessary?"

The prince's voice was strangely flat. The troll asked, "Are you all right, Your Highness?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely splendid," he muttered bitterly.

"Have you been drinking?"

"No." A little. Just enough to dull the sharpest edges of the pain. "Not really. I don't dare. Dylan is out there," he gestured toward the door, "somewhere. If she gets into trouble, I must be able to get her out of it." Topaz eyes glittered in the dim firelight. "She's doing this to punish me. She must be. And I deserve it. Or else she truly _does_ hate me."

"You're not making much sense, my prince," Wink said slowly. Something wasn't right here. "The lassling? Hate you? Never." Unless... had Nuada told her of the Golden Army? Was that what this was about? "Why do you say this?"

"Because she _told_ me she hated me," the prince replied tonelessly, without expression. Only his eyes were alive with anguish. "Dylan told me she hated me, that she couldn't bear to look at me, that our entire relationship was a stupid mistake, and then she ordered me to stay away from her." Without looking away from the crackling fire, Nuada added, "I've lost her, Wink. She's going to leave me. She'll never forgive me."

After a moment, the troll ventured into the pressing silence, "You told her about the Golden Army?"

Nuada's laugh was short, bitter, and brittle. "As if I dared. It would be easier, I think, if I'd lost her because honor prevented me from choosing her happiness over the lives of my people. Instead I lost her because I was a selfish, philandering idiot who could not keep his loins in check when presented with an attractive woman. And now I don't even know where Dylan is. I should go find her, but she told me to stay away from her."

"You bedded another woman?" Wink demanded, shocked. _That_ didn't sound like the prince at all. "You cannot possibly have been _that_ stupid."

"I didn't bed her. I kissed her. It is still a betrayal." Quickly, emotionlessly, the prince explained it all to his vassal.

"Why did you let her get so close to you?" The troll demanded. The words _you idiot_ hung at the edge of the question like a tripwire.

Nuada glared at him. "What was I supposed to do? Leave her to weep uncomforted in the shadows?"

"And you didn't push her away when she kissed you because?"

Knowing he had no valid reason, Nuada snapped, "She caught me by surprise and then-"

"And then you let your loins take over instead of thinking with your brain," the troll growled. "A beautiful woman has her charms, but that you would throw away what you have with Lady Dylan for one night's pleasure-"

"You think I don't _know_ that?" The Elven warrior demanded. "I know I'm an idiot, Wink. I know. I don't need you to tell me." As if the sudden spurt of anger had drained him, Nuada slumped back in his chair. "I know the depths of my transgressions."

"You must go to Dylan," the troll said, "and apologize."

"I have," Nuada said. "She doesn't want my apologies." A flicker of fury in the prince's eyes now. "And the Keeper of the Samhain Tree had quite a bit to say, as well_._" The fingers of Nuada's right hand curled into a tight fist, so tight his knuckles ached. "He threatened Dierdre. I meant to ask Dylan to speak to him, but..." He shook his head.

Wink merely stared at him for a moment. Then he demanded, "Dierdre? Lord Moundshroud threatened Dierdre."

Nuada growled, "Not by name, but yes."

"The woman you betrayed your lady with."

Wary now of Wink's tone, he replied, "Yes."

"Don't defend her."

"But it was my-"

"Your fault, yes, and you're an idiot. I'm certain it has by now been recorded in the Royal Chronicles. But don't defend her, my prince. Especially to the lassling. That would make you a bigger idiot. Now, what can be done to make your lady forget how much of a jackass you've been?"

He passed a hand over his face. "Wink, honor demands I protect Lady Dierdre from Moundshroud. A few kisses are not a crime punishable by death. I would be a coward to allow her to be punished for _my_ betrayal-"

"If you defend her, Lady Dylan might perceive that as incentive to take a quick shot at your manhood. If she does, you're on your own. Focus on fixing your current problem." Wink folded his arms across his broad chest. "Go to Lady Dylan and apologize again. On your knees if you must."

"I don't know where she is," Nuada replied wearily.

"Then wait for her. She has to return eventually." Watching his prince, Wink sighed. "We'll figure something out in the morning - after you apologize. Get some rest so you're fresh to deal with whatever will come when the lassling returns. It's better than staring into the fire. You'll end up going blind doing that in this light; it's bad for your eyes."

Nuada gratified him with a brief laugh. "Yes, Father."

Wink gave him a very gentle whap across the back of the head. "You'll oblige me by remembering I'm bigger than you."

"And older," the prince murmured. "I suppose I should be ashamed, sassing my elders."

"Do you want to get your lady back or don't you?"

The prince got to his feet and headed toward the door. Wink fell into step beside him. Just before they reached the study entrance, Wink turned, balled up his hand of flesh into a fist, and plowed it into Nuada's shoulder. The Elf staggered beneath the force of the blow.

"Gah!" He could already feel a bruise beginning to thicken over the spot Wink had struck. "And what, pray tell, was _that_ for?"

"For being a blockhead," Wink replied. "I taught you better than that."

"It was a mistake, Wink."

The troll whapped him across the back of the head - and _not_ gently, this time. "Yes. A stupid one. Brash idiot. If the lassling tries to unman you, I'll stand back and simply watch, not lifting a finger to help you."

Nuada raised a brow. "You would abandon me to her? Some vassal you are."

"Your Highness, if she's angry enough, I might even sell tickets."

The Elven prince actually laughed.

**.**

In the prince's bedchamber, Nuada stretched out on his bed and sighed. His bed was smaller than Dylan's - it was "expected" that a prince visit his consort's bed, which was sized appropriately, but it was considered unusual in a society of loveless political unions for a prince to invite his consort to his own bed.

Despite the fact that his bed was less roomy than his truelove's, he found the amount of free space depressing after spending three nights in Dylan's bed beside her. The previous night she'd cuddled him in sleep, and he'd been surrounded by the scent of her. Relished the warmth of her breath on his skin, her arms around him, her head on his chest. Now he was alone. Would she even come back to sleep in their chambers tonight? She hadn't gone to the sanctuary - the warding spells would've alerted him to her presence within the walls of the underground haven. Dylan was still in Findias. Where? Was she all right?

He turned on his side and pressed his cheek against the soft linen pillow. It was strange, how sleeping in Dylan's bed soothed him but attempting to sleep in his own left him restless. Sleeping beside Dylan left him feeling languid and content. Yet for some reason the touch of his own silk sheets and velvet blankets left his skin prickling and sent his blood pulsing through his temples. Left him... wanting. Wanting what, he didn't know. Even now, there was a strange whispering tingle across his skin as he attempted to get comfortable, almost like being touched by feather-light fingertips.

Nuada gritted his teeth when he remembered the last time he'd been caressed by such a whisper-soft touch. Dierdre, in the alcove. Her fingertip sliding along the edge of his ear to the delicate Elven point. Her touch had sent desire burning in his blood. Just the memory of that soft stroking caress did the same. The fact that he could still feel any sort of desire for the Elven noblewoman disgusted him, especially after his conversation with Dylan earlier that evening.

Restless, unable to get comfortable, Nuada muttered something deprecating under his breath and turned onto his other side. Why couldn't he find a comfortable position? He wanted a mere hour of sleep before Dylan arrived, in order to be up to whatever she would demand of him. Yet the longer he lay there, the more impossible sleep seemed to become. Though he tried to drive the thoughts from his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about Dierdre... and Dylan.

_Did you sleep with her? Did you want to?_ Hell's teeth, yes, he had. There was just something about the scarlet Fomori that made him burn. Yet even so, that desire was nothing compared to what Dylan made him feel.

With passionate kisses, Dierdre had made him want her. But with Dylan, all it took was a single chaste kiss; her fingers brushing his; a lingering glance, warm with promise. Just one look from blue eyes like autumn lakes seared him like the touch of Branwen's Tears on his bare skin - not quite enough to drive him mad, but enough to send his blood humming, his heart pounding; it set every nerve aflame until his skin practically tingled, almost as if she were touching him with a glance.

His instincts pricked. A sudden awareness flooded Nuada's body. _As if she were touching him... until his skin tingled... blood humming... heart pounding... like the touch of Branwen's Tears on his bare skin_... Could it be?

Nuada was on his feet in an instant. Cautiously, he pulled a pillow from its case and lifted the linen pillowcase to his nose. Inhaled. There it was. An odd, whispery scent underneath the fragrance of laundry soap and clean linen.

Gancanaugh poison.

The lust-inducing venom smelled different for everyone; it carried scents that reminded a person of someone they loved, past or present. Nuada caught the faintest whiff now of lilies and roses and mortality, snowdrops and poppies and starlit ice, Canterbury bells and delicate jonquil and the glittering perfume of magic. It was _very_ faint. He only recognized it because he was looking for it. Even then, it took him several minutes to be certain.

Someone had tried to poison him. _Again_. Only this time, they'd gotten into his bedchamber. When? How? The very thought infuriated him. Then a thought struck him. Was _that_ why sleeping in his bed had given Dylan nightmares? Because of the Tears? Who in Findias could have gotten into his room and poisoned his bedding? A paid mercenary or a spy? And how long had the prince been sleeping on poisonous sheets?

Without another moment's hesitation Nuada summoned two maids to strip the bed completely and take the bedding to the laundry. He called a page and sent him to the king with a hastily scrawled message informing Balor of what his son had discovered and a suggestion that perhaps this was related to the incident in the Queen's Garden. While the maids dealt with the bed, Nuada showered, desperate to ensure that none of the gancanaugh venom remained on his skin. After he'd dried off and the two chambermaids had been dismissed, he went into Dylan's room and stretched out on her bed to wait for her, and to think.

In order for the scent of the poison to have been on his blankets still, it had to be relatively fresh. This meant there was a gancanaugh somewhere in the castle. Yet how had they gotten into his rooms? Glamour, perhaps; magic to make themselves into a palace maid? But how had the gancanaugh gotten into Findias? With one of the envoys?

Nuada frowned. Dylan's nightmares about the Elven prince assaulting her had begun while he was in the healing sleep after his duel with Zhenjin. The only two envoys that had been in residence at that time had been from Dilong and Cíocal. Zhenjin and Bres were his allies, his friends. They wouldn't use such a trick against him. Even Bres, who despised humans and had reason to take grievance against Nuada for his relationship with Dylan, had been nothing but (surprisingly) supportive. He'd even defended Dylan against Cíaran. And what purpose would Bres have for such a ploy? There was none Nuada could think of. So who could be behind this poisoning attempt? Cíaran? One of Huizong's royal guards that, if Nuada's agents could be believed, might be in the pay of the mad Prince Shaohao?

His life, the prince reflected, had gotten inconceivably more complicated once he'd met Dylan. The sweet had become sweeter, the bitter more poisonous, the pain deeper. What if his lady was right? What if the Fates _were_ working against them? What would he do?

_I would fight for her,_ Nuada vowed, _as I promised her I would. Unless Dylan herself bade me to depart from her life, never to speak to her again, I would fight the gods and the stars and the Fates to be with her. I would fight my father, my sister. I will fight if that's what I must do. I'll not give her up, nor give up on her, so easily._

_Where are you, mo duinne? Come back to me. Give me another chance. Grant me your forgiveness once more, and I shall strive with all I am never to break your heart again_. He glanced over at the banked fire in the bedroom hearth and wondered, _Where are you, Dylan?_

**.**

Dylan curled up in a soft bed of fresh, sweet-smelling straw in the stable loft. She didn't know why she'd come out to the stables. Had one of her guards suggested it? She couldn't remember. All she remembered - albeit vaguely - was Uaithne speaking to Nils, the Master of the Stables, and one of the stable lads saying that a good place to have a nice, quiet thinking session was in one of the stable's massive haylofts. So there Dylan was.

In books, she'd always read about soft, comfortable beds of straw, but on those rare occasions in real life where she'd sat on straw, it hadn't been comfortable at all. Not so with what was in her loft now. Maybe it was faerie straw. Maybe there was something magical in it that made it as soft as a featherbed and kept insects away. Dylan didn't know and didn't care. It was just nice to have a quiet place to lie down and close her eyes, a place that smelled nice - unlike mortal stables, the royal stables didn't stink at all - and was pleasantly warm against the bitter cold of the winter night. One of the under-grooms had even brought her a blanket in case she fell asleep. Apparently haylofts had been some of Nuada and Nuala's favorite hiding places when they were young, and the royal twins had often fallen asleep up there.

She was probably supposed to be thinking up in the loft, so far away from distractions, but she didn't want to think. Except for when she'd been with Zhenjin, she'd been thinking all day. Her head hurt. Her eyes hurt from holding back the tears until she could get somewhere private. Her chest hurt, as if someone were pressing on it with a heavy stone. Alone at last, Dylan closed her eyes, breathed in the sweet smell of fresh hay, and let the tears come, free and silent.

Maybe it was pathetic to be so upset. Maybe she was too old to be crying over a guy. It didn't matter. No one had ever made her feel the way Nuada did. She didn't want to lose that. Yet it seemed like it was slipping through her fingers now, because of some redheaded fae bimbo getting too intimate with Nuada's mouth. Dylan couldn't figure out what she was supposed to do. How did someone deal with an adulterous fiancé who wanted to sleep with another woman? Ugh, why had she _asked_ him that?

Because she was scared out of her mind. Because what if Nuada didn't love her anymore? How was she supposed to deal with someone she'd invested so much of herself into suddenly deciding he didn't feel the same way, especially since they _had_ to get married? It had been one thing when she'd been certain there was no hope of him loving her, but now...

And if Nuada was willing to lie, willing to cheat on her, how would she _know_ he didn't care anymore? How much of what he'd said about her leaving had been sincere and how much had been him lashing out at her out of heartache?

_Why does love have to be so complicated?_ Dylan wondered. _In theory, it should be so simple. I should tell Nuada never to do it again. He should agree. We should make up. All should be forgiven. And then we move on with our lives. So why can't it be that simple?_

This, Dylan thought, was the danger of falling so fast and hard for someone. They gained the ability to shatter you. For the first time, Dylan wished she'd fallen for someone a little more laid-back, a little less high-maintenance. Yet wasn't she a bit uptight and high-maintenance, too? It wasn't fair of her to hold that against her prince. Besides, she'd pledged herself to him even knowing all of his flaws. Or most of them, anyway. After everything he'd done right for and by her, was she really going to turn on him for the one thing he'd done wrong?

_I hate you,_ she'd said. He'd looked so broken when she'd cut him with those words. How could she have wounded him that way? They each owed the other an apology now. And hadn't Nuada already given his? Dylan sighed and swiped at her eyes. They would talk about it. She would be calm. She wouldn't get angry with him again. Wouldn't let her feelings make her say anything stupid. They'd talk, and if Nuada promised it wouldn't happen again, she'd believe him.

Dylan stayed in the hayloft a bit longer to make sure she had her emotions under control. Then she folded up the blanket and started down the ladder. Her bad knee twinged in protest. After all the walking she'd done and climbing up the ladder in the first place, especially with the weather threatening snow, her leg wasn't happy about dealing with the ladder _again_, even with a full dose of Vicodin in her system.

She slipped about six feet above the ground. The ladder rung skidded out from beneath her foot. Her grip on another rung wavered and her fingers slipped. There was the sick sensation of falling. A startled half-squeak escaped her. The world rushed by. Then she landed in strong arms. Gasping, Dylan looked up into a pair of bemused jade eyes.

"Prince Zhenjin!"

"Good evening, milady," the Dilong prince replied evenly, as if he hadn't just saved her from possibly breaking her neck. He carefully set her on the ground and glanced over his shoulder at her guards, who'd been in the process of rushing to her rescue. "Lucky for you, my horse is stalled just there." He nodded to a stall whose door was barely half a dozen feet from the ladder. "I was a bit closer than your retinue, it seems. Are you all right?"

Seemingly still a little dazed, she nodded. Zhenjin kept an arm around her shoulders in case she decided to lose her balance or faint or something. The mortal still looked a bit pale. He was reminded suddenly that this woman was human, and humans were quite fragile. When she looked a little steadier, he released her.

"Why are you... out here?" Dylan asked, unable to think of a more pertinent question. She was still trying to cope with the sudden dizziness she'd felt as Zhenjin had set her on her feet. "Are you leaving?"

The Elven prince smiled. "Not at all. I came out to make sure my horse wasn't lonely. She gets a bit, erm... frisky if I leave her alone too long." He gestured to the stall, and Dylan actually got a good look at the mount who currently called it home.

It _was_ a horse, but... but not like she'd ever seen. Though the body was equine in shape, gleaming bronze scales covered it instead of soft horse hair. It had a mane and tail of hair, however, which should've looked ridiculous and impossible coming out of that scaly body - but didn't. The mane and tail started as brilliant ruby red at the base before melting into vibrant red-gold. It almost didn't look like hair at all, but like metallic or jeweled wire. A very unhorselike, sinewy neck loomed over the top of the stall door, topped by a bronze-scaled reptilian head with webbed ruby fringe. Long crimson whiskers, like a catfish, hung from the creature's broad nose. Carnelian eyes like jeweled sunfire blinked at Dylan curiously. The "horse," Dylan realized, had the head of a Chinese dragon.

"What in the world is _that_?" She asked, awed.

"You like her?" Zhenjin asked, grinning.

Dylan nodded. "She's beautiful. I've never seen anything like her. What is she? Can she talk?"

Zhenjin shook his head. "She can't talk, no. She's a smart little thing, though - as smart as Silverlance's hounds. She's a lóng mâ. Humans would describe her as a dragon-horse hybrid. Her name is Qín. You can touch her if you wish," the prince added. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrinkled and purple that might've been a piece of fruit. "She likes dried plums. Give her one and she'll be your bosom companion for life."

With dried plum in hand, Dylan reached for the lóng mâ. Her nostrils flared and Qín's head snaked forward. She didn't bite the human, however, but waited patiently for Dylan to uncurl her fingers from around the treat before nipping it daintily from the mortal's hand and giving the open palm a brief nuzzle.

Dylan saw the mount's teeth were flat. "She doesn't have any fangs," the human marveled. "And her eyes aren't slitted like yours. Why's that?"

The Dilong warrior prince scratched behind Qín's ruby fringe. The faerie mount's eyes slid closed as her rider discovered a particularly itchy spot behind one of the bronze ribbings. "She isn't venomous. Only venomous reptiles have slitted eyes and fangs." Zhenjin closed his eyes for a minute. Dylan felt a sudden itching sensation against the back of her neck. Then he opened his eyes and flashed a smile. Dylan jumped, startled to see a flash of pearly fang. Her mouth dropped open. "Surprised you, I see," the prince said with a laugh. "Do not worry, my lady - I don't bite uninvited."

A laugh bubbled up in Dylan's throat - the first one since the last time she'd seen the Dilong prince. "Oh, my gosh, you sound just like Nuada." Thinking of her prince, her laughter faded and her smile slipped away. She gently touched Qín's nose. A forked tongue flicked out and brushed her wrist. It was surprisingly warm.

"I take it the two of you haven't made up yet," Zhenjin said gently. "Qín likes having her nose stroked, by the way."

Dylan followed the prince's suggestion. The moment her palm stroked the length of Qín's scaly muzzle, the lóng mâ's eyes slid closed and she began to make an odd, hollow humming sound that reminded Dylan of a muted bamboo flute.

"No," the mortal confessed. "No, we haven't."

"Shall I go trounce him for you?" Zhenjin offered. Dylan laughed, which had been his aim. He liked to hear her laugh. "In all seriousness, though, Lady Dylan... if I may be so bold as to ask... what did he do? I swear, you have my silence. I'll repeat nothing you tell me to anyone else. You may tell me."

After a long hesitation, Dylan shook her head. "I can't. It's private, and it would embarrass him, I think, if I told you. But thank you, Your Highness."

"Zhenjin, please," he reminded her. "We're friends, are we not?"

She smiled. "Thank you, Zhenjin." Dylan gave Qín's nose one last little pet before saying, "I should probably get back."

"Shall I wait for you here in case Silverlance's dunce-hood forces you to return?"

Dylan laughed again. "No, I'm sticking it out this time. He's not that big of a dunce, and he's worth it." She sighed. "It'll be hard, though."

Deliberately shading his voice with sarcasm, Zhenjin said, "Trying to talk sense to Nuada? Difficult? Surely you jest." They shared a smile. "Allow me to at least escort you back to your rooms, Lady Dylan," he added in a more serious voice. "It's late, and it would be dishonorable of me to allow you to walk back alone."

"Well, my guards will be with me."

For some reason, Zhenjin didn't like the thought of this mortal woman walking the halls of Findias with only a few Butchers to keep her safe from anyone that might take exception to her presence. There were plenty of fae in the castle who could cause trouble. If those fae had had a bit too much to drink - it _was_ nearing Midwinter, after all - the sight of a few royal guards might not be enough to keep them away from her.

"Please," Zhenjin murmured, looking into Dylan's blue eyes. _Strange_, he thought to himself. _In certain light they almost look silver. Like a mist-veiled spring_. But aloud all he said was, "Allow me to escort you, milady. For my own peace of mind."

Surprised, Dylan nodded. A tiny piece of straw chaff fell out of her curly hair. "All right. Thank you."

Zhenjin hesitated. "You have... a bit of..." He reached up and gently plucked a bit of straw from where it had tangled in a dark curl. "Got it. Anyway, let's go, shall we?"

**.**

As they were walking toward the castle stairs that would eventually take Dylan to the royal wing, a cool unease slipped down her spine. She stopped. Zhenjin glanced at her quizzically. Her guards scanned the first-floor corridor and glanced at the stairwell opening. The Dilong prince frowned.

"What is it?"

"I've got a weird feeling," Dylan murmured. And it _was_ weird. It wasn't the chill whisper of warning she got when serious danger loomed, but it was a warning. She couldn't quite figure out what it was warning her about, though. It almost felt like, _Handle with caution_. But she'd never felt this before, so she couldn't be certain. "I don't know, I-"

"Well, what d'ya know?" A slurred, drunken voice mumbled from the stairwell. A Bethmooran Elf stumbled down the steps, followed by two others. They were all male, and all young - less than twenty-five centuries, Dylan guessed. All of them, including the speaker, were clearly snockered. The speaker sloshed at the mortal, "The prince's human pet. What're you doin' off yer leash?"

Zhenjin's eyes went flat and cold as a snake's. He bared his teeth in a smile. "That is no way to speak to a lady. You would do well to watch your tongue."

Instead of being intimidated, the drunken Elf somehow managed to spit on the floor near Zhenjin's feet. Dylan's guards bristled, but she held up a hand to hold them back. The Elf looked to be about John's age, twenty or twenty-one. Too young to be beaten up for being drunk-stupid. Zhenjin glanced at the mortal. She shook her head. The Dilong Elf raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the drunkard.

"Luckily for you, Lady Dylan is as merciful as she is beautiful, and she's asked me not to thrash you from Bethmoora to Eirc for your disrespect. Get out of the way."

"M'not scared of some Dilong ambass'dor," one of the drunkard's intoxicated friends spluttered. He managed to only stumble over his own feet twice as he drew abreast of the original speaker. "D'you know who we are? I'm Lord Galen of Óic Bethra! My father's a member o' the council. He's got the king's ear. I don' have to listen to the likesh of you. An' that human tramp's nothin' to be shcared of. Silverlance'd be grateful if we taught it its proper place."

_Its place,_ Dylan thought with a smattering of pique. _Not her, but it. Jerk. Still, it's not fair, getting the crud beat out of you for being a jerk when you're drunk and don't know what you're doing._

The crown prince of Dilong glanced at Dylan. "Can I hit them yet?"

"No," she hissed. "They're young and stupid. Leave them alone. Besides, you're the crown prince. You have better things to do than brawl with foreign noblemen's sons. Look," she said to the three Bethmooran Elves crowding the hallway. "I don't have a quarrel with any of you. Please move. Prince Nuada is expecting me."

A third Bethmooran Elf, several inches taller than his fellows, snorted. The reek of whiskey on his breath made Dylan's stomach roll even from a distance. "Eshpectin' you? Like we said, don' think Silverlance'd mind if we borrowed you fer a bit. Wanna know what all the fuss's about. Wha' makes you sho shpecial. C'mere."

In retrospect, Dylan would admit she hadn't seen the Elf move. She hadn't seen Zhenjin move, either, but between one blink and the next, the Dilong prince had the other Elf on his knees on the floor with his arm twisted behind his back. Dylan knew that if Zhenjin exerted anymore pressure on the joint-lock, it would dislocate the Elven lordling's arm. Possibly even break it. She swallowed and hoped this didn't turn into an international incident or something.

"Now listen to me, you foul-mouthed dog," the Dragon Prince snarled into the other Elf's ear. "I gave you two chances to walk away. You ignored them. You insulted an honorable lady, your prince's truelove. I have every right to break your arm in so many places it would cripple you for life. Now you have two choices. You can either walk away, taking your idiot friends with you, or I can ignore milady's protests and paint the floor with your blood." Dropping his voice to a deadly hiss, the prince added, "Make. Your. Choice."

"All right," Lord Galen mumbled. "All right. Release me."

When Zhenjin bared his teeth in that feral smile again, Dylan saw the gleam of venom-slicked fangs. "Say 'please.'" The Bethmooran lord only sneered. Zhenjin wrenched his arm. Galen yelped. "Say 'please,'" the Dilong prince reiterated. "And apologize to the lady."

"That's no lady," Galen hissed. "She's nothing but a jumped-up human trull- _gah!_"

"Zhenjin, stop it!" Dylan cried. "Let him go, please."

Cold jade eyes focused on her face. "This cur insulted you. Silverlance would have my hide if I allowed such a thing to go unchallenged."

"Please let him go." Unsure why the words came to her tongue, still she murmured, "Please. For me."

The Dilong prince went very still, as still as a cobra waiting to strike. Then he shoved the Bethmooran Elf to the floor and stepped back, canting his head to Dylan. "As you wish. Begone with you," he commanded the drunkard in a coldly regal voice. "Or I shall speak to King Balor about your treatment of Lady Dylan and Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong."

The three Elves scrabbled back from the enraged prince. The original speaker cried, "You didn' tell us you were-"

"I should not have needed to," Zhenjin hissed. "Now get going."

"I would do as he says, gentlemen," said a laughing voice behind the intoxicated trio. "He already has... let's see, one, two, three, four... eight witnesses against you, including King Balor's guards. You might as well run for the hills while your legs remain unbroken." The speaker, a copper-skinned Elven woman with wheat-blond hair and eyes of Bethmoora gold, skirted around the three men and offered a curtsy to Zhenjin and Dylan. "Lady Jocasta, at your service, Lady Dylan." Seeing that the trio of Elves hadn't moved, the Elven noblewoman glared at them. "Go away."

Dylan's mouth fell open, watching the Elven nobles scurry down the hall. Those drunkards had been willing to risk the wrath of Nuada Silverlance and Zhenjin Azurefire, but ran from this slender woman? Dylan of course knew a little about Lady Jocasta Indira of Reedus. Her father was Bethmooran, her mother a fae from the eastern kingdom of Alaka - which would explain her coloring. Nuada had said she was one of the most politically influential people in the kingdom. Was that why the nobles had run? Or was it something else, something Nuada hadn't told Dylan for whatever reason?

_After all_, she thought a little bitterly, _there are probably lots of things he hasn't told me_. Out loud, all she said was, "Thank you, Lady Jocasta."

"If I may offer some advice, Lady Dylan - don't wander the castle corridors without the prince at your side until Midwinter is long past. The younger courtiers tend to over-indulge and it makes them-"

"Fair game," Zhenjin supplied with a smirk. Dylan rolled her eyes.

Lady Jocasta inclined her head. "I intended to say 'foolish.' It was a pleasure meeting you at last, Lady Dylan. I trust I shall see you at my masquerade on the Wolf Moon?"

"I..." _What?_ Dylan wondered. "Probably. I'll speak to His Highness."

Another nod that made Lady Jocasta's pale blond hair shimmer in the torchlight. "I hope to see you there. If you'll excuse me, my lady. Your Highness." She curtsied to them again with a rustle of red velvet skirts and slipped past. Dylan watched her go. Then the mortal turned to her guards.

"Okay, Uaithne. I like you. A lot. And I don't want you to get into trouble or anything. But why didn't you stop Zhenjin from hurting Lord Galen?"

"They're not allowed to lay hands on me except by order of the king," the Dilong prince informed her before the Butcher could reply. "Or unless I attempt to harm you or a member of the royal family. And since you told them not to deal with those buffoons, it fell to me to handle the idiocy that suddenly abounded in this corridor. Why did you try to stop me?"

"What were you going to do to Lord Galen?"

"Break his arm," Zhenjin replied flatly. "In several places." Seeing her expression, he added, "Lady Dylan, I am the heir to an empire. I demand the respect of those inferior to me in rank, even in a foreign country. You are a prince's lady. If Nuada marries you, you will be a princess. You must learn to demand that respect as well. Royals have an image to maintain. We cannot afford for that image to be shaken because some feckless moron had a little too much to drink."

"But... they were drunk. They weren't in complete control of themselves. People do stupid things when they're drunk. They shouldn't be-"

"If a man cannot hold his liquor, he shouldn't drink," Zhenjin said. "Even at my most intoxicated, I never picked a fight against someone I shouldn't have, and I _never_ insulted a lady. Neither has Silverlance. I have also never so rudely propositioned a woman. Nuada will probably hunt that idiot down and beat him bloody when he finds out."

Wide-eyed, Dylan grabbed Zhenjin's sleeve. "Don't tell him! You can't, he'll be furious!"

"Not with you," the prince protested.

"I _know_, not with me. That's not the point. You already hurt the kid; I'm pretty sure he's learned his lesson. Nuada will make paste out of him."

A smirk curved Zhenjin's mouth. "You have an interesting way with words. I confess, I'd love to see Silverlance 'make paste' out of that lout. He spat at me."

"Which was stupid and juvenile and not worth being made into paste over... will you stop laughing every time I say the word 'paste?'"

"Forgive me," the prince replied, forcing down his smile. "I'm all attention."

She mock-scowled at him. "Yeah, okay." She poked him in the chest - gently. "Your word that you won't mention this to Nuada. I'll tell him... later. When he's less likely to beat the kid up. Promise?"

Zhenjin sighed. "Do you bully Nuada this way?" The prince chuckled when Dylan's scarred lips curved into a bright smile. "That answers that question. My word, then."

"Thank you, Your Highness." She offered her hand so they could shake on it. Zhenjin grasped her hand and turned it so he could brush a courtly kiss across the back of it. For some reason the gesture made her blush. Maybe because she still wasn't used to it, even after all the times Nuada had done it.

"It's my pleasure to grant such a kind request, my lady." Releasing her hand abruptly, the prince said, "Now, let's get you back to Nuada."

**.**

_I despise wearing mittens,_ Urraca thought as she flexed her hands inside the knit hand-coverings. Mittens were the only things the Spanish water fae could use to hide her webbed fingers. Adjusting the glamour that made her look like a ten-year-old mortal girl, the xanin skipped along Central Park West until she reached the intersection of West and 79th. Right across from the Park entrance was her destination.

She wiggled through the crowded night streets, slippery as a fish, and jogged up the steps to the American Museum of Natural History. This was where Ke'ka'toh had told her to meet him - right in front of the Harry Frank Guggenheim Hall of Gems and Minerals inside the museum. Why her husband wanted to meet her there, she had no idea, but the water lynx had said he'd procured the information the prince had requested - so here she was.

Just as she was starting to wonder whether something had happened to Ke'ka'toh, she caught sight of a slender Native American man prowling through the thinning crowd of humans, his tawny eyes fixed on her. Even though they were meeting for business and Ke'ka'toh was probably only thinking about how much he didn't want to be inside this mortal building, meeting the lynx-shifter's gaze never failed to make Urraca's heart race. It was one of the reasons she'd married him. That and he made her laugh. Most of their friends and fellow agents for the prince found that unbelievable, as they'd never seen the Algonquin shifter even crack a smile, but that was because her lynx reserved his smiles for _her_.

Although they were technically still on the job - they were only _off_ the job once they went back to their den in Flushing Meadows Park, in Queens - the xanin cuddled against her husband. "What did you find?" Urraca murmured.

"His Highness will be both pleased and frustrated," said the lynx. "The exhibit is coming to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the night of the Wolf Moon. Apparently a great many ancient Celtic artifacts have been unearthed on the banks of the River Boyne. It seems that someone - a human someone - is looking for something belonging to the Tuatha de. There was an exhibit displaying various artifacts from Ireland and Scotland at the museum in November. One of the artifacts was stolen. The culprit hasn't been caught. An expert in pre-Christian Celtic artifacts and Irish lore is coming to New York, a woman named Brigit O'Donnell. And apparently everything about this exhibit, and the one from November, has been arranged and paid for by a private benefactor."

Urraca leaned back to look into tawny eyes. "A private... benefactor?"

Ke'ka'toh nodded. "Someone has paid a great deal of money to ensure these exhibits come to New York City. The question is who, and why."

"Do you think it might be a trap for the prince?" The water faerie flexed her webbed fingers inside her mittens. "Could there be someone who knows he's searching for the Crown piece? Someone who means to lure him in and trap him?"

"I don't know. We'll have to find out. But the Wolf Moon comes soon; we'll have to be fast, and get the information to His Highness with enough time for him to decide what he's going to do."

Troubled, Urraca nodded absently and started for the exit. As she and Ke'ka'toh passed the Gem and Mineral Hall's front desk, a flash of light on glossy paper caught her eye. She turned to see a spread of brochures atop the desk. One of them was for an upcoming exhibit, arriving in May, of rare and priceless stones. She would've dismissed it, but two pictures snagged her attention.

"Ke'ka'toh," the water sprite murmured. The shapeshifter came to stand beside her. She showed him the brochure, indicating the two images that had attracted her attention. One was of a very large, uncut green stone; the other a blue stone with a white star in its heart. "Recognize these?"

"Oh, yes," he muttered. He glanced at the brochure and frowned as he read through the list of precious gems that would be included in the exhibit.

The humans were fools. Just as Prince Nuada searched for the final piece of the Crown to raise his Golden Army and wage war against the human race, other fae royals searched for artifacts that would awaken powerful magical weapons that had slept since the last war. Some of the artifacts had been lost to time. Others, like the third Crown piece, had been given to the humans as a sign of good faith.

And the humans - those stupid, ignorant vermin - were bringing together four of those items in one exhibit, in one city, and _advertising_ the fact. Ke'ka'toh studied the list again. The Patricia Emerald, the Star of India sapphire, the Heart of the Flame topaz, and the Golden Lotus sapphire. If those who worked for the legendary Silverlance and his allies rescued these stones, the kingdoms of Cíocal, Alaka, Zwezda, and Shahbaz would have some of the necessary pieces to win the war that was to come. And if the Golden Crown piece _was_ at this upcoming exhibit in January at the Met...

Ke'ka'toh grinned. It seemed they had some good news for the prince. Pocketing the brochure, he slipped an arm around his mate and allowed himself a smug smile.

**.**

Nuada's guards informed Dylan that he'd retired to her room. Was he already asleep? They didn't know. Only Lady Dylan's bodyguards were required to stay in her bedchamber with her for protection, and that was only if the prince wasn't with her. Otherwise, the prince and his lady were allowed their privacy. Dylan acknowledged silently that in any other situation, she'd have been fine with that, but right now she kinda wished _someone_ could've told her if Nuada was awake and waiting for her. Whether he was angry with her.

_Not that he really has a right to be,_ Dylan reminded herself. _I wasn't the one going around behind his back making out with some hot mortal. Or some hot Elf. Or_ anyone.

She wondered, as she reached for the bedroom doorknob, if one reason she was _so_ upset about Nuada kissing Dierdre was because the Fomorian woman was so gorgeous. Of course she was gorgeous. She was Elven. As far as Dylan knew, there was no such thing as an ugly Elf. There were disfigured Elves, but not ugly ones.

The door opened to reveal Nuada sitting tailor-fashion on her bed, hands on his knees, eyes closed. Meditating, she realized. The moment she walked in and shut the door, his eyes flashed open. Dylan hung back. What was supposed to happen now? Her anger had dimmed again, but the hurt remained untarnished. Entwined with that pain was uncertainty and fear. Fear that one of the best things in her life was about to go down the toilet. Fear that there was no way to fix this.

_What do I do now?_ Dylan wondered, gazing back at her prince. _Where do we start?_

Then it came to her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

Nuada, expressionless up until then, frowned. Cocked his head slightly, studying her. "What are you sorry for?"

She swallowed. "For saying I hated you." Nuada's eyes slid closed. He looked away. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I could never mean that. Even if our whole relationship went to heck in a hand-basket, I could never hate you." He didn't reply. Forcing herself not to bite her lip, she murmured, "Please look at me, Nuada."

He opened his eyes but didn't turn back to her. "I would rather not watch you walk out of my life, if it's all the same to you, Lady Dylan."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "Not yet." Because she was a trained observer, she noticed the little things Nuada tried to hide: the way his fingers half-convulsed against his knees before going still, how his shoulders tightened with sudden tension. "Nuada... we need to talk."

"I thought we had. You made yourself quite clear."

Dylan shook her head. "I'm not running this time." With her heart trying to beat its way into her throat, she approached the bed and perched on the edge of it. Her fingers smoothed over the blue velvet coverlet. "Will you talk to me?"

Dull topaz eyes met hers. "If you wish."

"Do you really not know why you kissed Dierdre? Or do you think I won't be able to handle the reason?"

One brow rose slowly. She imagined it was because she sounded so calm. She hoped she could keep that up for the entirety of the conversation. Nuada replied, "The reasons are paltry."

"Tell me anyway."

He sighed. "She's an attractive woman. I was tired and distracted. My body responded before my mind fully realized what was happening. And..." The fae warrior looked away before adding softly, "And I wanted her."

"Okay." She would be calm about this. She _would_ be calm. "Do you still want her?"

Nuada met her eyes again. "I still find her attractive, yes."

"Okay." It hurt to breathe. Dylan forced herself to work past it. "Do you still want to sleep with her?"

Blackberry sweetness was a phantom taste on Nuada's tongue. He ignored it. "No. _You_ are the one I want, Dylan, in all ways."

"All right. Is... is this going to be a regular thing? You and her?"

"No."

Pressing her fingers to her temples - she was starting to get a tension headache - Dylan said, "All right. Do you wish it were her and not m-"

The swiftness with which Nuada shook his head had relief flooding through her. "No, mo duinne. I regret nothing about my choice to be with you, save only that it may bring you unhappiness. I will always regret causing you pain." His fingers twitched; she knew he wanted to brush back her hair, but also knew he wouldn't. Not yet.

"You said it had nothing to do with how you felt for me. What did you mean? Because the way that sounds, is that when you kissed her, you didn't care how it would affect me, but I know that's not what you meant."

"While I may have given into a moment of reckless physical attraction, that doesn't mean I'm in love with Dierdre, and it doesn't mean I'm not in love with you. I am. I am entirely yours, Dylan." When his truelove looked down at her knees and said nothing, he dared to lay a hand on hers. Her hand was cold as ice. "What are you thinking?"

She swallowed hard. "I'm thinking... that I'm not angry anymore, but I still feel... betrayed. I'm still scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"That you'll look at her, then look at me and regret what we have."

The hand he'd laid against hers came up to cup her cheek. "Never, Dylan. Never. This may have happened quickly, such a deep love as ours, but I will never regret it. Never in all my centuries to come."

Dylan closed her eyes. "If... if you promise me... promise this will never happen again, I'll believe you."

"Look at me." She opened her eyes, met a gaze of warm honeyed amber. "I swear to you, it won't happen again. My word as an Elven warrior and as the prince of Bethmoora. My word as the man who loves you more than life."

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. I believe you." Then, as tension drained out of her and the day's events finally caught up to her, fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. She bowed her head and began to cry. Nuada shifted closer, pulling her into his arms. She wept into his shirt.

"Shhh," he murmured, stroking her hair. She curled her fingers in his shirt; clung to him as if afraid he would disappear. "Shhh, Dylan. I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I am so very sorry, for all of it. I am sorry for what I've done. For what I said. Please don't cry. I cannot bear it."

"Today really sucked," she said through her tears. "I mean, it _really_ sucked."

"For me, as well," said the prince. "I feared you would never forgive me."

Dylan shook her head. "I forgive you, I just... didn't know what to do." She wiped at her eyes. After the crying jag in the hayloft, she was pretty much cried out. "I was so hurt and angry and confused. In my psychology classes, it was all so straightforward, but it's not when it's _your_ problem, instead of someone else's. I knew what I was supposed to do to try and fix this but I wasn't sure I could." When she scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her wrist, Nuada reached up and dried the last of her tears with the edge of his tunic sleeve. She sniffed. "Thank you."

He offered a negligent shrug. "It is my duty to ease your sorrows and dry your tears." He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I would give nearly anything to erase this pain you feel."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "You're doing fine already," she said. "Jeez. Our life is so full of drama, isn't it?"

Nuada canted his head. "So it seems. But I would accept all of it to be with you. Please don't give up on us. I couldn't bear that." She looked up at him, uncertain, then pressed her face into his shoulder. He stroked her hair again. "Did you mean it? When you said it was for the best that we-"

"Never," she mumbled into his shirt, shaking her head. "Never, never. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I was just so scared and hurt. I thought you didn't want me anymore and I didn't know what to do. I thought maybe... maybe it'd hurt less if I walked away before you actually got around to leaving me, but..."

After a long silence, the prince gently pressed, "But?"

"It didn't," Dylan whispered. "It didn't help at all. It just hurt. No one's ever been able to hurt me like you except John. Trying to walk away from you... it almost killed me. I love you so much it scares me." She sighed. "This can't be healthy, how much I need you."

"It is no more - and I would wager no less - than how much _I_ need _you_, beloved. It's the way of the fae, to love so desperately, so completely. That's why so few of us risk loving mortals - because we're more likely to lose them, and thus be destroyed by what we feel. And although you are not Elf-kind, I think you have a faerie heart, and you love as my people love: deeply, completely, irrevocably." He hesitated, then whispered, "I beg you, Dylan, never forsake me. I know I make mistakes; I may hurt you or do something foolish, but never leave me. I promise I'll never send you away if you never leave."

She was quiet for awhile before finally replying, "Okay. No breaking up - ever. We're stuck with each other forever."

"I would have it no other way, my love." The Elven warrior hesitated a long time, then added, "I know we're not yet back to where we were before… this, but I need to speak with you about Dierdre."

"What about her?" Dylan asked, wariness sharpening her voice with a razor's edge.

"I don't want you to think she was at fault, Dylan." When the mortal opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand. "Allow me to explain. Dierdre thought I was inviting her to make advances. She wasn't in the wrong to respond as she did."

"You're engaged!"

"The court doesn't know that," Nuada reminded her. "Only a few know of our betrothal. The formal announcement hasn't been made."

"Okay, she didn't know you were engaged, but she _did_ know you had a girlfriend."

"I'm also a noble and such dalliances are commonplace and considered acceptable among courtiers so long as all three parties are aware and don't object. Dierdre had no way of knowing you would object. I'm not saying that there is no blame to be placed," he hastened to add. "I'm saying the blame falls solely to me. When I made it clear I'd made a mistake, that you would be hurt by it, she withdrew."

Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it again. Frowned. "If you were anyone else, I'd be totally suspicious, but I know you wouldn't lie. So... okay. I'm sorry I called her a 'whore.'"

The prince offered her a look of quiet gratitude. "Thank you. I tell you this because I need to speak to Lady Dierdre again."

Her eyes flew wide. "_What?_"

"She's in trouble," Nuada said. Dylan's incredulity and ire dimmed.

"What sort of trouble? Like, financial trouble? Political trouble? Life-and-death trouble?"

He said, "I can't tell you. Just as I couldn't reveal to the court what those human wolves had done to you without your permission, I cannot reveal her weakness without her leave. That's why I need to speak to her - to obtain her permission to go before either my father or someone else who can help her."

"Which implies serious trouble. Why won't she tell anyone?"

After a moment's hesitation, Nuada said, "She fears repercussions."

"Repercussions?" Trying to think, Dylan nibbled on the edge of her thumb. "Should _I_ talk to her? This _is_ the kind of thing I do, you know - getting people to open up about trauma and things like that."

Nuada shook his head. "It's too dangerous to involve you."

Her brows rose toward her hairline. "Dangerous, huh?" She could think of a billion scenarios where that would be true, but... "Look me in the eye and promise me this isn't an excuse to see her."

Without looking away from her searching gaze, Nuada said, "I swear it."

Dylan sighed. "Okay, then. I won't fight you on this. I'm going to trust you."

The Elven warrior caught Dylan's hand and brought it to his lips. He brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles. "I'll not betray that trust, mo mhuire, I swear to you." He kissed her hand again. "There's one other thing."

"Oh, my gosh - _what?_" She demanded, exasperated.

"Moundshroud." Nuada's brow quirked when Dylan grimaced. "Did you send him-"

"No! I told him to leave you alone. I wouldn't have even said anything but he caught me at a weak moment." Scowling a little, she added, "He's really good at that. Rawr. Anyway, what about him? What did he say? He didn't hurt you, did he? I told him not to!"

Did she have any idea, the prince wondered, how strange it was that she could issue orders to the Keeper of the Samhain Tree and actually expect them to be obeyed? "He implied that your mercy was the only reason he allowed me to remain a man."

She winced. "Yeah, he asked if I wanted him to castrate you. I wasn't sure if he was joking or not, so I said, 'no.'"

"My thanks," he said dryly, grateful when she laughed. Then, in a serious voice, he added, "He threatened to kill Dierdre if I 'trysted' with her again."

There was a moment of silence. "Since you're not planning on it, does it matter?"

"His definition of trysting is a bit different than mine, I think. I'm concerned that if he so much as sees me speaking to Dierdre, he will hurt her."

Dylan stared at him. "No way. Not Moundshroud."

"Have you ever seen him angry?"

"Um..." Come to think of it... "No, not really."

"I _did_. Today."

She winced again. "Oh. Um... okay. Um... I'll talk to him. Tell him I'm okay with you talking to her and stuff. That way he won't go all protective-grandpa on me." A beat of silence. "Did he scare you?"

Nuada gave her a flat look. "I am an Elven warrior, mo duinne."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "Right. Jeez. You and Zhenjin, you're just like each other."

"About Zhenjin," Nuada said suddenly. There was an odd, strained quality to his voice that made Dylan glance at him sharply. "Were you with him all day?"

She blinked. "No. Just for awhile this afternoon and earlier this evening. He's nice. He makes me laugh. Why?"

"What were you two talking about?"

Puzzled, the mortal replied, "About you. Stories from when the two of you were young. And he talked about his lóng mâ, Qín. I'd never seen a lóng mâ before. Never even heard of one, actually. If they all look like that, they're beautiful animals. Why?"

The prince offered a smile and a shrug. "Merely curious. Now, if I may... it is late, and I think you're tired." His smile widened a bit when a yawn forced its way out of Dylan's mouth. "Perhaps we should go to bed?" Nuada's lady sighed, but agreed. Feral eyes flicked from Dylan's face to the fire in the hearth before Nuada spoke again. "I must ask... I expect nothing, and I wouldn't blame you if you refused me, but I... I need to ask. Am I welcome in this bed... our bed... tonight?"

Dylan hesitated. She knew why he asked. Could she really sleep in the same bed as Nuada, even if it was _just_ to sleep? After everything that had happened today? _I forgave him,_ she reminded herself sharply. And she'd probably have trouble sleeping if he wasn't there.

_Our bed_, he'd called it. Something about that made her heart ache, but it soothed her, too.

"Of course," Dylan murmured, though her smile was strained. Too many emotions tumbled through her. She needed a little space to process everything, to get herself back together. "Now, I'm gonna go change into my pajamas and brush my hair, then I'll be out to take my meds. Okay?"

"All right."

Nuada watched her slip into her closet to change clothes and bit back a sigh. She'd forgiven him, and she wasn't going to forsake him for his transgression... but things were not as they had been. Only time would heal the rift that now existed between them. He'd hurt her. She'd hurt him. _I hate you._ Those words echoed still in his skull. Time would mend those wounds, or nothing would. Sometimes such healing took days, weeks, months. Sometimes it took years. A lifetime.

_Please,_ he prayed. _Please don't let it take a lifetime for us to find again what we once had. We don't have that long. When I awaken the Golden Army, I'll lose her forever. Let me have her with me for as long as I may. Please._

**.**

"Brother... are you well?" Gaozu glanced at his elder brother from the corner of his eye when Zhenjin didn't answer. When the crown prince of Dilong hadn't returned from visiting Qín, the second Dilong prince had gone looking for his brother, and found him at last wandering between the ice-crusted trunks of barren plum trees. Every so often, Zhenjin brushed his fingers across the thick ice, leaving melted depressions from the heat of his power. The crown prince said nothing, however. "Zhenjin?"

Zhenjin bit back a sigh and the wish that his younger brother was back in the castle where Gaozu couldn't pester him. He needed to think. Or to not think. He couldn't decide.

His fingers twitched as he remembered the feel of a slender hand in his. The scent of orchids and lilies when he'd kissed her hand. What was it about that woman? Zhenjin knew, of course. Or knew what had started his preoccupation with the mortal. Nuada's thoughts, Nuada's feelings. The mind-merging that had ended their initial confrontation over the human woman's presence.

_I was an idiot not to trust him,_ Zhenjin acknowledged. _To force that on myself._ He glanced up at the moon glowing soft and silver against the midnight blueness of the sky. _Now look where it's gotten me._

Preoccupied and distracted, he thought with no little disgust. Thinking, as Nuada had so often thought, about an impossible mortal woman who couldn't possibly be human and yet undeniably was. It was good that Nuada had her at his side, and yet... something in the back of Zhenjin's mind wondered if that were really true. What if it wasn't? He didn't know why, but something made him doubt.

He thought of all the things he'd accidentally learned from that merging with Nuada - that his friend adored Dylan's silver-washed blue eyes, her velvet laugh like a faerie's, the way her hair cascaded down her back in a waterfall of shadow and curl. Things he didn't really _want_ to know. Now he found himself noticing those same things and wishing he didn't know how they affected his old friend. It felt... odd, to look at Dylan and see both the woman Nuada loved and a person Zhenjin inexplicably counted as a friend.

Shaking away those thoughts, he turned to Gaozu. "Enough meandering, eh, Brother? Let's go inside where it's warm. Dragon-blood and magic only do so much for such bitter cold."

Seeing the relief in his younger brother's eyes made Zhenjin wonder just how long he'd been out here, and how long Gaozu had been shadowing him. Instead of asking, he clapped his brother on the shoulder and turned back toward Findias.

As they approached the edges of the palace gardens, something drew Zhenjin's eyes inexorably to the castle windows. Most were dark, or at least curtained. But there was one he noticed on the third floor with curtains pulled wide and the warm glow of fire- and candlelight shining through the glass. Silhouetted against the amber light was a woman brushing her hair, one slow stroke at a time. Somehow, the Dilong prince knew it was Dylan.

He remembered plucking that bit of straw from her hair in the stables. The way she'd smiled and thanked him. He tried and failed to shake the memory away. She was so different from other humans. Mortals were greedy, ungrateful, heartless vermin, yet she...

"Zhenjin." Sharpness in Gaozu's voice jerked the crown prince from his thoughts. He glanced at his younger brother, whose reptilian blue eyes scanned the snowy landscape. "Do you smell that?"

Zhenjin frowned. Sniffed the air. There was... something. At least, he thought there was. He opened his mouth a little to taste the wind. As if from a long ways away, the prince caught the stench-taste of swamps and rot. It was so far off it must've come from the township. He shook his head. "I smell something... but I don't think it's aught to worry over."

"It isn't... what was that thing you fought? A shoggoth? It's not one of them, is it?"

The crown prince bit back a grimace and opened his mouth a bit wider, just to be certain. The shoggoth had reeked of rotting filth, swamp gases, garbage, and corpses. The stink had been so strong it had burned his nostrils and soured on his tongue like poison. But this scent was nowhere near that powerful or revolting.

Still... "We'll speak to the head of the current watch rotation," Zhenjin said. "Let's go in now."

"All right," Goazu muttered, glancing over his shoulder, unease plain on his face. "As you say, Brother."

Behind them, nestled in the bare branches of a leafless tree, a murder of what appeared to be ravens watched the two Elven warriors disappear into the warmth of the castle. Moonlight, cool and white as bones, spilled across the midnight violet feathers like winter's blood. Then the winged fae took to the skies and flew toward Findias township.

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_**Author's Note:**__and so we leave off with a dun-dun-DUNN! So, not counting Nuada and Dylan's spat, we've got several things happening in this chapter. Tiana is of Bethmooran blood. Nuada figured out someone's been poisoning his sheets. Some fae nobles tried to get frisky with Dylan. Naya's master is plotting something gruesome. Wink has discovered the Golden Crown piece may be in New York soon. Nuada's spies have discovered other fae artifacts needed for the war. Zhenjin's showing some deep interest in Dylan. The cops are investigating Westenra. We've discovered there's a mysterious wealthy personage interested in faerie artifacts. There may even be shoggoths nearby, and there might be nocs spying on people. How are we enjoying things so far?_

_I love you all, by the way. I really do. Thoughts of what you guys will say about each chapter and side-story really inspire me to hunker down and write. I love hearing from you, and this story wouldn't be possible without everyone's comments. So hugs for everybody!_

_And now onto our review prompt!_

_1) Scary Moundshroud. What do we think of scary Moundshroud?_

_2) Is Dylan's friendship with Zhenjin going to be a problem? For Nuada and Dylan's relationship, I mean? And as for the drunkards accosting our girl and her princely escort, what are the possible repercussions of that?_

_3) The second fight and the making up. Sigh. Thoughts? Questions? Comments? I'm writing outside of my personal viewpoint when it comes to this sort of thing, so I'd be grateful for any input._

_4) The coming war with the humans and the Golden Army is - hopefully - never far from anyone's minds. Are we intrigued by the war-related plots?_

_5) Ahhh, Wink. I love Wink, don't you?_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__the title comes from the song "Sun and Shadow," by Mercedes Lackey. She actually has 2 songs by that name, but one is a prologue and has a prettier tune, and the other sounds icky. If you look for me on Youtube (NightmareDolly is my username) I've got a sort of abstract storybook-esque video to the song. Anyway, the contributing line is, "So ere the curse could claim him, then he shed one bitter tear."_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- So I kinda based Moundshroud's interactions with Nuada a little bit on Joe from the _Princess Diaries_ movies, but a lot nastier/scarier/more vindictive. But the way he refers to Dylan as "my girl" is based on Joe, the security guy. Although a few other sources for Moundshroud's protective hostility are Talon from _The Black Jewels_ and my dad. =)

- The wolf-shifter bothering Tiana is none other than Lorelei's flesh-eating, blood-drinking lupine suitor, Geri.

- Tiana's sneakers are for the movie _Disney Pixar's Brave._

- Matlock was the guy in chapter 20-something who reported Dylan and got her put on police suspension. He's a stickler for the rules, but in a douchey way.

- Yes, Naya's master has a spy among Nuada's guard. As does the king. Oh, dear. Who do you think it is?

- Lóng mâ are actually described as dragon-horse hybrids in Chinese mythology. =)

- As far as I know, the signs of a venomous snake are a triangular head, slitted pupils, and fangs, whereas a non-venomous snake usually has an oval-shaped head, circular pupils, and no fangs (though they have teeth).

- The Wolf Moon is the full moon in January.

- The American Museum of Natural History is near the intersection of 79th Street and Central Park West. The Harry Frank Guggenheim Hall of Gems and Minerals is an exhibit in the museum.

- The River Boyne is a river in Ireland.

- Brigit O'Donnell is named after the Irish writer in the Halloween episode of Beauty and the Beast, starring Ron Perlman.

- The Patricia Emerald is the largest uncut emerald in the world (I believe).

- The Star of India sapphire is one of the largest star sapphires in the world.

- The other two gems mentioned by name in the section about the stones are inspired by real jewels on display at the Museum of Natural History, but those aren't their names.


	80. Birthday part 1

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

.

_**Author's Note:**_ _so I'm soooooo sorry it's been sooooooo long! I know I haven't updated at ALL this month, but me and my beta are behind on a lot, and I got, like, mini-flu from my husband for several days so I didn't write at all, and I'm just so behind and life is getting on my nerves. BUT! Here is a chapter for you guys! Now, originally the birthday chapter was about 40,000 words long. My beta was like, "No effing way." So I broke it up into three parts. However! Some great plot developments occur on the day commemorating Dylan's birth. I'll give you guys a few hints to make up for not having the whole original birthday chapter up today. These hints are: wedding, assassination, bloodlines, birthday presents, and sisters. Make of that what you will. I love you all! See you at the end!_

_- LA_

_PS - for any of you guys who like Pokemon, how about you check out my fanfic_, Pokemon Ivory? _I just a couple of... well, they could've been meaner, I suppose, but I got a couple of lamentable reviews and I'd like some second, third, fourth, and fifth opinions. So... yeah. If anyone's interested. Loves to you all!_

_PPS - I know there's been some questions about Nuala and Nuada and why they can't seem to figure out that Dierdre, Bres and them are bad guys. I thought I explained it, but maybe not, so I went into it in more detail in this chapter in a scene with Prince Psychopath. Hope it makes more sense now. =) Hugs for everyone!_

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**Chapter Seventy-Nine**

**Birthday (Pt. 1)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of an Awkward Wake-Up, Forgiveness, an Explanation, Reports, a Question of Blood, A'du, Nuala, Words with the King, and a Plan**

.

.

Dylan's eyes fluttered open at the same time as Nuada's snapped wide. Golden eyes like early morning sunlight through honeyed amber met a pair of eyes like two rainswept autumn lakes. Neither Elf nor mortal moved so much as an inch.

Nuada flashed quickly back to the previous night. Dylan had come to bed after her nightly ritual, only to keep as much distance between them in the wide bed as possible. He wondered if it had been intentional, or if she'd merely been instinctively trying to protect herself, her heart. For the first time since being forced to share a bed his lady had turned her back on him to face the bedroom hearth. Despite his tiredness, Nuada had been unable to sleep while Dylan had remained tense and awake, her back resolutely turned to him. Only when she'd finally slipped into deep and seemingly dreamless sleep had slumber come upon the Elven warrior as well. And now...

As sleepiness faded, Dylan became acutely aware of just _where_ she was - cuddled up against Nuada. Her cheek lay pillowed on his shoulder. One arm was tucked under her body, but her other arm lay draped across his chest. His heart beat steadily against the underside of her forearm through his sleep tunic and her UnderArmor shirt. Warmth around her waist through her t-shirt and undershirt told her that her prince had his arm around her, too. Early-morning sunlight bathed his face in palest gold. She suddenly couldn't look away from the intense, gold-kissed ivory of Nuada's gaze.

_Wait,_ Dylan thought suddenly as her heart began to pound. _His eyes are ivory. Ivory means..._

Nuada shifted toward her, and an odd but familiar warmth spread through Dylan's body. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to let him do... whatever he was going to do. Hold her more tightly. Kiss her good morning, perhaps. Or maybe more. Would he do more? How many kisses could they get away with before things went too far? How far could they push the boundaries before she succumbed to what she _really_ wanted from him right then?

But that thought was as bracing as a cold shower. The haze of early-morning desire vanished like night mist in the sun. The mortal, realizing where her thoughts had taken her, squeaked and scootched backwards out of Nuada's inviting hold.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" She held up a hand. "Wait, wait, wait! Just... gimme a second."

The Elven prince frowned, bemused. "What's wrong?" She'd forgiven him, she'd said. So why did she withdraw from him now?

She gestured vaguely in his direction. "You. Hotness. Bed. Trying to kiss me. Looking like that. Irresistable."

Biting back a smile of amused affection while also trying to smother the swift pang of frustration that flashed through him, Nuada said, "You seem to be able to resist me just fine, Dylan. It is I who seems incapable of resisting you. I only desire a kiss." A reassurance, though he didn't say that.

Dylan shook her head and inched back, though she was trying not to smile. "No way. Not when I just woke up. You have a... a thing you do."

His brow quirked. Her smile eased his uncertainty. "A... thing."

"When you kiss me."

"Mm-hmm." Forcing his expression to blankness, he asked, "Does it involve lips, by any chance?"

The mortal gave him a flat look. "Ha-ha. No. Well, yes. But no. Not really. It's not your lips. It's you. Being an Elven Casanova." Seeing the patient expectation on his face, knowing he wanted a better explanation than that, Dylan added, "You know exactly what I'm talking about, you... immortal Lothario."

_Don't laugh,_ Nuada thought, tensing his jaw. _She might hit me if I laugh._ Aloud he said, "Lothario, am I?"

"Yes," with an emphatic nod and another backward scootch. The edge of the bed dropped away like a cliff right at her back. She glanced over her shoulder before turning her gaze back to her prince. "You can't wake up in the morning looking like... like _that_," gesturing to his mussed hair and sleep-rumpled clothes, "with your 'come-hither' eyes, and not expect me to swoon into your arms or whatever."

"And yet, despite my 'come-hither' eyes, you have managed to restrain yourself. I applaud your self-control, my lady."

"Okay, now you're just making fun of me."

Nuada gave her a look of supreme innocence. "I? Make fun of you? Never, my lady." Seeing her eyebrows raised in skepticism, he added, "Well, hardly ever. Now," in a more serious tone, "if I may ask... what in the world are 'come-hither' eyes?" He would add that to the growing list of human terms she had yet to explain to him - like spandex and Evil Twin goatees.

Dylan swallowed as the Elf's eyes, which had started to darken back to gold, suddenly lightened to ivory again. She had to talk to Balor, she decided. There was no way she could survive another morning like this. Though she and Nuada had slept together for only four nights now, and although they'd only woken up actually _in_ bed together twice, Dylan knew that pretty soon she wouldn't be able to resist temptation anymore. Who could, waking up to him looking like _that_? Especially when things were so tense between them? For some reason, couples often responded to the resolution of conflict with physical desire. That was _not_ an option for them at the moment.

"You have them right now," she murmured.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You're looking at me like... like I'm eye-candy."

He frowned. "Eye-candy," he echoed. She nodded. "And what is 'eye-candy?'"

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. She couldn't think, suddenly. Not when he was looking at her like that. As if he never wanted to look away. As if he knew what she was thinking when she found herself captivated by his too-intense, gold-kissed ivory gaze and her heart began to pound anew. After everything that had happened between them last night, Dylan didn't want to talk about eye-candy. She wanted to cuddle up to Nuada and just let herself relax in the knowledge that he was by her side. But that would be a bad idea. She just couldn't remember why at the moment.

"Um..."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Well... a little bit- _eek!_" Dylan shifted her weight and dropped right off the edge of the bed. She hit the floor with a dull _thump_, landing on her stomach and forearms. Luckily, the human missed whacking her head on the bedside table. After the few seconds it took to get her breath back, she rolled over and started to laugh. "Oh, ow. That kinda hurt. Haha, wow. First I fall off a balance beam at the playground, then I fall off a fountain in your mother's garden, and now I've fallen out of bed. What's next - a balcony?"

A pale hand reached down to offer her help in getting to her feet. Dylan looked up to see Nuada had gotten out of bed and come around to help her up. Smiling, she waved him away. "I'm okay," she said, still laughing. Getting to her feet, she dusted herself off. "It just kinda hurt a bit. I'm fine." A glint of light reflection caught her eye. Dylan looked down at her hands. Flecks of something pearly white glinted on her palms. Scraps of something iridescent gleamed in the early morning sunlight. _Literal faerie dust,_ the human supposed with a tired smile. "Huh," she said aloud. "The maids need to dust under the bed." She wiped her hands on her t-shirt, then hugged herself, suddenly cold.

"Are you all right?" Nuada asked with a smile. "That was quite the tumble."

"First of all, 'tumble' sounds kind of wrong," Dylan said, trying to ignore the way the blood rushed into her cheeks. Oh, yeah - she _definitely_ had to talk to Balor. "But you knew that. And secondly, I'm fine. I used to fall out of bed all the time when I was little. I'll probably do it at least a couple more times before I'm dead, so no... worries..." The words trailed off when she caught sight of the Elven warrior's expression. She frowned. "Nuada? What's wrong?"

Gentle fingertips reached up and brushed across her cheekbone, just under her eye, to caress her temple. The velvet rasp of calloused fingers warmed Dylan's skin as Nuada slowly and carefully traced her features. There was some emotion in the depths of his gaze that warmed her like sunshine spreading across the world just after dawn. Mingling with that soft something in his eyes, however, Dylan saw sorrow - a deep, aching sadness that made her chest go tight and almost had tears rising in her throat so that she tasted salt. Nuada's palm was warm when he pressed it to her cheek.

"What is it?" She whispered. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, beloved."

For some reason, Nuada couldn't quite read Dylan's expression. He swept his thumb across her cheek to feel the warm silk of her skin beneath his touch. Wondered if she meant to order him to stop. Order him not to touch her as she had the day before. But she didn't, so Nuada drew her in to him and leaned in, meaning to press his lips to Dylan's forehead. The soft fragrance of her perfume teased him, and the jolt of sudden desire had him turning away from her, drawing back.

He wanted... wanted so much to... but he couldn't. Not now. Not yet. He'd promised her. He couldn't even hold her right now, with the sudden grief gnawing at him, mingling with his ever-present longing for her. Only her words echoing in his head kept him from ignoring common sense and taking her into his arms. _Before I'm dead..._ By the stars, how could she be so nonchalant about such a thing?

"Nuada?" She touched his arm. He felt that touch to his bones. "Seriously, what's the matter? What is it?"

Nuada drew a breath that shuddered, then moved to the window. They weren't supposed to be so close to each other when in bed - or, he imagined, too near it. He understood why. No man, not even an Elven warrior, could resist the temptation she represented when standing so close. He had to get away from her in order to think straight.

He rested his hands on the edges of the windowsill. Gazed unseeingly out toward the dove-gray sky kissed with early whispers of coral and lavendar from the breaking dawn. Auriferous wisps of cloud caught and reflected the first rays of the sun. He heard Dylan sit on the edge of the bed and knew then that she was willing to wait as long as was needed for him to speak, to explain himself. Nuada closed his eyes against the brilliance of sunrise. Let his forehead touch the icy glass. Cold shocked away most of his residual tiredness. After several long moments of silence, he opened his eyes once more as the sky continued to lighten.

"I love you, Dylan," Nuada said suddenly. The words pried his lips apart and fairly leapt off his tongue. Dylan drew a sharp breath. He felt more than heard her get to her feet and draw closer to him. "No matter what happens, you must always believe that. Believe that I love you."

His heart stumbled when she murmured, "Of course I believe you."

Nuada reached behind him and clasped her hand. Did she really believe? Could she, after all that had happened yesterday? He could feel the crack between them, the widening fissure, and wondered if mere words could seal it. He had to believe they could.

Without looking at her - he couldn't look at her, aglow with dawn's soft light and with love and concern in her eyes, and not tell her what he truly feared - he said, "I love you. I know I do not say it as often as you do, but that does not mean I do not feel the same depth of... Please, you must never doubt how much you mean to me. You and Nuala are my very heart. No one person is dearer to me than the two of you. And you..."

She waited for what seemed like a lifetime before wrapping her arms around his arm and dropping her head onto his shoulder. "And I what?"

Slowly, as if each word were being dragged from him, Nuada said, "I lost my sister's heart long ago. Once, we were part of each other, inextricably linked. There was never one without the other. All of that changed after my mother was murdered. We grew apart. And though I love her with all that I am, she... she's afraid of me. She loves me, but in her heart she does not wish to. So one half of my heart stands cold and aloof from me. You are the other half of my heart, yet here you are with your arms about me. Though I have given you many reasons to forsake me, you remain at my side. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He wondered what she would say. In the end, she merely murmured, "Yes. I understand. And I believe you," she repeated. "It's okay. We're okay."

After a moment, he nodded. Something that had been loose and jagged and painful inside him smoothed over, clicking back into place. Then he said, "I have something to tell you."

He felt her stiffen, then force that stiffness from her body. She propped her chin on his shoulder and hugged him a little tighter. The lightness in her voice was a bit strained when she asked, "Okay. Is it a secret?"

A smile quirked the corner of Nuada's mouth. She was trying. Trying to suppress her suspicion and her expectation of being betrayed. He loved her for it. "Well, two things. One is a secret." He turned a little so he could look into her eyes.

"What is it?" Dylan asked, smiling now. If Nuada could smile at her, the mortal reasoned, it wasn't anything serious. "Tell me."

"All right, then. The secret is," and dark lips dropped a kiss to the tip of Dylan's nose, "I adore you."

She laughed. "I adore you, too."

He hesitated, unsure of his welcome, before leaning in and brushing his lips across hers in a slow, deliberate caress. Dylan sighed against his mouth. Moved a little closer. Nuada cupped her cheek and pressed his mouth to hers, a true kiss this time. Her lips were soft and sweet beneath his. Her fingers curled in the collar of his sleep tunic as he murmured Gaelic endearments against her lips. He'd almost lost this. Almost lost the gift of waking up to her, of kissing her, of holding her like this, even so innocently. The thought had him pulling her closer.

When the kiss finally broke, he kissed the skewed part on the bridge of her nose. "The other thing is... happy birthday, Dylan."

Dylan blinked. Quickly calculated. Then she started to laugh. "I forgot," she replied. "I don't believe it, but I forgot my own birthday." She grinned, exasperated with herself. Then her grin melted to a dreamy smile as she looked into Nuada's eyes. "And you remembered."

"Of course I did. I've been planning for this day for weeks."

"Planning?" Her eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion. "What have you been planning?"

"Many things," he murmured, with a sudden wistfulness in his expression that made her stomach flutter. "You will find out some of them after you attend your worship."

Right, she thought. Today was Sunday, the Sabbath. She had church. Then she remembered something. "Aren't you coming with me?"

Nuada hesitated. "I have much that needs to be done today." Noting her crestfallen expression, the prince added, "Another time, I promise."

She offered him a small smile. "Okay. I know you're busy." _Though not too busy to be kissing another woman,_ she thought, then quashed that snide little comment flat as a pancake before it had time to make her angry. He'd apologized. She'd forgiven him. It was over. Done. Except it wasn't. "It's just..." Seeing his quizzical look, she shook her head and moved away from him. She would _not_ get upset. She wouldn't...

"You are angry with me again," Nuada said. Dylan paused. Sighed. "Over something so small?"

"I'm not _mad_. I'm hurt. Because it's not small to me," she said. "It's not... it's not that you said you'd come to church with me. It's not about _where_ we're going. At least not completely. It's that you promised you would go somewhere with me. You promised. And it's my birthday, and you _did_ say you had plans for today for spending time with me. And now suddenly you have work?"

Put that way, it sounded small and dishonorable of him. As if he were making excuses. And he _had_ promised, and it _was_ her birthday. It was a small enough gift, was it not? But there was something else underneath Dylan's words as well. Something that nagged at him. "Dylan... why is it so important that I go to church with you? Why did you make that a condition of our marriage?"

The human woman hesitated. "A few reasons. One selfish, two not."

"All right."

"You've mentioned before that when I come back from church I'm always super happy, right? It's a place where... where I can just relax. No one treats me differently for being human or being your truelove or anything. It's a friendly, welcoming environment. I think you need that. A place where no one will judge you or make you feel as if you're not doing your job of being the prince properly. I know you feel like that a lot. I know you're stressed. I'm not asking you to convert, Nuada. You know I'd never do that. But I think going to _some_ kind of spiritual meeting would help you relax, find some peace of mind. And if it doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out, but I'm just trying to help you find a place where you can relax and de-stress. I mean, you almost never do it anywhere else, so..." She shrugged.

"That is the unselfish reason?" He asked.

She nodded. "That, and it will make the children really happy."

"I see. What is the selfish one?"

Dylan made a face. "You know how when we first started seeing each other... socially, outside of your sanctuary, we talked about my faith a lot. You were impressed by how I adhered to it and impressed by my belief system." Puzzled, the prince nodded. "Well, not all Latter-Day Saints are... what you might expect. A lot are super nice and awesome, way better than me." She smiled when the prince scoffed. "That makes me feel wonderful, you know, that you think I'm so perfect," she said. "Anyway, a lot are very kind, but some... have their own struggles."

"What does this have to do with my attendance?" When she hesitated, he frowned. "These people, have they been bothering you?"

"Not... exactly."

He gave her a flat look. "What does that mean?"

Folding her arms across her chest, she leaned against one the bedposts. "Sometimes when a member of the Church is... involved with someone who's not a member, there can be a lot of... subtle disapproval or hostility aimed at the Latter-Day Saint. It's nothing overt - usually. But it's noticeable. Right now we're just dating, so it's not _as_ bad, but..."

"But when our engagement is announced, some of the other followers of the Star Kindler will... what? Snub you?"

She sighed. "No. Well, yes, some will, but I don't care about being snubbed. Well, I do, it hurts my feelings, but only a little bit. It's just... their attitudes will get worse and ruin the good feelings I get at church. It will make it... suck. A lot. It's difficult to feel as connected to the Spirit and to the Star Kindler when the room's full of contention. I think I've told you before that it's hard to pay attention to the promptings of the Spirit when I'm angry or upset in some way? It's kind of like that. Plus it's distracting knowing people are staring at you and talking about you. It's a personal failing, one I need to work on, but there it is."

"And my escorting you will help you with this."

"It will help alleviate at least some of it, yes. I'd be more comfortable being there if you were with me."

He considered. "Dylan, if these people make you unwelcome, why continue to attend?"

"Because I'm supposed to, whether it's enjoyable or not. I promised I would, so I will. Just like you've sworn to do things that kind of suck for you, but your honor says you have to do it - same goes for me. You don't go to church to socialize. You go to worship Heavenly Father. Everything else is extra."

Nuada frowned, startled. "Then... you do not attend because you enjoy it."

"Nope. That's a side benefit. Usually. Not always. But no, I attend because I have an obligation to be there. I swore to my King that I would go. I love making my God happy, which is one reason I attend, but it's not like it's a party or anything. Well, it _can_ be a party - I do teach Nursery - but again, that's not the point."

"I... see."

Dylan smiled, clearly disbelieving _that_ statement. "Uh-huh. Are you confused?"

He matched her smile. "A little." Then he inclined his head in acquiescence. "But I will go with you. To protect your... reputation."

Her eyes widened. "You will?" When he nodded, she ran to him and threw her arms his neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Popping up on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips against his mouth in a swift kiss. "It'll make the children _so_ happy. And it will be wonderful to spend two whole hours just sitting next to you without worrying about _anything_. Don't worry, you don't even have to pay attention, you can just tune it all out, I don't mind. Thank you! Let me go get dressed and get the kids up, and then we'll have breakfast, okay?"

**.**

Balor removed the half-moon glasses he wore to read over reports and rubbed the bridge of his nose. A headache brewed behind his left eye. According to the head of the night's watch rotation the previous night, Prince Zhenjin Azurefire had reported smelling a stench that was somewhat reminiscent of the stink of the shoggoth that had been found and dispatched in the plum orchards less than two weeks ago.

That was disturbing enough. What made it worse was that there were several other reports that corroborated the Dilong prince's statement. Word from a kitchen servant, a stable lad, a patrolling Butcher Guard, a few nobles, and even the tengu bodyguard that had come with the envoy from Onibi. Too many witnesses for it to be coincidence. And the smell had come from various directions all at the same time. Which implied... Balor didn't know what it implied. That something - shoggoths? - were converging on the castle, perhaps. What if they did? Only fire and molten iron were effective against such monsters. Emperor Huizong, who had put an end to the shoggoth in the orchard, was an old man and could not be called upon to destroy all of them, if they were massing around the castle. How to fight them?

"What do you think it means, Iriall?" Balor asked, opening his eyes to look at the report again. "Gobha? Íomhar? And you, Labhrás?"

The Lord Chamberlain, Iriall of Renvyle, steepled his long fingers and frowned at the paper on the king's desk. Gobha, the Lord Steward, exchanged a glance with Lord Íomhar, the Lord Provost of Findias. Labhrás, the king's chief advisor, watched the chamberlain with shrewd black eyes.

The four lords closeted with Balor were all descendants, to varying degrees, of the same breed - the _féar gortach_, the Men of Famine, the Banquet Keepers; those pallid eldritch creatures who served as omens of famine and draught in the mortal realm, the monsters that guarded faerie feasts and in turn feasted on the flesh of mortal children. The féar gortach and their descendants had always been in service to the fae monarchs of twilit Ireland, and these four lords were no different. They had served Balor and the kingdom of Bethmoora for centuries. Yet now...

"I do not know what it could mean, Sire," Lord Iriall said softly. "An enemy force circling the castle, perhaps? Yet who could command such creatures?" He shook his long, doughy head. "I simply do not know."

"Nor do I," Balor muttered. "I have little experience with such creatures as shoggoths. We'll send out a company of Butchers to investigate the countryside surrounding the township and the palace and see what they have to say. If they bring back verification that those Elder creatures are closing in on us..."

"Perhaps His Royal Highness might be able to do something," the Lord Provost ventured into the silence. "He is a skilled warrior and a savage fighter."

Balor shook his head. "Not until we know what we're dealing with." Pinching the bridge of his nose again, the old king added, "I would never risk my son's life so foolishly. If we receive confirmation of the enemy's presence, I will summon him. He's a brilliant tactician. If they're truly out there, Nuada will no doubt be able to figure out how to deal with those monsters."

The king's four councilors bowed to him. "As you say, Your Majesty," murmured Labhrás. "You, of course, should know him best."

**.**

Dylan had been right about one thing - the children were _ecstatic_.

"It'll be so much fun, you'll have so much fun, Your Highness, and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan always brings snacks," 'Sa'ti was saying excitedly as she twisted this way and that in front of the mirror to make sure her fur was smoothed down properly. "Maybe if you get bored, too, she'll give you some."

Nuada gave him truelove an eloquent look that clearly asked, _They get bored?_

His lady shrugged, as if to say, _They're young children. Of course they do._ As Dylan tied back her hair in a loose ponytail with a blue ribbon, she flashed Nuada a smile. _Don't worry,_ she seemed to be saying. _I'll take care of you._

A'du insisted on walking beside Nuada. The prince didn't mind that so much, but 'Sa'ti diffidently asked if she might hold the prince's hand on the walk to the chapel. When the Elven warrior glanced at Dylan, his lady shrugged, clearly taken by surprise at the cougar girl's request. Nuada glanced down at 'Sa'ti in her little blue velvet dress, her bright turquoise eyes beseeching as she gazed up at him. Nuada flicked his gaze to his truelove's baffled face again. No help there.

He sighed and offered the ewah child his hand. "Just the once," he said sternly. She nodded emphatically and grasped his proferred hand, beaming up at him with a look of absolute adoration on her face. It was difficult not to soften a little.

"You'll like church, Your Highness," A'du said.

Nuada wanted to grumble, _Somehow, I doubt that,_ but kept his silence. Less than twenty minutes later he found himself seated beside Dylan in the Star Kindler's chapel. At least the cubs were on her opposite side, so he wouldn't have to deal with them if they began getting restive. That would be up to Dylan and Tsu's'di.

He was familiar, after twenty-odd centuries of wandering both the mortal and faerie realms, with the Star Kindler's methods of worship. It was only when a youth of perhaps Tsu's'di's physical age got up to speak to the assembled fae about the love the High King of the World bore for all creatures, mortal and fey, that he was taken by surprise. He'd thought one of the High King's priests would be speaking. Yet apparently not. After the youth came a maiden, a young man, and a woman who looked about Dylan's age. The priest merely looked on with a smile or a thoughtful expression on his face.

Nuada had expected the whole thing to leave a sour taste in his mouth... but it didn't. And when Dylan laid her head on his shoulder and laced her fingers with his, he felt an odd and yet strangely familiar sense of peace steal over him. His lady sighed in contentment. She barely seemed to notice the eyes watching them from all around the chapel. Instead, she only squeezed his hand and pressed a little closer.

The prince noticed 'Sa'ti grinning at him from around Dylan. A'du shot him two thumbs-up. When Dylan noticed their lack of attention, she surprised her prince by not getting angry, or even frustrated. She merely smiled and lifted her chin to indicate the current speaker. Both cubs ducked, abashed, and faced forward again. Dylan smiled and settled her head on Nuada's shoulder again.

The Elven prince considered A'du'la'di's words before the excursion, the boy's assertion that he would like church. Like it? Perhaps not. But Nuada could tolerate it, he supposed. Especially if it made Dylan so relaxed and happy. He hadn't seen such a soft smile on her face in many days. He could tolerate it, for _her_ sake.

**.**

"She is _what?_" Bres snarled, lunging to his feet. Incensed, the Fomorian prince began to pace the length of the front room. "How can she be Bethmooran? She's mortal, for the gods' sake! Are you certain she is of Bethmooran blood?" He didn't bother waiting for Arrachd to answer. Of course the nuckelavee was sure. He wouldn't have brought a false report to his prince, for fear of a very painful punishment. "Curse it! Curse _her!_ First you leave a witness, then you tell me the Crown piece you stole was a fake! And now you tell me the little brat you left alive is of Bethmooran blood!"

The nuckelavee stayed silent and merely kept his head bowed, one fist to his chest in a salute, as if the gesture of respect was his only shield against a blood and excruciating death. It very well may have been.

"Are you _certain_ she has the Sight? How powerful is it?"

"Strong enough that she saw through Geri's strongest glamour, and he is runner-up for leader of his pack," Arrachd replied diffidently. "And she is only a child. That is a lot of power for one little human girl unless she has royal fae blood somewhere."

Bres snarled wordlessly and paced like a caged animal. Every so often he muttered something vicious under his breath.

Suddenly he whirled on his servant. "Is she Nuada's? Is she his bastard? How long has he been rutting with that common-born human bitch? How old is the brat?"

"Perhaps five summers, Your Highness," the nuckelavee replied. "I cannot be sure if she is Nuada's child or not. She could be - she _is_ at least half Bethmooran, and has powerful Sight. And if the princess had given birth to a child, surely we would have heard about it long before now. As for how long Nuada has been involved with his human... I cannot say, Sire. Yet it could be guessed that their story of a year's acquaintance might be a fabrication. Might," he repeated. "After all, they seem awfully comfortable with one another for having only been known to each other for a single twelve-month."

The Fomorian bared his teeth in an expression too savage to be called a smile. "That would mean Nuada's been lying to me about that upstart whore from the beginning. Maybe she really _has_ turned his head that much. That bitch. That filthy little _bitch_." Bres closed his eyes. Forced the tension from his body. Opening his eyes, he said, "It's foolish to make assumptions without more information. However, keep an eye on the brat for now. I want to know if the human slut or Silverlance attempt to contact her."

"And the child's human guardian?"

Bres shook his head. "Leave her be as well... for now. We need to find out if the brat belongs to Silverlance. Were either of the brat's so-called 'parents' fae-blessed at all? Could you tell?"

Arrachd thought back to the night he'd broken into the human museum. Shook his head. "I saw no mark of fae blessing. Yet Nuada courts the whore and has not marked her. Perhaps he dallied with the child's mother before taking up with his current human. There are any number of possibilities as to how he could be connected to the child, Your Highness."

"Find out if that child is Silverlance's. If it proves too difficult for you, Lord Ciaran and Lady Dierdre will handle it."

Knowing better than to show his outrage at possibly being passed up for the two gancanaugh he despised, the nuckelavee merely bowed to his prince. "Yes, Sire. It will be done as you command."

The crown prince watched his servant depart, his mind already on other matters. He would have to write to Elatha, the prince decided, for an extra spell or two to use against Princess Nuala. The Bethmooran princess was a stronger telepath than Bres had anticipated, and the only reason she hadn't yet discovered his true intentions was due to the discrepancy in their powers.

Nuala was royal, yes, but Bres was a crown prince and heir to a kingdom. Only two other ranks conferred more power, both political and magical, than his own: being the heir _and_ the eldest child, such as with royals like Nuada himself; or being a monarch. But Bres wanted to make certain the princess suspected _nothing_ of his true intentions.

And while Bres's power, combined with the help King Elatha had sent with his only surviving son and heir, would hold Nuada off for a while longer while the Tuathan prince remained distracted by everything going on, the Fomorian prince wanted to take no chances with the legendary Silverlance, either. The spells wrapped around every member of the Fomorian envoy _had_ to hold until Bres' plans came to fruition.

He couldn't afford to relax his guard. Not until Nuada was imprisoned and/or already executed, and Nuala and Balor were dead. Then control of the Golden Army would be his, and he could use that ensorcelled Army to wipe out the other monarchs who stood against a war with the humans. When those old fools were out of the way... then it would be time for the fae to declare themselves to the mortal realm once more.

**.**

Upon returning from church, Dylan informed 'Sa'ti that she was due for her midday nap. Surprisingly, the cougar girl did not protest. A'du informed his mistress that he, too, was a bit sleepy, and joined his sister in their room. That left Dylan and Nuada alone in Dylan's bedchamber. The mortal sank onto the mattress and pulled off her favorite suede boots with a sigh of contentment.

"I feel positively wonderful," she murmured, wiggling her feet in their rainbow toe-socks. "French toast - or the Elven equivalent - for breakfast. A good time with my handsome prince where I got to cuddle you for two whole hours," she added with a smile. "And now I'm going to enjoy spending the whole day with you."

"Not the whole day," Nuada replied with more than a little regret. "I need perhaps two hours to get some work done, since I went to church with you this morning. _Then_ I am yours for the rest of the day."

Dylan nodded. "Okay. No problem. I have something I should probably do real quick, anyway. I'll be waiting in here when you get done, okay?"

The Elven prince inclined his head, smiling, and retreated to his study. Only when the door was shut firmly behind him did he allow his smile to slip away. He slumped into his desk chair and looked down at what he knew would be waiting for him on the polished ebony surface: two sets of reports. The first were the findings he'd sent for from the servants assigned to the Royal Library, and the second were more reports from the northern villages.

The previous day he'd gone briefly to the Royal Library - one of the largest libraries in the kingdom and certainly the largest in Findias - to search for ways a human might become immortal, and to assign a few of the under-librarians the task of further research. So far, they had found nothing.

Discouraged, but refusing to admit defeat, Nuada turned next to the reports from the villages. Those were just as frustrating. More reports of famine, illness, banditry, wanton destruction. Even now, after days of staring at the cramped handwriting until the words were imprinted on his eyelids, he still had no idea how to convince his father to do what he wanted, what was _needed_, regarding sending help to their people.

He pressed his knuckles to his closed eyes and sighed. There was a glass of Elven wine on his desk as well, cool and crisp, but he had no stomach for it just then.

There was a knock at the study door. Nuada opened his eyes. "Enter."

A'du'la'di poked his head in. "Um... Your Highness? Can we talk? Like... a man-talk?"

Nuada opened his mouth to refuse, intending to claim the valid reason of his work waiting to be done... but then he noticed the strained look on the little boy's face. Nuada frowned. The child had been fine at church, so why did he look as if he were struggling to suppress tears?

"Come in and have a seat, A'du'la'di," Nuada said. The ewah cub obeyed the prince. Once seated, A'du stared at his hands folded in his lap. His fur, Nuada noticed, bristled with agitation, and his ears were flattened by dread. The Elf waited to see if the child would speak. When it became obvious he would most likely have to initiate the conversation, Nuada asked, "What did you need to speak with me about?"

"Um... well... it's about... um... it's about _A'ge'lv_ Dylan," the cougar shifter whispered. He flicked a timid gray glance at the prince before fixing his eyes on his hands once more. "Are you guys... are you and the _a'ge'lv_..." Suddenly the boy jerked his head up and demanded with wide eyes and panic in his voice, "Are you guys going to break up?"

Flabbergasted, Nuada simply stared at him for a moment. Then, "What?"

"Are you and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan gonna break up?" A'du demanded. A tear spilled down his cheek. "You guys were yelling at each other yesterday and you sounded so mad and then you guys were okay this morning at church but then you guys left each other and it's her birthday and you should be with her and stuff but you're not so are you breaking up?"

It took the prince a few seconds to fully process the child's panicked babbling. Once it was straight in his mind, Nuada murmured, "A'du'la'di... I'm in my study because I have work to do. I am not angry with Dylan. I'm going to see her later today."

"You were mad yesterday," the cub protested in a voice that trembled. Another tear welled up and fell, and another. "You... you yelled at her and told her to leave. And she yelled at you and said she hated you. You guys sounded _really_ mad." He sniffled.

Something akin to shame churned in Nuada's belly. "You heard all that?" He asked softly. A'du nodded and scrubbed hard at his cheeks with the back of one fist to erase the tears. The Elf murmured, "A'du'la'di, you have my sincere apology - and Lady Dylan's, I am certain - that you heard our argument last night. All of what you heard was spoken in hurt and anger. Your lady and I have no intention of forsaking one another. In fact, we plan on marrying a year from now. You need not worry."

The little boy fidgeted. Uncertainty shone in his eyes. "Why were you guys so angry?"

Nuada hid a wince. "I... had hurt Lady Dylan's feelings and we quarreled over what was to be done about it. I allowed my temper to get the best of me."

"Everybody does, I guess," A'du mumbled. "Tsu's'di does. All the time. So... so _A'ge'lv_ Dylan doesn't hate you, right? And she's not leaving?"

"She is not leaving. And she doesn't hate me. She has already apologized for saying such things, and I have apologized to her. We've forgiven each other. There is truly nothing for you to fear." Gently, realizing the child had been concerned over the potential breaking asunder of his new family and, indeed, his very way of life, Nuada asked, "Do you believe me?"

After a long hesitation, A'du'la'di nodded. "Yes, sir."

"A'du," Nuada murmured. It was only the second time the prince had ever called the child by his nickname. "Let me also promise you this. You are our vassal. Just as you have sworn oaths to Lady Dylan and myself, so have we sworn oaths to you in turn. I promise you, we will never forget our duty to you and your brother and sister. We've sworn to take care of the three of you, and we will, no matter what happens. Do you believe that?"

There was no hesitation this time. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Was there anything else?" When the boy shook his head, the prince dismissed him, still keeping his voice gentle. Only when the door had shut behind the reassured cougar cub did Nuada sigh heavily and drop his head into his hands. He should've realized the children might have overheard the argument that had occurred the previous night. He felt like a fool not to have even considered it.

_So much occupies my thoughts,_ he thought with no little wistfulness. He closed his eyes. A headache was brewing at the base of his skull. _Perhaps I am growing old before my time, that I cannot seem to get ahead of all that requires my attention. I wonder if Athair ever had such trouble._

A second knock at the door snapped his eyes open. Just on the fringes of his psychic awareness he felt the presence of an Elven woman. Surely not Dierdre. Naya? Then there was a gentle brush against his mind, familiar as his own heartbeat. Surprise and pleasure surged through him, followed swiftly by wariness.

"Come in," the prince called. Nuala stepped into the room and dipped a short curtsy. Her brother rose to his feet and gestured to the visitor's chair. "Have a seat, Sister. You honor me with this visit." As Nuala sank into the chair with the faintest swish of blue silk skirts, Nuada took his own seat again and offered his twin the neglected glass of sparkling white wine. It was still cold. "What can I do for you?"

Nuala took a delicate sip before setting the glass back on the desk. "I want to speak with you, Brother. About the northern villages."

He couldn't hide his surprise. "Oh?"

His twin clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward. Nuada looked into eyes as golden as his own. Saw the sincerity in their depths even as he felt it resonating through their link. "I think we should talk to Father about it. Convince him to send them help." Her brother stared at her. Nuala wanted to...? _Nuala_ did? "Surely he'll not deny both of us if we come to him together," the princess added. "And if we must, we can always take it before the council. The two of us, with some of the council behind us? Surely Father will acquiesce then. Especially if we can get Lord Iriall and Lord Gobha on our side, as well. Perhaps even Lady Jocasta, if we present our arguments properly."

Stunned, Nuada could only blink foolishly at his sister for a minute. Nuala wanted to help him? She would actually stand against their father with him? And she had actually put together a loose sort of plan for doing so? The Elven prince frowned. "Nuala... are you ill?"

Nuala blinked, bewildered. "No. Why?" Then she smiled as their link gave her the information she wanted. Nuada rarely shielded from her, unless he wanted to be left absolutely alone. So when the princess brought down her mental barriers between them, most of what her brother felt came through. "Ah. I understand. I'm quite well, my brother. I was speaking to Naya and she told me the villages needed help." She paused, looking down at her hands. "I'm a princess of the Tuatha de. It is my duty to help my people... as you strive to do. I should have known there was trouble in the north long ere now. Yet I was so caught up in my courtship and Bres and what our father is trying to do with you and for you and I didn't... forgive me, Brother."

Moving cautiously, warily, as one would with a skittish animal, Nuada reached across his desk, palm up. Nuala's amber gaze tracked the movement. When Nuada was once again still, she reached out and laid her hand atop his. A sweet pain flashed through the warrior prince. The feeling of something settling back into place. He drew a steadying breath. Met his sister's gaze. "I would forgive you anything, my sister. Surely you know that."

Her smile was bright and sweet. "Thank you. I know we do not see eye-to-eye on many things, Nuada, but I agree that the villages need to be protected and helped. Perhaps we might convince Father to send a company of royal guards or an army company - just to protect the villagers, and any supply trains we send."

"He'll not agree to that, Nuala," the prince murmured. "Sending any form of military aid skirts too close to what he perceives as breaking the treaty."

"But the people need to be defended!" Nuala protested. "Naya told me, and I read the reports when Lord Gobha, the Lord Steward, gave them to me. The humans raiding the northern villages are common bandits, nothing more. Surely the treaty does not apply to such lawless mortals. They broke the truce first, after all."

Nuada's knife-thin golden brows winged upward. "Did they? Yet our king refuses to do his duty by his people because of an already-broken truce with a corrupt and dishonorable race? How out of character for Father."

His sister gave him a wounded look. "Brother, that is unfair."

"Is it?" Then he sighed and looked away. "Forgive me, Nuala. I have much on my mind and it has left me... short-tempered. You did not come to me to fight. My deepest apologies. We will try your suggestion - coming up with some sort of solution before going to Father and presenting a plan we can all agree on. Unless you have changed your mind about aiding me?"

His twin shook her head. "I'm with you in this, Nuada... my brother."

The words filled him with that same sweet ache as before. His sister, his twin, his other half - finally on his side about _something_. At least, he hoped so. He detected no deceit from her, and yet... he dared not pin too much hope on Nuala's words, because if he dared to believe and it turned out his twin was lying, it would devastate him.

**.**

Dylan wondered briefly in Nuada was going to throttle her for this.

_He must've been really distracted_, she thought, _not to ask me what it was I needed to do_. Well, he'd had good reason to be distracted. Dylan knew her prince was still uneasy about the issue with Dierdre. Dylan intended to try her best to move past it. But that had nothing to do with what she meant to do right now.

The chamberlain eyed her critically, looking for flaws, but the mortal had made sure she looked nice this time before seeking an audience with the king. She didn't want to start something and then have Nuada get involved. Not that what she was doing was dangerous, per se, but she didn't want him to know about it until she could figure out a way to explain what she was doing without it sounding like a punishment because of the mistake he'd made so recently.

"Lady Dylan, the king is a very busy man," Lord Chamberlain Iriall said, sniffing with disdain.

Dylan folded her hands in front of her like a school girl and bowed her head. "I'm aware of that, my lord chamberlain," the mortal murmured diffidently. "However, I was asked by His Royal Majesty to discover a piece of information he values greatly. That's why I'm here."

Lord Box-Head of the Creepy Fingers raised one pencil-thin eyebrow. "Indeed. Very well, milady." The chamberlain opened the door to allow her through and announced her to the king. Dylan curtsied. Balor looked up with mild surprise on his weathered face and gestured for his son's truelove to take a seat across from him. Once Dylan was settled, the king dismissed his chamberlain.

"Lady Dylan," Balor murmured, settling back in his chair. "What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She smiled. "I've spoken with Healer Táebfada, Your Majesty."

Balor raised his brows. "I take it from your smile that the news Táebfada gave you was positive." Dylan nodded. Balor smiled - a real smile, the mortal realized with some surprise. "That _is_ good news. I am happy for you."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"I've always wanted grandchildren," the king murmured, almost as if to himself, "but Nuada refused to settle down for so long."

"Well, he's kinda stuck now," Dylan quipped with a smile. Balor smiled in return and canted his head. "Your Majesty... are you ever going to elaborate on what you meant about the possibility of my becoming immortal?" The human psychiatrist asked, hoping to catch the old king off guard and surprise an answer out of him. But no such luck. Balor merely quirked a thin brow. "I did as you asked and spoke to Healer Táebfada. Are you going to give me anymore information?"

The king drew a breath. Let it out slowly. Dylan wondered if he knew Nuada had picked up that habit from him whenever the prince was thinking hard, considering all the angles and options of a situation. Balor tapped the silver index finger of his prosthetic hand against his lips.

When he finally lowered his hand to the armrest of his chair, Dylan knew he'd come to a decision.

"What are you willing to risk to bear my son's child?" Balor asked softly.

"A better question would be what am I _not_ willing to risk," she replied. "I won't risk anyone's lives or livelihood. Whatever sacrifices I'm called on to make, they'll have to be mine. No one else should have to pay for my dreams."

Balor nodded. He didn't smile, but Dylan thought she detected a gleam of approval in his golden eyes.

"A good answer. Has Nuada spoken to you of the kings of Mag Mell?"

Dylan stiffened. After a moment, she nodded.

"Usually they're incredibly dangerous to bargain with. The price they often demand of those who petition them can be quite brutal. However, if one happened to be in possession of something they wanted..." The king trailed off, letting the silence press on the mortal before him.

"What do they want?" Dylan asked in a hushed voice, unable to bear the interminable silence. She could barely speak past the thudding of her heart in her throat.

The old king shrugged. "Many things, actually. I thought perhaps you, as the Star Kindler's servant, might know the location of one of them." When Dylan frowned, obviously confused, Balor said, "Among other things, the kings of Mag Mell desire the Lance of Longinus."

Dylan gave him a flat look. "Seriously? It doesn't exist anymore. And it's not like it's got special powers anyway, cripes." Irritated, she raked a hand through her hair. Growled under her breath. "That's seriously what they want? The spear that supposedly pierced the side of Christ? Begging Your Majesty's pardon, but that's stupid. First of all, I have no idea where it would be _if_ it still existed, which it _doesn't_. It was destroyed, like, a century ago when the museum that had it caught fire or something. And before it was destroyed, it couldn't cut anything anyway. For crying out loud, how dumb can they be?"

"Why are you so upset by this, then?"

"Because it's stupid! Next you'll be telling me they want Excaliber or Joyeuse or Dyrnwyn or Thuận Thiên - which are completely out of my grasp." She slumped in the chair, defeated. "I thought you were going to mention something I could actually get my hands on. Not something ridiculous like that."

"Completely out of your grasp, are they?" Balor echoed. "And why is that? All four swords you've just mentioned are fae weapons that have been lost. Surely if one tried, the blades could be found and given as a gift to the kings of Mag Mell. They are always on the lookout for powerful magical weapons, after all."

She sighed. "Okay, I'll believe a lot of things, but I do _not_ believe that Excalibur exists. The sword in the stone? No way. As for Joyeuse, it's not in Faerie. It's in the Louvre in France. I'd have to steal the thing - which I'm not going to do. And where would I find Thuận Thiên?"

"In the kingdom of Orang," the king replied promptly. "Somewhere. It is lost, of course, or Tethra and Mannanan would have simply requested it of the king of Orang many centuries ago. But it was lost in Orang, which is southeast of Dilong. And Dyrnwyn is _somewhere_ among the nearby kingdoms - Bethmoora, Cíocal, Eirc, Annwn, or Eathesbury. I'm sure bringing two legendary swords to the kings of Mag Mell would endear you to them and they would be more amenable to granting you immortality without forcing you to pay a bitter price."

The mortal pursed her lips. "Is there something less bloodthirsty they're interested in?" The idea of going in search of the two swords gave her an uneasy feeling for some reason.

Balor smiled. Good, she wasn't simply jumping at the first, second, or even third options without thinking them all through first. A good trait for a future princess. Aloud, however, all he said was, "They also want the quert of Ynys Affalon."

Dylan sat up straight. "The apples of Avalon?" _Now_ they were talking! "Okay, how do I get them?"

"That," the king replied, "is for you to discover, my dear."

"Oh, come on! Your Majesty, please, can't you just-"

He shook his head. "The cost must be paid by you, Lady Dylan. Not by me, not by Prince Nuada, but by you. The kings will not accept less than that. Do you wish to bear my son's children or don't you?"

She swallowed. Fixed him with her gaze. "I want a family with Nuada."

"Then you will find a way to get your hands on what Tethra and Mannanan desire that is acceptable to everyone involved. Was that everything?"

Mind whirling, her thoughts crashing around inside her skull like out-of-control bumper cars, Dylan started to nod. Then, "Oh, wait! There's one more thing. A request, if I may, Your Majesty." Balor arched a brow, inviting the human to continue. "Um... on a completely different subject... about me and Nuada sharing a bed?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"What are the chances I could get you to rescind that order?"

The king steepled his fingers and leaned forward. "My son _has_ been behaving himself, hasn't he, Lady Dylan?"

She nodded vehemently. "Oh, yes, sir. It's not him. Or not exactly. It's more... me."

He blinked, the only outward sign of startlement. "I do not follow."

"Um... I'm just not comfortable sharing a bed with him anymore."

There was a long silence before Balor asked, "Would this be because you are attracted to him?"

Dylan flushed. "Uh, yeah. So... can we not do that anymore? I'd really appreciate it."

She waited for what seemed like an eternity while Balor pondered her request. What was the old fae thinking? She had no idea, though she was momentarily distracted by two things. One was a set of five shallow scratches on the king's natural hand. The flesh around the scratches was tight and shiny and inflamed - all sure signs of infection. The second thing she noticed was the way Balor reached up to rub his left shoulder as if it ached. A doctor's instinct prickled along the back of her neck.

"Your Majesty, are you all right?" Dylan scootched to the edge of her chair, studying the old Elf. "King Balor?"

"I am well enough, Lady Dylan," the king muttered. "It is nothing to worry over. Merely the weight of this gods' cursed thing," he added, lifting the prosthetic hand of wood and silver. "Makes my shoulder ache in bad weather. No need to be concerned."

"What about those scratches on your hand? They're infected, Majesty. At your age, you have to be very careful about that sort of thing."

"Eh?" He glanced down at the wounds. "Oh, those. One of the palace cats scratched me about a week or so ago. Bloody beast. It was a paltry thing at the time, and I've been too busy to see to it." He paused, looking at her curiously. "And why am I telling you this?"

The mortal smiled. "I _am_ a healer, if you recall, sir. May I see?" After a moment, the king extended his hand. The Butchers arrayed against one wall shifted somewhat restlessly. Dylan merely inspected the scratches. "These aren't going to heal if they're not tended, Your Majesty. An Elven healer could probably fix this, or washing the wounds, then applying essence of goldenseal and loosely bandaging your hand. That should work, too. But these do need to be tended before you get blood poisoning. It's a lot more common at your age."

"I shall take that under advisement, my lady."

"Nuada worries about you, you know," Dylan blurted, then bit her lip. When Balor didn't explode, she relaxed a fraction. "I mean, he's concerned about you as his father. He doesn't talk about it that often, but I know him. I know he worries about your health."

Balor huffed a laugh. "When he was a boy he wanted to take care of everyone. Me, Nuala... his mother. Whenever his sister was ill as a child, he would do everything he could think of to see to her comfort - bring her books and dolls, flowers from the garden to lift her spirits. He would even escape his tutors to spend time with Nuala when she was bedridden. Nuada was... was a good lad..." The old Elf trailed off, eyes distant as his mind wandered back through the paths of his ancient memory. Then he shook himself and forced his thoughts back to the present. "Well, Lady Dylan, I've decided to grant your request regarding yours and Nuada's sleeping arrangements... on a condition."

Wary now, Dylan asked, "May I hear the condition before I agree?"

"Oh, you will like it, I think. My condition is very simple. In exchange for having your bedchamber to yourself once more, you and Nuada will wed in February, not December."

She blinked. "Wait, so you want our engagement to be..." She quickly calculated. "A year and two-and-a-half months instead of a year and a day?"

"Oh, not next February, my lady. _This_ February. Two months from now, when the snowdrops bloom. On the night of the full moon. That is the traditional time for such things, after all."

Dylan's eyes went wide and for a moment she thought they would actually pop out of her skull. "This Feb... I... but... a royal wedding takes... takes months and months to plan, doesn't it? And isn't there stuff we have to do and-"

"Let His Highness and I worry about that. You need merely agree."

It was impossible to speak without swallowing hard at least three times. "Um... may I talk to Nuada about it first?"

The king inclined his head. "Of course you may, by all means. However, you must have made your decision by tomorrow night, before your engagement is announced at the Midwinter Ball. Now, was that everything, Lady Dylan?"

"I... um... yes, Your Majesty."

"Good. I have work that needs doing, I'm afraid. It was a pleasure to visit with you under less trying circumstances, however, milady. And I will take your medical advice under consideration. Good day to you."

So Dylan found herself standing outside Balor's study, dazed and confused at what had just happened. "February?" She mumbled, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Get married _this_ February? Jeez. How do I keep doing this?" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Nuada's probably going to kill me."

With that cheerful thought sitting like a gargoyle in her mind, Dylan trudged back toward the joint-suites she shared with her prince.

**.**

_Some time later, in another part of Findias..._

"It must be tomorrow," Naya's master hissed. He laced his fingers together and paced the length of the room. His robes swished against the icy stone floor as he walked. "The attempt on the mortal's life must happen tomorrow night. A royal engagement is going to be announced at the ball tomorrow. Everything is in place."

"It is a good time to make our move, my lord," said the Elven healer with a brief bow. "The mortal wishes to bear the prince a child. She may even carry his seed within her now. There has been no opportunity to discern the truth since last we spoke, but the Fomorian envoy seems half-convinced she is already with child by him."

The fae lord raised an eyebrow. "And how do you know this?"

"I have many sources, milord, as do you. Mine - like yours - stretch from common chambermaids to crowned heads of state. Prince Bres fears the possibility of Silverlance's human carrying the heir to the Bethmooran throne, as should we all. His madness and the pollution of mortal blood..." The healer's headshake was slow and sorrowful. "Mingling two such evils would bring ruin upon this kingdom."

"And it seems she has the king's ear, now, as well," Naya ventured hesitantly. "Did you not say she was admitted into the king's private study despite certain protests from others, my lord?"

Her master snarled. "That uppity little bitch dares to speak to our noble king as if she were the monarch and he the baseborn scum beneath her feet. It is nearly enough to make me forget all our plans and simply snap her neck like a twig." He could just imagine the hollow _crack_ of breaking bone.

"Is it true, my lord," the healer chimed in, "that the human has some secret information requested of her by the king? Could she perhaps know of what we're planning?"

"Don't be ridiculous! However, all these things tell me our plan is a good one. We _must_ move on her tomorrow night. Polunochnaya, you know your assignments, of course. And you, my spy among the healers... you must keep your sisters and brethren busy during the bloodshed. If the mortal is wounded, you must keep her from being attended. Do you both understand?"

The healer bowed low. Polunochnaya twisted her fingers in her skirts and bowed her head to her master. "As you wish, milord. But... Princess Nuala has only just now had the chance to speak to Prince Nuada about the northern villages today. Is it not too soon to move on the human?"

Her master smiled, a cold smile that sent ice skittering down Naya's spine like a thousand insects. "Consider this merely the first step, my dear. If the human dies in this first attempt, well enough. The prince will still blame the children of Adam." Seeing Polunochnaya's confusion, he added, "Surely you know that there are pro-human factions of the Kindly Ones who are willing to kill just as readily as some of the anti-human factions. Pro-human fae who might see the human as a traitor to her race, in fact. And if the mortal survives the attempt on her life, I have other plans in place to ensure our desired results."

"But," Naya said, feeling a strange clutching in her throat, "but my lord, surely-"

"Do not question me, girl." There was no hint of a smile in that voice now. "Remember all that you owe, and to whom you owe it. Remember what Silverlance intends to do to this kingdom and to the humans in the mortal realm. He must. Be. Stopped. At _any_ cost.

"And don't worry about being found out," he added. "Someone else intends to move on the prince's so-called 'lady' tomorrow night either during or after the Ball, as well. All that is required is the proper... incentive. A few well-placed words, or a nudge in the right direction. That little incident will distract Balor and the prince from discovering our involvement in tonight's festivities. Now, be on guard. It will be your task to keep the princess from noticing anything... untoward. We have spies in the king's household; they _cannot_ be found out if we are to succeed in saving the kingdom."

Naya inclined her head. Dipped a curtsy. Her bowed head hid the single tear sliding down her cheek. Her voice was steady when she replied, "By your command, my lord."

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_**Author's Note:**_ _oh, and did I mention those hints at the top apply to any of the 3 birthday chapters? Hehehehe. Anywho, dun-dun-DUN! Two potential assassins at Nuada and Dylan's engagement ball!? Oh, noes! Ow, I burned my tongue. Gotta say, I love fettucine-farfalle pasta in alfredo sauce. Yum. Anywho, so that's our update. I'll try to have one in time for Halloween! Preferably a semi-scary one in honor of our semi-scary holiday because next chapter we get to see Moundshroud and some of his... subjects in all their Samhain-y awesomeness. Hope you guys enjoyed!_

_As you know, I love reviews. I'm even okay with one-liners (*looks fondly at littlenerd*) as long as I know people are still reading. I can't figure out the stats thing. And we're almost to 900 reviews (which is only 100 reviews away from 1000, and will not that be absolutely AMAZING?!) so let's do it! I'm trying to beat my husband, lol._

_And now onto our review prompt! And more pasta! Yum. Ow, burnt my tongue again!_

_1) The whole first scene with the keep-away/come-hither-eyes conversation and situation - how do we feel about that? Was that a good healing moment, good levity, or what? And then their whole "I love you/I believe you" thing? Did that make sense, or did she give in too easy?_

_2) Who thinks shoggoths are massing around Findias and its township? Just curious. =)_

_3) The plot with Tiana thickens. Thoughts? Who thinks she_ is _Nuada's illegitimate child?_

_4) Nuada and A'du'la'di - how'd I do?_

_5) Nuada and Nuala! Who's happy they're getting along? What do we think of this pseudo-truce between the royal twins?_

_6) Dylan and Balor's conversation. How's their relationship shaping up?_

_7) Favorite things, of course, my loves._

_8) OMG, the wedding (or should we say, The Wedding) has potentially been moved to February! I checked the callendar I made for Once and the full moon is February seventh, and it's currently December 20th (in fan-verse) so OMG! Less than fifty days! EEEEEK! Anyone else excited? Who thinks Nuada will agree to such a drastic schedule change?_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- So I was informed by several different guys that apparently guys in their sexual prime almost always wake up horny in the mornings. I didn't know that, since my brother is 5 years older than me and _never_ talked to me about girls or sex or anything like that. But yeah, a whole bunch of guys told me that, so the first scene underwent some tweaking based on that situation because my beta (and my guys) informed me that if Dylan and Nuada were snuggling and kissing after a fight first thing after waking up, they'd end up having sex, which is not in their cards _yet_. And this spawned most of the "keep-away-come-hither-eyes" conversation, lol.

- "Lothario" is a character from some opera or book or something, but the term is now applied (as of as early as the 1800s) to mean an unscrupulous seducer. Dylan is, of course, joking about this in relationship to Nuada.

- The whole "I have to tell you something."/"Is it a secret?"/"Yes."/"What is it?"/"I adore you." is from this super, super cute scene from the movie _Stranger Than Fiction_. I LOVE that movie! I paraphrased it in the chapter, but it still needs mentioning.

- The "complaint" Dylan makes about the people at church giving her grief about dating/being engaged to/marrying Nuada is true a lot of the times in the Church. I realized I'd painted this sort of rosy image of Mormons without going into some of our issues - such as trying to be _too_ good. Sometimes the whole grief about dating a non-member is even transferred so that girls get grief if they date guys who haven't gone on missions. Which is ridiculous, but whatevs.

- To get an accurate idea of what kind of fae I'm describing as the féar gortach, look at both the chamberlain from the _Hellboy_ movie and at the Banquet Keeper in _Pan's Labyrinth_. Seriously, Google that freak's picture. I'm basically combining them into the same _type_ of faerie, because they both look like emaciated people (which is what the féar gortach looks like) and the Banquet Keeper has his thing with food and eating little kids and (for some reason) keeping their shoes... Anyway, so combining three different things here - the chamberlain, the Banquet Keeper, and the féar gortach into one species. And I wanted to make that sniveling little Lord Box-Head into something with a bit more spine. Does he eat little children? I have no clue. Might explore that later.

- The Lance or Spear of Longinus is supposedly the spear that pierced the side of Christ. Lots of people thought (and think) it has special powers, but I seriously doubt it doesn't. Although I seem to recall it's actually sitting in BPRD headquarters, but I could be wrong. Hafta rewatch movie 1.

- Joyeuse was the name of Charlemagne's personal sword. The name translates as "joyful". Some legends claim that it was forged to contain the Lance of Longinus within its pommel; others state it was smithed from the same materials as Roland's Durendal and Ogier's Curtana. It is alleged to have been interred with Charlemagne's body or contrarily to be held by the Saint Denis Basilica, where it was later retired into the Louvre after being carried at the front of Coronation processionals for French kings. Another supposed Joyeuse is held at the Imperial Treasury in Vienna, Austria.

- Dyrnwyn is one of the 13 Treasures of Briton. White-Hilt, the Sword of Rhydderch Hael (_Dyrnwyn, gleddyf Rhydderch Hael_): "if a well-born man drew it himself, it burst into flame from its hilt to its tip. And everyone who used to ask for it would receive; but because of this peculiarity everyone used to reject it. And therefore [the owner] was called Rhydderch the Generous."

- Thuận Thiên (Heaven's Will) was the mythical sword of the Vietnamese King Lê Lợi, who liberated Vietnam from Ming occupation after ten years of fighting from 1418 until 1428. Lê Lợi then proclaimed himself king of the newly established Lê Dynasty. According to legend, the sword possessed magical power, which supposedly made Lê Lợi grow very tall. When he used the sword it gave him the strength of a thousand men, and the legend is often used to justify Lê Lợi's rule over Vietnam. The sword has been associated with Lê Lợi since the early phase of the Lê Dynasty.

- Apples, or quert, were sacred in many mythologies, and the apples of Avalon healed all wounds. Many Celtic mythological tales feature apples from the Otherworld that confer upon their owner immortality and endless satiety. Welsh legends of Arthur relate that the king seeks out Avalon to heal from grievous battle wounds, and it is there he returns when near death.

In many legends of visits to the Otherworld, an outsider requires a special token to ensure safe passage to and from the land of fairies. This token is most often a branch of the Otherworld apple tree, a silver bough bearing blossoms and fruit that make music when shaken, often luring humans into enchanted sleep. This idea seems to come from older druidical practices, as early descriptions of the bards often mention the ritual use of silver branches hung with bells.

The root of the name Avalon is Ynys Affalon, meaning "Isle of Apples."

- In case anyone forgot, Balor got those scratches from 'Sa'ti in chapter 67.


	81. Birthday part 2

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _I know! I know! I'm suuuuuuper late (by like, a whole week). I know. I'm soooooo sorry. I needed my beta to get back to me because I had to rehash one scene in this chapter a bazillion times and we finally got it fixed on the 6th but then I couldn't get to the internet on the 7th so here I am on the 8th with an update. Sorry! I'm so sorry. But here's the 2nd of our 3 birthday chapters. I hope you like it._

_**And good news!**__ I got a job! It's only 1-2 days a week (sigh), but it's still better than nothing. I got a job as a maid. Woot! I started a week ago. Plus my rather limited hours give me time to both work on my latest novel (which only has 2-3 more edits to go before it's up for publishing) and to write fanfiction for you guys! And my roommate got a job as an afterschool teacher. She just started yesterday. Excitement! Heavenly Father is looking out for us, yay!_

_But you guys should still buy my books because they're awesome! Hopefully_ Glass _and_ Their Forever Family _will be available for the Nook/eReader soon. I'm having issues with the formatting, blargh. And_ Obsidian, _the sequel to_ Glass, _will be out in December through CreateSpace and on Amazon in like, February or March. Same with my second inspirational romance novel_, Where the Heart Is, _and my high fantasy novel_, The Shepherd's Daughter. _So yay! Double-yay!_

_Hope you guys had an AWESOME Halloween, by the way. Loves to you all! Enjoy the chapter_! =)

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**Chapter Eighty**

**Birthday (Pt. 2)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Bogeymen and Hellhounds, a Request, a Confrontation, an Awkward Conversation, a Teardrop of the Moon, Music and Bearding the Lion**

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After seeing the king, Dylan got a couple other errands out of the way.

First, she went to see Lóegaire. The elderly Elven mind-healer happened to have a moment just as Dylan arrived, so the two women sat down and talked for perhaps forty or fifty minutes about how Dylan was handling being back on her meds, how well the mortal was sleeping since starting the human and faerie medicines, and how she was handling the current political situation. Lóegaire was appraised of Dylan's engagement to Nuada, as well. She didn't tell the Elven woman about Nuada kissing Dierdre, however. Dylan had no idea if the other woman answered to the king or not, and had no clue what Balor might do if he discovered his son's mistake.

After seeing Lóegaire, Dylan managed to find out from one of the "upstairs" maids where Moundshroud was staying in one of the guest wings of the castle. To her surprise, the entire wing housing the Keeper of the Halloween Tree was empty of maids, pages, or even guards.

"What in the world?" Dylan mumbled as ice skittered down her spine. Suddenly something dropped down from the ceiling above. Dylan shrieked. Her guards drew their swords and started forward. "Wait!" She cried, glaring at the thing that had tried to drop on her. "I know him. Don't hurt him. He's Master Moundshroud's..." Searching for the proper term, the mortal finally settled on, "Doorman."

The creature was squat and chunky, covered in mangy gray fur. Its dark eyes burned at their centers with the same eerie green fire as most of the fae from Moundshroud's kingdom. White scars striped its short muzzle and black nose. A silver chain hung around its thick neck. Hanging from the chain glinted a pendant in the shape of a carved pumpkin. The bear-like faerie grinned at the human, revealing jagged yellow teeth slick with spittle. It lifted a paw and waved its knife-sharp claws one at a time.

"Almost had ya that time, luv," the creature said, giggling. Dylan crossed her arms.

"I hope you get drop-kicked in the head by a kangaroo," she muttered in exasperation. Uaithne made a questioning noise. Dylan explained, "This is Lord Santelmo. He's a drop-bear." Seeing her guards' confusion, she clarified, "A carnivorous faerie koala from Aboriginal areas that drops out of trees to attack and eat innocent bystanders." The drop-bear giggled again. The mortal glared at him. "Why can't you eat eucalyptus leaves like a normal koala? Why do you have to eat people?"

"Because," the thing gurgled in what might have passed for an Australian accent, "I may _look_ like a koala bear sometimes, when I'm glamoured, but you should always remember, luv, I'm a bit more dangerous than that. Now what's a pretty lil' sheila like you doin' in a place like this?"

She didn't roll her eyes at the term "sheila," but she wanted to. "I want to see Moundshroud, please."

"Eh? The old geezer?" The drop-bear chuckled. Putting his claws to his wrinkled black lips, he let out an ear-piercing whistle. "Oi! Ayame! His Nibs has a visitor! Be a love and come on out."

Dylan's eyes widened as something tall and skeletally thin in a shabby black kimono embroidered with copper jack-o-lanterns limped out of the shadows that had kept it hidden. Hanks of matted black hair covered its face and fell to its waist. The ragged hem of its kimono dragged on the floor. Dylan thought it was female, but she couldn't be completely certain. A large bucket of rotted wood trailed behind the faerie creature on a damp hemp rope, leaving a trail of dark water on the stone. The faerie woman stopped at the drop-bear's side. One puffy, blue-mottled hand lifted toward the wet, matted hair in her face. Dylan started to glance up.

"Don' look in her eyes, Lady Dylan," the Australian faerie cautioned with a wry laugh. The other fae creature hissed. Dylan swallowed and hastily dropped her gaze. She'd only dealt with a couple of Moundshroud's servants before, but never _this_ one. "_Tsurube-otoshi_ aren't called 'monsters' for nothin'. This is Ayame, one of the old geezer's maids. She'll show ya the way, luv. Just keep yer eyes on the floor."

That wasn't as difficult as Dylan had thought it would be, since every time she so much as lifted her head an inch, the towering Onibi monster at her side growled and snarled. The sound of the wooden bucket scraping against the floor behind them like dry bones on flagstones made Dylan's neck prickle. At a door at the end of the hall, Ayame grunted and gestured with one scabby blue hand. Dylan knocked.

The door creaked open. Dylan jumped and gave a little gasp before forcing herself to calm down. _After all this time, you'd think I'd be used to all of Moundshroud's bogeymen,_ she thought, surreptitiously eyeing the hunched, raw-fleshed woman in front of her. The stench of blood and raw meat hung heavy in the corridor so that Dylan had to breathe through her mouth to keep from being sick. The boo-hag in the doorway cackled, a sound like dead leaves and empty tree limbs rattling. Her smile revealed the blackened stumps of her teeth.

"Good afternoon, dearie," the old fae woman drawled, her voice heavy with an accent that made Dylan think of magnolias and cotton plantations. "Ye'd be here to see His Lordship, I 'spect." Blood-red eyes twinkled with mirth. "Ye're Lady Dylan, ain't ye? Come in."

"Thank you, ma'am," the mortal replied softly, automatically ducking her head so she wouldn't have to look at the exposed veins and muscles that should have been covered by skin, but weren't. Uaithne and Fionnlagh preceded her into the suite, and the other four Butchers followed her. To their credit, the guards didn't react to the sight of a woman with no skin dripping blood on the floor. Nor did they react to the dogs lounging at the feet of the man in a high-backed chair in front of the receiving room fireplace.

There were four dogs draped along the floor at Moundshroud's feet. Dylan knew them all, and so didn't hesitate to approach and kneel a few inches from the big sprawling puppy-pile. The dogs blinked and yawned at her. One of them heaved itself to its feet and deigned to drop its head and half its massive body into Dylan's open lap. This was Akut, Moundshroud's _adlet_. When the black-furred dog, which looked an awful lot like a Siberian husky except with oddly human-looking eyes, yawned again, he revealed a very long forked tongue and vampiric fangs with tiny barbs along the side. Akut nuzzled Dylan's belly. She rubbed behind his ears until his tail beat a steady percussion against the floor.

Jealous of the attention their pal was getting from the much-adored visitor, the other three dogs came over and plopped their heads into the mortal's lap as well. The largest of the group, Zorro (Pipkin had named him), was still a puppy. Despite his young age, the _cadejo_ was the size of a large calf. His little goat horns were still soft with baby fuzz, and his long legs ended in a mix between paws and cloven hoofs. His eyes were the bright yellow of a goat's. Like all of Moundshroud's animals, his fur was thick and shiny and black.

The other two dogs - a Yorkshire _barghest_, or black dog of death, nicknamed Archie; and a black-furred _pesanta_, or nightmare-dog with flaming crimson eyes, that Pipkin had inexplicably named Pez, after the candy - whined for attention from the human as Dylan made sure to scratch behind ears and under chins for a few moments. Dylan's guards struggled not to stare. Moundshroud, used to this ritual after nearly ten years of knowing the human psychiatrist, merely smiled.

"Hi, Pez," Dylan cooed at the _pesanta_. "Hey, boy. Who's a good boy? Archie, you're such a good boy, too. Oh, my gosh, Zorro, you're such a big boy now, yes you are." The _cadejo_ gave a bleating sort of bark. Akut yawned again, showing off his barbed fangs, and rolled onto his back, temporarily squashing Pez and Archie in the process. "Akut, you big bloodsucker, you're so greedy." Dylan began rubbing the exposed belly. The long brush of a tail thumped against the ground again. "Oh, you like that, huh? Good boy." His forked tongue came out to lick her hand. "Oh, you're all such good boys."

"I've always wondered why you do not have a dog, my dear," Moundshroud said. "You like mine well enough."

"Of course I like them. They're so sweet." Dylan dropped a kiss on Zorro's muzzle. He turned his head away and sneezed. Although lacking human-level intelligence, the fae hounds were vastly more intelligent than regular dogs. "Bless you. And I actually have two dogs now. Nuada gave them to me."

The air grew noticeably cooler. "Ah, yes. His Highness Prince Nuada. Has his attitude improved at all?"

Dylan got Akut, who was the warmest and softest of the four beasts, to sit up so she could drape her arms around his neck and lay her head against his back. He, in turn, settled his head on the human's shoulder with a contented sigh. Only once she was situated did she answer her old friend.

"We've made up, if that's what you mean," she said softly. "But I need to talk to you about that."

Moundshroud leaned forward in his chair, propping his bony elbows on his equally bony knees. "Oh?" The old fae king asked, "Have you decided to take me up on my offer to castrate him?"

"No!" She glared at her old friend. Moundshroud merely smiled and shrugged, as if to say, _Can you blame me, dear?_ Dylan sighed. "Did you find out who Nuada kissed?" The eldritch fae pretended to be wholly focused on buffing his long nails on his velvet tunic. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' How?"

"I have my ways, my dear. However, I promise not to kill her... unless she causes you anymore distress."

"Moundshroud, he's allowed to talk to her."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dylan, of course he isn't. That's being a bit _too_ generous and forgiving."

"I... Akut, _no_." She pulled back from the Inuit faerie hound. "No licking my neck. _No_. Bad dog." Akut whined and hunched his shoulders. To Moundshroud, Dylan said, "They have something they need to hash out."

"Oh, you mean such as the time and place of their next assignation?"

She sighed. "Look, I know Nuada messed up. He knows it, too. We're trying to patch things up between us, okay? But I told Nuada I'd trust him to handle this other thing with Lady Dierdre without interfering. I have to give him the chance to earn back the trust he's lost. So I'd like your word that you won't interfere."

He feigned being affronted. "Interfere? Would I do that?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, then. I suppose... if it means so much to you, my dear, I'll keep my big beaky nose out of it."

Dylan smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Moundshroud."

The old fae king sighed. "I'm going soft, I tell you. First Pipkin and now you, ordering me about, making demands, acting as if I'm supposed to be some kind and generous monarch instead of the terror of Faerie." He sighed again. "Ah, well. Consider it a birthday gift."

Her smile morphed into a grin. "Whatever makes you happy, Mr. Moundshroud."

"Impudent girl," he said, grinning back. "You're lucky I'm fond of you."

"Yes, sir. I know."

**.**

It was just as Dylan had traversed the last step before she reached the third floor and the Royal Wing when the shushing of heavy skirts dragging on stone caught her attention. Her guards didn't react, though, so she knew it wasn't someone preparing to attack. She caught a glimpse of gray and garnet from the corner of her eye. Ice skittered down her spine like insect legs. When she turned, Lady Dierdre was sweeping toward the stairs.

The Elven woman slowed when she caught sight of the mortal. Dylan studied the Fomorian noblewoman even though looking at her gave the human woman a headache and made something frigid coil like a snake in the pit of her stomach, a sharp warning. Nuada had said Dierdre was in trouble and that he needed to help her. Was that why she was on the third floor? Had Nuada been helping her? Or had they been-

_Stop it,_ Dylan chastised herself. _Stop it right now. He wouldn't do that._

_Except he already did,_ a low voice hissed in the back of her mind. _Why wouldn't he do it again?_

_Because he promised,_ she retorted.

_He promised to never play you false, yet he kissed another woman behind your back. What is Dierdre doing here while Nuada is supposed to be working? Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean your prince wouldn't tryst with someone when your back was turned. Perhaps he took her to bed as soon as you were gone-_

_Shut up,_ Dylan snapped at the slithering voice. _I'm not going to think like this; it's just the Adversary screwing with me. I'll just ask her what she's doing here. Cripes._

As the scarlet Fomori drew close, she dipped a curtsy to Dylan. Because Dylan outranked her - albeit only technically, and only on Nuada's say-so - the mortal was only required to nod in acknowledgment. "Lady macAengus."

"Lady Dylan," Dierdre murmured, then frowned. "Er... Lady Myers?"

"Lady Dylan is fine," Dylan said, suppressing a shiver. This woman was dangerous, Dylan thought. Just as dangerous as Bres and Dierdre's brother, Lord Cíaran. Well, not as dangerous as Cíaran. No one was as dangerous as Lord Cíaran macAengus. But the same icy cold that had struck Dylan when she'd walked into the healing chamber with Nuada, Bres, and Cíaran struck her now as she looked into Dierdre's eyes. But this was also the woman who'd enjoyed liplocking with Nuada. Dylan refused to be intimidated by her in any way. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

The Fomorian noble blinked. "I... was coming to see you."

Dylan frowned. Unease slithered down her spine to mingle with the ice. "See me? What for?"

"I..." Emerald green eyes flicked to the mortal's guards before returning to rest on the scarred countenance. "About His Highness," she said softly. "I want you to know, Lady Dylan, that I never... I never meant... that is, I-"

"Uaithne, can you guys step back a little bit?" Dylan asked. But it would _only_ be a little bit, and Dylan kept her hand close to where her courtship knife nestled in its sheath at her hip. After a moment's hesitation, the Butchers obeyed their charge's request, moving off a few paces to offer the two women a semblance of privacy.

"All right, Lady macAengus," Dylan said coolly. "Nuada's explained what happened. Apparently he put out mixed signals, you made a move. He rebuffed you, you backed off. I appreciate that. You need his help with something. I understand and sympathize. However," and here the mortal's tone, brisk up until now, became positively frosty, "I want to make a few things clear." Dylan held up her left hand, flashing the sapphire and white-gold ring. "The prince and I are betrothed. The formal announcement is slated for tomorrow night. And he knows - and I hope you do, as well - that if I find out anything else inappropriate happens between you two, neither of you will like the outcome. He said you two just kissed. Fine. It's over and done with, so I don't need to hurt anyone. But if you try to push him for anything else, you're not going to like my reaction."

Dierdre's eyes were fixed on the sapphire ring on Dylan's left heart-finger. It seemed almost as if she'd stopped breathing. So many emotions flashed across the Fomori's poison-green eyes so quickly that the mortal couldn't discern any of them. Dylan shivered as a sudden fresh chill iced her spine. Then Dierdre inclined her head almost imperceptibly and dipped another curtsy.

"You are to be congratulated, Lady Dylan," Dierdre murmured, eyes downcast. "And I understand you perfectly. Excuse me."

Just as the other woman was brushing past, the human added, "Dierdre." The noblewoman paused. Dylan hesitated, then reminded herself that as a doctor, she was obligated to help anyone and everyone, no matter whether their moral compass pointed north or not. "If you ever need to talk to someone about whatever trouble you're in... all this stuff with His Highness aside, I'm available. Prince Nuada and I will help you if you truly need it. I promise you."

For a long moment, Dierdre said nothing. Dylan wondered what she could possibly be thinking. The bitter cold freezing through her, warning of danger, had yet to dissipate. Then the Fomorian nodded once. "I understand. Excuse me."

Dylan briefly considered following the other woman. Trying to talk to her and get her to open up. She discarded the idea, however, when that warning cold suddenly increased drastically. Dierdre was willing to talk to Nuada about whatever trouble she was in. That was enough. Dylan didn't think it was a good idea to become too familiar with Dierdre, at least while the mortal was still struggling with her feelings over what had happened between the Fomori and Nuada. She'd forgiven her prince... but she still wasn't sure how she felt about Dierdre - except that the other woman was dangerous and did _not_ like her.

Shrugging off the uncomfortable thoughts, Dylan pasted a smile on and slipped into her suite. It took her all of five minutes to locate Nuada in his study. When she knocked and the prince bade her enter, she found him putting away whatever paperwork he'd been dealing with all day.

"All done?" Dylan asked, smiling brightly. It became easier when Nuada smiled back.

"I am, yes. You have perfect timing."

She canted her head. "Why, thank you, Your Highness." Feeling the king's offer weighing on her, the words sitting like stones on her tongue, she added, "Um... so before we go and do... whatever... we need to talk about something."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah, so... the thing is... I sort of went to go see your dad while you were busy."

"You did _what?_" Nuada rose to his feet, staring at her with incredulous eyes. "For Danu's sake, why? Why would you do that?"

"I needed to talk to him."

Still wide-eyed with surprise, the prince demanded, "About what?"

_Here goes,_ Dylan thought. Taking a deep breath, she blew it out before replying, "About our sleeping arrangements." The Elf frowned. Dylan drew another deep breath. "I asked him if we could have separate beds again. I can't... I can't keep sharing a bed with you."

Stung, unsure if he even had a reason to be, Nuada sank into his chair again. "You can't?" His lady shook her head. "But why not? Did I do something, or perhaps say something that made you uncomfortable? Or feel unsafe? I would never pressure you-"

"No, no!" She hastened to take the empty chair at his desk. "No, I know. I know you'd never do that. I don't feel pressured. It's not that."

"Then why did you go to my father, _alone_, without even telling me, to ask him if we might sleep apart?" A sudden thought turned his blood to ice-water. "Is this about last night? Our argument? Is it because I kissed Dierdre?" Was she attempting to draw back from him, pulling away at a snail's pace in the hopes that he wouldn't realize he'd lost her until it was too late? "Dylan, I'm sorry. I thought we were all right. You said we were all right. Do not withdraw from me, mo duinne, I-"

"It's not that," she said softly. "It's not the Dierdre thing. I just... I _can't_ be that intimate with you right now, Nuada. I'm sorry. I just can't handle it."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I do not understand. What happened? What has changed?"

She sighed. "This morning happened." How to explain it to him? How to explain that she couldn't share a bed with him because if he kissed her or held her while they were in bed together she wouldn't have the strength to stop him from doing anything else? Not only would she not have the strength, but at this point, she was on the verge of asking for it, of inviting him to break all of her rules.

Confusion flickered in topaz eyes. "Dylan, I... I don't understand. I meant no disrespect. I only intended to kiss you good-morning. What have I done that offended you? Tell me and it will not happen again, I swear it."

"You didn't do anything," she murmured, struggling for words to adequately express her problem without sounding like a slut. _What am I supposed to say?_ She wondered, fighting not to bite her lip while she thought. _"Sorry, Nuada, but because you look so good in the mornings when we're all cuddled up together, it makes me think about you in ways I shouldn't and want things that will get us - or at least me - in heaps of trouble but you're so hot I can't keep my head on straight?" Because that doesn't make me sound like a sex-addicted bimbo, oh no._

"Forgive me for repeating myself, but I don't understand."

"It's not you," Dylan confessed. Fighting back a wince at the cliche about to escape her, she added in a small voice, "It's not you, it's me. I... I keep snuggling up to you when I'm asleep."

He frowned. "And this is a bad thing?"

"Yes!" Exasperated with herself for not being able to find the right words to explain, for feeling embarrassed, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Yes, it's a bad thing. A very bad thing."

"Dylan, you are asleep when this happens. Surely your God would not condemn you for something you have no control over."

"It's not the snuggling."

"Begging milady's pardon, but you just said it was."

"Well, it is, but... it's... I can't keep waking up draped all over you!" She cried. "Especially in my pajamas!"

Now it was Nuada's turn to rub the bridge of his nose. "Dylan, it's not as if you were in something revealing or, by the Fates, naked." _That_ would have been his undoing. "I do not see why this is suddenly an issue for you."

"Because I don't like the way I feel when I wake up cuddled up to you!" She snapped, dropping her head back to rest against the back of the armchair. A sigh escaped her. "I would feel really uncomfortable being that close to any man in bed," the mortal confessed, "but it's worse with you because-"

"Is this about Zhenjin?"

Dylan lifted her head back up to blink at him. Nuada's voice, so open and obviously confused, had suddenly turned strangely cold. Distant. Not as if he were angry with her, but as if... She tried to put her finger on it. It was as if he were trying to distance himself from something painful. Dylan frowned at her prince. "About... Zhenjin? What about Zhenjin?"

"Does this sudden discomfiture with lying beside me have anything to do with him?"

The words were all in the right order and Nuada was speaking plain English, she thought, but that didn't mean he made sense. She shook her head. "No. How did Zhenjin get into this conversation?"

"You are comfortable with him."

Her eyes widened. "Not that comfortable."

Ignoring the conflicting twinges of triumph and irritation pricking behind his breastbone, Nuada inclined his head. "All right, then. Why _are_ you suddenly so uncomfortable around me?"

"It's not that I'm uncomfortable. I mean, I am. Not with you. I... I don't know why this is so hard to say. I feel stupid. I don't like waking up cuddled with you because it's hot, okay?" She sighed and shoved her hair out of her face. "I mean, I actually _do_ like it. I like waking up pressed against you, all warm and sleepy. It makes me feel..." She made a vague gesture with both hands. A blush burned in her cheeks. "I mean, you're really hot. Especially when you just wake up. And I love how it feels to wake up with you. How it feels when you hold me to you. And that's the problem."

Comprehension clicked in Nuada's eyes. "You worry that we'll overstep your boundaries and break one of your rules." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway, relieved that despite her fumbling, he understood. "Mo duinne, I would never do that to you."

She smiled a little wistfully. "You'd never seduce me, huh?"

"Of course not."

"Even if I asked you to?" That startled him. He opened his mouth, found he had no words. Could think of no possible way to respond. So he closed his mouth. Dylan's smile turned rueful. "You remember I said I couldn't resist you if you really turned on the charm? You can't really resist me, either, can you? Not if I said, 'To heck with the rules, let's just go for it.' Would you be able to resist? If I was in full control of my faculties and there was no magic or anything involved?"

It took him a moment to find his voice. "You would never do that. You value your commitment to the Star Kindler too highly."

Dylan scoffed, more at herself than at him. "I was thinking about it," she replied, and was rewarded by raised eyebrows. "I was thinking about it this morning, when you leaned in to kiss me. I thought, 'Just one little kiss won't hurt. One kiss... or two... or twenty.' And suddenly I knew if I let you kiss me I'd be gone. I wouldn't care about anything but you and me. Because right then I really, really wanted to... um... I wanted you. A lot."

Nuada blinked, taken aback. "Oh."

"Yeah. You kinda have that effect on me. Which was bad, because what would you have done if I'd let you really kiss me this morning? Think about it."

He didn't need to. He knew what would've happened. He'd have kissed her, reveled in the taste of her while using those kisses to show her that he was sorry, that he loved her more than he'd ever thought possible, that nothing could make him stop loving her. And if she'd succumbed to his kisses and invited him to do more, where would it have ended? With her beneath him, warm and soft and willing... at the time. But afterward? After the haze of desire faded and the sweet glow of lovemaking dimmed, she would have regretted what had occurred between them, and he did _not_ want that. Ever.

"I understand," Nuada murmured. "I do. All right." He ignored the pang of disappointment in his chest. Sleeping beside her had been a privilege he'd intended to cherish. Waking up to her... except for yesterday morning, waking up to Dylan - or, on those mornings when she'd somehow risen before him, waking up to the warmth and the sweet scent of her left behind - the last few days had been wonderful. But if she was not comfortable, he would do what was needed to put her at ease. And he did _not_ have to quash that glow of pleasure brought on by her confession of wanting him. "So you went to my father and asked him to rescind his order."

She nodded. "He was really nice about it, too. Didn't make fun of me or anything. He did put a condition on it, but I said I had to talk to you first before I could agree to it, since it affects both of us."

The prince settled back in his chair. "What was the condition?"

"He wants to shorten our engagement."

Intrigued, Nuada quirked a brow. "By how much?"

"Um... he wants us to get married in February."

He nearly choked on his tongue. "_What?_"

"I know, I know, it's way soon and probably inconvenient for you, and I know there are tons of things we have to do beforehand, which is why I said I'd have to talk to you about it first. Because I didn't wanna just blithely say, 'Oh, yeah, I'm so there,' and then it turns out I'm offending someone or ruining an important political event or-"

"I want to," Nuada interrupted, cutting off the stream of nervous babble. Dylan's mouth snapped shut with an audible _click_ of teeth. She stared at him. "I would marry you today if I could, Dylan. I was ready to wait a year and a day, but if I can wed you sooner, I will do so. The Frost Moon falls on the seventh day of February. Marry me then. Become my wife then."

She blinked, trying to process that. "Wait... you _want_ to marry that soon? But I thought we had a bunch of stuff-"

"I don't care," he said simply.

"But it's a royal wedding. Won't it take time to-"

"I don't care," he repeated.

"But that's not even two months from now," she protested.

"I don't care."

"But... but you... but I... what will people think if we marry that quickly?"

Nuada pinned her with a gaze of hot, feral amber and enunciated very slowly, "I. Do. Not. Care." Never taking his eyes from her face, he added, "Marry me, Dylan, on the night of the Frost Moon. The seventh day of February. Forty-seven days from now. Exchange vows with me that night. Become my wife, my princess."

Dazed by the sudden revelation - Only forty-seven days? Less time than they'd spent together in his underground sanctuary! - she stammered, "I... Nuada, I... this is all so sudden. Oh." She made a face. "I did _not_ just say that. I sound like an airhead. I, um... you know what?" Running her fingers through her hair to push it out of her face, Dylan suddenly smiled. "Why not? February seventh. Forty-seven days. Let's do it."

He surprised her by grinning. "Very well, then. The seventh of February." He rose to his feet and came around the desk, offering his hand. When she laid her hand in his, he pulled her smoothly to her feet. "On that day you will become my bride."

She threw her arms around his neck. "So you're not mad about the whole same-bed thing?"

"No. I would never be angry over you feeling uncomfortable, Dylan," he said. Disappointed, yes. He would miss the comfort of her presence in the darkness. Knowing she was near soothed away most of his nightmares, though not all of them. But it was what she needed. "Now, was there anything else? Because if there's nothing else, I have someone I want you to meet."

"Ooh. I'm intrigued."

"You're also improperly dressed. You will need jeans, I think. And a sweater. Muted colors."

Dylan cocked her head. "Muted colors? Why?"

"It is a surprise."

She rolled her eyes and grinned. "Of course it is. Isn't it always?"

As she went to change, Nuada's eyes followed her. His chest felt tight and yet oddly hollow as he watched her slip out of his study. Marry Dylan in less than two months? Oh, how he wanted that. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he would wed her that very day if possible. To make her his wife so soon... it seemed almost too easy. How could something he'd wished for, for what seemed like such a long time, suddenly be almost within his grasp?

Yet it wasn't that easy, Nuada knew. Dylan was human. Mortal. Yet so very necessary to him. How was he ever to keep her in his life? If they wed, and then the war came, she would leave him, but... but might she come back eventually? Nuada thought that, given enough time, Dylan might forgive him. Might return to him. But how much time? More time, he imagined, than a mortal had. Yet if she were immortal...

He couldn't do as his father had suggested, though. He could not trade the lives of his people, of all the fae throughout the Mortal and Twilight Realms, for Dylan's life. Not even for _her_ life could he do such a thing. It was a betrayal of everything he stood for, everything he believed in. A betrayal of his people, treason against his kingdom. No, if Nuada wanted to give his truelove immortality, _he_ would have to be the one to do it, not his father. Which meant, if things came down to the wire, there was only one choice.

Nuada had told her it was foolishness. A suicidal idea, the forlorn hope of the desperate. But was he not a fool for loving a mortal? And was he not desperate? If he had no other options, if he had no other choices, he would consider going to the kings of Mag Mell. But in order to do that, he would need the help of one of the three kings of Ireland. He couldn't count on his father to aid him, and he couldn't count on Elatha, Bres' father, either.

Which left him one other option. He would write to Rennan mac Dela, king of Eirc, when he and Dylan returned to their rooms that night. Rennan was neutral on the subject of humans - unlike Elatha and Bres, who thought them vermin. Rennan would help him, Nuada was certain. If the Elven prince was _that_ desperate, Rennan would help him.

**.**

Dylan couldn't figure out what it was Nuada wanted to show her as he led her to the stables, their guards in tow. Her prince had changed out of his velvet and silk into a dark linen shirt, canvas tunic and trews, and worn leather boots. Working clothes, it seemed like. A little-boy smile tugged at the corners of his dark mouth as they entered the large out-building. Nuada called for the Master of the Royal Stables.

Nils dropped down from a hayloft as easily as a drop-bear descending from a tree. He wore a nicer version of his normal work clothes, but nothing so fine as what he'd worn to church earlier that day. Dylan understood. Some jobs didn't stop just because the Sabbath had come. Working with animals was often one of them.

"Your Highness," the tomte murmured, bowing low. "Lady Dylan. You are here to see Shang?"

Nuada canted his head. "How is he?"

The tomte smiled and his single eye lit up with pride. "The little one is doing very well, Sire. He's been a bit restive today, but I think that's because he's lonely. Wants someone to play with him."

The prince sighed. "He is that age."

"Who's Shang?" Dylan asked. Nuada flashed her a grin.

"The person I want you to meet. Come with me."

Her prince led her through the massive stables, unerringly finding his way through the stalls and tack-stands and bales of straw to a series of stalls in the very back of the Royal Stables. They were larger than most of the stalls she'd seen up until this point. Most of them were unoccupied. One, however, almost double the size of a normal horse stall, was not.

Dylan paused with Nuada at the stall door that came up to her forehead and studied the strange green wood. She touched it with curious fingers. Nuada rapped on it with his knuckles, and the mortal realized the wood was hollow. She shot him a look.

"It is bamboo," the prince replied. "Specially made. The animal inside is from Dilong. We've found that mounts from other kingdoms do better if they have something from their homelands nearby. Now, no sudden or sharp movements. Keep your voice soft and soothing, the way you would speak to a small child. Shang is still a baby, and he's easily startled. Bright colors make him nervous," the prince added.

_So that's why he wanted me to wear muted colors,_ Dylan thought. She nodded to show she understood. Nuada opened the door and they slipped inside.

"Ohhh," Dylan breathed as a sweet sort of joy spread through her. "Oh, Nuada, he's so little." She gazed at the small four-legged animal in front of her, enraptured by him. "He's so little and sweet."

The spindly-legged lóng mâ colt in front of her, whose head barely came up to her waist, looked a bit like Zhenjin's mount, Qín, in the physical build: the same muzzle, like a Chinese dragon, complete with catfish whiskers; the same slender legs and serpentine neck. Only this little creature was so small and helpless looking, and his coloring was different. His mane and tail gleamed like pearly threads, darkening as they went from iridescent ivory to a deep sapphire. His scales glittered like a thousand tiny opals across his slender body until they reached his legs. Scatterings of hematite scales protected the delicate forelegs. Identical scales masked his upper face. A pair of fawn-like black horns - more like fuzzy bumps than horns - peeped out from between his cream-colored ears and mane.

When the colt gazed up at Dylan, she found herself transfixed by a pair of brilliantly blue eyes that faded out to black at the edges. A baby's curiosity sparkled in those beautiful eyes. Shang took a step forward. The fresh, clean straw beneath his cloven hooves rustled. He opened his mouth, flicking out a long, forked blue tongue.

"He doesn't have any teeth," Dylan blurted.

Nuada smiled. "He's only two days old."

"Really?" She glanced at Nuada, who nodded, before looking back at the small colt. "He's so little. How does he eat, then? Isn't he a reptile? I thought reptiles were born with teeth."

"He is a dragon - of a sort. They are a breed above reptiles or mammals. Right now, until his baby teeth grow in, he gets all he needs from a mixture of goat's milk, fish oil, and animal blood." Then Nuada's voice softened, taking on a sweet coaxing tone Dylan had never heard from him before. "Come here, little one. Let me get a look at you."

Shang approached Nuada without any hesitation, butting his nose into the prince's palm and making that warbling sort-of humming sound like a bamboo flute that Dylan had heard Qín make the previous day. Nuada rubbed gently beneath the colt's chin until a filmy third eyelid slid down over the baby's bright blue peepers. With an ease Dylan envied, the Elven warrior inspected every inch of the baby lóng mâ, offering soft words of praise and gentle pets since the colt didn't attempt to resist. All the while, Nuada told his lady about the lóng mâ colt.

"Only male lóng mâ have horns," Nuada murmured, running his fingers over the fuzzy knobs on Shang's head. The baby hummed in pleasure. "They're like a deer's antlers. Every year he lives, they'll fork, until he reaches full maturity. They also have a third eyelid, like cats. You'll only see it when they are either very, very happy, or when they're trying to sleep in a dangerous environment. However, they also have brille - clear scales to protect their eyes from the elements." Nuada brushed his fingertips over the baby's impossibly long eyelashes. Shang gave a little humming snort. "They like to be tickled, as well. It's part of their play - they'll tickle each other with their whiskers. Would you like to touch him?"

"Can I?" Dylan asked breathlessly. She'd never been _this_ close to an animal that was so _young_ before. "I won't hurt him, will I? Or scare him?"

Nuada took her hand and held it very carefully in front of Shang's muzzle. "Let him smell you. Wait until he licks you. Then you'll have his permission to touch him. You must be careful," he added as the lóng mâ's blue tongue flicked out and rasped against Dylan's wrist. "His scales have not hardened yet. They're not as delicate as a newborn's, but they can be bruised if you are too rough. Stroke him like this down his muzzle. That's right."

"Ohhh," she breathed. Her eyes were bright with wonder. "His scales are fuzzy." Running her fingertips ever so lightly along the ebony and ivory scales on the baby's nose was like touching suede or very soft leather. Qín's scales had been hard and smooth as jewels. "Why are they fuzzy?"

"Have you ever touched a stag's antlers?" Nuada asked, rubbing his hand along Shang's neck. The baby leaned into the caress while pushing his nose into Dylan's hand. "Antlers are spongy and soft at first, then they calcify and turn to bone. A lóng mâ's scales are the same. When they're first born, their scales are as soft as velvet and covered in a very short, very fine layer of hair. They're used to the warmth of the egg, you see. Dragon eggs have to be kept hot or the babies will die. Once they hatch, the layer of hair atop their scales helps to keep them warm until their bodies become accustomed to the outside world. They shed the hair at around three or four moons."

"That is so weird. And so cool. Do they breathe fire?"

Nuada laughed. "No, they don't. Most dragons don't, actually. I think they all once could, which might be why their bodies run at such high temperatures, but no longer. They're very susceptible to the cold, though. That is one reason Shang is all the way in the back of the stables, far from the doors, so he won't fall ill."

"Where's his mother?" Dylan asked while the lóng mâ gently gummed her fingers. "She could keep him warm, couldn't she?"

After a short silence, Nuada said softly, "She died birthing him."

"Oh, no. He's an orphan?"

"Not an orphan exactly," the prince murmured, "if the one he's intended for agrees to take him." Dylan paused in stroking beneath Shang's chin to stare at Nuada with wide eyes slowly filling with realization. "He is for you," Nuada added. "For your birthday. If you'll have him."

"But I... I can't take care of a baby dragon-horse," she protested, even as her heart was yearning to do just that. "I don't know how. And I don't have time. It wouldn't be fair to him..." She trailed off when Nuada smiled fondly at her. "What?"

"Do you honestly think that I take personal care of all my horses and all my dogs? I have a hand in their upbringing and training, but I have other responsibilities, as well - just as you do. But it's good that you thought of what is fair to Shang first. Dylan, he is a member of the Royal Stables. He has his own groom to care for him already. If you accept him, all you need do is pay him a visit once or twice a day, even if it's only for a few minutes, to bond with him. To allow him to become accustomed to you. He'll not be rideable for several years yet, but by then, he will be wholly yours, and be devoted to you. You'll not need to break him to ride him. He will be yours and yours alone, loyal to you. I gift him to you to bring you joy, not to add to your burdens."

Silvery blue eyes met Shang's brilliant mazzarine gaze. Then the lóng mâ stretched out his sinewy neck and nuzzled Dylan's shoulder and neck with his nose. The slender catfish-like whiskers, two long pearlescent ribbons like indigo-kissed moonbeams, came up to tickle the mortal's cheeks with feathery caresses. Shang hummed with contentment and pleasure.

"Oh," Dylan murmured, petting the soft scales of the lóng mâ's neck. "As if that isn't loud and clear. All right, baby," she cooed at the little colt. "All right, then. Looks like we're a team, too, huh? Looks like I'm your new mommy. Okay, baby." She pressed her cheek against the soft neck while the baby whiffled against her hair. "Thank you, Nuada. He's beautiful. I love him. Is Shang his real name?"

"Tian Shang Yue - roughly translated into English as Teardrop of the Moon."

"Teardrop of the Moon, huh?" Dylan let the colt nuzzle her cheek while she crooned to him, "You have such a pretty name. A pretty name for a pretty boy, huh? My pretty boy. That's right."

Nuada showed her how to take care of the little dragon-horse: how to lightly buff his scales and oil them so they didn't itch; how to comb out the long mane and tail and brush them until they shone; how to play tug-of-war with him, using a soft silk rope that he could grip between his gums and hold onto with his surprisingly strong tongue; how to check him over to make sure he was healthy. Nuada even showed her how to feed Shang.

The feeding bottle was stiff leather, but not much harder to handle than a modern baby bottle. The lóng mâ colt guzzled the bottle's contents in greedy slurping gulps. A few tiny rivulets of something that was pale, pale orange trickled down his neck. Dylan gently wiped the scales clean when the baby was finished. Shang made an odd gurgling sound, then a squeak. Dylan grinned.

"What was that?"

"The lóng mâ equivalent of a burp," the prince replied with a smile. Shang settled himself down into the soft straw with another gurgle-squeak and closed his eyes, heaving a contented sigh. His little belly bulged from his lunch. "He'll sleep now," Nuada said. "Most animals this young do little else but eat, sleep, and enjoy being the center of attention. Come, milady. I have other plans for us today."

Dylan got to her feet slowly so as not to disturb the baby drifting off in the straw. She dusted chaff from her jeans. Miraculously, there was nothing on her sweater but a strange, dust-fine glitter. As she and Nuada slipped out of the stall and closed the door behind them, she swiped some of it onto her fingers. It was silky as pollen or powdered makeup when she rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, and it looked familiar, though she couldn't place where she'd seen it before.

"What is this stuff?" The human woman asked, showing Nuada her fingers.

"Scale residue," he said with a shrug. "Nearly anything fae with scales leaves some sort of residue behind, just as bird fae molt and furred fae shed. It's nothing to worry over; it will not hurt Shang. Now come on." Lacing his fingers with hers, he murmured, _We have to be in New York City within the next two hours._

Her eyes widened. _New York? Why New York? Are we allowed to go to New York? Did your dad say we could?_

_No,_ the prince said with a sigh. _But I have been planning this for weeks. My father need not know._

_Are we gonna get in trouble?_

_As you might say, not if we don't get caught. Which we will not. Trust me, mo duinne. Please?_

_Okay_, Dylan murmured, giving him a bright smile. _I trust you. So where in New York are we going? Because we can't go out to eat or anything, that would break the Sabbath._

_I am well aware of your customs, my love_. Nuada leaned in to kiss her temple as they walked to the stable doors. _Don't worry. You will like what I have planned for tonight, I promise you._

**.**

It didn't take either of them long to wash away the smell of the stables. Dylan, sensing a real date looming, changed into a more mundane dress-and-shirt ensemble of dark blue velvet and white silk, slipped on her best winter boots, and grabbed her leather coat. At the last minute, she ducked back into the bathroom to put on some mascara and eyeliner and a touch of crystalline lipgloss. She dabbed honeysuckle essence at her wrists, behind her ears, and at the base of her throat. Finally, she loosely braided her hair and tied it off with a blue velvet ribbon.

Was she trying to make a point by dressing up? Dylan wondered suddenly. Was she trying to make sure she had Nuada's attention? After this morning's wake-up, she was fairly sure she had it. But it never hurt to be certain, she decided, and stepped out of the bathroom.

Nuada was waiting for her in his room, gazing out the window as night's velvet shadow slowly blanketed the palace grounds and the township beyond. He, too, had changed - into a dark blue velvet tunic and white silk-wool shirt and black trews. His black leather boots had been polished. He was trying to make an impression, too, Dylan realized. Showing her that he valued this excursion, this time with her, by dressing up. And he matched her. Had that been on purpose?

His eyes warmed when he caught sight of her hovering in the doorway. "My lady," he said, straightening, "if I may... you look beautiful."

She smiled, blushing. How was it he could make her blush just by saying she looked pretty? "Thank you, Your Highness." She bobbed a playful curtsy that made him grin. "You don't look so bad, yourself."

"I have another gift for you," he murmured. A grin spread across his face when her mouth fell open. "Why so shocked?"

"It's not a... an elephant or a baby pegasus or something, is it?" She asked, laughing. "Why do you buy me so much stuff?"

He picked up a white velvet box from the table beside his bed. The firelight brought out the sheen of the silver ribbon tied around the box. "I have answered this question before, but as it's your birthday, I'll indulge you by answering again. I want to give you all I can, because I know there are things you wish for that I cannot give you. Although I didn't buy this. I made it."

Surprised, she accepted the box. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out."

A gasp of utter delight escaped her when she drew off the lid of the velvet box. Nestled inside on a white satin cushion was a necklace. Delicate, graceful white-gold filigree as intricate as any snowflake gleamed with tiny diamonds and sapphires. It was gorgeous without being tacky or clunky, understated without being plain. It looked as fragile as gossamer. Every tiny link in the necklace chain was as finely woven as if it had been made of spidersilk. Each diminutive stone seemed to hang suspended amidst expertly woven wisps of silver. It was, she thought, breathtaking.

"You... you made this? For me?" Dylan whispered, awestruck. Nuada nodded. "Oh, it's beautiful."

He held out a hand. "May I?" She nodded mutely, and with a deft touch and nimble fingers, he clasped the necklace about her neck. Unable to help himself, he brushed his lips like a whisper across her cheek. "How very lovely you are, my darling," Nuada whispered. He brought Dylan's hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah." She brushed her fingertips along the royal scar carved across his face and smiled. "Let's go."

**.**

"I cannot believe you did this," Dylan whispered, ducking as Nuada helped her through the open window. "I cannot believe you _did_ this! Isn't this trespassing? We're gonna get in trouble! Morally if not legally."

The prince chuckled. "We have permission from the true owners of this place to be here. Mind your head."

She ducked to avoid something hanging from the low ceiling - she couldn't quite see what it was in the dimness of the room. "Who gave us permission to sneak into Carnegie Hall, may I ask, Your Highness?"

"The fae who work and live here," Nuada replied. "They live in this space up here. No one who actually works in the Hall itself has cleaned it up or been up here in years. I should think the workers who dwell here have as much right to invite us here as anyone else."

"There are fae living here? In Carnegie Hall?"

"Of course. Watch your step, don't trip." He helped her step over some stowed - and probably out-of-date - electrical equipment. "A few gremlins mind the lights and electrical wiring for the stage, I've been told. A few klabautermann, tired of life at sea, have come with their house-sprite wives to help mind the place and enjoy the music." She could tell by his tone that he didn't like the idea of fae serving humans, but she also knew he understood that not all the Shining Ones disliked the children of Adam as much as he did. "There are even some drow and a curupira around somewhere," Nuada added.

"What's a curupira?"

"You'll see. Ah, here we are." Nuada led her to a space that had obviously been recently cleared of debris and cleaned. The wooden floor even gleamed with fresh polish. Two velvet-cushioned chairs flanked a small table covered by a clean white tablecloth. Tall, thick white pillar candles on crystal dishes graced every available surface surrounding the table and cleared space, close enough to give a beautiful golden glow but not so close as to be a problem. Two slender candles in gold candlesticks illuminated the table itself, and the elegant meal laid out on it. Standing off to one side were three small fae, who bowed low before the prince.

One of them was a grizzled, gnome-like little man in a yellow sailor's dress uniform without shoes. He swept off his bright yellow woolen cap and offered a second bow to Dylan. She noticed a small tool, like a hammer, tucked into his belt. "Your Highness, Sir," he said to Nuada, and to Dylan, "M'lady. T'is an honor to host ye both. I'm Herr Erskine Klabautermann. This is Tristan Drow." He indicated a short, brown-skinned fae with Elf-like ears and black hair in a dark wool shirt and trousers and well-worn boots. Tristan bowed. "And this young lad is Alejandro Curupira. Bow, lad."

The lad was the same height as the two older fae, but looked to be only about six or seven years old. He was one of the most fantastical creatures Dylan had ever laid eyes on before. He wore a tunic that looked as if it had been sewn from leaves, and short brown trousers. He wore no shoes, and the mortal could understand why - his feet faced the _other_ direction, as if someone had stuck them on backwards. The single eye in the center of his forehead was the vibrant green of sunshine through leaves. When he grinned, revealing sharp teeth the same vivid green as his eye, he also wiggled his enormous ears at Dylan. She grinned back.

"Take off your hat, lad," Herr Erskine ordered. The curupira's grin slipped away.

"I'll scare the _señorita_," he protested.

Dylan smiled. "Don't worry about scaring me. I've seen a kishi before," referring to the African fae with two faces, one handsome and charming and the other the hideous face of a bloodthirsty, man-eating hyena. "It can't be anywhere near that bad."

Hesitantly, the boy reached up and removed the leafy cap he wore.

Dylan's mouth fell open. "Whoa. That is so neat!" Instead of hair, shocks of dancing scarlet flame licked along the boy's scalp. No heat emanated from the fire, and it did no damage to his skin. Surprised by Dylan's obvious delight, he smiled. "I've never seen anything like that before," she added. "Wow. That's amazing."

Alejandro tugged a bit of flame the way another boy might've tugged diffidently at his forelock. "_Gracias_ for the compliment, _señorita_. We'll be looking after you and His Highness while you're here tonight."

"Yes," affirmed Tristan Drow. He had a husky, gravelly voice that reminded Dylan a bit of Wink. "If there's anything you need, just let us know."

"Thank you," Nuada said. "That will be all for now."

The three fae bowed and melted away into the shadows.

Nuada got Dylan's chair for her. Seated at the table across from a crown prince, bathed in the golden glow of the candlelight, dressed up and wearing diamonds and sapphires, she felt like a princess. It was impossible to keep the smile off her face.

"You know what I was doing on my last birthday?" Dylan asked Nuada suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"Taking care of you," she answered with a laugh. "I was in the sanctuary on my birthday, and you know what? I hadn't realized I'd turned twenty-nine until after I left. We were so wary of each other back then. You thought I was evil incarnate," she added teasingly.

He laughed. "And I terrified you," the Elven warrior said as he poured sparkling cider into their wineglasses.

"Only at first," she said, and took a sip of cider. "Oh, I love this stuff. Anyway, by the time my birthday rolled around, I'd figured out you wouldn't hurt me. Even if you despised me, I knew you wouldn't hurt me. Your honor wouldn't let you. But still, it was like having two wet, feral cats in the same itty bitty room, always circling and eyeing each other. And now look at us. This year's been full of surprises. Good ones. Wonderful ones."

The prince inclined his head, and raised his wineglass. "To another year of wonderful surprises, then." Dylan touched her glass to his. The crystal chimed sweetly when it touched.

"Another year of being crazy in love," she said, and took another sip. "Now, I am starving, so let's eat."

The meal was perfect, and simple enough - a rich meaty stew with crisp vegetables, fresh white bread, and a fruit salad of strawberries, sweet raspberries, and red grapes. There was soft cheese, creamy yellow butter, honey, and preserves to put on the bread. The stew was delicious, but Dylan couldn't figure out what kind of stew it _was_. She finally asked Nuada.

"Muscaliet," the prince murmured.

Dylan cocked her head. "What's muscaliet?"

"A fae beast that resembles a boar, but with a bit of desert hare and squirrel."

She blinked for a moment, then looked down at her spoon. "I can't even imagine that. It makes my head hurt. But it's good, so I don't care. Can I ask you a question, though?" Nuada had just popped a strawberry in his mouth, so he raised a brow, inviting inquiry. "Why did you bring me to Carnegie Hall?"

He smiled. Swallowed. "What time is it?"

"Um..." She checked her phone. "Six-twenty-nine. Why?"

His smile widened. He looked like a little boy with a wonderful secret. "Wait one more minute and you'll see."

The required minute seemed to take forever. Dylan filled the time by eating more stew. It really was good. A bit spicy, which she normally didn't like, but the blend of spices here was delicious. Had Herr Erskine or Tristan or Alejandro made the stew? She'd have to compliment them on it regardless.

Suddenly, from beyond the nearby wall, where the wiring for the stage lights escaped through a wide rectangular panel to hook up to the lights themselves, came the sweet, clear song of a penny whistle.

"What's that?" Dylan asked her prince as violins took up the melody as well.

"Keep listening," Nuada said.

When the singing first began it was too faint for her to make out the words, but she recognized the tune nonetheless. Her heart leapt into her throat as she laid a hand to her chest. "Homeward Bound." One of her favorite songs _ever_. The singing, a chorus of strong masculine voices backed by soft feminine harmonizing, grew stronger and the words became clearer.

"_Bind me not to the pasture.  
Chain me not to the plow.  
Set me free to find my calling,  
And I'll return to you somehow._"

"I love this song," Dylan cried, straining to hear every note of the music. The penny whistle gave such a sweet, innocent little trill. She adored it. As the song began to wind down, she turned to Nuada. "How did you know?"

"I asked Becan."

More music continued to pour through the open panel in the wall. Songs Dylan adored, others she'd never heard before. "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" and "Be Still, My Soul." Purely instrumental pieces, beautiful solos, and breathtaking choral arrangements. She listened with rapture to the music while she and Nuada enjoyed the rest of the meal.

The final song came just as they were finishing. A slow, haunting melody of strings and woodwinds, familiar as her own heartbeat. The one and only song she could play perfectly on the piano from memory. She closed her eyes and simply _listened_ with all her heart to the song.

Nuada watched his truelove as the quiet joy suffused her face. He watched her lips form the words, "_Death shall not destroy my comfort_." The words sent a shaft of sharp pain through his chest. Death _would_ destroy his comfort, his solace, his truelove, if he did not find a way to save her from a mortal fate. He couldn't allow that to happen. He couldn't allow death to claim her.

Dylan opened her eyes to give him the most grateful look. She mouthed, "_Thank you._" He inclined his head in acknowledgment. To see her so happy, knowing he had been the one to give her such joy... it firmed the resolve within him that he would _not_ lose her to mortality and death.

He would _not_ lose her.

**.**

"Oh, Nuada!" Dylan was practically skipping as they walked down the snow-dusted path through the Park to her cottage. "Oh, it was wonderful! I can't believe you planned all of that for me. I loved it!" She grabbed his hand and tugged playfully before lifting his arm and pretending he was spinning her as if in a dance. Enjoying the game, the Elven warrior pulled her in before spinning her out again. She laughed in delight. "It was perfect."

"I am glad of that, my love," he murmured as she came back to his side, her arms wrapped around one of his as they walked. "I strive for perfection often. It's nice to know I have succeeded at last."

Dylan laughed again. "I love you. Oh, my gosh," and she pressed her cheek against his shoulder, nuzzling him. "I love you, I love you, I _love_ you!"

Pleasantly surprised by her exuberance, he grinned down at her and pressed a fervent kiss to the top of her head. "And I love you, mo duinne. I did well, then?"

She bounced a little, then winced when her knee protested. "Yes. You did splendidly. Tonight was wonderful."

Nuada relished the feel of her slender fingers lacing with his, her thumb sliding along his own in a feathery little caress. It was as if nothing had happened between them the last two days. As if the world were back to the way it ought to be, the stars back in alignment. Her head against his shoulder was a reassuring weight.

"I just realized," the mortal said. "Why are we going to the cottage?"

He smiled. "The night is still young."

"What are you planning?" She asked, peeking up at him from beneath her lashes.

"I had hoped to be your escort for a private dance, since I only danced with you twice the night of the banquet. If I may," the prince murmured. "Your choice of music. Just a few dances, though. I don't want to put too much strain on your bad leg. But I would very much like to dance with you, Dylan." To hold her in his arms as they moved to the soft music drifting around them.

An unholy light suddenly kindled in Dylan's eyes. "Sure. I don't mind dancing - as long as you let me teach you how to slow dance."

"Slow dance?" Thinking of the simple two-step Dylan had explained to him some time ago, Nuada scoffed. "Darling, I don't consider _that_ to be dancing."

"Well, then it shouldn't be too hard to learn, should it?" She asked, grinning.

_Little imp,_ he thought, but said nothing aloud. Merely offered her an indulgent smile and allowed her to tug him toward the cottage. Only as they were passing through the front gate and traversing the garden path did they slow down, for the cottage door hadn't opened upon their crossing the magical wards laid by Becan. Dylan frowned. She sensed nothing amiss, but...

There was a flutter at the front window. Then the heavy granite door swung open a little and John darted out into the night, pulling the door closed behind him. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he offered Dylan a sheepish smile.

"Hey, Sis. Didn't know you'd be back before tomorrow."

Bewildered, she said, "Um... okay. What are you doing here?"

Exactly what Nuada wanted to know. The whelp was interrupting his evening with Dylan.

"Okay, so... it's like this. Since it's our birthday, Petra and the girls wanted to do something for us both, but I said you were so busy, that probably wouldn't be a good idea. So they threw me a party instead. But then Francesca had this idea of everybody picking up presents for you and dropping them off at your house after my party. Petra wanted to see you, so she came, even though I _told_ her you wouldn't be home. And of course Francesca and Tori came because they think your cottage is amazing. And Mary came because she wanted to see if the reason I told her not to come is because you were passed out drunk on the couch or something."

Dylan stared at him for a minute in stunned silence. Then she yelped, "Petra, Mary, Francesca and Victoria _are in my house?_"

"Um... yeah. We were just leaving, but then Becan pulled me aside and said you were coming, so I figured I should warn you that we had invaders."

"You _think?_" Dylan raked a hand through her hair. Her carefree jubilance had vanished at the news. "Oh, my gosh. What am I gonna do? What am I gonna _do?_ I had a date planned for tonight, John. Gah!"

"I'm sorry, they wouldn't take no for an answer. But hey, if Nuada glamours himself, he can meet some of the family."

Before Nuada could reply, Dylan muttered, "I think he'd rather drop dead." Well, the prince certainly couldn't argue with that assessment. However, he was reminded that his lady wanted her sisters in attendance at their wedding, which meant the Elven warrior would have to meet them eventually. He considered cowardice briefly, then reminded himself that this was for Dylan, and would therefore have to be undertaken despite his wishes to the contrary.

"Tonight is as good a night as any to meet your sisters, my lady," Nuada murmured. Dylan turned to gape at him. "It will have to happen sometime, will it not?"

"I... but... but..."

Her twin turned to her and said in a conspiratory stage whisper, "I think he's suffered a blow to the head."

The only reason Nuada didn't beat the whelp for his insolence was because he was Dylan's brother and thus, such violence against him would upset her. But the Elven prince briefly fantasized about doing just that, anyway. Aloud, all he said to his truelove was, "Once introductions are made, we can roust them from our haven so that we may enjoy our time with each other in private."

John narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure I like what you're hinting at, Your Highness."

"Shut up, John-Boy," Dylan grumbled. "It's not what you think. And even if it was, it's none of your business, regardless." She drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "All right. They're going to find out we're engaged soon enough anyway."

Her twin went very still. His eyes widened. Dylan wanted to smack herself in the forehead.

"You guys are _engaged?_" John demanded. "Since when?"

"Since a few days ago," his sister replied, holding up her left hand. The sapphires gleamed in the glow of Dylan's Christmas lights. "You like it? It's an heirloom. Stop making me nervous. Petra's gonna strangle me," she added with a slightly panicked expression. "How is it she can make me feel like I'm thirteen instead of thirty? Oh, whatever. Let's get it over with."

"Bearding the lion in his den should prove no challenge to you, Dylan," Nuada said encouragingly as he cloaked himself in glamour. She shot him a pitiful look.

"It's _my_ den. You think that would make it easier, but no." Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she slid her hand into Nuada's and began the walk toward the door. John followed behind them. She paused at the door. Took a deep breath.

Then she pushed the door open and stepped into her cottage.

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_**Author's Note:**__ oh, boy. Nuada's finally gonna meet some of Dylan's sisters. Who's nervous? Hehehe. My references are shorter than normal because I don't have time to do them all (my aunt's in town, we're chillaxin') so some of them are missing. I'll post them later, I promise. I love you guys! Read and review?_

_1) Moundshroud's got quite the retinue of scaries working for him. What do we think of his subjects/servants?_

_2) So does anyone have any thoughts on the conversation in Nuada's study between Dylan and Nuada?_

_3) OMG Shang! Does anyone else love Shang and think he's totes adorable?! (On a random note, the scale residue on Dylan's hands is important)_

_4) The wedding of the century takes place in 47 days (in story-time). Who's excited?_

_5) So the birthday date with the music and dinner - thoughts?_

_6) Dun-dun-DUNN! The sisters! How do you guys think this is gonna go?_

_7) And of course, favorites. Love you guys!_

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The two songs Dylan listens to - "Homeward Bound" and "Death Shall Not Destroy My Comfort" are _**BEAUTIFUL**_ and can be found here:

(colon) / watch ? v = 1Ds2le (underscore) poKo (Homeward Bound as done by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir)

(colon) / watch ? v = PH - xhnHrDyg (Death Shall Not Destroy My Comfort as done by the BYU Men's Chorus; live audio)

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- There really IS such a thing as a drop-bear in Aborigines mythology. And they really are carnivorous and dangerous and scary.

- The term "shiela" can be used in Australia as a general term for a girl or woman, similar to "jennies" in England and "colleens" in Ireland. Example would be a line from the Irish song "The Black Velvet Band," which goes, "Beware all the pretty colleens [Beware all the pretty girls]."

- Ayame is the Japanese name for the iris flower.

- Tsurube-otoshi (pronounced Tsoo-roo-bay Oh-toh-shee) is a Japanese monster that drops out of the tops of trees or drops or lowers a bucket from the top of a tree to catch people. I made this one a little more humanoid, basing her looks on the girl from _The Ring_ (which is based on a Japanese comic). The thing about the bucket spoke to me of a more water-fey nature than tree-fey, but it IS a tree creature, so I combined the two.

- A Boo Hag is a mythical creature in the folklore of South Carolina's Gullah culture. It is a regionalized version of the Hag myth. Boo hags are similar to vampires. But unlike vampires, they gain sustenance from a person's breath, as opposed to their blood, by "ridin'" you. They have no skin, and thus are red. In order to be less conspicuous, they will steal a victim's skin and use it for as long as it holds out, wearing it as one might wear clothing. They will remove and hide this skin before going ridin'.

- An adlet is a vampiric human/dog hybrid from Inuit mythology.

- A bharghest is a black canine death spirit from Yorkshire, England. This particular bhargest in this chapter is named after Archibald Craven from The Secret Garden, which takes place on the Yorkshire moors.

- A cadejo is a South American, cow-sized dog-goat hybrid in two varieties: benevolent and white, and malevolent and black.

- A pesanta is a Catalan nightmare-demon in the form of a cat or dog.

- So I did not invent the long-ma, the dragon-horse hybrid. That's a real mythical creature. But how they look, what they eat, all that stuff - I came up with it all. Just so you know. =)

- Although Shang's name does not translate literally as "Teardrop of the Moon." It's actually something like "Raindrop-Sorrow-Moon."

- The scale residue on Dylan's hands is important. See previous chapter for possible clues.

- The necklace Nuada made for Dylan's birthday was first mentioned/alluded to in chapter 40, the first time Nuada goes to Erik's place.

- So I found out that Carnegie Hall has this little space above it from the movie _Home Alone 2_. The place Kevin goes with the homeless lady is in Carnegie Hall, apparently.


	82. Birthday part 3

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
References Made in This Chapter_

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_**Author's Note:**_ _this chapter is up for Silver-Angelic-Lilly, who just turned 17 yesterday! So happy birthday to you! And because I'm rushing, I'm being lazy on my author's notes, because I've got work today. But I wanted to post this for you, Lilly! Happy belated birthday!_

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**Chapter Eighty-One**

**Birthday (Pt. 3)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Sisters, an Interrogation, Dylan's Temper, Apologies, Birthday Gifts, a Truth Revealed, Melancholy, Dancing, and a Letter**

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Dylan's pulse spiked immediately when she heard the familiar delighted shriek that heralded Francesca's approach. Bracing herself, she opened her arms to her sister. Francesca smashed into the youngest Myers sister and proceeded to squeeze the breath out of her. Bat, mewing plaintively, twisted around Francesca and Dylan's legs like a sleek black ribbon.

"Oh, my gosh, you're thirty! Are you excited? It's your birthday! Be excited!"

"Cesca, I can't breathe," Dylan gasped. The other woman barely loosened her hold. "Yes, I'm excited it's my birthday. What are you doing here?"

"Dropping off presents for the birthday girl," said a familiar voice. Dylan peeked over Francesca's shoulder to see Victoria, Francesca's identical twin, tall and slim with tumbling black curls, standing at the end of the front hallway. "And admiring your house. It's cool; you know we've always thought so."

"And admiring the new stud," Francesca breathed, pulling back from her little sister to gaze in surprise and feminine appreciation at the tall, muscular man standing beside Dylan. He had long golden blond hair that fell at least past his shoulders, tied back in a horsetail. Fair-skinned, with golden-brown eyes and a thin scar carving across the breadth of his face, he looked like one of those bigshot multi-millionaires she'd read about in her romance novels. Was he wearing Armani? "Hey, there, Handsome." To Dylan, "Friend of yours, sweets?"

Her sister's face blazed like a neon sign. "Um... you could say that."

Francesca's eyes widened. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. No. No way. Oh wow. You... this... he's..." A grin spread across Francesca's face and she gave a little bounce more suited to a thirteen-year-old than a thirty-one-year-old. "_He's_ the hunk? _Him?_" She squealed, ignorant of the wince her sound effects induced in her sister's "hunk." Francesca bounced again. "He is _so!_ _Hot!_ Where have you been hiding him, you lucky duck?"

Dylan smiled. "Under my bed."

"Oooh. I know what you guys have been up to," Cesca replied, poking Dylan in the ribs. "But you're supposed to do that _on top_ of the bed, sweetie, not under it."

Victoria rolled her eyes. "Cesca, there's no way Dylan's tapping that."

Nuada, resolutely pretending the situation was _not_ happening, noticed the shadow of hurt on his truelove's face before she pasted on a smile. Fury was a seductive whisper as he considered all the ways these sisters of Dylan's had hurt her in the past. Then Dylan said, "Um, actually... let's start over. Tori, Cesca, this is Nuada. He's my-"

The Elven prince caught Dylan's left hand in his and raised it to his lips. Some of the tension eased out of her. "Betrothed," Nuada murmured, willing her to see the warmth in his eyes. Her smile became more genuine. "Dylan has bestowed upon me the great honor of agreeing to be my wife."

He was given the pleasure of seeing both harpy-shrews' mouths drop open in shock.

"_What?_" A sharp voice demanded from the living room. With a rustle and a scramble, two more women appeared in the hallway from the direction of the living room. The first woman, slender as a dancer, shoved her chin-length hair out of her face and stared at Nuada and Dylan with the same silvery-blue eyes as Dylan. The second human had the same eyes, as well, but her hair was in a long braid over one shoulder.

Nuada wasn't oblivious to the way Dylan actually shrank back a little from the appearance of the two women and pressed against him, clutching his hand. John squeezed in on Dylan's other side.

"Hey, Mary," the whelp said cheerfully, as if there was nothing amiss. "Hey, Petra. Dylan's back."

"Where have you _been_?" The woman with the braid demanded. "Since when are you not home on Sunday evenings?"

"And what's this about you being engaged?" The slender woman drawled, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. "Don't tell me it's to that guy."

Dylan flushed. "And what, exactly, is wrong with him, Mary?"

"He's hot," Mary replied, as if that explained everything. The other three Myers sisters turned to her and snapped her name in irate unison. Nuada ignored them in favor of Dylan, who turned her face slightly as if to press her cheek to his shoulder. "I'm just saying," Mary added defensively. "He's hot, he's obviously rich. I mean, this isn't _Pretty Woman,_ you guys. It's not like princes grow on trees."

"Mary," John muttered. "Shut up."

The Elven warrior watched Dylan's face. The happy glow from before had faded away completely by now, and she looked as if she'd rather have been anywhere else but her own cottage. Nuada's fury sent vicious cold frosting his blood. His eyes chilled to glacial topaz. Drawing Dylan more tightly against his side, he said icily, "Come, my love. You need not endure such slander, especially today of all days. I will take you somewhere you can actually enjoy your birthday."

"We should probably go," Dylan concurred in a soft voice. "Later, you guys. Thanks for stopping by-"

"But wait," Francesca protested. "What about your presents? Aren't you going to open them?"

"It can wait," Dylan said. "You know I'm not big on the material things-"

Mary's voice dripped toxic sarcasm when she drawled, "Really? So the bling on your finger and around your neck is, what? Costume jewelry?"

Dylan's free hand flew up to cover the necklace Nuada had given her earlier that evening. Irritation and hurt twined together and sharpened her voice when she snapped, "It was a gift."

Her sister's brow lifted. "From Mr. Money-Bags here?"

Petra's voice snapped out like the crack of a whip. "Mary, enough! It's Dylan's birthday, for the love of G-" She cut herself off with a flick of her eyes toward her youngest sister. "It's Dylan's birthday," she amended. "We're in Dylan's house. You will _not_ hassle her in her own house on her birthday, do you understand me? I don't care about your opinions on her love life right now." With a sharp _hmph,_ Petra turned to her baby sister. "Don't go. For one thing, this is your house. If anyone should leave, it's us. But we haven't seen you in a while - or at least I haven't - so can we visit for a bit, maybe?"

Dylan still held Nuada's hand. Silently, she asked, _Do you want us to leave?_

_Yes,_ he replied promptly. _However, I also want them gone so I might enjoy what I had planned for us here. And unfortunately, we_ do _need to... how do you humans say it? "Make nice" with your sisters, if we are ever to have hopes of introducing them to the world of Faerie. So we will let them stay. For now. But if they cause you one more flicker of distress, I shall not be held responsible for my actions. And we will make this quick._

"Sure," Dylan said to her eldest sister. "Let's visit. The den has more places for everyone to sit."

"I'll go get the presents," Francesca piped up. "Mary," she added firmly. "How about you come and help me?" Without waiting for an agreement, Francesca grabbed her older sister's arm and dragged her back into the living room.

Gritting his teeth, Nuada escorted Dylan to the den, trailed by the whelp and two of the shrews.

**.**

They had only just sat down - Nuada and Dylan alone, thank the Fates, on the loveseat - when the other two shrews appeared in the doorway with brightly wrapped parcels. Francesca actually took a seat on the floor near Dylan's feet and handed her an oddly-shaped item swaddled in pale green paper.

"That one's from Mary," Francesca said. "Now guess what it is."

Nuada gave Dylan a puzzled look. She smiled. "It's a tradition in our family to try and figure out what a gift is before you open it. It started out as sort of a test by our parents, figuring out how extensive our twin-connections were."

"Took Mom and Dad forever to figure out we weren't using any weird powers to guess," Victoria added with a grin. "Just us being clever."

"D's always been the best at it, though," Mary conceded, dropping into a chair. "Half the time, we always got impatient and ripped off the paper before we'd finished guessing. Though before the game starts, Mister... Nuada, was it?" The Elf stiffened at being addressed by the vile human woman. "Is there a last name that goes with that?"

Dylan opened her mouth, but before she could think of anything to say, her prince replied in that same frigid tone he'd used before, "Nuada McAirgetlámh."

Mary made an impressed face. "Sounds foreign."

"It is Irish," he replied with chilly politeness.

"You don't have much of an accent."

Nuada narrowed his eyes. "I have lived in New York City for a very long time."

"Uh-huh. And where'd you live before that?"

"Japan," he said. Dylan blinked, the only outward sign of her surprise that he'd actually answered the question. "I have lived in many places in my life."

Dylan's sister nodded. "Cool. And where's home now? Still New York, or-"

"Home," Nuada said in a tone that made it clear that would be the end of the discussion on this particular subject, "is wherever Dylan is."

Mary blinked rapidly for a minute, clearly taken aback. Petra raised her eyebrows. John simply rolled his eyes. Victoria and Francesca, however, looked at each other before turning back to Nuada and their sister with dreamy looks on their faces.

"Awwww!" Francesca cooed. Nuada thought he might be sick. "That is so romantic!"

"Yeah," Victoria murmured. "He's great, Dylan. Oh, can we see your ring?"

"Oh, yeah!" Cesca echoed. "Please? Lemme see!"

The sudden violent revulsion Nuada felt at the idea of these... _vermin_ touching his mother's ring nearly made him ill. Dylan felt the sudden tension spike through him, and she laid her head on his shoulder. He forced himself to relax. Or at least relax enough that his muscles didn't feel taut enough to snap. This was for Dylan. She wanted her family to be part of her life. Of _their_ life together. He'd given his word that he would do what he could. He gave his lady a strained smile. Canted his head. Dylan held out her hand and all four sisters exclaimed over the sapphires and the sheen to the white-gold band.

"Holy crap," Mary muttered. She grasped Dylan's hand and turned it over, then turned it back again. "Are those rocks _real?_"

Nuada said stiffly, "They are - as you see."

"Where'd you get such a beautiful ring?"

It was Petra who asked this, rather softly. There was something in the human's voice that made Nuada give her a considering look before he answered, "It belonged to my mother."

Mary offered him a patronizing look. "So..." She scoffed. "It's used. Nice."

"All right," Dylan said suddenly, cheeks flushed with anger. She yanked her hand back. "That's it! I've had enough. Mary, get out."

Her siblings stared at her in wide-eyed shock. Dylan - soft-spoken, easygoing, let-people-walk-all-over-her Dylan - was throwing someone out of her cottage? Mary's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as she stared at her youngest sister. Dylan kept her eyes fixed on the older woman's face. It was clear to all of them that Dylan wasn't going to sit back and allow anyone to besmirch the man at her side.

Mary swallowed. "I'm sorry," she said to her sister. Then, to the boyfriend or betrothed or whoever he was, she added, "I _am_ sorry. That was uncalled for." Glancing at her sister, she added, "C'mon, Dylan. Can't I have one more shot?"

Dylan blew a lock of hair out of her face. "Fine. One chance. But one more shot at Nuada and you're gone, got it?"

Mary nodded. "So... you gonna open your present?"

After a long moment of consideration, Dylan looked down at the gift in her hands. Questing fingertips explored the well-defined edges and sides of the package. It was flat and broad at the bottom, and flat and about half the size at the top. It was hard, whatever it was, with no give to it except on the slanting sides. After a minute, she smiled. "I'm thinking... children's book on the bottom and something else on top." Careful not to cut herself, she neatly unwrapped the gift. Her mouth fell open.

Her sister, looking surprisingly unsure, hastened to say, "I remembered when we were kids you used to ask Mom to read those to you all the time. And we loved the movie, so... I thought you'd like it. John said you didn't have it. You don't, do you?"

Dylan shook her head without taking her eyes from the two books she held. Nuada, curious, studied the volumes in her lap. One was thin and rectangular. He recognized the composition of what Dylan called a "pasteboard picture book," such as the ones she sometimes bought for the children. On the cover was an illustration of a small orange creature with sad, solemn eyes and a droopy yellow mustache. The other book was thicker and shorter, hardbacked, with an amateurish drawing - a human boy and a dog with a clock-face where its belly should've been - on the cover.

"What are these?" Nuada asked softly in Dylan's ear, pleased by the happiness on her face.

She held up the thicker book first. "_The Phantom Tollbooth_," she said, as if those words meant the world to her. "I loved this book when I was a little girl. And this is _The Lorax_." She held up the picture book. Turning to her twin, Dylan added, "Remember, John? '_I am the Lorax, and_-'"

"'_And I speak for the trees_,'" John concluded. "Yeah, I remember."

Actually excited about opening presents now, Dylan accepted the next parcel, which came from Petra: several instrumental CDs, selected with John's help. From the absent Pauline, a thirty-dollar giftcard to Cold Stone Creamery.

Dylan grinned. "You guys are trying to make me fat," she said to Petra, who grinned back.

From Simone and Gardenia, also absent, came more books. Nuada didn't recognize them, of course, but Dylan explained that the ones from Simone were different variations of a book she loved very much called _Pride and Prejudice_. She seemed happy with them, so Nuada made no comment. From Gardenia came seven hardback books. When Dylan saw them, she gasped and hugged them to her chest. The Elven prince glimpsed the word _Narnia_ on one of the book spines.

Victoria informed her sister she'd made Dylan a cake, which was currently sitting in her refrigerator. "Vanilla cake," Tori added, "with buttercream frosting and lemon filling. Your favorite. And I brought you this." She held up a small cream-filled sandwich with the words _Happy Birthday_ written in frosting across the top, set on a small decorative plate. "A lemon whoopie pie." These words were met with a squeal and an enthusiastic hug.

Francesca offered Dylan a package which, when opened, revealed even more books. Dylan cocked her head, surprised. She hadn't asked for any of the books her sister had given her. The covers were lovely, however. Special editions - Dylan adored special editions. One was bound in soft white leather with gold-gilt pages, the title _Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow_ embroidered in gleaming blue and red. Another was bound in a silky black material sprinkled with sparkling jewels like the night sky. Silver thread spelled out _Princess of the Midnight Ball._ The second was what felt like silver-painted wood covered by a diaphanous material. Crystalline beads and silver embroidery displayed the title: _Princess of Glass._ And the final book, the title also done in silver against a crimson velvet binding, read _Princess of the Silver Wood_.

"They're fairy tales," Francesca hastened to explain. "Er, redone fairy tales? You know, like those books you like. I know you didn't ask for these, but I thought you'd like them. I was shopping at the LDS Cottage - you know, that church bookstore you go to all the time - and I saw them, and I thought you'd like them, but those were the normal ones. So I went online to see if they had any special editions because I know you're into that kind of thing. You like them, right?"

Dylan smiled fondly at her sister. "I absolutely love them. They're beautiful." She caressed the scarlet velvet. _Probably a "Little Red Riding Hood" story,_ she thought, her smile widening. _And by an LDS author. Awesome_. "Thank you, Cesca. Thank you so much."

"Okay, my turn!" John announced, picking up a medium-sized box that was much too big to hold books. "In keeping with tradition," he added, handing the black-wrapped box to his twin. Dylan carefully unwrapped her brother's gift, already knowing what she would find. Peeling back the black paper revealed a gray box. Dylan popped the lid. Lifted out the styrofoam-cushioned item that was inside. Pulling off the white packaging, she smiled.

It was a water globe. Inside, a girl curled up asleep on a bed, clutching a book to her chest. At the foot of her bed stood a pointy-eared, wild-haired youth clad in green. Floating amidst the water within the globe were a few silver and gold pixie shapes along with iridescent glitter. She flipped the globe upside down to see the bottom. Sure enough, the globe played music. "Fairy Dance" from _Peter Pan_. She wound it just a little. The slow melody chimed sweetly from the water globe.

"Oh, Johnny." She smiled at her brother as she set the water globe down. "Thank you."

He grinned at her. "I've got something else for you, too. Catch." The now-twenty-two-year-old tossed her a small, black velvet drawstring bag. Dylan barely managed to catch it. Curious, she opened the bag and upended the contents into her palm.

Out spilled a charm bracelet. Dylan had to laugh as she looked at the nine charms jingling against the sterling silver bracelet: a sparkling auburn maple leaf, a glittering white snowflake, a four-leaf clover, a rosebud charm of pink quartz, a golden crown, a royally appointed carriage, a silver apple engraved with the letters _NY_, a golden seashell, and a tiny silver fairy.

_How ironically appropriate,_ she thought, looking at the crown, carriage, four-leaf clover, and the fairy. _Since I'm going to be marrying Irish fae royalty._

"I love you, John-Boy."

"Yeah, I love you, too. You're my favorite twin."

"I'm your only twin, John," Dylan informed him. John waved that away as inconsequential to the sentiment.

"Okay," Francesca chimed in. "Presents have been opened and appreciated. Now spill the deets!" She grabbed Dylan's hand as if to prevent any attempts at escaping the coming interrogation. "So how long have you known each other? When are you guys getting married? When did you get engaged? How did you meet? What does-"

Victoria cut her twin off in the most expedient way possible - putting her hand over Francesca's mouth. "Quick, Dylan, you've got sixty seconds before she starts talking again," she said with a laugh.

Dylan glanced at Nuada with wide eyes, as if to say, _Help!_ The Elven warrior offered a negligent shrug, though in truth every instinct rebelled against the idea of sharing anything about himself or his truelove with these... _humans_. He ground his teeth to keep from leaping to his feet and dragging Dylan out of the cottage. His skin crawled just to have them so near to him. His lady turned back to his sisters.

"Um, well, we've known each other a little over a year now," Dylan murmured. "We got engaged... this past Thursday, right?" She asked Nuada, who offered a curt nod. "We met... in the subway."

Petra, who'd been slouching in her chair, straightened. "The subway?" She demanded. "You never use the subway, not since..." Petra trailed off, realizing her little sister's attack and subsequent disappearance had happened over a year ago, now. "Did you meet him before you were... does he know about..." She paused, unsure how to ask without tipping off this fiancé if he _didn't_ know about Dylan's three-month vanishing act the previous year.

Dylan's gaze went to her knees. "Nuada knows about what happened last year. I..."

She flicked a glance to Nuada, who gazed down at her with a softness that surprised her sisters. Until that point, he'd looked like someone had been jabbing him with a needle. As if even sitting in the same room with the six Myers siblings was a particularly brutal form of torture. Yet now, Petra saw a wealth of tenderness in that single shared look between Dylan and her fiancé. Mary didn't miss the way Nuada pressed her little sister's fingers in reassurance. Dylan drew a deep breath.

"I met him the night I was attacked."

Petra's eyes blew wide. "He... did he..." She turned to Nuada. In a voice thick with emotion, she demanded, "Were you the one who saved her?"

After a long silence, Nuada admitted, "I was."

The eldest Myers sibling stared at him for several heartbeats in silence. Then, swallowing hard to suppress the sudden tears rising in her throat and stinging her eyes, Petra murmured, "Thank you. Thank you so much for saving her. You have no idea... you've no idea how much that means to us."

Discomfitted by the display of mortal emotion, Nuada replied stiffly, "I did not do it for thanks. My honor demanded it."

Mary frowned. Ignoring the comment about honor, she said, "Dylan was missing for almost three months. Was she with you that whole time?"

"She was," he replied coolly.

This clearly startled all of her sisters. Victoria ran a hand through her curly black hair and demanded, "Why didn't you contact us, Dylan? If you weren't being held prisoner or anything, which is what we _thought_, why didn't you call us, let us know you were okay?"

"Oh, Tori," Dylan murmured. "I couldn't. My phone was dead, for one thing."

"And _he_ doesn't have a phone?" Victoria snapped, gesturing to Nuada.

"Actually," the Elven warrior replied, his voice once again holding all the warmth of deepest winter, "I do not. Nor do I have a computer with which Dylan could send email. The place we were staying had no electricity, so she could not recharge the battery on her phone, either."

Petra crossed her arms. "And you couldn't take her to the hospital because?"

"It was not possible."

"Why not?" Francesca sniped, glaring at him suspiciously.

"Because she would have _died,_" Nuada snapped, his patience exhausted. Dylan laid a hand on his arm. He shook it off. "There was no time. I knew of a secluded place I could take her where we would be safe from the monsters who'd attacked her, but once we arrived, her condition and mine deteriorated too rapidly to seek outside aid. I had no choice but to keep her there. Believe me, if there had been another option, I would have most certainly taken it."

Mary demanded, "So you kept her there for three months? She was only in the hospital for two or three weeks. What took so long for you to let her go? And how did she get hurt again? Did you hurt-"

"Stop!" Dylan shouted, holding up both hands. "Stop. No, Nuada did _not_ hurt me, Mary. It took three months because Nuada _had been shot_ several times trying to save me from the men who attacked me. It took _him_ three months to recover enough that I felt okay with leaving him. All right? I'm sorry I didn't contact you guys during that time, I'm sorry I was gone so long, but the man who'd saved my life needed my help. Okay?"

In a voice as dark and cold as a winter night, Nuada said, "Dylan, you don't owe these... _people_ any explanation. Nor do you deserve their censure. Forget them. If they cannot appreciate what you went through and all that it cost, then-"

"Hey, listen, buster!" Petra snapped, getting to her feet. "You have no idea what Dylan's put this family through! She..." The eldest Myers sister trailed away, eyes widening in sudden inexplicable fear, as Nuada rose to his feet with all the menace of a lethal predator. The pure loathing in his eyes snatched the words from Petra's mouth.

"No idea what _she_ has put _you_ through? How dare you. You have no possible understanding of what _you_ have put _her_ through-"

"_Stop!_" Dylan was on her feet now, as well. She placed herself between her sister and her prince, one hand outstretched to each of them. "Stop it. We are _not_ doing this. Not today. Please."

"Dylan," Nuada began, fury smoldering beneath the words. Dylan just looked at him. It was a look of potent pleading, and though it didn't quell his rage completely, it allowed him to set it aside. He inclined his head. "As you wish."

Petra glared at them both. "Did you know Dylan spent eleven years in a mental institution?" She demanded suddenly. Shame lashed her when she saw Dylan flinch, but she was still too angry to stop herself. "And she's still on anti-psychotic medication. Did she tell you?"

She'd expected her sister's fiancé to be surprised by this information. Her sister was a very private person, and understandably ashamed of her past. So when Nuada didn't react to this news, Petra frowned. She noticed Mary, Victoria, and Francesca had moved away from the argument, showing they were taking no sides. John surprisingly stood a little ways to Nuada's right.

Nuada drew Dylan away from Petra, against his side. John moved closer. The look her little brother gave her made Petra feel like a world-class witch, but it was the utter hatred in the fiancé's face that snared her attention. Tonelessly, Nuada murmured, "I know. Of course I know. Why do you think I despise you and your pathetic family with everything I am?"

"Nuada," Dylan said, "please. Stop it."

"No, I wanna hear this," Petra said waspishly. "I want to hear what reasons your fiancé has for hating your entire family when he doesn't even know us."

The Elven warrior opened his mouth to speak when, to his surprise, Mary stepped in.

"No, Petra. You said it yourself - this is Dylan's birthday. Are we really gonna do this on her birthday? Really? Just let it go for now. If he doesn't like us, then he doesn't like us. What does it matter? He obviously loves her. Leave them alone." Petra opened her mouth, and Mary snapped, "She's about to start crying, okay? So will you just stop?"

The eldest Myers sister glanced at the youngest. Her expression immediately softened. "Dylan... honey. We're just worried about you. You know we worry about you. And this whole thing, finding out you're engaged and that you've been keeping stuff like this from us, it's a shock. I'm sorry. Don't cry."

Dylan stepped away from Nuada toward her sister. He resisted the urge to yank her back. Instead, he watched as Petra and Dylan embraced.

Petra murmured, "I'm sorry, honey. I know I can be kind of a bit- harpy. Kind of a _harpy_ sometimes. I just worry about you." After a minute, the other three women approached and joined in the hug. When they released each other, all five women looked much calmer. Petra brushed a lock of hair from Dylan's face and asked, "Y'okay?"

Dylan nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"I'm really sorry, hon. We should probably go, huh? Maybe let you enjoy some cuddle time with your guy. I just have a quick question and then we'll head out, okay?" When her little sister nodded again, Petra asked, "When are you getting married?"

"February seventh," Dylan murmured.

Francesca's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "This coming February?" Her little sister nodded. "That doesn't give you time to plan _anything!_"

"We have a wedding planner," Dylan replied. Then she frowned and looked back at Nuada. "Don't we?" He canted his head. "Yeah," Dylan said. "We have a wedding planner. Someone who works for Nuada's father," she added, anticipating Cesca's next question.

"And we're invited... right?" Victoria asked.

Dylan smiled. "Of course you guys are invited."

Petra glanced at the fiancé. His expression spoke volumes. They were invited to the wedding against his wishes, because Dylan wanted them there, and whatever Dylan wanted, Nuada would give her, if it was humanly possible. But if he detected even a fraction of distress from his future bride because of her family, he would have them thrown out. Mimicking the gesture she'd seen him do when deferring to Dylan, she inclined her head to him. His face twisted into a sneer and he looked away, as if the sight of her made him physically ill.

"Why so soon, though?" Francesca asked, a teasing smile playing about her mouth. "You're not pregnant, are you? Oh, my gosh! You are, aren't... you..." She trailed off, seeing the heartbreak like a whispered lament in her younger sister's eyes. Francesca flicked her gaze to Nuada in time to see that same abyssal hatred he'd leveled at Petra and Mary smoldering in his eyes. The thirty-one-year-old fought the urge to smack herself in the forehead. "Never mind, Dylan. I was just kidding. Okay? Just joking."

Dylan forced a smile. "I know, Cesca. No big deal."

**.**

The goodbyes at the front door weren't as awkward as the other five Myers siblings would've expected - but then, Dylan acted as if nothing had happened. She kissed her sisters' cheeks and hugged them, promising to keep them posted on wedding plans. Her cheerfulness eased the last remnants of uncertainty between the sisters. There would be more fights, they knew, but for now things were all right.

After Petra, Mary, Victoria and Francesca were gone, however, Dylan turned to John. Burrowing against him, she hid her face in his shirt and let him wrap the edges of his blazer around her. Nuada stepped back from the twins. He recognized his lady's need to be with her brother, even if the prince didn't like it.

"It wasn't as bad as it could've been," John said, trying to be cheerful. "It's okay, Sis. You're not crying, are you?"

"No," Dylan mumbled. "I'm just... tired. And scared."

"About what?" John asked, propping his chin on top of her head. "That Petra will put both feet in her mouth and His Highness will drop-kick her to Hell? I don't see that happening. He knows it would upset you."

She drew a shaky breath. "How am I going to tell them about Faerie?"

John froze. "Wait... what? You're gonna tell them? Dylan, you've tried to tell them! They'll think you're nuts."

"They already think I'm nuts," she muttered. "But John, they can't come to the wedding if they don't know about Faerie. The wedding's going to be _in_ Faerie. There'll be foreign fae dignitaries and stuff. I can't just drag them there the day of and expect them to be okay."

Her brother blew out a breath. "You've got a point there. Well, good luck with that."

"Thanks, Johnny," she mumbled, thumping her head hard against his chest in retaliation for his sarcasm. "You're a huge help." Instead of replying, John just kissed his sister's forehead. After a couple more minutes of hugging, John made his farewells and left the cottage. Dylan closed the door after him and bolted it. Slumped against the cool granite.

Nuada, oddly uncertain in the face of Dylan's quiet, cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

She shoved at her hair. Nodded. "I'm sorry Mary was so rude to you. And I'm sorry they all jumped down your throat."

"It isn't your fault."

"Yes, it is." She hugged herself. "I wanted you to meet them. I want them at the wedding. This whole sucky meeting was my fault. Part of me feels like I should be mad at you for getting upset, but that's just because I wanted tonight to go well and it didn't. I don't actually have a reason to be upset with you."

The candid confession surprised him. So did the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. "I _am_ sorry that this didn't go as you'd hoped."

She sighed. "Maybe I'm fooling myself. Maybe this won't work." With another sigh, Dylan trudged past him to the living room and dropped into a chair. "Ignore me," she added when Nuada followed her. "I think I'm crashing off the meds again or something. Maybe. I don't know. I'm just really tired of all the drama. I'm too old for this stuff. Do you really hate them?" Dylan asked suddenly. She didn't look away from the fireplace, but Nuada could hear the tension in her voice. "Do you really?"

He took a moment to marshal his thoughts before replying. "Dylan, you cannot ask me to look with favor on anyone or anything that distresses you so much."

"They're my family, Nuada. They're part of me. They love me - doesn't that mean something?"

Dark lips pressed into a thin line. "I... do not wish to distress you further."

"So that's a 'no,' then." She didn't sound angry when she said this. Only tired. "Do you really not want them at the wedding?"

"What I wish in this instance is of no consequence. You asked for their attendance. I agreed. It's done."

"It's your wedding, too," Dylan murmured.

Nuada offered a negligent shrug. "You ask little of me. What you do ask, I shall endeavor to give you." Seeing the strangely empty expression on her exhausted face, he repeated, "It's done, Dylan."

"They don't have to come if you don't want them to."

"Dylan," he said, both exasperated and puzzled, "it is fine."

When she looked at him, there was a forlorn shadow in her gaze, and her smile trembled a little. "You're sweet. A terrible liar, but sweet. You ready to head back?"

He blinked. "I thought you meant to teach me to slow dance." Not that the Elven warrior particularly yearned for the experience. However, he didn't want his time with his truelove cut short, either.

Dylan shrugged. "I know you don't want to. It's not a big deal. Besides, it's late and I'm kinda tired. Can we go back?"

This was because of her wretched family, Nuada thought with venomous hate. She'd been so happy earlier in the evening. He remembered the delighted, laughing woman who had flitted around him like a butterfly as they walked through the snow toward what should've been their haven. Deliberately, he recalled her bright smile and the way she'd declared her love for him with such enthusiasm. Then Nuada knelt at Dylan's feet and took her hands in his.

"What's wrong?" He asked. "Tell me. What are you thinking right now?" She said nothing. Only looked away. "Your mouth is trembling," Nuada said gently. That was one of the signs he'd come to recognize as indicative of her unhappiness. Dylan bit her lip to make it stop quivering. "You're upset. Because of your sisters? Because we argued? Are you concerned over tomorrow night? Is it... about Dierdre?" Still she said nothing. "Dylan, what is it?"

"I don't know," she confessed in a rush. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I just... I don't know. I feel like I want to cry. I don't know why, I just do. Can't we just run off and elope or something? Forget politics. We can run away and join the circus. You could be a knife-thrower or something."

Nuada laughed. Dylan smiled wanly. The prince reached up and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "My glamour is strong enough, perhaps I could find work as an illusionist." Her smile brightened. "There," he said, tracing the fullness of her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "That's better. Now, my lady... unless I have offended you in some way, might I have the honor of a dance?"

After a moment, she nodded. "Okay. Sure. I get to the pick the music, though, remember. You said so."

"Yes," he replied with no little asperity. "I remember."

They ended up dancing for quite awhile. The simple two-step of modern slow dancing put very little strain of Dylan's knee. Nuada found that, although he couldn't really call it _dancing_, he enjoyed himself anyway. There was something soothing about holding Dylan to him, one hand on her waist as if they meant to waltz while she rested her hand on his shoulder. Simply swaying in time with the music, her head on his chest and their hands clasped, eased some of the furious tension in him so that he was able to forget about her loathsome relatives. And the music she chose was tolerable, as well.

"_I have died every day waiting for you.  
Darling, don't be afraid.  
I have loved you for ten thousand years.  
I'll love you for ten thousand more._

_"And all along I believed I would find you.  
Time has brought my heart to me.  
I have loved you for ten thousand years.  
I'll love you for ten thousand more._"

"This song is oddly appropriate," the prince murmured, his lips barely moving against Dylan's temple. "Are you sure a human wrote it?"

"Pretty sure," she replied, "seeing as it's for a movie based on a book written by a human."

His laugh was a slow, deep rumble in his chest. Dylan closed her eyes and just enjoyed being with him. She forced herself to forget about the confrontation with her sisters, forced herself to forget about the fact that she had meds to take when they went back to Findias, forget about King Balor announcing their engagement tomorrow night. Instead she breathed in the wildwood scent of forests and enjoyed the softness of Nuada's velvet tunic beneath her cheek.

Nuada brushed his lips against her temple. "Is it better now, mo cridh?" Dylan nodded, cuddling closer to him. "Dylan... I can make you no promises about your sisters. I cannot help but blame them for... for much that has been done to you in the past. Perhaps it's unjust of me to feel so, but that is how I feel. However," he added when she sighed ever so softly, "I _can_ promise to attempt to be civil to them. So long as they don't upset you, they are welcome at our wedding. Consider it my wedding gift to you."

She pulled back to gaze up at him. "You don't have to," she murmured.

"I want to."

Her smile was bright as starlight. "Thank you. You're so wonderful, Nuada. I love you." She popped up to kiss the tip of his nose, startling a laugh out of him. She grinned. "Now, I've danced to a whole CD's worth of songs. I'm sleepy and it's almost eleven o'clock. That's when Mormon girls turn into pumpkins. Bedtime for humans."

"Well," he replied with a melodramatic sigh, "I should hate to have to plant you in the kitchen gardens and ruin your lovely dress with all that dirt."

Dylan nodded, forcing her face into a semblance of seriousness. "That would be a shame."

He pressed his lips to Dylan's forehead. If she could jest, she was all right. _They_ were all right. Those heartless, gutless harpies hadn't hurt her too badly. "Come along, then, Lady Pumpkin, and we shall return to the castle."

**.**

It felt strange, Dylan reflected as she settled on her bed, to know that she was going to sleep without Nuada at her side tonight. She'd gotten used to him being there. Gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. An odd heaviness settled over her as she thought about the way her prince had held her hand all through their first night sleeping chastely together. Dylan knew what it was - loneliness. A sense of something missing. She'd felt the same thing after Nuada had warmed her the night she'd gotten hypothermia. It would go away in a week or two. And the medicine would help.

As if the thought had conjured him, Nuada came in through the open door adjoining their bedrooms with a tall glass of water in hand. She held up her hand, palm-up. On her open palm were eight pills - two Rohypnol, two Ambien, two Valium, and two Vicodin. The sleeping potion gleamed like liquid rubies on her nightstand. Nuada handed her the glass. She quickly swallowed the medication, took her nightly dose of the sleeping draft, and then drained the glass of water.

She had maybe fifteen minutes of lucidity before the drugs knocked her out. Since she'd already put the children to bed, read her scriptures, and said her prayers, Dylan decided to make good use of that time by brushing her hair.

Reaching for her hairbrush on the bedside table, Dylan found that Nuada had gotten there first. He met her eyes. "May I?" He asked softly. "I find it soothes me."

Surprised, she nodded. Nuada sat beside her on the edge of the bed and deftly separated her hair into manageable sections. He then drew the brush gently through the first section. The rhythmic _shush_ of the bristles against her hair served to help lull Dylan closer to sleep. Medicinal sleepiness lulled her further. It took her a minute to realize the Elven warrior was talking.

"...used to brush my sister's hair when we were children. After my mother died. Mathair used to do it for Nuala before we went to bed, but once she was gone, I found it soothed both Nuala and I for me to do it in her place. And sometimes, on very rare occasions before her death, my mother would allow me to brush her hair. Usually only if she planned on staying in the nursery until my sister and I had both fallen asleep." He paused for a moment, both in speech and movement, then murmured, "Her hair was curly like yours."

"What was she like, your mother?"

He began to brush again. "She was... like no one else in the world. When my father was unhappy or uncertain, it seemed she could always show him the proper route to take. When she laughed or smiled, it always lifted my spirits. She used to sing to me," he said suddenly. "I... I'd almost forgotten. Her voice was so lovely."

"I wish I could sing," Dylan mumbled. _I wish I had a voice that Nuada thought was lovely, instead of one that made him wince. I wish I could sing like Lorelei. Rhinemaidens have beautiful voices._

Almost as if he'd read her mind, Nuada said, "I am fond of your singing voice, but perhaps you might ask Lorelei to give you voice lessons."

"She's probably busy."

"Doubtful," the prince replied. "She is in Findias mostly for her protection, and to be with Wink. And to visit my sister. They're old friends as well." He continued to brush her hair in silence for a while. When he was finished, he set the brush aside. "Are you tired?"

She nodded. "A bit."

Nuada got to his feet. "Then you should sleep." He turned to go, then stopped. "Dylan... will you be all right?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." She yawned. "Just really tired. I'm fine."

He nodded. Then, leaning down, he cupped her chin and tilted her face up to brush a chaste kiss across her forehead. "Good night, beloved."

Dylan caught his hand before he could walk away. "Thank you for today, Nuada. It was wonderful."

_I love his smile,_ she thought when he turned it on her. _Especially when it actually reaches his eyes._ She smiled back at him before snuggling under her blankets. She was asleep before he'd left and before her guards came back into her bedroom.

**.**

Nuada slumped into his desk chair and drew out two sheets of his personal writing paper from a drawer. This letter would have to convey the depth of his need for Rennan's help. His friend, yet another comrade from the wars, _had_ to help him. Elatha would no doubt refuse, and Bres could not be trusted to step in on Nuada's behalf; the Fomorian king could deliver a brutal punishment to his heir for such a seeming betrayal of their anti-human sentiments. And Nuada's own father... Balor had made it clear he wouldn't help the prince unless he forsook his people, and _that_ he could _never_ do.

The Elven prince took out a quill and dipped it into the inkwell on his desk. Set the point to the page.

_Rennan,_

_I'm not writing this to you as the prince of Bethmoora to the king of Eirc.  
I'm writing this to you as your friend, as a warrior who was once proud  
to call you his shield-brother. I find myself in dire need of help that I fear  
only you can give._

_You've no doubt heard the rumors that I court a mortal woman. The  
stories are true. To give you a full accounting of the details would no  
doubt require a library's worth of paper, but you know me. You know I  
loathe the children of Adam with everything I am. Yet this woman, my  
lady, is so much more than I ever thought a human could be. Her blood  
is mortal, but her heart is of the fae._

_I mean to make her my wife. She has already accepted my proposal, and  
the official announcement of our betrothal comes tomorrow night, the  
night of the Winter Solstice. We mean to wed on the Frost Moon.  
Consider this an early an invitation._

_However, I cannot stand by and allow the woman I love more than my  
own life to wither away and die beneath the weight of mortality's curse. I  
search for a safe way to grant her immortality, though my quest has  
currently proven fruitless. Desperation may prove me reckless enough to  
risk a venture to the island of Mag Mell. My father withholds his aid in  
such an endeavor. You know well Elatha's sentiments regarding humans,  
so I shall not even attempt to seek help from him._

_Yet you, Rennan, have never held an abiding hatred for the children of men.  
If all else proves impossible, will you pledge me your help in seeking out  
Tethra and Mannanan? I know it is a dangerous undertaking. I am not  
insensible to the perils of such a quest. But I cannot stand idly by without  
some attempt at saving my lady's life. I surrender my pride enough to beg  
for your help._

_Please do not leave me without some hope, for I don't know if I can make it  
to Mag Mell without the aid of at least one of the three kings of Ireland, even  
though I will be forced to make the attempt. I await your reply, Rennan._

_Nuada_

There. Did he sound like a desperate man? Probably. Did it matter? No, because he _was_ desperate, loath as he was to admit it. Dylan was vulnerable to so many dangers as long as she remained mortal. Other threats loomed, of course, mortal or not. That was a part of any life, especially the life of a royal or future royal. But if he could find a way to make her even somewhat safer...

And then there was the discrepancy in their lifespans. Nuada knew he could not bear to watch his truelove fade away as the years passed, stealing her vitality bit by bit, while he remained as he was. Better for _him_ to become mortal than that.

He folded the letter and slid it into an envelope. Silver wax, marked by his personal crest, sealed the missive. With just a touch of magic he summoned a will-o-the-wisp and gave the little fae the letter. The wisp zipped away like a firefly in the night. How the tiny messenger faeries passed through such obstacles as walls, Nuada didn't know. Nor did he care. He only cared what Rennan would say to his request. Nuada knew he asked a great deal of his friend.

_But if it is the only way, I don't care,_ the Elven warrior thought, and went to bed.

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_**Author's Note:**__ and that's the end of our chapter. Sadly, no new chapters until Dec. 1st at least. I hope you guys enjoy, though! Love you!_

_Only two questions in our review prompt today:_

_1) The sister-meeting; thoughts?_

_2) Favorites, of course._

_3) Do you think Rennan will agree to help Nuada?_

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- Only one for now, cuz I'm rushing. I changed the lyrics to the song "A Thousand Years" because Nuada's over 1000 yrs old, and the point of the song is that the singer has loved the other person before they were even born, and will love them even after they die. So I changed it to "ten thousand years." Just so you know.


	83. Book 10 Moonlight Shadow

_**At the Bottom of This Chapter:**_

_Author's Note  
Concerning the Chapter Title_  
_References Made in This Chapter_

.

_**Author's Note:**_ _sorry I've been running late, guys. What with work, church, the holidays, AND getting sick TWICE (we thought I was pregnant the first time, but no - which is sad, cuz I love babies, but good cuz we're broke)... I haven't had time to finish this chapter. I am literally trying to write the last scene at work. So I hope you enjoy it. This would be twice as long, except then my beta would kill me. So I'll try to have a second chap out by Christmas. Loves to you all!_

_- LA_

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**Chapter Eighty-Two**

**Moonlight Shadow**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Warning, a Father's Words, Revelations, a Pledge, an Unusual but Helpful Situation, a Midwinter Gift, and a Shadow in the Moonlight**

.

.

The next morning Dylan went to work with a smile on her face and a bit of a bounce in her step. Last night, aside from the fight with her sisters, had been brilliant. In fact, the entire day had pretty much been brilliant. Except for Lord Santelmo trying to drop on her. But he always did that, so she ignored that little incident in favor of remembering her birthday date with Nuada. She couldn't decide which part had been the best... maybe the dancing. Being held close to him, his hand so warm at her back, his cheek lightly touching her temple, and the feeling of being safe and sheltered that always came from being in Nuada's arms. That was probably it.

At work, she chatted easily with her secretary, Ariel, as well as the three security guards who worked in her office building. She saw Gus again - a quick check-in before his family went on vacation. The same thirty-minute check-ups were scheduled for the Grace twins, Varen Nethers, Isabelle Lightwood, Mickey, and a few other patients.

_One benefit of working with kids,_ Dylan thought as her half-day actually wrapped up on time. _Except for summer time, I get pretty decent vacations when they do. I love that._

Filing the last of her paperwork took minutes. Just as Dylan was about to breeze out of her office to go back to Findias, her phone chimed with a text. She checked the readout. It was from Peabody.

"_Lisa Ramirez's court date - January 14 2:30PM. U going?_"

She hastily texted back an affirmative. A few minutes later, her smartphone dinged with another text, this one from Sergeant Donovan.

"_Watch ur back. Matlock sniffing around Westenra's murder._"

Dylan's expression tightened as tension whipped through her body. Matlock. She hated Matlock. Well, perhaps hate was too strong a word. He wasn't a monster like Westenra had been. Or like Eamonn. She shivered. Just thinking about the Elf of Zwezda who might have somehow survived all that she and Nuada had done to him that cold winter night gave her the chills.

Focusing once more on Peabody's second text, Dylan bit back a sigh. Matlock had been the one to report her for her so-called "unprofessional behavior" the day she'd gotten Lisa down off the roof. He didn't like the way Dylan operated. She didn't like his work ethic, either, but she had enough respect for his record that for the most part she didn't fight him. Sergeant Matlock didn't have the same respect for her.

_Whatever, I'll deal with him when he becomes a problem,_ she grumbled silently, and texted Peabody a quick thanks before heading to her cottage. She needed to grab some stuff before going back to Findias. There was a Midwinter Ball to prepare for, and a betrothal announcement coming up. She could worry about police matters later.

**.**

Nuada stood and bowed when Balor entered his study. "Father," the prince said. "You honor me with this visit. Is anything amiss?"

The old king smiled. "Can a father not visit his only son on occasion?"

Unsure how to respond, Nuada simply offered his father a chair. A servant brought sparkling Elven wine for king and crown prince before retreating silently from the room once more. Balor and Nuada drank in silence for a few moments. Then the king leaned forward.

"I received your message this morning. You mean to accept my bargain, then?"

The prince nodded. "Dylan and I will wed on the Frost Moon." After a moment's hesitation, Nuada asked, "Father, if I may... why February?"

Balor steepled his fingers. "It is the earliest you can wed without inciting a great deal of gossip. I know you don't care about rumors for your own sake, but I also know you would shield your lady from such things when possible. Also, this leaves your sister able to wed Bres that much sooner. He has already proposed to her, and she has accepted gladly. I would not have my daughter forced to wait overlong." Aged amber eyes studied the prince for a minute. "You haven't spoken to Nuala about her betrothal, have you?"

"No," he replied. There was a wealth of things unspoken in that simple negation. "We have not spoken of it."

"Do you disapprove of Bres?"

Nuada shook his head. "Of course not. He is an old friend, a good leader. A brave and skilled warrior and an honorable man."

"But?"

"You know Nuala sympathizes with the humans," Nuada said. "Can she be happy as wife to a man who despises them as Bres does?"

Balor smiled gently. "Can your human lady be happy with a man who loathes her race as you do?"

"I make Dylan happy," Nuada said, loathing the defensive tone of his voice but unable to suppress it. His father simply shrugged and spread his hands as if to say, _Well, then, you see?_ The prince looked away. "Was there any other reason you chose February?"

"The snowdrops will bloom in February," Balor said softly. "They are one of Dylan's favorite flowers."

Nuada blinked. "How do you know that?"

"She told me of it once. And are white blossoms, blossoms that represent hope, not fitting for a young bride?" The king paused for a moment, then asked in a voice as gentle as he could make it, "Nuada... what do you mean to tell her about your plans for the Golden Army?" In truth, the king didn't know his son's plans himself, except that the prince meant to track down the third piece of the Golden Crown. What did Nuada intend to do with that piece once he had it? Balor was fairly certain his son would be satisfied with nothing less than the genocide of the entire human race. How would he justify such heinous bloodshed to the mortal he meant to make his wife?

The blood drained from Nuada's face. Was this a threat? Was his father implying that _he_ would tell Dylan about the Golden Army if Nuada didn't do it himself? He couldn't be sure. And if that _was_ what Balor intended? What would he do?

Deciding honesty was the best policy - for now - Nuada confessed, "I don't know." The expression of concern and sympathy on his father's face dragged his next words from his lips. "Athair, I don't know what to do." When Balor opened his mouth, Nuada added quickly, "I know what counsel you would offer me, but I cannot abandon my people to this slow, creeping decay. That is _not_ the man you raised me to be. And Dylan... she would not have me do such a thing. She has lived nearly her entire life in service to the Fair Folk. It would be a betrayal not only of my people, but of what she has sacrificed so much to achieve."

"My son, this war you seek with the humans is not the way to save our people. To condemn an entire race to destruction... you cannot truly wish such a thing. Surely your honor forbids you from spilling so much innocent blood."

"There is no other way, Father," he murmured. "I have considered every alternative and this is the only way to save our people. The humans cannot be reasoned with. They cannot be trusted. They can only be exterminated. I do not want to wash the world in blood, innocent or guilty, but if I must make a choice between trillions and trillions of fae or a few billion humans, my course is clear." Nuada bit his tongue to keep back the plea he desperately wished to make, begging his father not to tell Dylan. If Balor chose to reveal Nuada's plan to the mortal, nothing the prince said would dissuade him.

"And will your lady, the Star Kindler's child, remain by your side through the bloodshed and the carnage?" Balor asked gently.

Nuada closed his eyes. There was no point in hiding the truth. "No, she won't."

"You will wed with this secret between you?"

Golden eyes flicked open to regard the old king. The question seemed innocent enough. There was none of Balor's cool disdain or frigid anger in the conversation thus far. Perhaps his father was merely curious. Perhaps... "I have made no decision as yet."

Balor nodded. "I see." There was a moment's silence, then the old Elf said, "My son, I don't seek your unhappiness. I do not wish to be your enemy. I know you love Dylan. She's a good woman. Can you not be satisfied with her love and let the rest go? Wed the woman you love so dearly. Raise your children together. Forget the humans and this anticipated war. Be happy."

The prince looked away. "I beg you not to tempt me, Father. I could never be happy with Dylan, knowing I was no longer the honorable prince she believed me to be. How would I face her day after day? How would I face my subjects? How could I teach my sons about honor and duty after abandoning both? What would I tell them? That honor and duty are what real men must live by unless such things become an inconvenience? I can't do that."

"You know I must work against you in whatever you mean to do, Nuada. The truce stands."

"No, Athair," the crown prince said sadly. "No, it doesn't. Your desperate hope for peace between the realms and their various peoples has blinded you to that fact for centuries now. The truce broke long ago."

"We still uphold it."

"At what _cost?_" Desperation lent the words a sharp vehemence. "When do we say, 'Enough?' When do we draw the line and refuse to sacrifice another innocent life to whom we owe our protection? When do the fae stop dying at the hands of the humans?"

The old king sighed and rose to his feet. Nuada rose, as well. Balor said, "Our time in the realms is done, Nuada. We will fade like the stars at dawn. That is as it should be." He sighed again. "Your betrothal will be announced tonight. You will wed on the Frost Moon and have your time with your lady. You can be happy with her if you let yourself. Don't throw it away for vengeance."

The two men walked to the door of Nuada's study. Just before the king left, he turned back to his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. There was a wealth of sorrow and regret in Balor's eyes. "I am _not_ your enemy. I will not allow you to break the truce, and I will not allow you to declare war on the humans. Not while I live. But I do _not_ consider you to be my enemy, Nuada." Firm but gentle pressure on the prince's shoulder reminded Nuada of easier times between himself and Balor. "You're my son. You must never doubt that you are dearer to me than my own life, and have been since before you drew your first breath. Please let yourself be happy."

With that startling sentiment, Nuada's father left the study, leaving the Elven prince speechless. After a moment of stunned silence, he returned to his desk on legs that trembled and sank into his chair. _Dearer to me than my own life..._ And Nuada suddenly remembered when he'd been in the healing sleep after his duel with Zhenjin, the feel of a calloused hand smoothing back his hair and his father's voice murmuring, _You are my son, and you are a fighter._ Had not Dylan told him less than a week ago that his father truly loved him? _I am_ not _your enemy_.

_I'm sorry, Athair,_ Nuada thought, lifting his nearly-empty glass of wine to his lips. _I only wish to make you proud, to protect our kingdom and its people, and to be with Dylan. I'm sorry that I must choose a path you abhor. I would abandon that path if I only could._

He drained the dregs from his glass and wondered when Dylan would return.

**.**

Dylan took eight wrapped presents from beneath her Christmas tree and set them on a side-table. She gave the tree trunk an affectionate pat and the spicy evergeen branches rustled a little in pleasure. Becan, house sprite extraordinaire, brought Dylan two satchels to carry the gifts. It wasn't Christmas yet, but Nuada celebrated the solstice, and might expect a gift from her tonight. Not all of the packages were for her prince, however - only three of them. Another three were for the children and Tsu's'di. The other two were for Balor and Nuala. Dylan felt a little strange having presents for them, but it was more of a just-in-case thing. Luckily she knew a very talented - and telepathic - artist in Little Italy who'd been willing to help her out in a pinch.

Just as she was about to slip the golden travel ring, which she now wore on a chain around her neck, onto her finger, there was a knock at the cottage door. She glanced at Becan, who peered at the door for a moment. His little brow furrowed.

"My lady, it is Miss Francesca," he said, obviously bewildered. "Were you expecting her?"

She frowned. "No. What's she doing here?" Getting to her feet, Dylan went to the door and answered it while Becan glamoured himself to invisibility.

Francesca stood on Dylan's doorstep in her favorite black peacoat and gloves, twisting her hands together, fidgeting from foot to foot. Dylan blinked at her older sister. "Hey, Cesca. What're you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you," Francesca blurted, pushing past Dylan into the entryway. Dylan expected her to hang her coat on the rack by the door and drop her gloves on the side-table, but instead the thirty-one-year-old waitress strode into the living room. She paced in front of the fireplace for a few minutes, stopped. Opened her mouth as if to speak. Closed it again. Then she started pacing anew.

Finally, Dylan said, "Cesca, honey... what's the matter?"

"I, um... I have a question to ask you. But before I do you have to promise not to tell any of our sisters. Not even Petra or Tori. You promise?"

A gentle warmth bloomed in Dylan's chest. She nodded. "I promise. What's going on?"

"Okay. Okay, this is going to sound totally crazy. Well, maybe it won't, since it's you. You're like, the expert on crazy. You're a shrink. And stuff. So... so all right, then. Question. That guy. Your fiancé. Is he... is he a fairy?"

Dylan's mouth dropped open and the blood drained from her face. "What?" The word was more a nearly-silent gasp than a question.

Francesca looked her dead in the eye and asked, "Is he a fairy?"

"I... I, um, I don't... what? Why would you ask me that?"

The older Myers sister reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a Polaroid photo that Dylan couldn't see. She swallowed hard, then stuffed the photo back in her pocket before looking at her sister beseechingly. "So I met this guy. He's great. I mean, he's really great. But he's different. Really different."

Unsure where this was going, Dylan replied, "All right..."

"He told me... he told me some stories. Like the ones you used to tell when we were kids. I hadn't told him about you. About then, I mean. So I knew it wasn't because he was making fun of me or anything. And the way he looks, I know there are people out there who... who might be different. I just never considered that maybe... but then I saw him today. We had a date. And he said he'd gotten a call from a friend of his and wanted it confirmed that you were engaged to someone."

Dylan swallowed hard. "Just any someone? Or someone in particular?"

"Someone in particular. Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora."

Dylan's mouth fell open again. Her legs began to shake as she made her way unsteadily toward a chair and fell into it. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Stared at her sister. How had she found out? Who was this boyfriend, that he knew someone who would know about her engagement? Who, even in Faerie, was privy to the fact that she and Nuada were definitely engaged? The formal announcement wasn't until later that night!

Then she suddenly remembered a late-night phonecall with a certain rhinemaiden. _A friend of mine... He is human, but... unique. They seem to have taken a liking to each other... She doesn't know you're a faerie, though... right?... No, she does not. As for what she thinks of Davio... Lemme guess. He's weird looking by human standards, but it only took her all of five seconds to realize that underneath of that, he was a guy, and therefore worth chasing... Something like that_. Dylan frowned at her sister. Shoved at the loose curls tickling her cheek.

"Cesca... this guy. Is his name Davio?"

Francesca went nearly as white as Dylan. "How'd you know that?"

"I got a call from a friend of his a few days ago. Lorelei? You know her?"

When Francesca nodded, the tension eased from Dylan's body. This was Lorelei's friend that the river faerie had mentioned, the weird-looking human. Which meant the phone call Davio had received about Dylan and Nuada's engagement was probably from Lorelei as well. Well, Dylan decided, better to double-check on that instead of assuming.

"Was Lorelei the friend who called about me being engaged?"

Cesca nodded, then bit her lip. "Dylan... Dylan, what is going on?"

The mortal psychiatrist folded her hands in her lap and drew a deep breath, then blew it out. Drew another. "You remember when we were kids, and I used to tell stories about fairies and stuff? How I said there were magical people living in our backyard? And Mom and Dad thought I was crazy?"

After a strained silence, Francesca nodded. "Yeah."

Taking one more deep breath that strained against the tightness in her chest, Dylan met her sister's eyes and said, "I wasn't crazy. I was telling the truth. And that guy you met last night? That's Prince Nuada."

**.**

Nuada hadn't expected a response from Rennan before the Midwinter Ball, yet in the early afternoon hours while waiting for Dylan, a page knocked on the door of the prince's study. When Nuada answered, the young Elf page held up a rectangular parcel wrapped in worn leather.

"This arrived for Your Highness just now," the pageboy murmured. "The messenger said it was from His Royal Majesty King Rennan mac Dela of Eirc."

Startled, the prince took the wrapped bundle and dismissed the servant boy. Taking the package back to his desk, he sat down and quickly unwrapped the folds of leather to reveal a small, rectangular box of goldenwood that had been polished until it shone as bright as a tiger's eye jewel. The box lid was held fast by two golden clasps in the shape of leaping stags. Nuada thumbed the clasps and loosed the lid of the box. Nestled inside on a cushion of emerald velvet was a many-faceted viridian moonstone, marred only by a spot of dull amber at its center.

Knowing exactly what Rennan had sent him and understanding why there was only this box and no written message, Nuada drew his pen-knife from its place in a desk drawer and pricked his index finger. A drop of golden blood welled up. Nuada allowed the droplet to fall on the center of the moonstone.

A low humming filled the room as power charged the air like electricity. A dull ache throbbed in Nuada's teeth. Magic swirled through the room, a king's power mingling with that of a crown prince. The spell unfolded like a flower and sent lightning pulsing through Nuada's blood. The prick at the tip of his finger burned hot as a coal, then flashed ice-cold before the wound sealed itself and faded. The Elven prince closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he stood not in his study, but in Rennan's.

It wasn't teleportation, of course. Nuada didn't dare use such a thing while waiting for Dylan to return, especially if Balor sought him out again. This was more of a communication spell. He could see and hear the Fir Bholg king, and the Fir Bholg king could hear and see him. They couldn't touch, however - that would've required more magic than either of them were willing to waste on this conversation.

Nuada studied his old friend. Rennan was an Elf of Eirc, taller than the Bethmooran prince by a good two feet and broader by several inches. His shaggy mane of copper-red hair hung past the broad shoulders and matched his bushy red brows. Several scars carved deep into his face. His loose, undyed canvas tunic and leather trews told Nuada that this was not only an informal audience between friends, but that Rennan had no other plans than to speak to his old shield-brother and then enjoy a quiet evening with his family. The actual night of the winter solstice was not a court event in Eirc, but a time to spend with close friends and loved ones. Rennan's family - a very pretty young wife and two new children - were giving up some of their time with him so that Nuada might speak to the older man who'd been friend and comrade to him during the wars with the humans.

"I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me, Rennan," Nuada said softly. The Fir Bholg king straightened in his chair.

"I've yet to decide whether to congratulate you on finding a woman you love enough to wed, or whether to beat you senseless for being a fool, old friend," Rennan said with a sigh. "A human, Nuada? What are you thinking?"

"She's a good woman," the prince replied.

Rennan raked his fingers through his bushy red beard. "I've no doubt of that if she could woo you. That's not my point! She is mortal. What will happen to you when her years are spent and she dies, leaving you to wander the world and live out your centuries without her?"

"But that is why I have contacted you."

The king sighed again. "Aye, I know that well enough. You wish my aid in reaching Mag Mell, if desperation drives you there. As your friend, I should refuse. I should shake you until your brains rattle for even thinking of such a reckless venture."

Nuada smirked. "You may be older and larger, but it has been quite some time since anyone could shake me that hard, old friend." His mirth dissipated. "You don't understand, Rennan. I love her. I cannot bear the thought of losing her to mortality's grasp when I could so easily prevent it."

"Easily? You think Tethra and Mannanan are the easy method to save your lady?"

"Easier than watching her waste away as old age and death lay claim to her!"

"And what of your plans for war, my friend? I am not privy to all you intend to do, I'll admit, but I have heard some rumors. Disturbing ones." Rennan's brilliant emerald eyes locked with Nuada's golden ones. "There is talk that when certain heirs are given their thrones, a new war with the humans will come, one to decide everything. I've heard this rumor for decades. Yet there is another one now, growing steadily stronger with every turn of the seasons - that when the war begins, it will be fought not just with soldiers and swords, but with the sorcerous weapons we Kindly Folk have long laid to rest. Clockwork armies, and not just the Golden Army of Bethmoora! Other dark powers long laid to rest by the kings and queens of Faerie."

The crown prince of Bethmoora gazed upon the king of Eirc for a long moment in silence. "Why do you say this?"

"If war comes, so be it. I have long known that eventually something must be done about the humans in Faerie, if nowhere else. My kingdom will not turn to such desperate tactics, but I have little control over the actions of my fellow monarchs. That is not my point. My point is, what will your lady do if you raise the Golden Army and declare war on her people?"

Stiffly, Nuada asked, "Does it matter to you so much?"

Rennan heaved a sigh. "My old friend... I am more glad than you can ever know, that you have found someone to whom you might give your heart, someone who brings you the sweet joy found with love. What I fear is that, with your love saved from mortal death, she will yet break your heart when she learns of what you mean to do to her race. I know your honor prohibits you from marrying her without telling her of your plans simply out of cowardice."

"You think she'll refuse me if she knows the truth." Rennan nodded gravely. "You're right that I cannot take her as my wife without telling her the truth. My honor forbids such cowardice. I cannot hide the truth from her out of fear that I'll lose her affection. What sort of man would that make me?"

There was a long silence between them. Finally, the king of Eirc said, "You are going to have to tell her something Nuada. And 'I intend to slaughter your race down to the last child, including your family,' is not what I would recommend."

Nuada gritted his teeth. "I planned to..." Nearly everything in him rebelled at the words on the tip of his tongue, but he forced them past his lips nonetheless. "To spare her family." Even the whelp. Even the harpy-shrews and their spawn. Despite their ill use of Dylan, it would break her heart to lose them, and Nuada knew that.

Rennan's eyes widened. "You did? _You_ did? You intended to spare... they must be something special amongst their race, then."

"They are not," Nuada said coolly. "I loathe her family with everything I am. They are everything that I despise in the children of Adam. But I will spill no blood of hers... and that includes the blood she shares with her kin."

The king sighed. "Noble as that is, I doubt it will impress her overmuch. Her race will still cease to exist... unless you intend for her family, the last of the humans, to interbreed." Rennan shuddered with disgust. "Somehow I doubt that is your plan. You'll have to tell her _something_, old friend. What will you offer her as to your reasons for this coming slaughter?"

"The truth."

Rennan raised an eyebrow. "The truth?"

"Yes," Nuada said. Grief etched fine lines across his face and roughened his voice. "The truth - that Faerie is dying. That the mortal realm is dying. That the people who live in the mortal realm, human and fae alike, are slowly being poisoned by the filth and waste that is smothering that world. That the Fair Folk... that _my people_ are dying because of the humans. Countless races are choking to death beneath the cruel yoke of what the humans have done. What they are _still_ doing."

The prince of Bethmoora met his friend's eyes. "She knows me, Rennan. She knows me better than any other. She knows I do not seek the death of women and children out of some twisted thirst for revenge or some insane bloodlust. I don't _want_ this. I do not want this war... but it is coming. I cannot stop it. I can only ensure that my people win. That they survive. That is what I will tell her. Perhaps... just perhaps... it will be enough."

The king leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. His face and voice were both expressionless when next he spoke. "I will give you my support in this quest for Mag Mell - whatever aid you need, whatever you ask of me, I will provide it." He pinned Nuada with his emerald gaze and said, "I pray she does not break your heart, my friend. I pray you're right about her."

"As do I."

"And if you are not?" Rennan asked. "How will you protect her?"

Nuada didn't know, but he would figure that out. He had to, because while part of him hoped Dylan would continue to love him, would remain at his side through the war... he knew in his heart that she wouldn't.

**.**

After telling Francesca everything (everything pertinent, anyway), Dylan knew the best way to cement her sister's hesitant belief was to show her a real, living, breathing faerie. With that in mind, she asked Becan if he might please come out of hiding and show himself.

The moment the brownie appeared, completely unglamoured, on the coffee table, Francesca squeaked and clapped both hands to her mouth. Becan bowed low to the two mortal women.

"Milady," he murmured to his human mistress. To his mistress's sister, he added, "Miss Francesca."

"This is Becan," Dylan explained to her sister, who stared at the diminutive fae with wide eyes. "He's the brownie who lives in this cottage. He helps keep it clean - rather, I help; he does most of the work - and he makes most of my meals. He even does my laundry. Except my underthings, he's not comfortable doing those. And he feeds the cat."

Francesca processed that while slowly forcing her hands away from her mouth and into her lap. "So... so he's like a house-elf? Like in Harry Potter?"

Dylan didn't roll her eyes, but it was a trial. "Sort of. I don't pay Becan. That would offend him and he'd have to leave. I can't thank him, either; same thing, he'd have to leave the cottage, and he doesn't want to. We just take care of each other."

Becan seated himself tailor-fashion on the coffee table. "My lady takes very good care of me, in fact. Fresh porridge with butter and cream every day, my own nest in the attic with my own copper washtub-"

"Brownies like being clean," Dylan whispered to her sister.

"My own clothes, and she doesn't pay me wages - that'd be improper - but I _am_ allowed my own things when I go to market for her."

"Well," Dylan said airily, as if Becan buying stuff for himself was in no way out of the ordinary for a house sprite of his social class, "you make prettier Christmas ornaments than I ever could. You're far more talented with cooking and arts-and-crafts than I am. Besides, I adore you. Of course you're allowed your own stuff."

Francesca, eyes still wide, held out her index finger to Becan. "Um... hi. How d'you do?"

Becan laid his tiny brown hand on the tip of her finger and they sort of, almost, shook hands. "Very well, indeed, Miss. And you?"

"Um... not quite sure about that right now."

At a nod from Dylan, Becan excused himself to finish with his housework while Dylan studied her older sister with cautious hope. After Francesca had chewed her grass-green French manicure to bits, the waitress finally turned to her little sister. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "And I thought Davio was weird. At least he's normal-sized. So... so your fiancé really _is_ a prince? And you're gonna be a princess."

Dylan nodded. It felt absolutely bizarre to confirm that she was soon to be royalty, but she didn't show that to Francesca.

"And Mom and Dad... they... jeez, Dylan. They sent you to that place and the whole time you were telling the truth." Her sister's eyes filled with tears. "And we were all so horrible to you about it. I'm so sorry, honey. I didn't know-"

"Cesca, it's okay," Dylan murmured, but her sister shook her head.

"No. No, it's not okay. If you hadn't been sent to that horrible place, the Blackwoods wouldn't have been able to hurt you, and-"

"Francesca," Dylan said firmly. The older Myers sister fell silent. A tear spilled down Francesca's cheek. Dylan gently wiped it away. "What happened to me at the institution is _not_ your fault. It's not Petra or Pauline or Mary's fault. It's not Simone or Gardenia's fault. It's not your fault, or Tori's fault. It's not Mom and Dad's fault. The people who hurt me, the Blackwoods and their father and the rest - it's _their_ fault. No one else's. Okay?"

Francesca swiped at her eyes, smearing her mascara. "We didn't believe you. We should've believed you. We should've known you weren't crazy. How can you not be furious at us for not believing you?"

Dylan put her arms around the other woman and hugged her. "You're my family. I love you guys."

Her sister laughed a little through her tears. "You're so forgiving. You're such a good Mormon."

A smile quirked Dylan's mouth. "Only in some ways," she replied, thinking of how she'd felt the morning prior upon waking up cuddled against Nuada. "But thanks. You okay?" Francesca nodded. "Still in shock?" Another nod. "Well, I really hate to cut this short, I know I've dumped a lot on you, but I have to go. I'm sorry. I know this is a lot to take in, but I've got a... a thing."

"A future-princess thing?"

"Yeah," she said with a sheepish smile. "Royal ball. Our engagement's being announced to the court tonight."

"You nervous?" Francesca laughed when Dylan nodded vehemently. "Poor thing. I know how much you hate all that attention. You must really love this guy if you're putting up with Paparazzi Tinkerbell. So who's doing your hair and makeup?"

The mortal healer fought not to roll her eyes. Trust Francesca to focus on the most important thing - in _her_ book, at least. "I'm probably gonna do it myself. Hiyori might help me, but her forte is clothes, not makeup and stuff."

"Well, that's no good. Let _me_ do it for you."

While Dylan could admit Francesca did runway-quality hair and makeup, the younger woman had to point out, "The ball's not until sunset tonight. I'd have to take you to Faerie with me for that. I don't think that'll work, hon."

To her utter shock, Cesca pursed her lips for a moment before asking, "Well, why not?" Dylan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a minute. "You probably need permission, right?" Francesca added. "So go back to Faerie and ask... whoever. The prince or the king or whoever. If they say no, well, oh well, then. But if they say yes, come back and get me and we'll go there and I'll fix up your hair and stuff."

"I... um..."

"If you don't ask," Francesca said primly, "you'll never know."

**.**

Which must have been, Dylan concluded, how she ended up back in Findias, dazed and more than a little confused as to how she'd ended up outside Nuada's study door. She rapped on the door without really thinking out what she was going to say to her prince. His muffled acknowledgment had her opening the door just wide enough to slip inside and close it behind her.

She stopped short when she got a good look at Nuada's face. "Nuada? Cad atá cearr?" Upon arriving back at the castle, Dylan hadn't even taken the time to shed her coat or drop her purse. Now she tossed her purse to the floor as she rushed to where Nuada stood leaning against his desk and reached up to frame his face with her hands. "What is it?" She repeated in English. He lifted his eyes to her face and a chill went through her to her very bones. "What's the matter? Did something happen?"

Nuada covered her hands with his before drawing her slender hands down to grip them at chest-level. Golden eyes filled with what might have been regret studied Dylan's face for a long moment. Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. She tasted sorrow in the kiss, and longing. Resignation. Hope, as well as a sort of far-off dread. Nuada whispered against her lips, "I love you. I love you so much, Dylan. I never thought I would ever... I love you."

Dylan pulled back to stare at him. Why did he sound so desperate? And his hands were so cold. "Nuada..."

"Mo duinne, there will no doubt come a time when my responsibilities as the crown prince and the future king of Bethmoora dictate actions that... that will cause you pain. I am sorry for that. Sorry for the heartache being my princess will bring you. I would not hurt you for the world if I could help it, but there are some things I cannot change and I fear that... that you... that we..."

"Nuada, you're kind of scaring me right now," Dylan murmured. He was _never_ at a loss for words. Not like this. Never tongue-tied, never this uncertain. "Are you... are you saying you think we shouldn't get married?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, no. It is only... I never want you to regret becoming my wife. I never want you to look upon me and see a monster where once you saw only the man you loved."

_Loved_, she thought. _Past-tense. Why?_ Aloud, she only said, "Never. Why would you think I could ever... Nuada, what's going on?" An icy chill swept down her spine as a thought pierced her. "Something happened with Dierdre. You... Nuada, you _promised_ me-"

"No!" He rejected that immediately. "No, Dylan, no. Nothing happened with Dierdre, I swear to you. I have kept my promise."

"But... then... what's going on?"

He locked eyes with her and said softly, "I never want to hurt you."

Worried silver-swept eyes caressed his face as Dylan studied him, the earnest expression and shadowed eyes. She cupped his cheek. "I know. It's okay. Whatever's going on, it's okay. What happened? Did your father say something? Did-"

"We have a king at our backs willing to aid us in getting to Mag Mell," Nuada murmured. Dylan's eyes widened. He touched his forehead to hers. "I know it was dangerous, but it was all I could think to do."

"But... but you said that was a crazy thing to do. A fool's errand-"

He framed her face between his hands. "Then I am a madman and a fool. Losing you... losing you forever would take the very heart from me. Do you understand? Do you understand that I've had these thoughts circling in my mind like sharks ever since I lost my heart to you? That I've feared what your mortality will do to us when time finally passes and you slip through my fingers? So I have spoken to King Rennan mac Dela; he is an old friend. He is willing to help us get to Mag Mell if we have no other choice... and I fear we have no other option. I would do nearly anything to keep you, Dylan."

Stunned, she stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "Nuada... why didn't you tell me how much this has been bothering you?"

"I am telling you now. I have had my heart shatter from love and loss before, Dylan, and it nearly destroyed me. I cannot do it again. Not now."

He fell silent and Dylan simply slid her arms around him. After a long, strained moment, where she could feel the tension thrumming through his body, Nuada enfolded her in his arms and laid his cheek against the soft wealth of her hair. "It's okay," Dylan murmured. "You won't lose me. I love you."

Nuada gazed down at her, and she could see she'd moved him more deeply than she understood. "Dylan..." He cradled her face between his hands and leaned in. "I know I don't deserve you, yet I thank all the gods beyond the stars that you are with me."

He kissed her again, a warm press of lips that sent golden light dancing through her chest. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he sighed against her mouth, closed his eyes. She felt it the moment he simply gave himself up to kissing her. She could still taste his sorrow and regret, and he held her as if he thought she might vanish in an instant, but that almost panicked tension she'd first sensed in him had eased.

When the kiss finally ended, Nuada stroked his thumb along Dylan's cheek. She looked up at him. It was impossible, she thought, for him to not see the worry in her eyes. "Are you going to be okay?"

Nuada inclined his head. "I am well enough."

"Okay." She stroked his cheek with gentle fingertips. "It's okay." Now Dylan forced herself to grin. "Jeez, don't scare me like that, okay? You almost gave me a heart attack."

"My apologies, mo mhuire." He brushed his lips against hers in a feather-soft kiss. "Now... I think you had something to tell me. Before this."

Recollection struck Dylan like a baseball bat right between the eyes. "Oh! Right! Um, I have to tell you something. It's important. And maybe bad. I'm not sure. Depends on how you feel about it."

Clearly she'd caught him off-guard. "All right."

Dylan bit her lip, then forced herself to stop. "It's about Francesca."

"Has she been attacked again?"

Surprised that he'd actually remembered the fact that her sister had been attacked - though she hadn't told him by whom - the night Dylan and her prince had had their first real fight, resulting in Nuada leaving the cottage for almost three weeks, it took Dylan a moment to remember to shake her head. "No, she's okay. It's not that. She... she knows."

Nuada frowned. "Knows what?"

"About us. About you. That you're fae."

Feral eyes widened. "What? How... how do you know?"

"She _told_ me." Quickly Dylan explained everything that had happened at her cottage once her sister had shown up on the doorstep. She ended with, "It may not seem like it, but she can keep a secret. We don't have to worry about that, not with her. But now she wants to come to Findias to help me with my hair and makeup for the Ball." After a moment's hesitation, Dylan added, "Can I bring her here?"

"Can you _bring_... I..." Completely thunderstruck at the sheer improbability of Dylan's sex-obsessed older sister coming to the castle, _tonight_ of all nights, left him momentarily speechless. The tension of the earlier conversation vanished. Nuada could only think with growing horror of Francesca. Here. In his home. He grasped at the first argument that presented himself. "She'll make you look like a... a sporting woman."

Dylan's mouth quirked at the corners. "You can say 'prostitute,' you know. And no, she won't. She's actually really good at this kind of thing. She went to beauty school, but then couldn't actually get a job as a beautician - cusses too much - so she became a waitress. Apparently you can cuss more in that profession. But she knows what she's doing. She'll make me look pretty."

Without missing a beat, Nuada replied, "You always look lovely, Dylan. 'Pretty' is a pitiful descriptor of your beauty."

The mortal's half-smile bloomed into a full one, sweet and indulgent. "You're biased. Our engagement's being announced tonight. I wanna look nice."

"Dylan, she has a mouth as foul as a New York sewer."

She raised an eyebrow. "You know, you almost never swear in front of me, but does that mean you never swear?"

"I don't use profanity with the same seeming delight that your sister does."

A small sigh should've made it obvious to the prince that his mortal truelove wasn't giving in just yet. "Nuada, I just don't feel up to the task of making myself look the way I want to look for tonight."

"Borrow my sister's maids."

"_Ledi_ Polunochnaya and _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma?" Dylan asked. "You really want them in my bathroom with me? While I'm practically naked, wearing only a towel? I don't think..." She trailed off when Nuada's eyes unfocused. She poked him in the chest. "You're thinking about me in nothing but a towel."

The prince's brow quirked. "I? Darling, I appreciate the compliment to my... ardor, but attempting to imagine your exquisite loveliness in any state of undress while faced with a choice between being invaded by _A'ge'lv_ Na'ko'ma or your sister is almost impossible. I am being distracted by visions of my own personal Hell."

Dylan grinned. "At least you don't _hate_ Francesca."

"Yes, I do."

Her grin slipped away. "At least she's not actively trying to be a total witch to you, though."

Reluctantly, Nuada admitted, "Yes, there is that." He sighed. "Very well. You may bring Francesca here. She is not to stray beyond your bedroom door."

"Really?" She threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you! I feel better about tonight already!" She pressed her lips to his cheek and gave him a loud and quite enthusiastic kiss. "I'll keep her in my bedroom, I promise. Or, actually, she'll probably be in the bathroom with me. But whatever, don't worry!" She kissed his cheek again before cuddling into his chest. "Thank you, mo airgeadach."

Slipping away from him, Dylan twisted the ring on her finger that would take her to the subterranean sanctuary. Francesca would be waiting at the subway station, which was safe enough on a Monday afternoon. Dylan would find her and then they'd get back to the castle and start prepping.

"Oh," Dylan added right before speaking the words that would active the spell, "you have to meet her. Unglamoured." Before he could respond to that, the spell came to life, taking her where she couldn't hear his protests.

All Nuada could think as he watched his truelove disappear was that her pleasure at seeing her sister hopefully outweighed whatever nausea would threaten when the harpy actually arrived. But if Francesca did anything to distress Dylan, the Elven warrior would happily wring the harpy's neck.

**.**

The squealing was what dragged him out of his study nearly forty-five minutes later. Nuada wasn't actually alarmed by the shrill cries of feminine rapture - he recognized Francesca's voice and Dylan's indulgent laughter. He knocked on the door joining his suite to hers. The squealing and squeaking abruptly ceased. Dylan called for him to come in. When he stepped into his lady's bedchamber, it was to the sight of Dylan covering Francesca's eyes.

"Okay, he looks different," Dylan cautioned her sister. "Like, really different."

"I got it, Dylan. Jeez. Lemme see him!"

"All right. Do _not_ squeal."

"I _won't!_"

Dylan withdrew her hands from in front of her sister's face. Francesca opened her eyes and took in the sight of the crown prince of Bethmoora without glamour. Nuada had yet to begin readying for the Midwinter Ball, so he only wore some of his everyday winter attire of wool-silk and velvet in soft shades of gray and green. The mortal waitress bit her lip and let her eyes drift over the prince from crown to toes and back up again. Dylan held her breath.

Nuada waited for the squealing and hoped - in a very quiet, dark part of his soul - that the filthy-minded human shrew that was somehow kin to his lady would give him a valid reason to forcibly eject her from the palace grounds.

Francesca pursed her lips and whistled. "Lookin' good, Your Highness."

Dylan breathed a sigh of relief.

Nuada narrowed his eyes. "Your approval is noted," he said coolly, thinking silently, _And unwanted_. The woman who currently drew his ire smiled. The prince wanted to do something, anything, to terrify the smile off her face. It was one thing for Dylan to smile at him. He cherished her smiles. But this... _woman_... the idea of her finding amusement or enjoyment from anything he did or said sickened him. Forcing his voice to remain icily polite, he inclined his head and said, "I will leave you ladies to your task."

As Francesca offered a jaunty wave and turned toward the bathroom door, Nuada saw Dylan mouth _thank you_ to him. His expression thawed for a moment and he nodded to her before leaving the room.

The two mortals set up the large silver case of makeup the older woman had brought with her from the human realm. The makeup case had been a gift from Dylan for her sister's birthday only a few months before. Dylan had suggested Francesca bring it because the case and its contents came from Faerie, and so none of the makeup would cause any sort of problem at the Ball. The hair products and accessories were all Dylan's, either brought with her upon moving into the joint suite or having been discovered in the suite upon Dylan's perusal of the bathroom.

At the tail end of the set-up, a knock sounded at the door. Dylan looked over to see Fionnlagh at the door. Francesca jumped and squeaked at the sight of the scarred female Butcher Guard in her beaked iron helmet. Dylan's guard detail had been in the sitting room when she and her sister had arrived in the bedroom. Since the door had been half-open, they'd been left to their own devices.

"Cesca, this is one of my bodyguards. Guardswoman Fionnlagh, this is my sister, Francesca."

Fionnlagh offered her charge's sister the typical fist-to-chest salute. Francesca offered a hesitant wave and a mumbled, "Hello."

"My lady," Fionnlagh murmured in Gaelic. "Journeymaid Hiyori is here with your gown. Shall I fetch 'Sa'ti and Eimh to help you prepare?"

"Yes, please, Fionnlagh," Dylan replied in the same language, then translated the brief exchange into English for her sister.

"Wow, that Irish stuff really paid off for you, huh?" Cesca asked with a laugh, then gasped in delight when a sleek, milk-white shape trotted into the bathing chamber. "Oh, my gosh! What a beautiful dog! Is she yours?" Dylan nodded. "Hey, there, pretty girl." Eimh approached this new human and sniffed Francesca's outstretched hand before giving it a swift lick. "Aren't you friendly? And so pretty."

*Thank you. My mother says I am pretty, too.*

The mortal yelped in shock and jerked back from the dog. "Holy crap, you talk!"

"That's Eimh," Dylan said, trying not to laugh at her sister's astonishment. "She's one of my guard dogs. Yes, she talks. And that's 'Sa'ti," Dylan added as the cougar girl came in. "She's my handmaiden. Eimh, 'Sa'ti, this is my sister, Francesca."

Eimh whuffed a greeting and the ewah girl bobbed a quick curtsy.

"Are you a lady, too?" The cougar child asked.

"Um... like, a noble lady?" Francesca clarified. The little girl nodded. "No. I'm just me. You can call me Miss Francesca if you want. Um, what are you, exactly?"

"Oh, we're ewah!" From the doorway, A'du poked his head in and grinned charmingly at the new person. "We're the Children of the Cougar. We can shapeshift into wampus cats."

"Do what into what, now?"

Dylan laughed. "They can transform into wampus cats - really, really big faerie cougars. A'du'la'di Ewah, this is my sister, Francesca. Francesca, this daring and enterprising young man is my pageboy. A'du, are you supposed to be in here?"

"Well, the door's open," the cub offered by way of excuse.

A slim fae teenager came up behind him, carrying something over her head. She nudged him with her foot. "Out of my way, young cub. I have your mistress's gown and if I drop it, I'll be making her a new one out of your hide. Understand?" A'du'la'di shuffled out of the way as Hiyori, one of the palace's journeymaid seamstresses directly under the Master Tailor of Findias, slipped into the room carrying the blue ball gown Nuada had bought for Dylan a few weeks prior. Following behind Hiyori came a young apprentice seamstress carrying a tall, navy blue box. A'du popped in for a moment with something in his hands.

"And _what_ is that?" Hiyori sniffed at the child.

He just grinned and held it out to her. "From the prince for the _a'ge'lv_," A'du said primly, holding the medium-sized, blue velvet jewelry box aloft like a holy relic. A silver satin bow gleamed in the bathroom's faerie lights. "A Midwinter gift." Dylan took the box from him and set it on the white marble counter. "Oh, that 'minds me, _A'ge'lv_. What're those presents in your closet for?"

"A'du'la'di Ewah, you stay away from those presents," Dylan said without batting an eyelash. "You and your brother and sister can wait to open them until His Highness and I get back from the Ball."

Bright gray eyes widened in rapturous disbelief. "Those are for _us?"_ He demanded breathlessly. "What for?"

"For Midwinter," Dylan replied. "But not until the prince and I get back. There are a couple for him, too, so you'll have to wait. Now shoo! No boys allowed in here right now."

"Okay. Bye, _A'ge'lv!_ I'm gonna go arm-wrestle Guardsman Mahon, and this time, I'm gonna beat him."

Dylan just smiled. Unlike his partner, Guardsman Lorcc, Mahon didn't let A'du "win." Instead of being discouraged, the cougar boy took that as a challenge. "Good luck!" His human mistress called after him.

"All right," Francesca said when only Hiyori, 'Sa'ti, Eimh, and two of Dylan's guards remained. "I take it they're helping, too?" Dylan nodded. "Okay, fine, but I'm the boss, right?" Her younger sister nodded again. "Awesome. Okay, into that bathtub. Do you do scented... anything?"

"Yep. Eimh, a 'happy bath,' please," Dylan asked her hound, and things got underway.

**.**

"You're nervous, aren't you, _Hátign Þína?"_ Erik folded his arms across his broad chest and shared a conspiratory grin with Wink as, a couple hours later, Nuada paced back and forth in the front room of his suite. "I'd not have believed it - you're actually nervous."

"I have to propose to her," Nuada muttered. "A public proposal, this time. In front of the entire Golden Court. If they do _anything_ to distress her, I'll show no mercy-"

A chuckle rumbled in Wink's massive chest. "Don't worry about the lassling, my prince," the cave troll said. "She'll do just fine against any of those stuffed-shirt nobles who can't see her worth. She has a stout heart for such a little thing."

Nuada didn't confess the other source of the dread gnawing like a wolf at his belly - his father. What would Balor do when the prince knelt before Dylan in front of the Court and asked for her hand in the required public proposal? Would he let things proceed as it seemed he desired? Or was the king using this whole event as a means to shatter Nuada's spirit and will?

_I am_ not _your enemy... Please let yourself be happy._ The king had seemed sincere then, but... but could the Elven warrior truly trust Balor after everything the One-Armed King had done to sabotage Nuada's plans, both for his kingdom and for his truelove?

Before Nuada could snarl anything else or turn over anymore possible facets of his father's potential plots against him, he sensed her. Dylan. She hovered like a shy butterfly at the very edges of his awareness, but she was steadily drawing closer. A soft knock at the door joining the front room of his suite to the sitting room of hers drew Nuada's eyes to the door. He felt his pulse jump despite his resolve to appear at ease. Tonight their engagement was made public. Tonight the date for their wedding was set. Forty-seven days from now.

_Forty_-six _days,_ Nuada realized with a jolt of warm pleasure. _Soon to be only forty-five._ But aloud, he only called, "Enter."

She stepped in slowly, shyly, and he could not understand why. Didn't she know, couldn't she tell, how truly breathtaking she looked? He absolutely hated to admit it, but the harpy-shrew had done well by Dylan. Those dark curls were twisted and coiled effortlessly so they fell in a gentle cascade around her shoulders. The hair-piece he'd sent by A'du'la'di, filigreed white-gold and elegant Bethmooran diamonds like enchanted ice, glittered against the shadows of her hair in the lamp- and firelight. Her makeup was understated and lovely, except at her eyes. Her eyes were... striking.

With the style of Dylan's hair and the effect from the makeup, Francesca had done the best thing she could to make her younger sister beautiful - brought a viewer's attention away from Dylan's scars to the so very fey color of Dylan's eyes. She'd done something to those eyes that brought out silver and stardust and shades of twilight amidst the moonwashed blue. Once Nuada looked into his truelove's eyes, he could not look away.

"Your mouth's open, puppy," Wink murmured with a chuckle.

Nuada hastily closed it. Then, to his pleased surprise, Dylan swept into a perfect curtsy. She never took her eyes from his face, either.

"Your Highness," she murmured.

At last he found his voice. "My lady," he replied, and offered her a courtly bow. He held out his hand to her. "My fairest lady." She didn't ask him if she looked all right. She could see the truth in his gaze of warm, honeyed amber flecked with glints of carnelian and sunfire. A color she rarely saw, and only when he looked at her.

Dylan slid her hand into his. His fingers curled around hers, and he brought her hand to the heat of his mouth. Dark lips brushed a slow kiss across her knuckles.

"Ew!" An adolescent voice cried from behind Dylan. "Jeez, do you guys have to keep doing that stuff? It's gross!" A'du'la'di came in holding something behind his back. He rocked back on his heels and smiled at his mistress. "You look like a babe, _A'ge'lv._ And you look really nice, Your Highness," the boy added to his hero. "I like your sword. And your boots are cool, too. I wish I had boots like that."

The adults under critique exchanged amused glances. Of course A'du would focus first and foremost on the sword at Nuada's side, then on the boots. Nuada briefly considered reprimanding the boy for interrupting, but his interference had saved the prince from making an even greater fool out of himself in front of Wink and Erik. And it was Midwinter.

Instead, Nuada focused on A'du. The boy wore a brand new lambswool tunic and trews, finished just in time for Midwinter, in rich blue trimmed in silver - the nicest things the boy had ever worn. Dylan's crest was sewn into the left shoulder. 'Sa'ti was in the room she shared with her brothers, changing into a velvet dress in the same colors. "You and 'Sa'ti are allowed to go with your friend from the kitchens to the servants' party below stairs," Nuada said, "but only for a little while. You know when bedtime is; I expect you back then. You may stay up once you're back in the suite, but you _must_ be back here by bedtime. I need you to do this, A'du - 'Sa'ti is too young to be out so late unescorted. As her brother, and as a warrior, I expect you to be respectful of her and do your duty by her. Do you understand?"

A'du lost his childlike demeanor as his prince spoke. When Nuada had finished, A'du nodded solemnly. "Yes, Your Highness. I understand. I'll look after 'Sa'ti, I promise. You can count on me."

The prince inclined his head. "Good lad. And make sure you compliment your sister on her new dress."

A'du made a face. "Do I hafta?" He wiped the reluctance from his expression when Nuada raised an eyebrow at him. "It's a chivalry thing, isn't it?" Nuada nodded. "Got it. I'll remember to do that. Thank you for letting us go to the party, Your Highness."

Nuada bestowed a rare smile on the boy. "You have both certainly earned it."

"And... and you'll look after _A'ge'lv_ Dylan at the Ball, right?"

Erik and Wink blinked in astonishment at the child who'd dared to question the legendary Silverlance, but Nuada merely inclined his head. "You can rely upon me to look after Lady Dylan until we return if you look after your sister. Have we a bargain?"

A'du'la'di grinned. "Yes, sir. Oh, _A'ge'lv_, this is for you. A birthday present. Sorry it's late; it took a long time to get it perfect. Me and 'Sa'ti and Rórdán and Colum from the stables and Uilleag from the kitchens and Abigail and a bunch of us made it for you."

He pulled what he'd been hiding behind his back out into the open and held up what looked like a mason jar with a thick cork stopper sealed with wax or parafin and tied with a white ribbon. When Dylan peered at it, though, she realized it was a handmade waterglobe. Inside were tiny blue, white, and pink rosebuds touched with a sheen of gold glitter floating around a small statue of a woman who seemed to be caught frozen in the middle of spinning amidst the shower of roses. At first Dylan thought the statue was made of glass or crystal, but upon further inspection she realized it was sculpted ice in a thousand shades of blue and green. Bits of silvery glitter shimmered in the water as well.

"Rórdán found the perfect jar and Column paid for the parafin himself 'cause he gets more wages than us," 'Sa'ti said as she came into the room. "And Abigail used magic so the ice will never melt. And Uilleag's brother is engaged to one of the hamadryads in the orchards and so he went and talked to her and she talked to Master Colin who's in charge of the gardens so now the roses won't ever die or wilt or anything."

"And Colum's sister Eilla had some gold dust that she uses to make paints, so we asked her if we could have some and she said yes so the flowers would be super pretty. And the prince's friend, Lorelei - she helped, too. She gave us some... some... what was that stuff?" A'du asked his sister.

"River mica," she said promptly.

"Yeah," A'du said. "That. Gave us some of that to put in the water so it would be sparkly 'cause I 'membered your snowglobes and stuff had sparkly stuff in the water and Wink gave us this thing called a quartz and he crushed it up so it would be shiny and sparkly so we could put that in, too. Then 'Sa'ti and I put it all together with some help from Fionnlagh and them while you were at work and we carved your name in the bottom, see?"

Sure enough, the cork read _Happy Birthday, Lady Dylan_.

"Ailbho helped us spell everything right and... _A'ge'lv?"_ The little boy blinked up at her in confusion. "What's the matter? You look like you're gonna cry."

'Sa'ti took Dylan's hand. "What's the matter? Don't you like it?"

Unable to speak for a moment, Dylan blinked back the tears stinging her eyes and smiled at both children. She nodded. Swallowed hard. "I love it. I absolutely _love_ it. I'm sorry," she added with a little laugh, blinking harder. "Sometimes grown-ups cry when they're really happy about something. We're silly like that. This is just... so great, you guys. Thank you. This is the prettiest waterglobe I've ever had." Overcome, she pulled them both into a tight hug. "Oh, I love you both." She kissed their foreheads.

"Awww, _A'ge'lv,_" A'du protested, swiping at his forehead. "Not in front of the prince."

Dylan inclined her head. "I'm sorry. I'll be more circumspect next time and make sure no one's watching. Now I'm gonna go put this in my room with the rest of my collection, right in front where I can see it whenever I want to. Okay?"

"Okay." Both children watched as she excused herself and went to do exactly as she'd said. Then A'du noticed the prince watching him intently. The cougar boy hunched his shoulders. "Um... she really did like it, right? She wasn't faking so we wouldn't feel bad or nothing, right?"

"Anything," Nuada corrected. He knelt and beckoned the cubs over. Placing one hand on A'du's shoulder and his other on 'Sa'ti's, Nuada smiled at them. "She truly liked it. That was _very_ well done. I am very pleased with both of you." The prince cast a glance at Wink, who studied the ceiling with intense concentration. The troll had said _nothing_ to him of helping the children with such a venture. Neither had Lorelei or Dylan's guards. What a brilliant little conspiracy. "Well done," Nuada repeated.

The cubs turned and high-fived each other.

**.**

"It happens tonight," Naya's master hissed. "Do your part and everything should work out well. Understand?"

Tonight. Tonight, if things produced the optimal result, Nuada's heart and spirit would be broken because his lady would be dead. He would renew his hatred of humanity and attempt to wipe them out. The king would finally execute him. All of that would be set in motion tonight.

"Understand, Polunochnaya?"

The Zwezda Elf bowed her head. "Yes, milord," she murmured. What would happen to Nuada tonight? If Dylan died... what would happen? Would he react as his father had reacted to Cethlenn's death? Naya and her sister had already been Nuala's ladies-in-waiting at the time, and she remembered the savage madness of King Balor's grief. His servants and those closest to him had even feared he'd do himself harm. By common consensus, everyone had kept the royal twins away from the king, for fear he hurt _them_, as well.

_Nuada,_ the Elven woman thought. _Nuada, I'm sorry. You've left me no choice. You can't be allowed to do what you plan to do to the humans. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me._

Tonight, during the Midwinter Ball, the assassins would come. If they did their job, the mortal woman who held the prince's heart would die... and Nuada would break.

_I'm sorry._

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_**Author's Note:**__ and I'm leaving it there because I'm at my beta's limit for word-count per chapter, sigh. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and hopefully we'll get the next chap up this month in time for Christmas! Now onto our lovely review prompt!_

_Oh, and I promise I'm not bringing back Westenra as a bad guy, but I have to keep the whole Blackwood brothers issue fresh in everyone's minds. So just so we're clear on that. =)_

_1) What do you think is in the presents for everyone from Dylan? Esp. Balor and Nuala's gifts?_

_2) Francesca knows! Possible repercussions/effects of this?_

_3) Little kids give the best presents, don't you think?_

_4) Favorites, of course._

_5) Who thinks Nuada might just cave and tell Dylan about the Golden Army?_

_6) Who thinks the island of Mag Mell idea might actually work?_

_7) And Balor and Nuada's convo - thoughts?_

_Love you guys! Bye-bye!_

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_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ "Moonlight Shadow" is a beautiful song that I love a lot and it's sooooo sad and I just thought it fit with the chapter, so... yeah._

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_**References Made in This Chapter:**_

- later; am so behind! Eeek!


	84. Shot Through the Heart

_**Author's Note:**_ _merry Christmas, you guys! *pant pant pant pant* Don't kill me at the end. Promise? Lol. I love you all! Happy holidays! Got it up just in time!_

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**Chapter****Eighty-Three**

**Shot Through the Heart**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a****Creeping Shadow, Music, a Dance, an Accusation, a Proposal, Applause, Fireworks and Conversation, Glamoured Darkness, and Arrows**

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Polunochnaya pasted a smile on her face as she swept through the castle corridors beside Na'ko'ma and behind Nuala, surrounded by royal guards. Tonight was the night. Tonight the first steps of her master's plan would come to fruition and perhaps, just perhaps, Lady Dylan would die. The Star Elf forced thoughts of what her death would do to Nuada from her mind. It was the only way. The _only_ way. Nuada had to be stopped. The king was letting him do whatever he wished so far, and while Balor supposedly put limits on the prince, there were few consequences put into place for when the Elven warrior disobeyed his sovereign. That couldn't continue. The One-Armed King of Elfland had to see that Nuada had to be stopped, for the good of humans and fae alike, and in order to show how unsalvageable the prince was, something had to push him over the edge.

And if this didn't work... there were always the northern villages. The bandits were vicious mortals who'd lived in Faerie for the gods knew how long. Even though _they_ were the invaders to the Twilight Realm, they viewed the fae as an infestation that needed to be exterminated. Balor's treaty shouldn't have applied to them... but the king didn't agree. Thanks to Nuala, Nuada seemed willing to work within his father's restrictions to aid the villages under attack without killing the bandits. But if Dylan were given to them and they killed her...

Naya knew what most humans were like. They cared for nothing but raping, burning, pillaging - destroying for the sake of reveling in the destruction and nothing more. Mindless beasts who only knew how to copulate and kill. What would they _do_ to Nuada's truelove? Simply kill her? Or worse?

Her master might attempt to convince them to do worse, Polunochnaya realized as she and her foster-sisters approached the doors to the king's banquet hall. Everyone knew the circumstances of Queen Cethlenn's death - that she'd been gang-raped to death by humans in front of her young children. Nuada and Nuala had nearly been killed, as well. And many knew that because of the atrocities he'd witnessed against his mother, Crown Prince Nuada abhorred rape against a woman of any species. The vile act sickened him. The dark Elf's master knew that. Would her master arrange for a similar fate to befall the mortal loved by the Silverlance, simply to goad him into madness fueled by rage and grief all the more quickly?

_I hope not,_ Naya thought as the looming doors of hand-carved rowan wood were thrust open by the heralds on either side of the entryway. _She doesn't deserve that. And_ he _doesn't deserve to lose someone else he loves to that fate. Master, if we are going to kill her, please do not let it be that way. That is the one thing that will break him beyond what he can endure. Please be merciful, my lord. As merciful as you can be to them both and still protect our people._

Just before she stepped across the threshold into the banquet hall, she caught a whiff of a strange odor. Like garbage that had been left to sit for too long in the sun and grown ripe with its own stench. But even as she identified the stink, it faded. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of the fae lord whom she called master. He inclined his head to her in a nod of subtle acknowledgment. Was he responsible for that smell, whatever it was?

Remembering his orders, she pushed the thought from her mind and followed her princess into the grand hall.

**.**

_Are you all right, mo duinne?_ Nuada asked through the link of their hands, which were clasped beneath the king's table in the banquet hall.

After bidding the cubs goodbye, the Elven prince had escorted his lady - with their retinue of guards, as well as both of Dylan's hounds, Wink, Erik, Tsu's'di, _and_ Lorelei in attendance - to the banqueting hall where the Midwinter Ball was to be held.

The Butchers assigned to protect both crown prince and mortal lady were arrayed in a line against the wall at their backs. Wink sat in a place of honor at the king's table three seats down from Nuada, a guest of the royal family as well as Nuada's valet and guard. Dylan sat beside Nuada. Lorelei sat between Dylan and the troll; she was there as Dylan's guard as well as Wink's lady, and they'd all acknowledged that Nuada could most likely handle himself long enough for Wink to get around the women to get to him if necessary. Erik stood at Nuada's back, in formal black, red, and gold livery with Nuada's personal crest on his shoulder and belt.

Tsu's'di stood in his customary place behind his human mistress, looking resplendent in his best formal livery of dove-gray silk shirt, royal blue velvet tunic, and black leather trews. His black boots and white belt had been tooled in silver, as well, and Dylan's crest was embroidered at his shoulder in shining silver thread. The youth had even gotten a haircut.

Curled up beneath the table at Dylan and Nuada's feet, like mirroring pools of pearlescent moonlight and inky darkness, lay Eimh and Sétanta.

_I'm fine,_ Dylan replied as they finished up the third course of the feasting portion of the Midwinter Ball. _Just... I feel almost naked without your ring on my finger._ They'd taken it off just for the night, as part of the formalities regarding the "official" marriage proposal. _And I'm a bit nervous, I guess._

_The public proposal?_ He guessed shrewdly. _Don't be. All will be well._

_What if someone causes a scene?_ It took everything she had not to chew on her lip out of worry. But if she did that, not only would she get lipstick on her teeth and irritate Nuada, who'd been trying to get her to break the lip-biting habit, but she'd also ruin all the work Francesca had put into making her mouth look almost normal. _I don't want to embarrass you._

His fingers pressed hers. _You won't. As the humans say, you are a lady, Dylan. You will handle yourself like one. Do not worry so much about me. I am content with what I have - the chance to show the entire Golden Court what you truly mean to me. If they don't like it, it is only because they're jealous._

She smiled, which had been his intention. _You're sweet. A terrible liar, but sweet. Oooh!_ She perked up in her chair when the servants brought out the fourth course - a familiar looking stew. _Is that muscaliet stew?_

Nuada smiled. _It is._

Unlike the other court dinners she'd been to since arriving in Findias, even the receiving banquet to welcome the visiting nobles, this ball hosted entertainers for the feasting. A group of musicians stood arrayed on an impromptu, raised dais. Two Elves strummed elegant, long-necked giterns while a nymph of some kind breathed into a set of panpipes. Hollow, echoing woodwind whispers of sound spread across the banquet hall, even over the low buzz of conversation. A rusalka stood with the Elves and nymph, playing some sort of flute that made shivers traipse down Dylan's spine. While the Golden Court and the visiting royals and dignitaries dined on Bethmoora's finest delicacies, Dylan listened with half an ear to the various conversations while also enjoying the beauty of the court minstrels.

The feasting ended after a rich, creamy dessert of some sort of russet custard drizzled with a golden syrup that tasted faintly of winter apples. While the servants cleared the tables, all but one of the minstrels stepped down and went to their seats and more musicians ascended the dais to set up their instruments.

A slim glaistig woman, her delicate goat hooves peeking from beneath the hem of her crimson velvet gown, settled beside a large golden-wood harp whose strings glittered like polished silver in the candle-, torch-, and fairy-light. The glaistig's dove-gray goat ears flicked back and forth as she gently plucked out a few notes on argent strings to make sure her instrument was in tune.

Next to her, two youths in gold-embroidered burgundy trews and vests that displayed their open ribcages - the rib bones woven through with aurulent and crimson ribbons - carefully tuned a pair of black-strung violins carved of what looked like polished, white bone. The rusalka flutist remained on the dais; she tucked her greenish-gold hair behind her ears and switched out her current instrument for another, this one of polished redwood, forked like a faun's twin-pipes.

Towering over the slender water faerie by a good three feet stood a massive beast of a man with thick, reddish hair as long as a Shetland pony's all over his muscular body. The great bush of his ruddy beard hung to his knees in thick, dwarven-like braids. Each ropey braid was tied off at the end by thick, engraved golden rings. Dylan could just make out the faerie man's twinkling eyes, as brightly golden as ripe wheat, from within the forest of ginger mustache and bushy brows. He wore a long, crimson leather tunic tooled in gold with a broad brown belt. Across his lap in an elegantly complex Celtic knotwork braid of Bethmooran golden-wood rested two dozen silver bells and a dozen twinkling bell-like crystals. Two small sticks in the shape of shepherd's crooks stuck out of the creature's belt.

_What in the world is_ that? _I've never seen anything like him before,_ Dylan said silently to Nuada, eyes on the big fayre man.

Nuada squeezed her fingers. _Have you never heard of the basajaunak? The lords of the woods?_ When Dylan shook her head, the prince smiled. _That is a basajaun. It is said that his race, the basajaunak, were the ones to first teach the children of men how to farm the land and smith metal. In ancient days they guarded human flocks from night predators and it is said that though they often remain invisible, you will know they are near because you hear the crystal chiming of bells. He is one of my father's favorite musicians; his name is Ansó._

Dylan asked, _What about the other musicians? Are they favorites of your father's?_

_The Boys of Bones Hill that you see are named Rahdus and Phadel. This is their first performance before the Court. My sister heard them playing their violins when she was walking through Central Park some decades ago and was struck by their playing. The rusalka girl is named Katya; she is a friend of Lorelei's, also commissioned by my sister. The glaistig woman is Hayley. She is another of my father's favorites. Ah, they're starting._

_Which means we're up to bat,_ Dylan said softly. Because this was going to be the night of their betrothal announcement, the first dance of the evening was to be between herself and Nuada, by request of the king. That would also give Nuada a chance, after the dance, to make his public proposal. Just the thought had sweat dampening her palms.

_Are you nervous?_ He asked just before releasing her hand. The prince rose to his feet. Offering his truelove his hand where all could see, he asked in a voice that would carry through the room, "My lady, would you honor me with the first dance of the evening?"

She slipped her hand into his and inclined her head, hoping she looked as regal as Nuada did whenever he made that gesture. "It would be _my_ honor, Your Highness," the mortal said with a smile. Silently, she added, _Are_ you _nervous?_

_Do I_ look _nervous?_ He asked as he escorted her past the whisper-shrouded tables toward the currently empty dance floor. Dylan couldn't help the way her smile spread across her face like sunlight across a pool of water at Nuada's smug tone. Always the proud Elven prince, she thought to herself.

Nuada brought Dylan around to face him and raised her hand to his lips. Brushing a courtly kiss across her knuckles, he asked silently, _Heart's Ease?_

_How about Twilight's Dawn?_ She asked. The Old World dance was a bit harder than the one Nuada had suggested, but it was also worth it. The quiet, heady intimacy of the dance was perfect for this moment between them. So Nuada inclined his head and made some signal to the musicians.

Hayley, the glaistig harpist, began to strum the glistening silver strings. Their music thrummed through the hushed banquet hall, shivering along the air like silk and shadow.

Nuada bowed at the waist to his lady. Dylan sank into a graceful curtsy that she'd been practicing off and on since coming to Findias. She pulled it off without so much as a wobble. The golden glow of the hall's lights set the silver embroidery of her gown glistening like frost on a pane of glass. Nuada's cloth-of-silver tunic gleamed like real Elven metal, complimenting Dylan's gown - a subtle declaration. Straightening, Nuada held up his right hand, palm facing the human woman. Dylan laid her left palm against Nuada's hand. His hand was warm and calloused beneath her touch.

Rahdus and Phadel tucked their bone-fiddles under their chins and set the bows to the black strings. Shivering harmony sighed from the instruments. Both youths closed their eyes and felt the music reverberate through the violins, along their hands and arms, even into their chests and through the exposed whiteness of their ribs. The violin bows caressed the taut, ebony strings. Their music twined with Hayley's, harpsong and faerie strings mingling.

The rusalka girl, Katya, brought her twin-pipes to her lips and blew. A hollow, achingly soft note seemed to shimmer through the air. The song of the pipes danced around the weeping of the violins and the melody of the harp, twining like ephemeral ribbons through the haunting notes.

Ansó lifted his massive hands and his delicate striking-sticks and tapped one of the silver bells. A crisp, clear jingling echoed off the stone walls and vaulted ceiling of the king's banquet hall. He tapped one of the crystals. Sweet chiming filled the air. The basajaun smiled behind his bushy red beard and began to tap out a delicate percussion.

_Dance with me,_ Nuada whispered through the link of their touching hands. His eyes were all warm honey and brilliant amber lit with tiny flecks of bright sunfire and carnelian. Dark lips curved into a smile. _Dance with me, beloved._

And with all the eyes of Bethmoora's Court upon them, the crown prince danced with his mortal lady.

They moved together like light and shadow, the soft rhythm of the song breathing through them like their own united heartbeat. As they circled each other, stepping close enough that the silk of their sleeves touched with nearly every step and glide and turn, Dylan's pulse kicked up. Nuada never took his eyes off her. She couldn't bear to take her eyes off of him. Not when he was looking at her as if she were the center of his entire world.

His free hand slid to her waist when the dance called for him to pull her close. The silk of her gown was cool beneath his hand. His fingers lightly traced the silver embroidery as he ever so slowly spun her out, twirled her back in. They came together, drifted apart, but always there was the connection of their hands, the rough velvet of a warrior's calloused palm against the silk of Dylan's skin. She could feel his pulse through that touch. Feel how his heart pounded.

Nuada stepped close. She felt his breath shushing warmly against her cheek. Her eyes drifted shut at his nearness. The heat of him seeped through his pale mazarine shirt and silver tunic to warm her skin. She could feel how much of a struggle it was for him to follow the dance steps and move back instead of staying by her side.

_My gift looks lovely on you,_ Nuada murmured, his eyes sliding to the neckline of her gown. A'du had brought her a hair piece from the prince, but he'd also presented her with a broach of silvery leaves and diamond-and-pearl flowers. In the attached note, Nuada had confessed that Nuala had helped him pick out the broach, but Dylan hadn't cared. It had still been one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry she'd ever seen. It glinted like ice and white fire against the icy blue of her ball gown.

_Thank you,_ she murmured. She knew Nuada only mentioned it now to help take her mind off any negative possibilities for what was going to happen once the dance finished. Or perhaps he was trying to take his own mind off the way she kept brushing against him, whispers of silk and flesh against his arm as they turned.

_I wish this was our wedding banquet,_ the prince confessed suddenly. Though his face remained fixed in that expression of adoration, Dylan heard the wistful yearning in his voice. _I have always considered myself to be a patient man, but now it seems as if the Frost Moon cannot come fast enough._

She smiled for him. _Only forty-six more days. Then you'll be my husband._

_And you will be my beautiful wife._

Dylan's smile widened, but she sent him a mental eye-roll. _You're such a romantic. I love that about you._

_If you insist I am such a thing, I will get nowhere by arguing with you, but remember - it is our little secret._

Her smile took on an edge of mischief. _I wouldn't dream of telling a soul._

**.**

Zhenjin Azurefire watched Nuada, one of his most trusted friends, dancing with the woman the other prince loved, and wondered what was wrong with him, that the image left the Dilong prince so unsettled. He was happy for his old friend. Nuada deserved someone to love him the way Dylan obviously did. Deserved to have someone believe in him the way King Balor and Princess Nuala obviously didn't. And while Dylan was human, she was unlike any other human Zhenjin had ever met. Prince Nuada had shown him that upon Zhenjin's first meeting with the mortal woman.

So why did the sight of them dancing together, smiling at one another in that special way that made them seem as if they were the only two people in the world, leave him edgy and restless?

Perhaps it was because of the Golden Army. Did Nuada intend to tell Dylan his plans for the human race when the upcoming war finally arrived? Did she already know that her truelove meant to raise a vast and terrible army of golden clockwork soldiers to wipe mankind from the face of the earth? Zhenjin couldn't be sure. One thing he _did_ know - Nuada wouldn't make any promises to Dylan without revealing his plans. He was too honorable to wed her with that secret between them.

_He is lucky she loves him,_ Zhenjin thought, still watching the pair. _She is... quite special._

"You seem ill at ease tonight, Azurefire," a familiar voice said jovially. Prince Bres sank into an empty chair beside the Dilong prince, and Zhenjin wondered where Goazu and Hou Junji had gone, leaving him seated at the Bethmooran king's table with empty seats all around him. "What troubles you, old friend?"

Zhenjin shrugged. "I am ill company tonight, Bres," he replied. "It is nothing in particular. You need not concern yourself."

Lowering his voice to a near-whisper, the Fomorian prince asked, "It isn't... Silverlance's human lady... is it? That isn't what concerns you, surely."

The other prince shook his head. "I have no concerns when it comes to Lady Dylan and Prince Nuada," he said. "I wish them all the best in this world. She'll make him happy, there is no doubt."

"Do you know if it's true that they intend to wed?"

"I do not know," Zhenjin replied. "Much would have to happen if they intended such a thing. After all, Silverlance needs heirs, of course."

Bres eyed him in a way that made Zhenjin's hackles rise. The Dilong prince tasted venom on his tongue as Bres asked in an incredulous whisper, "Surely you don't support the idea of him weakening the royal house with mortal blood. Any children they had would be mongrels-"

"Watch your tongue, Bres," the Dilong prince said in a whisper as cold as serpent's blood. "Shame for such words against our friend, and shame for such vile words against Lady Dylan. She is worthy of Nuada's love and worthy to be princess in Bethmoora if they wed. More worthy than Nuala, _old friend_."

The Fomorian raised one golden brow. "I would thank you not to insult the lady I'm paying court to. And what is this newfound love for the humans?"

"Not the humans," Zhenjin said with a swift shake of his head. "Lady Dylan. I do not consider her to be human. Neither does Nuada."

For several long moments, Bres merely stared at him. The scales at the sides and back of Zhenjin's neck began to prickle the longer the silence between them stretched on, until finally the older prince said, "By the gods, Zhenjin, not you, too."

Irritated, Zhenjin demanded, "What?"

"You're in love with her."

Zhenjin's head whipped around. "How dare you? You think, human or fae, that I would ever poach on Nuada's-"

"I said you were in love with her," Bres replied softly. "I didn't say you were trying to woo her. Of course you would never do such a thing to our old friend. You are far too honorable to allow such feelings to cloud your judgment and injure old friendships."

The Dilong prince scoffed. "You're mad, Bres. I am _not_ in love with Nuada's lady."

"For your sake, I hope you speak the truth," the other prince replied softly. "Rumor has it she already carries his child."

Zhenjin didn't so much as bat an eyelash, even though a strange, sick sort of surprise twisted in the pit of his stomach. Dylan, pregnant with Nuada's child? They weren't wed yet. He wouldn't dishonor her so. The prince of Dilong knew how Dylan's faith worked and knew she would never forsake her religious vows in such a way.

"They'll wed shortly," Bres added, "mark my words. You are my friend, and I would hate to see you hurt because of her, Zhenjin."

With that, the prince of Cíocal rose to his feet and strode back to his rightful place at Balor's table, leaving Zhenjin to watch as the music faded and Nuada knelt before his mortal truelove in front of the entire Bethmooran court. Zhenjin swallowed the sharp bitterness that had lodged in his throat at Bres' accusation. _You're in love with her._ As if he would ever allow himself to feel any such emotion for the truelove of his friend and shield-brother! Dylan belonged to Nuada, and he to her. That was the end of it.

**.**

Dylan barely heard the words Nuada spoke as he knelt before her. They weren't the sincere sentiments he'd murmured to her that night in his study, nor the heartfelt words burning with intensity that he'd uttered in the royal garden beneath the Eildon Tree. The words he used now didn't matter. What mattered was the look on his face, one of utter pride and pleasure as he asked her, before the entire court, to be his wife and princess.

When it was her turn to speak, she didn't even hesitate. Somehow her voice managed to carry across the room as she said, "Yes, Your Highness. Yes, I will marry you."

Nuada's quick grin made her own smile widen. Her heart gave a little lurch in her chest when he slid the white-gold ring with its trio of glittering sapphires back into place on her left heart-finger. Something that had felt out of place inside her finally settled. That ring, and all that it meant, belonged with her.

Her prince rose to his feet and lifted both her hands to his lips so that he could press a kiss to each.

_You have made me happier than you could ever know,_ he murmured through the link.

_But you knew I was going to say yes,_ Dylan replied, baffled.

_As much as it pains me to confess to such a weakness, I'm still waiting for the day you realize you've made a mistake, and realize you could do better,_ he said softly. _I was not... entirely sure that you would agree again. After everything I've done, and with the Golden Court watching._

_Of course I would,_ she said. _I love you._ And aloud, in a mere breath of a whisper, "I love you."

The look in his eyes told her everything she might've needed to know.

Nuada turned to where the king sat with his daughter at the king's table. Balor watched with a small smile on his weathered face. Nuala beamed beside him. Bowing slightly to his father, the crown prince called, "Your Royal Majesty, I have asked the Lady Dylan to be my wife, and she has freely consented. Will you give us your blessing?"

The old king rose to his feet. Resplendent in rich burgundy and champagne velvet robes, his leather and gold belt gleaming at his waist and the polished ebony prongs of his antlers jutting overhead, he looked more like a king in that moment than he had since Dylan had arrived in Findias. Balor waited for the sudden soft roar of whispering to die down before he finally spoke in a voice that rang with pride and royal authority.

"It gives me the greatest pleasure to grant my blessing to this union, Prince Nuada," Balor said. Beside her, Dylan felt tension she hadn't even noticed until then drain from Nuada's body. "When do you seek to take Lady Dylan as your wife?"

Nuada gripped her hand. "The night of the coming Frost Moon," the prince said firmly. He and his lady ignored the sudden flurry of whispering that followed his declaration. Let the court wonder about the cause of their haste. Better that than to reveal that the king had ordered the truncating of their betrothal.

Balor nodded regally. "You have my blessing, Prince Nuada, Lady Dylan." To the Golden Court of Bethmoora, he added, "Let it be heard and witnessed by all who are present this night - Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance is betrothed to Lady Dylan of Central Park. She is to become a princess of the realm, and they are to be wed on the night of the Frost Moon. I, King Balor One-Arm, have decreed it so."

A deafening silence fell for perhaps two heartbeats. Dylan thought the hot blood rushing through her cheeks would set her skin on fire. And then from the silence came the singular sound of applause. The mortal glanced toward the sound and saw that its source was a trio of fae - King Roiben, Lady Kaye, and Prince Zhenjin, who all leaned against a wall near the king's table, clapping. When Zhenjin caught her eye, he winked. Roiben inclined his head to her. She smiled as more fae began to applaud: first Prince Günther of Álfheim and his wife, Eir; then King Arawn Death-Lord and his wife and two eldest children; Lord Mashkaupau and a red-haired woman Dylan was pretty sure was Lady Cassandra; even, to Dylan's surprise, Princess Bramble of Eathesbury and her escort, Lord Haftenravenscher, the Elf who'd told Dylan to call him Lord Teddie.

_You see?_ Nuada said, caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. Both of them noticed that many nobles of the court applauded reluctantly, but many others were quite enthusiastic. Dylan supposed the moments of silence had been more out of shocked surprise than protest. _I told you not to worry. Those who truly know you already like you. A'du'la'di's gift should've told you that. And when I present you to my people, they too will love you. Now,_ and he turned to her, laying one hand against the satin of her cheek. _Due to the present circumstances, at last I am allowed to do something I have been longing for all evening._

He brushed the pad of his thumb just beneath the fullness of her bottom lip. A slight tingle swept through her mouth and across her cheeks and chin. Her eyes widened slightly. _What was that?_

_A spell I learned in my youth,_ Nuada murmured. _I would hate to ruin your makeup._

_Ruin my-_

Then, in front of everyone, he kissed her. A chaste kiss, soft as falling snow, but warm as summer sunlight. His lips pressed into hers, so soft and yet firm. He slowly slid his fingers into her dark hair, careful not to knock the artfully styled curls askew. Dylan couldn't stop her fingers from curling in the plush silver velvet of Nuada's tunic as his free arm slipped around her waist and drew her close.

Nuada kept the kiss slow and controlled, but she could feel the way his hand trembled in her hair, feel the tension in his fingers pressed against her back. She understood. Everything they wanted was so close, it was difficult not to give into the urge to reach out and try to snatch it up.

Only with the greatest self-discipline did they manage to part at last. Dylan realized to her blush-inducing horror that several of the noblemen present were cheering and whistling. Her cheeks flushed. Nuada chuckled.

"Lift your head high, mo calman gheal, and show Bethmoora its new princess," he murmured.

So Lady Dylan of Central Park lifted her chin a fraction and smiled at the Golden Court as another dance began and the Midwinter Ball began to truly get underway. But when her eyes caught a glimpse of a figure watching the proceedings from the wall, her chest tightened. Zhenjin noticed her watching him, and quickly smiled, but even after so short a time, she knew that particular expression of the Dilong prince. His smiles were usually bright and swift and carefree.

Not this one.

She tried to convey inquiry and concern with her expression. The Elven prince shrugged one shoulder and, turning away, walked toward a group of fae standing near one of the fir trees currently residing in the hall. The tightness in her chest twisted around her heart. Something was wrong with the Chinese Elf. She just wasn't sure what.

**.**

The night wore on, and Dylan eventually found herself standing with Nuada on a balcony overlooking one of the royal gardens shrouded with a glistening blanket of snow. Their guards stood arrayed around the doorway, and the hounds sat near their master and his lady, alert for danger. Some of the revelers from the ball had gone out onto the castle grounds, which had contests and games the later it got; Dylan had come up to the balcony to avoid those - most of them involved drunken noblemen. After dealing with an intoxicated Lord Galen, the mortal didn't want to risk another run-in with a drunkard.

The balcony had been decorated for Midwinter by the palace servants. Now Dylan and Nuada stood side by side, the prince's arm around her, gazing up at the beautifully full pearl of moon in the star-sprinkled night sky. She sighed in contentment.

"Are you happy, mo duinne?" The prince asked softly against her hair. His breath turned to white mist on the air, as did hers, but thanks to his magic, neither of them were actually cold.

"Yes," she said. "I'm happy. Are you?"

Nuada nuzzled his cheek against her hair. "Beyond words. Only one of two things could possibly make this better."

Amused, she pulled away enough to look up at him. There was a wistfulness in his face that had her gently stroking the backs of her fingers against his cheek. "What would that be?" Dylan asked. "What would make this night better?"

He caught her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. "If you were already my wife," he murmured, "this night would be perfect."

"Nuada... if you're happy, then why do you look so sad?"

"I was merely thinking of... of the second thing that would make this night perfect for us." He turned his gaze to the gardens below, and the nobles watching entertainments and sipping hot mulled cider while they admired the decorations. "I had a dream last night."

Dylan slipped her arms around his and laid her head against his shoulder. "A good dream?"

"A beautiful dream," he said softly. "We were married... and... we had a child."

She closed her eyes against the dual sting of pain and hope that pricked behind her heart. "Girl or boy?"

He drew a slow breath. "Girl. We called her Boann."

"That's a lovely name," she murmured. "Boann. We'll have to remember that one." When Nuada turned to stare at her, she smiled. "I haven't given up on hoping the whole immortality thing is going to work out, Nuada. And if that works, there's no reason we can't have a family together. I haven't given up. You shouldn't, either."

His lips were warm when he pressed them gently to her temple. "You are so brave, at times it humbles me."

"It's not about being brave. It's about having faith - in you, and in us. We'll be all right. Cheer up," she said brightly, nudging him with her elbow. "We're engaged. Officially, this time. And look." She held up her left hand, and the sapphires glittered in the moon's silvery glow. "I think your mother would've been happy that you could give her ring to someone you were truly happy with. I think she would've approved of the choices you've made."

He sighed. "Not all of them. Not all the things I've done have been wise or benevolent or... but you're right about one thing," he said. "She would have approved of you. She would've liked you very much."

"I'm glad. I wish I could've met her. But about the whole 'not always wise or benevolent' thing, everyone makes mistakes," Dylan replied. "Even you." With a smile, she added, "And believe it or not, even I have made the occasional mistake in my life."

"You?" He echoed, arching a brow. "I would never have believed it."

"Oh, hush."

Night crept in around them, dark as shadows, with the stars as white and clear as diamonds. Dylan laced her fingers with Nuada's and leaned into him, his strength and his warmth, and closed her eyes. The scent of him, all ancient wildwoods and forests and greensward, filled her senses. Only a soft, dull ache in Dylan's knee alerted her to the passage of time. Eventually, she opened her eyes and sighed.

"My leg is protesting," the mortal murmured. "Is there a place we can sit down?"

With a little-boy tilt to his smile, Nuada brushed the snow from the edge of the balcony and then laid his hand against the smooth, gold-flecked stone and murmured softly in Gaelic. He drew his hand away. Dylan grazed the space with her fingertips. A cushion of warm, half-hardened air turned the balcony's edge into a seat.

Nuada's hands almost burned through the layered silk of her gown when he settled them at her waist. "Trí do shaoire, mo mhuire?"

_By your leave, my lady?_

She nodded. With all the casual ease of a trained warrior, Nuada lifted her up and set her carefully on the warm cushion of air half an inch above the icy stone. Once his lady was truly settled, he withdrew his hands. His fingers whispered over the silk gown and Dylan shivered.

"Nuada, can I talk to you about something?"

"Of course, my love." He saw the quick, pleased smile and flush of pleasure the pet name gave her, but almost immediately after, a pensive expression crossed Dylan's features. Nuada frowned. "What is it?"

Dylan folded her arms and settled them on her knees, hunching forward while she tried to figure out how to explain the odd nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. Finally, the mortal said, "I'm worried about Zhenjin."

Nuada raised a brow. "Zhenjin."

She nodded. "He had this weird look on his face after you kissed me in the banquet hall. Is he... I don't know, angry about you being engaged to me? He said he supported us and our relationship, but if I'm alienating one of your friends and there's something I can do to fix it, then I want to. I don't know, I've just got a weird feeling. Not a warning-feeling," she added hastily. "More like... more like just this feeling that he's upset about something. That he's got something on his chest." The prince cocked his head, studying her. Dylan explained, "It's a human phrase. Means he needs to talk to someone about something that's bothering him."

Turning to lean back against the stone railing, Nuada pondered that. "What do you think it could be?"

The mortal shrugged. "How should I know? He's _your_ friend. I mean, he's my friend, too, but I've only known him for a few weeks, really. You've known him for centuries; of course you'd understand him way better than I ever would or could."

"Perhaps he's lonely."

"Lonely?"

Nuada opened his mouth to speak when a soft, high whistling pierced the air. He glanced over his shoulder just as a brilliant explosion of emerald and silver burst in the sky. He smiled. "I'd forgotten that Father intended to have a fireworks display tonight. You'll want to watch this." He turned toward the falling streams of jade and pearl that spilled from the sky just as another firework blossomed like a flower of electric blue and diamond stars against the backdrop of the night. Gold and crimson bloomed against midnight, silver rained down like glittering rose petals, roseate starbursts dazzled the air and painted the crystalline snow with vibrant shades of orchid and magenta.

"Yes," the Elven prince said at last as Dylan watched with open-mouthed joy. She immediately turned to him. "Zhenjin may be lonely. Think of it. King Anterion, our contemporary, is married to his queen, Hedone. Bres courts my sister. Günther has his wife, Eir. Kamaria has no man in her heart, but she isn't looking, and she is younger than Zhenjin. Rennan is wed. And of course I have you. Perhaps Zhenjin is feeling his centuries and longs for someone to love him as you love me."

Dylan nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe he _is_ lonely. Did you ever get lonely when your friends were with their spouses?"

"No." The Elven prince shrugged. "But then, I had someone I loved. And I could have female companionship if and when I wanted it. The only times I felt lonely were after..." Abruptly he closed his mouth with an audible _click_ of teeth. Dylan saw his fingers were clamped around the edge of the rail. He gazed down at the snow below them with eyes of xanthous gray.

"Nuada?" She asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

He laid his hand atop hers. "Forgive me. I was thinking of someone I knew long ago." He sighed. "Zhenjin is perhaps lucky in his loneliness. Better to be lonely and ache for the warmth which others have than to have your own and lose it. I have walked both paths ere now."

"Well, _I'm_ not going anywhere," Dylan said. "I'm here. With you," and she squeezed his shoulder. "For you. Always."

"Mo calman gheal," he said. He touched her cheek with cool, gentle fingertips. "My white dove. You mean more to me than you know."

"Same goes," she replied with a smile. "Now let's get off this balcony and go see if there's new desserts being served."

With a chuckle, Nuada helped her down from the rail and escorted her inside.

**.**

Perhaps an hour later, Dylan stepped into a hallway and froze. The corridor was strangely empty as Dylan tried to make her way from the bathroom back to the banquet hall. Oh, no. No, no, no. Somehow she'd lost track of which hallway she was supposed to use. Uneasy and bordering on frightened, a strange chill slithering up and down her spine like a warning, Dylan looked around and realized that not only had she lost her way, she'd also lost _all_ of her guards and both her dogs. A fizzle of panic bubbled in her stomach. The torches that lit this corridor were low and flickering - not quite threatening to give out, but not illuminating the hall as much as she would've liked.

"Lady Dylan?" A familiar voice called, and every part of her body turned to frigid black ice. Dylan whirled to see Cíaran macAengus watching her with his head cocked, dark jade eyes fixed on her with an almost predatory gleam. She fought the automatic instinct to back up. If you ran from a predator, they chased you. She did _not_ want to give Cíaran a reason to try and chase her. And she didn't want to step out of the pool of light offered by the torch over her head.

Forcing her voice to remain firm, she said, "Lord macAengus. I seem to have lost my way."

"And your guards, it seems," the darkly handsome Fomorian lord said with a strange purr beneath the words. Dylan let her hand fall almost absently against where she'd hidden her dirk. If Cíaran tried to do anything, she'd gut him and deal with the political fallout later. "Now how could Silverlance be so careless?"

"Prince Nuada has warned you already about being too familiar with me," Dylan said coolly. "I would keep his warnings in mind if I were you, Lord macAengus."

Cíaran smiled. "I appreciate the concern, my lady. I-"

"Cíaran!" A sharp voice growled from the dimness of the corridor. The tension drained from Dylan's body as Zhenjin stepped into the light. The torchlight made the jade and bronze silk and velvet of his Bethmooran-cut clothing gleam. The mortal absently wondered why the Dilong prince wore Irish clothes as Zhenjin came to stand next to Dylan. "Be on your way."

The Fomorian sighed. "I know my place, Azurefire. I'll not forget it anytime soon." With a truncated bow, the Elven lord stalked off. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief and allowed her hand to slip away from the secret place that hid her courtship knife.

Zhenjin turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "No guards?"

Dylan shrugged. "Lost them. Somehow. I went to... freshen up, and when I walked out into the corridor, I'd lost track of my guards somehow." She frowned. "I doubt they'd just walk off, but... but that's what seemed to have happened. I was trying to get back to Nuada to tell him when I got lost."

"Ah. It's easy enough to get lost in this rabbit warren of a castle," the Elven prince muttered. "Come, I'll escort you back."

He offered his arm. With relief, Dylan took it, and they started to walk. She hated being lost, and the shadows of the corridors made her even more nervous than she was already. And somehow she'd lost her guards. That sent fear spiraling down her throat to twist in her stomach. Only sheer strength of will kept her from panicking.

"Uaithne and the others wouldn't just leave me," the mortal said. "Neither would Tsu's'di. My dogs certainly wouldn't. I need to get to Nuada and tell him what happened. People don't just disappear," she added. A frisson of unease shivered down her spine. "Not even in Faerie." To the Elven prince, she asked, "What were you doing out here, anyway?"

Zhenjin shrugged. "Nature called. I was on my way back when I heard your voice. You sounded frightened. I remembered that pompous little whelp, Lord Galen, and thought perhaps he'd come after you, so I came to see if you needed help. What were you reaching for?"

"My knife," Dylan replied tartly. "Nuada taught me how to use it before we came back to Findias. If Cíaran had tried for me, he'd have gotten quite a shock."

The Dilong prince laughed. "Well done. Now, about your guards. Did you notice anything unusual before you left them?"

Dylan shook her head. "Everything was normal as far as I could tell. And two of my guards went into the bathroom with me - Fionnlagh and Grainne. When I stepped out and the others were gone, I turned back to tell them and they were gone, too. Just poof! Vanished."

He frowned. "Unless someone used a travel spell, they couldn't have simply disappeared like that. Unless..." He trailed off, brow furrowing. Dylan wished she could understand what was going on behind those reptilian emerald eyes. Just when she thought she'd go crazy waiting for him to finish his thought, Zhenjin said, "They didn't disappear. Someone glamoured you from each other."

"What? You mean, used glamour to hide me from them and them from me?"

Zhenjin nodded. "It would have to be very powerful glamour, most likely a king's glamour, in order to fool your fear-darrig's blessing. Especially because of the iron helmets and swords of the Butcher Guards." He slanted a look at her. "Angered any kings lately?"

She hastily shook her head. "No!" Except Balor, she thought, but didn't say. Aloud she asked, "And why cast a glamour like that and then not try to kill me? Or kidnap me or something?"

The prince frowned. "I don't know. But once your guards lost track of you, they would go straight to Prince Nuada and alert him that you were missing and possibly in danger. I..." His eyes widened and he slowly straightened. His free hand came up to cover hers where it lay on his opposite arm, but Dylan noticed his hand brushed his hip and sword belt on its way to her hand. "This is not good," he murmured in a voice so low she barely heard him. Tension twisted through his body.

"What is it?" Dylan breathed.

"My guards should be following us," he murmured. "They're not."

Dylan swallowed. "Glamoured?"

Zhenjin drew a sharp breath and then shook his head. "No. Do you smell that? That sweet scent on the air?" Now that he mentioned it, she smelled something like stagnant water, fruit syrup, meat, and lilies. She nodded. "Elven blood. I think we're being followed."

Even as he spoke, the chill down her spine increased until it felt like shards of ice were biting deep into the flesh on either side of her backbone. Dylan asked softly, "Should I draw my dirk?"

"Not yet," he whispered. "We don't want to alert whoever it is. Walk slowly, stay calm, and breathe. If they went after your guards first, then they're after you, not me. It cannot be coincidence that you and Silverlance became betrothed the same night this happened. More than likely, they mean to kill you."

She let her breath out slowly. "Yeah, probably."

He glanced at her. "You are awfully calm about this."

"I'm not new to the whole people-trying-to-kill-me-for-loving-Nuada thing. We were attacked by dipsa in the royal forest a couple days before our return here."

"Well, stay calm. Do not be afraid, Dylan." Zhenjin's thumb rubbed a slow, soothing, back-and-forth caress across her knuckles. "I'll let no harm come to you. Whoever they are, they'll have to go through me to get to you, and that is _not_ going to happen without a fight."

After a moment, she asked, "Shouldn't we have gotten to the end of this corridor by now? Or at least a door leading somewhere?"

The Elven prince growled, "More glamour. We may not have walked anywhere at all." He swore viciously in Chinese as he released her arm and drew the sword at his side. "Draw your dirk and cut the lower half of your skirt, get it out of your way. Don't run, whatever happens. You could run right into a trap. If they attack, fight back and scream. Do _not_ stop screaming. There are enough monarchs in this castle that at least one of them should hear you."

Torchlight turned the silver blade of Dylan's dirk scarlet and orange. "What about you?" She quickly did as Zhenjin ordered, slicing through the silk until the once-floor-length gown hung to her knees in shredded layers of blue, white, and silver.

"My task is to buy you time and the chance to scream," the Dilong prince growled. Lifting his chin and drawing a second, shorter sword from a sheath built into the scabbard of his _chokutō_, Zhenjin yelled, "Come out, cowards! What sort of warriors hide in the shadows and try to frighten a woman like mischievous children?" Baring his teeth so his pearly fangs gleamed in the light, he shouted, "Come out! Come out and face a prince of Elves if you dare!"

Ice spilled down Dylan's spine as a sharp _twang_ hit her ears. A quick, shrill whistling sound chilled her blood. Something shot out of the dark straight toward her. Dylan threw herself backward, even knowing there was no way she could avoid the arrow zipping swiftly toward her unprotected heart.

A shadow lunged between her and the arrow. It hit flesh with a sick sound that made Dylan cry out. Zhenjin staggered back with a harsh grunt of pain. The dark shaft and fletching of an arrow protruded from his right shoulder. His short sword dropped from his fingers as his arm went limp. He swore. Bowed his head against the agony searing through his arm and chest.

"Zhenjin!"

"Get against the wall," he ground out from between clenched teeth. She quickly obeyed. Zhenjin moved to shield her with his body. "Don't move," he growled. "Just... don't move." He reached up to the arrow shaft and squeezed his eyes shut. With a sharp snarl of pain, he ripped the arrow out of his shoulder. Blood spilled, hot and dark, onto the stone floor. "Gah. Damn."

"We have to get out of here," Dylan whispered. He shook his head.

"There's nowhere to go," he muttered, one hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder. "We could walk right into their swords if we try to run."

"If we stay here, they'll kill us both!"

He turned to look at her over his shoulder. They locked eyes, and he saw the fear and determination in the depths of her gaze. She wasn't afraid for herself, the Dilong prince realized. She feared only for him. He swallowed against the pain ripping through him and tried to think. Which was better? To stay or go?

"I..." The familiar _twang_ of a bowstring had him turning toward the sound automatically. A warrior's instinct helped him make a snap-decision. "Go, Dylan!" He yelled as the arrow bounced off the stone wall beside his hip. He turned and shoved her down the hall. She staggered forward, scooped up the ripped silk rags that had once been the skirt of her gown, and began to run. Zhenjin fell into step behind the mortal, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder with every step.

From behind them came the twanging _snap_ of an arrow being loosed. Stiff fletching sliced the edge of his pointed ear, sending heat blazing through the side of his head, as the arrow skimmed past him and just barely missed Dylan.

"Run, Dylan! Faster!" He wondered how long she could run with her knee so damaged. "You must run!"

Another arrow was coming. The Elven prince knew it as surely as he knew his own name. What he hadn't expected was for the assault to come from in front of them, instead of from behind. Dylan only survived the shot because she tripped and dropped to the floor. The arrow ricocheted off the stones beside her thigh. She yelped in frightened surprise.

Zhenjin was at her side in an instant. Hot blood soaked his shirt and ran down his arm as he hoisted her to her feet. He opened his mouth to snap out a command at the mortal when he saw the glint of torchlight on a small piece of metal. _Arrow_, his brain said. Without thinking, he shoved Dylan back and out of danger.

The arrow bit deep into his chest. Zhenjin cried out. Staggered back and fell to his knees, blood spilling down his front.

Behind him, Dylan _screamed_.

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_**Author's Note:**__yeah, I so did that. Hehehe. And my next update is gonna be late, so... yeah. Sorry. But holidays have killed me, so I'm taking a break and updating on like, January 15 or something. Anyway, I love you guys!_

_And onto our review prompt!_

_1) What is Zhenjin's problem? Is he in denial, or having personality mix-up issues because of having Nuada's memories?_

_2) Who is trying to kill Dylan? It's no one new, I promise._

_3) What do you guys think is gonna happen next?_

_Love you! Huggles!_

_- LA_


	85. Watch Out (Comin' from Behind)

_**Author's Note:**__ and here we are, finally, with LA's next chapter. Various bits of this had to be revamped, and my beta was busy, and the holidays were crazy, and… yeah. So here's the next chapter! Hugs for everyone. Hope you like it! Oh, and the title is the name of a song by Jem & the Holograms. And Zhenjin's… condition is thanks to the brilliant WhenNightmaresWalked, who came up with a brilliant scene (that I only embellished a little), and earned a tangential_ Skyrim _reference. Love you!_

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**Chapter Eighty-Four  
Watch Out (Comin' from Behind)  
that is  
A Short Tale of a Prince's Blood, Some Enemies Revealed, a Glimpse of Past Grudges, Nuada's Vengeance, Ailís's Warning, Balor's Decision, and the Shadow's Return**

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Dylan sucked in another breath and screamed again until she thought her lungs would burst. _Someone_ had to hear her. _Someone_ had to come! But in the meantime, she wasn't just going to stand back and let whoever was shooting at her and Zhenjin take a cheap shot.

Ducking toward Zhenjin, she wriggled under his good arm and heaved herself to her feet, bringing him with her. He groaned through clenched teeth. Fresh blood slipped in ruby droplets down the arrow shaft protruding from the Dilong prince's chest and dripped onto the icy stone floor. His ragged breathing sounded harshly in Dylan's ears.

"Come on," Dylan whispered. "We can make it. Come on."

The prince slowly shook his head, as if the weight of it was almost too great to bear. "I don't think… don't think I-"

Her body reacted to the soft _snap_ of a bowstring being released before her mind even registered the sound. She dragged Zhenjin back instinctively, and the arrow that had been aimed at the prince's belly hit the wall with a _tink_ of metal pinging stone. Another bow released an arrow - Dylan heard it. The second time, she was barely fast enough. An arrow whipped past her face. A red-hot line of pain seared her cheek. Warm blood spilled over her cheekbone to drip onto her shoulder.

A glint in the dimness caught her eye - one of the spent arrows. It looked… strange. A second's study told her why - it wasn't an arrow, it was a quarrel. A barbed, bronze-tipped quarrel. Their enemies were firing crossbows. Why? Because they were close enough that full-sized bows would be cumbersome? Because they were concerned about piercing armor? The fact that the assassins were using crossbows struck her as important. She just couldn't figure out why.

_Later. Think about it later,_ she thought desperately as she and Zhenjin took a few steps. There had to be _somewhere_ they could go! This terrifying escape felt too similar to the night she'd met Nuada, Dylan thought. Except instead of bullets, the attackers were going old school, and there was no chance of the human or the wounded Elven prince at her side being able to kill any of their assailants.

An icy whisper of warning chilled her spine. She started to twist in what was probably a vain attempt to evade. Wicked heat raked across her shoulder and Dylan yelped. The crossbow bolt had sliced through silk and velvet to cut deep into the meat of her upper arm. Pain spread through her arm and shoulder. She gritted her teeth and ignored it. It was just a little cut… unless the bolt-tips had been poisoned. Dylan prayed that it hadn't been, or she and Zhenjin were both probably one-hundred-percent going to end up dead.

"How badly… are you… hurt?" Zhenjin panted.

She shook her head. "It's just a scratch. I'm fine. Come on. Brace yourself," she added, and screamed again at the top of her lungs. Zhenjin had told her to scream, so she would. He was right - there were enough fae monarchs in the castle, her future-father-in-law and Moundshroud included, that someone should hear her shrieking despite the muffling glamour. It was hard, though, to keep a severely-wounded prince on his feet, one hand full of silk scraps and one hand wrapped tight around an Irish knife, while stumbling down a seemingly-abandoned corridor and trying to avoid being shot. The only reason she didn't just drop the raggedy silk bits was that if they had a chance to stop and rest, Dylan would need them to bandage Zhenjin's wounds.

Frigid warning hit her hard, clamping tight on her heart and freezing her blood, as the sharp _twang_ of a firing crossbow hit her ears. There was the sick, wet sound of quarrel finding flesh and a ghastly sound like metal scraping bone. Zhenjin screamed and nearly fell to his knees. Dylan almost dropped the dirk trying to catch him and bear his weight.

"Zhenjin!" She cried as the Dilong prince swore viciously in Chinese. He clutched at her instinctively. "Where are you hit? Tell me!"

"My… my knee," he rasped. "Ah, gods!" His fingers convulsed in the silk of her gown. "It… it's… bad. I cannot… continue. Go on. Run."

She shook her head. "Not a chance," she insisted, taking a staggering step. Pain lanced her own knee; she'd hit it hard on the floor when she'd tripped and fallen before. Now that Zhenjin only had one good leg to stand on, Dylan was taking even more of his weight. "I'm not leaving you. Nuada would kill me."

"_Go_, Dylan!" The prince snapped. A shudder of pain racked his body. "Just… please… gods, I…"

Dylan only bit her lip and shook her head again. "You can't walk? Then we make a stand here. I'm not leaving someone I care about here to die." Staggering beneath Zhenjin's weight, she walked them over to one of the corridor walls. As carefully as she could, Dylan knelt and settled Zhenjin against the chilly stone. She quickly cut his shirt open to get a better look at the damage. She still had the scraps of her chopped skirt clenched in one hand. Now she used her dirk to cut a few of the scraps into strips. Ignoring the sense of being watched - whoever had shot at them was no doubt still there, though the glamour they were using prevented either the mortal woman or the Elven prince from seeing them - Dylan quickly sliced through Zhenjin's silk brocade shirt. The weak torchlight was still strong enough for her to see the damage from the bolts.

Zhenjin had been shot once in the shoulder, and then he'd ripped the bolt out like some macho idiot. He'd also been shot in the chest and - Dylan shuddered at the sight - his knee. Blood soaked the bronze velvet trews, darkening them to a brown that was nearly black around where the quarrel had penetrated the joint. More blood gleamed wet and golden across the now-exposed, scarred and muscled chest as well. The bolt in Zhenjin's chest had punched through the left side, too close to the heart for comfort. There wasn't enough blood, and the prince was too lucid, for any major blood vessels to have been damaged. The quarrel didn't throb in time with the prince's thready pulse, either, so it hadn't actually _hit_ his heart. Dylan breathed a silent sigh of relief and quickly explained all of that to the injured prince.

"You should… forget…" A sudden fit of coughing strangled the words in Zhenjin's mouth. He covered his mouth with one hand, but Dylan saw the droplets of golden blood flecking his palm and chin. Cold whispered through her chest. The crossbow bolt had more than likely nicked Zhenjin's lung. He needed a healer - _now_ - or very soon he would be drowning in his own blood. She was a healer, but a mundane one, not a powerful Elven healer capable of using magic. She couldn't fix this kind of damage.

"Shut up," Dylan snapped, more to hide her sudden fear than because the prince's protests were getting on her nerves. For now, she had to leave the bolt in his chest alone. Pulling it out could kill Zhenjin in minutes, and without any kind of tools, she wouldn't be able to repair any of the damage. Instead, she probed the ragged tear in his shoulder with her fingers. His skin was slightly cool despite the warm blood seeping from the injury. The bolt had done the expected amount of injury from sharp-force trauma upon entering the shoulder, but despite the poor lighting Dylan could tell just from the initial examination that when he'd ripped the bolt out, the barbs had done their job of shredding already-mutilated muscle tissue. "Oh, crud."

"Tell me," he ordered softly.

The mortal healer glanced over her shoulder into the darkness beyond the little pool of torchlight, as if she could see the assassins waiting in the shadows. Why hadn't they attacked again? She couldn't see them, but she knew they weren't gone. Focusing once more on Zhenjin, Dylan sighed. "If you don't get this fixed by a healer soon, you could lose the use of your arm. The muscles and nerves here," she gently circled the wound with one finger, "are ripped to pieces from when you pulled the bolt out. See how your hand keeps twitching?" Dylan added, reaching down to cradle Zhenjin's left hand. It lay limp in her grasp, the fingers twitching spasmodically every few seconds. "That's really bad, Zhenjin."

He nodded weakly. "You said if… I don't… see a healer. If I do?"

"Then you may still lose some use of your arm. I'm not sure. I don't know what magic can and can't do. Jeez, you moron." Dylan was shocked to find herself close to tears. "What the heck were you thinking? Why would you do this?"

"Is it not… obvious?" The wounded Elf asked softly. Dylan bit her lip and shook her head. To her surprise, a weak smile quirked the corners of the prince's mouth. "To save you. I would… count my manhood… a weak and pathetic thing… if I were to abandon… you."

A tear spilled down Dylan's cheek. She wiped it away with her sleeve and set to work binding Zhenjin's shoulder. "You don't even know me that well," the mortal muttered as she folded a piece of silk into a cloth pad. "I could be a horrible she-demon for all you know."

The prince smiled and shook his head. "I know… you, Dylan. I know you… as well as Silverlance. I… have seen… the woman you are."

"Shut up," she whispered. Her eyes stung. "Put your good hand right there." She guided his hand to the cloth pad so that he could hold it in place while she cut bandages. Once cut, she wrapped the pad firmly in place over the seeping wound. Tying it tight, making the prince hiss in pain, she sat back and glanced at the blood staining his lips. There was more than there had been before. There was nothing she could do about that now, so… "Okay, time to look at that knee."

Zhenjin didn't speak. He merely leaned his head back against the stone wall. His entire body went taut as wire when Dylan shifted to look at his leg. She used her dirk to cut open the leg of his trews and then took in the sight of the badly damaged knee. It was unprofessional, but the mortal couldn't help gasping at the sight.

"How… bad?" Zhenjin demanded. Dylan flicked her gaze to him and found him staring at her with almost feverish eyes. "How bad?"

"I-"

"Bad enough," said a voice from the shadows, "that we should do the honorable thing and put you out of your misery, Crown Prince Azurefire."

Dylan twisted around, catching up her dirk and bringing it into a defensive position even as she lunged to her feet. Her bad leg threatened to buckle, but she clenched her jaw and refused. She trained her eyes on the shadows moving within the darkness, keeping herself positioned between Zhenjin and the approaching threat.

"Who are you?" Dylan demanded, trying to force herself to be every inch the haughty princess. _Future princess,_ she reminded herself with an edge of hysteria. _And that's if I don't die tonight._ But aloud, she only snapped, "Why did you attack us?"

Out of the shadows stepped a Dilong Elf clad in black - the uniform of the royal guards of that country. He moved somewhat stiffly, as if he'd been hurt. Dylan wondered if this was the Elf who'd tried to attack Balor at the duel, the one whose escape had prompted Nuada to assign Dylan a guard detail. The emperor of Dilong had sworn the Elf was a traitor and hadn't been acting under his orders. What no one had been able to discover before the betrayer's escape was the reason he'd attacked Balor in the first place. And why had he come after Dylan now?

"Dylan, get back!" Zhenjin croaked. A rustling behind her had the human turning slightly to see the Elven prince struggling to get to his feet - or rather, his one good foot. He leaned heavily against the wall, and fresh blood spilled down his chest and dripped onto the floor. "Get away from him!"

"What are you _doing?_" The mortal demanded, haughty princess façade forgotten. "You idiot, stay down!"

Zhenjin ignored her. Focusing on the other fae, the prince said, "It's me you… want, I… expect. The girl has… nothing to do with… this. Leave her be."

"Zhenjin-"

Summoning enraged volume from who knew where, the Dilong prince roared, _"Woman, be silent!"_ Shock alone snapped Dylan's mouth shut. Zhenjin, breathing heavily and nearly gray from blood loss and pain, said to the ex-royal guard, "Now, what… do you want?"

The other Elf shrugged. "Nothing from you, actually. It's the girl who is of interest to us. Silverlance's human tart. We were going to leave _you_ alive, Your Imperial Highness, as per the orders of our illustrious sovereign, but as you're little better than a dog to the Jade Emperor now that we've crippled you, honor dictates we put you out of your misery."

Dylan whipped her knife back up. She'd foolishly allowed her guard to drop a little when Zhenjin had yelled at her. "Don't you touch him! Don't you dare!"

The Elf raised one eyebrow. "Have you forgotten, little mortal, that it's the Silverlance you're supposedly in love with, not the Dragon Prince?"

She glared at him. "I'm not going to stand back and let you murder an unarmed man, especially one I consider a friend."

"You think you can stop us?"

Eyes flat and cold, Dylan said, "A group of Elves dressed a lot like you tried to kill me once before." She offered a negligent shrug and hoped the Elf in front of her couldn't hear the way her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest. "I killed two of them."

A cold smile met this declaration. "That was because we underestimated you. We'll not make that mistake again."

Dylan blinked, and the black-clad Elf was gone. She blinked again, and he stood in front of her, that same smile still curving his mouth. Zhenjin shouted a warning as the other Elf backhanded the mortal across the face. Stars exploded across her vision. Blood flooded her mouth. She flew back and collided with the wall, cracking her head on the stone so that more stars burst behind her eyes. Dazed, blackness attempting to descend, she mentally flailed back to full consciousness and clawed at the wall in an attempt to find purchase and get upright. Nearly-blinding pain throbbed through her skull. Blinking to clear her spotty vision, Dylan gasped when she heard Zhenjin scream.

The other Dilong Elf had his knee planted in the Elven prince's solar plexus, his lower leg stretched across Zhenjin's torso to keep him pinned. The former guard kept Zhenjin's good arm immobile with a well-placed boot. One hand held Zhenjin's face, forcing the prince to look at his assailant. The traitor's other hand was wrapped around the arrow protruding from Zhenjin's chest. As Dylan watched, the assassin twisted the crossbow bolt. Zhenjin's spine bowed as he threw his head back and screamed.

"Pretender to the throne," the Dilong Elf snarled at Zhenjin as he twisted the quarrel. Zhenjin's injured arm twitched and spasmed. "I'll have the honor of killing you myself for the disgrace you've brought to a noble house. Our illustrious sovereign, the rightful heir to the Jade Dragon Throne, knows you are unworthy of the title of crown prince." The cruel Elf slammed his fist into Zhenjin's wounded shoulder. The Dilong prince cried out in agony. "It will be my personal pleasure to kill you, and then I'll finish off the girl."

Picking up her dropped knife, struggling to keep the world from spinning away, Dylan lunged for the man torturing her friend. Remembering the knife-fighting lesson in the royal forest about a month ago, she threw herself against the Dilong Elf's back and, before he could do anything but grunt in surprise, rammed her dirk into his body to the left of his spine, sliding the blade into his kidney. The guard stiffened, a silent scream locked in his throat, and then he collapsed, dropping without a sound - just as Nuada had promised her during the fighting lesson. Dylan lost her balance and collapsed on top of the corpse with a gasp of pain. After drawing a few ragged breaths, she got to her knees and shoved the dead assassin out of her way before crouching over Zhenjin.

"Zhenjin," Dylan gasped. She pressed a hand to his clammy cheek. His reptilian eyes looked like jade marbles, glassy and vacant. His breath came in shallow gasps. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. She stroked his cheek with gentle fingers and whispered, "Zhenjin. Zhenjin, can you hear me? Hey. You okay?" She knew he wasn't, but it was the only thing she could think to ask.

He blinked twice. Sucked in a breath. "I… no. Yes. I… gods. Is he dead?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "I got him. You've got more lung damage," she added, leaning down to listen to his breathing. It was wet and raspy, rattling in his chest. "I have to see how bad the damage is. I need you to take a really deep breath for me. It'll hurt, but I need you to do it, okay?" When the prince drew in air, his chest barely rose before a fit of body-shaking coughing slammed into him. Blood speckled his lips and chin. A few wet drops touched Dylan's cheek. "Okay," she murmured soothingly, stroking his throat in a Lamaze technique she'd learned in college. Slowly the tension eased out of him and the coughing subsided. He shuddered on the floor and simply tried to breathe. "Okay. Um… I just… just need a minute to think. Gimme a minute."

"I am… dying… aren't I?"

"You're not dying," Dylan snapped. "Shut up! Idiot. You're not dying."

He chuckled wearily. The effort made him cough a little. "It is… all right, Dylan. There… are others… to take my place… on the throne if I… die. My brothers are… good men. They'll stand for… my kingdom in my place."

Dylan shook her head vehemently. "No. No, don't talk like that. You're not going to…" She trailed off when something cold and vicious curled around her heart. The reassuring words died on her tongue. Fear was a clawing shadow creature in her stomach as she glanced up to look out at the darkness beyond the pool of light. "Hold that thought."

Zhenjin clutched the hand she still had pressed to his cheek. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"There are more."

They came out of the shadows, a ragtag ensemble of fae and… humans? Dylan counted at least two humans among the ten assassins arrayed around the fallen prince and the frightened mortal. All twelve men had crossbows trained on Dylan and Zhenjin. A chill emptiness burned in their eyes. Dylan fought back a shiver.

"You are very well-protected for a lowly bed-warmer," the centermost assassin said coolly. Dylan recognized him as an Elf of Nyame. Copper beads glinted at the ends of his black warrior braids. Ensorcelled tattoos like liquid gold sprawled up and down his bare arms and over his chiseled, hawk-like features. Arrayed beside him were various fae - three Dilong Elves, a fanged kishi, a Banquet Keeper, a pair of dark-eyed bodachs, even a winged ekek. "It took _this_, of all things, to bring you down. You must be a very special whore, for Silverlance to go to so much trouble to protect you."

"Maybe you haven't heard," Dylan said. "As of tonight, I'm the betrothed of Prince Nuada Silverlance, so declared by the prince and King Balor. I'm to become a princess of the realm. Do you really want to assassinate a princess? Prince Nuada will come after you. So will the king."

The lead assassin shook his head and smiled. His teeth were bright against the ebony of his skin. "If we kill you, then yes, he will. But if our… associates kill you, then neither King Balor nor Emperor Huizong will seek vengeance." The assassin gestured to three humans standing on his right. Scarred and raggedy, all three mortal men looked as if they'd led hard lives. There was a feral quality about them that made Dylan wonder if they'd grown up in Faerie. With most humans, it was obvious to the observant when a mortal had roots in the Faerie Realm.

"You think just because they're human, you'll go unpunished?" Dylan shook her head. It hurt, reminding her that she'd whacked her head pretty hard on the wall. "That's ludicrous."

The Nyame Elf shrugged. "Perhaps, but… the monarchs in favor of the treaty with the humans have been known to suffer much at the hands of the children of Adam. They understand that humans should be protected, that the worlds cannot exist in proper accord without the touch of mortals."

"Then why try to kill _me_?" Dylan demanded. "I'm human!"

"You're a traitor," the pale, emaciated-looking Banquet Keeper snapped. "A traitor to your own kind! You spread your legs for the Silverlance, the one responsible for countless massacres during the last war against the human race! He is nothing but a butcher, a murderer of innocent women and children! He slaughtered your people and yet you still give yourself to him-"

Dylan shook her head. "That's not true. Nuada would never do something like that! Who told you this?"

"I was _there_," one of the bodachs hissed. Its shadowy body twisted and writhed in anger. Eyes like tenebrous flame burned with hatred. "I was _there_ when Prince Nuada stepped onto one of those killing fields, a battleground strewn with the bodies of innocents. He'd ordered the attack! He was our captain, we all knew it. The Golden Army had gone at _his_ command and slaughtered entire villages-"

She simply shook her head again. It sent pain spiking through her temples. "I don't believe you. Prince Nuada would never hurt an innocent. Or else why save me? He saved my life; if he despises humans as much as you say, why did he rescue me?"

For a second, a few of the assassins wavered. One of them, the hyena-faced kishi, ventured, "He… saved you?"

"Yes." She nodded, fighting dizziness, and added, "There must've been some kind of mistake. Nuada would never order-"

The bodach raised his crossbow, aiming the bolt straight at Dylan's unprotected heart. Her mouth snapped shut. "Enough of your lies. He was the king's War Chief. He had control of our armies. _All_ our armies! When he walked out onto that killing field and saw the destruction and butchery he'd caused, do you know what your precious prince did? He _approved_. Silverlance is a monster, and you are nothing better than the strumpet of a bloodthirsty killer- _gah_!"

A savage growl rumbled through the corridor as the bodach screamed and fell to the stone, kicking at something Dylan couldn't see. A second growl echoed the first. Dylan felt a sudden burst of pressure inside her skull. It left a dull ache through her sinuses. Blood trickled from her nose. Hastily wiping it away, the human woman blinked as spots exploded across her vision. Then, as if a light switch had been thrown, she saw a lethal black shadow lunge for the Nyame Elf while an ice-white beast ripped and tore at the bodach screaming on the ground. The mortal's heart leapt. Eimh and Sétanta! But that meant…

Rescue! Flashes of torchlight on Elven silver and cold iron; the clank of the Butcher Guards' hobnail boots; screams of would-be assassins cut down; the reek of lifeblood spilled in violence. Dylan turned away from it all to focus once more on Zhenjin. The Dilong prince's eyes were closed, his face gray, his breathing harsh and wet. Dylan leaned down to hear better. The breath gurgled in Zhenjin's lungs. His chest was slick and tacky with blood from his chest wound and his shoulder. When she pressed her fingers to the pulse in his neck, she found it weak and thready.

"Zhenjin," she said sharply. The prince didn't open his eyes. Dylan pressed one hand to the wound in his shoulder and found the cloth pad soaked and dripping. "Zhenjin, wake up." She peeled back one eyelid. The reptilian pupil responded to the sudden influx of light, but sluggishly. "Come on, look at me." How much blood had he lost by now? His skin was ashen. Was it already too late? "Zhenjin!"

She checked his pulse again - still going, but flickering. Biting her lip, she thumped Zhenjin hard on the chest over his heart with one fist. The Dilong prince gasped at the sudden blow. Blinked, peering around dazedly before his eyes managed to fix on Dylan's pale face. He swallowed. Blinked at her again.

"Dylan…"

"Stay with me," she pleaded, cradling his face between her hands. His skin was icy against her palms. "Come on, Zhenjin, stay with me! Zhenjin?" His eyelashes drifted downward. "No! No, open your eyes! Zhenjin! Dammit, Zhenjin! _Please!"_

Pale hands closed over hers and Dylan's head snapped up. Her eyes met a gaze of stricken topaz.

"Nuada!"

"How bad is it?" He demanded while peeling back one of Zhenjin's eyelids to gauge pupil-response. The other prince didn't react this time.

"Bad," she said. "Pierced lung, ripped up shoulder, shredded knee. We have to stop the bleeding and get him to wake up or..." She trailed off as a wave of pain and dizziness threatened to drag her to the ground. She shook her head, and the world swam before her eyes. "I… he's…" Nausea surged up in her stomach. She forced it down through sheer strength of will. "Zhenjin…"

"Dylan!" Nuada said sharply. "You're bleeding."

"An arrow grazed my arm-"

"No. Here." He reached up and touched just beneath her ear. His fingertips came away wet with crimson blood. "You-"

"Have a concussion," Dylan mumbled. A worse one than she'd thought, if blood was leaking from her ear. "I know. Later. Zhenjin first."

"You need a healer-"

"I'll live a bit longer without one," Dylan snapped. "Zhenjin might not! I need him to wake up!"

Without another word to her, the prince of Bethmoora grasped his fallen friend's hand and closed his eyes. Dylan felt something - Magic? Power? - vibrate through the hallway, making her teeth ache. Nuada's brow furrowed in concentration, then he bared his teeth. His eyes snapped open. Crimson tinged the very edges of the topaz irises.

"I will _not_ let you do this," he snarled. At first the mortal thought he was speaking to her, but then she saw Zhenjin's eyelids flutter. "You will _not_ die, Azurefire. Not now, not like this. I won't allow it! I won't let you die and break your sister's heart or Dylan's! Wake up, Dragon Prince! Are you going to give up like a coward? Wake up! Open your eyes, you lazy, half-licked cub, or I'll thrash you-"

Zhenjin's good arm lifted a few inches off the floor. His hand curled into a very loose fist that collided with Nuada's thigh.

"Who's… half-licked?" The prince rasped. Jade eyes flickered open and focused with obvious difficulty on the Tuathan prince. "You couldn't… thrash me if your… life depended… on it." Then something flashed behind Zhenjin's eyes and he attempted to strain upward, tried in vain to sit up. Dylan's hands went to the uninjured side of his chest and his good shoulder and pressed him down.

"Lie still," she cried. Her voice quavered, thick with tears now that her guards and her prince had arrived and she could focus on trying to keep Zhenjin lucid and alive instead of worrying about defending them both. "Lie still. We're safe now. The guards are here. Lie still. You have to… you stupid Elf," Dylan added. A tear trickled down her cheek, leaving a track in the blood that had dried in smears on her face. The pink-tinged droplet landed on Zhenjin's lower lip. "You're so stupid," she mumbled as another tear fell. Adrenaline still pumped hot and electric through mortal veins, but it was weakening now that the danger to Dylan herself was past. "Why didn't you just leave me? Instead you got shot up and you're hurt and you're bleeding buckets and-"

Trembling fingers touched her tear-marked cheek. Dylan sniffled and met Zhenjin's eyes. Haggard and gray, still he managed to dredge up the ghost of his normal carefree smile. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Please… Dylan. Don't cry. I have done… the only thing I… could do. What… greater reason to… give up my life… than to preserve… yours? I swore to protect… you." His thumb brushed across her cheek, leaving a smear of tears and amber and red blood. "You're safe."

A freshet of tears flowed down Dylan's cheeks. "You and Nuada… you two are just like each other," she muttered. "Jeez. You both drive me crazy."

Nuada touched her wrist. She flicked a glance at him. The Elven prince murmured, "The healers have come. Come with me and I'll see that you're tended."

Dylan shook her head, but only slightly. "Only when the healer actually gets here…"

Even as she spoke, a Bethmooran Elf in hunter-green healers' robes knelt beside her and placed his hands over the wounds in Zhenjin's chest and shoulder. She looked into the Elven healer's yellow eyes. She knew him - Healer Conn. She didn't like him as a person, but he was professional and a good healer. Dylan slowly rose to her feet, swaying. Adrenaline ebbed and exhaustion took its place as her various injuries informed her of their presence. Her knee screamed that it _hurt_, and her head ached abominably. The slice across her arm burned, and still bled. Crimson stained the sleeve of her gown.

"I… have to…" She couldn't quite get the words out. Wasn't even sure what she actually wanted. To make sure her assailants were actually dead or in royal custody? Maybe. She turned in a slow circle to see the group of assassins unarmed and in chains, held in place by a batch of furious Butcher Guards. Some of them were wounded. One of the bodachs lay dead on the ground. The human assassins were tied with ropes, not shackled, and the guards were treating them far more gently than they did the fae that had attacked her. "What are they doing?"

Nuada came to stand beside her. He glanced once over his shoulder at Zhenjin before focusing on the human assassins. "My father has ordered the humans to be taken beyond the castle grounds and released. The fae will be executed for their crimes."

Dylan slowly turned to stare at him. Warm wetness dribbled down her neck from her ear, but she ignored it. "He's just going to let them go?" Nuada nodded. "He can't… he can't _do_ that. Look what they did to Zhenjin! The Dragon Emperor will pitch a fit and blame Bethmoora if we do that!"

"Huizong is in agreement, actually. The humans are to be disarmed and released outside the palace on their own reconnaissance."

A low chuckle snagged Dylan's attention. She looked over at one of the humans, who laughed low in his throat. When he caught her looking at him, the assassin smirked. Unlike his faerie accomplices, the human was allowed to stand on his own two feet. He looked her in the eye and smiled. "The king still retains his honor - unlike his so-called heir."

"Shut up!" Dylan snapped. Her hands balled into fists and she took a step toward the assassin. The guards all gave her a sharp look. "What would you know about honor?"

"I know more about honor than a child-killing beast," the human growled. His eyes slid to Nuada, who stood impassively beside the human woman, his gaze like a glittering topaz knife. Dylan's hands convulsed into fists. Her nails bit deep into her palms. "A monster who revels in butchering innocent women and children. And more than a harlot who sells her body to the enemy of her race."

Silver whispered against the leather of Nuada's scabbard when he drew his sword. "Have a care, human. My father's order or no, disrespect my lady and I'll have the tongue from your mouth in moments."

"Your Highness," one of the guards began, but the second mortal assassin's laughter cut the warning off.

"You? Cut out our tongues? We know the king's ways. We know what he'll stand for. Our masters knew to send us, because no punishment would fall upon us for killing your whore." Nuada took a single step forward. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. "Our comrades might fall beneath your sword, but we will always return until our mission is complete. Kill the harlot and walk away - simple enough. And you would do what? Break faith with your king and kill us?"

The first human assassin smirked. "I don't think so. A coward like you would fear the king's wrath too much. After your sovereign exiled you for the soulless massacres you committed in the last war, after facing punishment yet again for killing innocent humans this past autumn, we knew you'd be too whipped by Balor to come after us. It was the perfect moment to attack the Exiled Prince, the cowardly Silverlance, a lesser son of a great and noble house-"

Before anyone could say or do anything to stop this tirade, Dylan strode forward and slammed her fist into the human assassin's face as hard as she could. Something crumbled beneath the blow. The assassin yelped. Dylan gasped and jerked back, cradling her wrist to her chest and trying to flex her fingers. Blood gushed from the human male's nose as he stumbled backward and hit the floor, writhing.

"You bitch!" He sobbed, twisting on the ground. "You bitch, you broke my nose!"

"Suck it up," the mortal woman hissed through gritted teeth.

"Dylan!" Nuada grabbed her hand and studied it. Already the knuckles were beginning to swell and turn a grayish blue. "Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking?"

"That I wanted him to shut up," she muttered, wincing. "Didn't know I'd break my hand, though. Think I cracked a tarsal."

The second human stared at his mortal comrade for a moment in stunned rage before whipping around to glare hatefully at Dylan. "Bitch!" He lunged for Dylan, teeth bared, eyes burning with loathing. Only the Butcher Guard yanking on the assassin's rope kept him from crossing the handful of feet between him and the mortal. Dylan jerked back a step instinctively. "Traitor! Whoring for the fae who would see us wiped out! Filthy slut! We'll kill you first! You're dead, you trollop, _dead!_ Do you hear me? _Do you hear me?_"

Nuada's sword-point found the pulsing artery at the side of the human's neck. The tirade was quickly cut off, but the assassin continued to glare at the prince and his lady. Nuada added a touch of pressure. A thin dribble of crimson spilled down the human's neck to stain the patched gray shirt he wore. One of the guards made a sound of protest. One frigid glance from the prince silenced them.

"If we let you go, you intend to come after Lady Dylan again?" Nuada demanded.

The assassin spat at Nuada's feet. "I'll kill your little bitch if it's the last thing I do, Silverlance. I'll cut her into little pieces and feed them to your dogs." A muscle in Nuada's jaw twitched. "We won't stop. We will protect the humans from you and your mad lust for vengeance."

A white-gold brow quirked. Something feral and cruel smoldered in Nuada's crimson eyes when he said tonelessly, "Vengeance? You've not yet _seen_ my vengeance." In a movement too swift for mortal eyes to register, the prince plunged his sword into the human assassin's chest. The Butcher Guards all made sounds of protest, but no one dared approach the prince at that moment.

Nuada thrust the blade deeper. The bound captive choked. Blood spilled from between his suddenly-slack lips. Dylan choked on a gasp and stumbled backward. Baring his teeth, Nuada stared into the assassin's eyes and twisted the blade viciously. The human's breath gurgled in his throat. Scarlet bubbled between his lips. Crimson dripped along the blade to pit-patter on the stones at Nuada's feet. He yanked the sword free. With a wheezing exhalation, the assassin slumped over.

Nuada wiped his blade on the leg of his pants and sheathed it. He stared at the third human assassin, who'd remained silent since his capture. The captive paled and shrank back. Dark lips twisted in a sneer. Then Nuada turned to Dylan and looked into her eyes.

She knew what he searched for in her gaze - condemnation. Disgust. Horror. He'd just killed an unarmed man. Would she turn away from him for that?

Dylan tried to take a step toward her prince. Stumbled when the world spun in sickening circles and the image of the Elven prince tripled in front of her eyes. Nuada caught her before she could fall. Hoisted her into his arms with a speed that had vicious nausea churning in her stomach. Pressing her lips together, she buried her face in Nuada's shoulder and struggled to keep from being sick.

"I am taking Lady Dylan to see Chief Healer Somhairle. If the king wishes to speak to me, I will be there."

The prince of Bethmoora strode down the hall. Wisely, no one tried to stop him.

**.**

"Your father will be furious," Dylan mumbled from where she lay on the bed in the healing chamber. Somhairle pressed gentle fingers to the mortal's temples and spilled healing magic into her head, slowly knitting the crack in her skull back together. Nuada said nothing. He merely gazed out the glamoured window at a snow-swept landscape lit by the winter moon. It wasn't until the king's personal physician had finished repairing the green skull fracture, as well as closing the deep cut on Dylan's arm and healing the cracked knucklebone, and left the room that the prince finally turned to her. He still didn't speak, however. "Nuada…" Suddenly uncertain, Dylan hesitated before asking, "Are you angry with me?"

He studied her for a long minute, topaz eyes unfathomable. Then he said, "You should change. The nights are cold, and that gown has seen better days." He strode to the door of the healing chamber and opened it to reveal a hob maid - Fiona, Dylan remembered - standing there. Fiona held a pile of familiar, folded clothing in her small hands. As the prince left the room, Fiona deposited the clothes on the bedside table. Clearly she intended to stick around and help the human change clothes, but if Dylan couldn't be with Nuada, couldn't talk to him about what she'd heard from the assassins and try to figure out what it all meant, then she simply wanted to be left alone.

"Thank you, Fiona, but I'm fine. You don't have to stay. Go on," she said with a smile. "Enjoy your Midwinter."

"Oh, milady, I couldn't. You're injured-"

Dylan forced her smile to stay fixed in place. She was _not_ going to snap at the poor girl for doing her job. "Please, Fiona. I just need some time to myself. And I've heard from Rórdan Hob that you had someone waiting for you, anyway. A sweetheart, I heard." Seeing the pleased flush to the hob maiden's cheeks, Dylan found her smile becoming sincere. "I don't want to keep you. I'm really okay. Honest. If Prince Nuada asks, I'll tell him I sent you back to… wherever you're supposed to be."

"Well… all right, then. If you insist, my lady. Thank you." Fiona dipped a swift curtsy to the prince's lady, and with a bright smile, scurried out the door just before Guardswoman Ailís stepped into the room.

Ailís leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. Suddenly uneasy, Dylan eyed her guard, but said nothing. Ailís sighed. Dylan got the impression she wanted to say something to the mortal, but that the guard didn't know quite where to begin. The silence grew uncomfortably heavy. Finally, the human woman couldn't take it anymore.

"Why do I feel like the kid waiting to get called to the principal's office?" Dylan demanded of the Butcher Guard. "Am I in trouble?"

Ailís hesitated, then said, "Not as far as I know, milady. The king won't like that you struck a human in royal custody, but I doubt he'll attempt to punish you for it. But His Highness…" The royal guard trailed off.

Cool dread spilled down Dylan's spine like ice water. "He's in trouble for killing that human, isn't he?" Ailís nodded. "How much trouble?"

"I don't know, milady. I'm sorry. Likely as not, no one will know until after His Majesty has spoken to the prince and received all the reports of the incident."

Dylan shoved a hand through her hair, which hung loose down her back and in her face after Somhairle's healing of her fractured skull; apparently the metal in her hair piece had interfered with him being able to sense the true depth of the cranial damage. Uncertainty and the first tinge of fear shivered through Dylan's blood as she contemplated the king's anger at her prince for killing the assassin. Since she couldn't do anything about _that_, though, she decided to focus on another worry. "Do you know if Zhen… if _Prince_ Zhenjin is all right? Did he survive?"

The guardswoman sighed. "I don't know that, either, milady, but… I…" Glancing at the closed door, Ailís murmured, "Permission to speak freely, my lady? You are new to court intrigues and may be ignorant of certain… pitfalls."

After a moment's uncertainty, Dylan nodded. To her surprise, Ailís sat down in the wooden chair near the door and removed her helmet with a sigh. Dylan remembered that a Butcher Guard removing their beaked iron helmet in the presence of anyone but the royal family was a sign of great trust. Whatever her guard wanted to say, Dylan knew right then that she needed to pay attention. After the way Ailís had been so kind in the emotional upheaval following Nuada's original marriage proposal - going out of her way to spend time with her mortal charge, engaging her in friendly conversation and amateur games of chess, as well as making sure the human woman ate and slept regularly for the couple days she'd seemed to be adrift in sorrow - Dylan also knew Ailís had her back.

Ailís toyed with the end of her single, waist-length black braid while flexing the three gill-like slitted nostrils bisecting her face. Dylan took this to be similar to how she nibbled her thumbnail when trying to think. When all four of Ailís's violet eyes focused once again on the mortal's face, Dylan straightened up and made herself pay attention.

"All right, then," Ailís said. Her black needle-like teeth clicked on the hard consonants. Usually muffled by her helmet, the _click-click_ was oddly comforting. "I mean no offense, Lady Dylan, but I must caution you about your affection for His Highness Prince Zhenjin."

Dylan frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"There are already some dangerous rumors spreading-"

"Rumors? Rumors about what?" Dylan demanded.

"That the two of you are… that he's consorting with you."

"We're _friends!_ Is that a crime? He's friends with Nuada, too. Why is that a problem?"

Ailís sighed. "It's a problem because Bethmooran nobles can be complete and utter idiots and jackasses, milady. Even Butchers can jump to conclusions at times. The gods know Fionnlagh does it often enough. When you were found by the rescue party, according to the rumors, you and the Dragon Prince seemed to be… intimate."

"He was hurt!" Anger simmered in Dylan's veins as she thought back to the terrifying moment when she'd thought the Dilong prince might not wake up. If he'd stayed unconscious, if she hadn't been able to rouse him… "I was trying to keep him conscious!"

"Those same idiots and jackasses noticed how distressed you were over his injuries-"

"I'm not some soulless shrew who doesn't care that the man who saved her, who's a dear friend of her betrothed, could've been dying!"

"I know that, Lady Dylan," Ailís said sharply. "I'm not accusing you; I'm trying to warn you of danger, and where that danger is coming from. By now the rumors have trickled through the healers, the servants, the guards, and no doubt to the nobles. If any of the visiting royals find out - and they will - it could spell trouble for you. Especially because there's the question of why the two of you were alone in the hallway in the first place-"

"We met up by chance! So… so let me get this straight: we both nearly die, he saves my life, and people are _slandering_ us? Saying we're trysting? Are you serious?"

"I am." Tucking a stray lock of raven hair behind her delicately-pointed ear, Ailís sighed. "_I_ know nothing untoward happened between the two of you. Your love for Nuada is clear to any fool with eyes to see it. But the Golden Court is full of fools who enjoy a juicy bit of gossip. And wouldn't it be so very interesting if Prince Zhenjin, whose sister was shamed by His Highness, exacted revenge on his _former_ friend and ally by seducing His Highness's betrothed?"

Dylan shook her head. "No. No, Zhenjin would never do that. Even if he was the kind of man who would, I'm not the kind of woman who'd allow it!"

"Not everyone believes that," Ailís replied. "The more fools them, if they cannot see your devotion to the prince and to the Star Kindler. But many nobles are idiots; it's a fact we guards have come to accept. After all, how often do the cruder members of the Court refer to you as 'Nuada's whore?'"

The mortal woman dropped her face into her hands. "You've gotta be kidding me. I thought getting engaged would help fix some of this." Massaging her forehead with her fingers, she sighed. Then a thought crystallized like a spike of ice in her brain. Her head shot up and she stared at Ailís in sudden comprehension. "Nuada's heard the talk, hasn't he? He thinks it's true. That's why he just left…"

Ailís hesitated before replying, "I don't know what he's thinking. I cannot read his thoughts. Perhaps he is merely concerned over the king's reaction."

"Can you find out what that is?" Dylan pleaded. "I'll be fine here, really. Can you check on him? Make sure he's all right?"

After a moment of silence, Ailís nodded. "As you wish, my lady." The guard donned her helmet and got to her feet. Just before walking out, she added, "The prince also wanted to know if you wished to see your sister. Guards were dispatched to protect her in case of an attack on your suite, and she's insisting on seeing you. It _is_ her right, by virtue of your blood. She's the elder sister, isn't she?" Dylan nodded. "The prince was informed, as he is technically obligated to honor the bond between your sister and yourself, but he said you mightn't wish to see her just now. What say you?"

For a minute Dylan was tempted to beg Francesca's presence… but that would've been a bad idea. One look at her sister and Francesca would freak out… which would be amusing at first, but might eventually cause friction between the waitress and the prince when Nuada returned. And Dylan just wanted _to be_ _alone_. Wanted a chance to _think_. She couldn't do that if Cesca were spazzing about the attack.

"Please have a message sent to my sister saying I'm fine, I just need some time to get cleaned up and everything, and I'll send someone to get her when I'm ready."

"As you wish, milady." Ailís walked out, and the door _clicked_ shut behind her.

**.**

Balor gazed upon his son with weary amber eyes and demanded yet again, "Why? Why did you do this?"

Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance stood at strict military attention before his father and king, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the old king's left shoulder. He hadn't changed out of his Midwinter finery, which had suffered in the skirmish against the group of assassins that had pervaded the castle. Though not badly wounded, Nuada's shirt and tunic were stained with blood - his own, and the blood of fae and humans. Bruises darkened his jaw and the skin around one eye. His bottom lip was also bruised and puffy, sporting a small cut. When he'd entered the king's study, the prince had moved very stiffly, as if injured. Balor had forced down his concern in order to deal with his son's disobedience regarding the mortal assassins. If Nuada were badly hurt, he'd have been to see a healer already.

"Answer me, my son," Balor said. For now, they would keep this informal, between family, instead of an interview between king and subject. The old Elf hadn't forgotten Lady Dylan's words about trying to see the prince through new eyes. "Tell me why you disobeyed me. Was it… pride? Did the assassins provoke your anger?"

Topaz eyes flicked to the king's weathered countenance. "They threatened Dylan."

"But they were already in custody-"

"They swore they would never stop," Nuada said. He'd interrupted the king, but his father allowed it. Surprised and heartened by this seeming willingness to actually listen, the crown prince added, "I asked them, if we released them, would they come back? The one I killed swore he would never stop until Dylan was dead. He said he would try and try again, and that he had no reason to stop, because the king would allow him to walk into our castle, murder my betrothed - cut her into little pieces, he said - and walk out again without any fear of punishment."

Balor sighed. "Nuada-"

"He tried to kill her," Nuada said. A tremor vibrated beneath the words. "I saw him. He had a crossbow aimed at her heart and he was going to _kill_ her. I swore to protect her. I swore on my honor, on my life, that I would keep her safe from any who meant her harm. Before we returned to Findias, I gave Dylan my word that no harm would come to her if I could prevent it. What was I supposed to do?"

Another sigh. "You should never have made such an oath."

"It was the same oath you made to Mother," Nuada reminded him. Balor jolted. "She told me… long ago. When you asked her to marry you, and she was concerned about coming to Bethmoora, where she knew hardly anyone, and she would no longer be safe in the relative obscurity of being a country nobleman's daughter but would now be the queen of a nation… you swore to her that no harm would come to her if you could help it. You vowed to protect her."

The king didn't speak for a long moment. Pain, cold and bitter as winter, swept across his face in an anguished wave before vanishing. Balor drew several deep breaths before he finally managed to say, "That was before the treaty."

Now the prince dropped military precision and dropped his hands onto his father's desk, leaning forward a little. "Look me in the eye and swear to me that you would not make that oath again and again even now, if Mother was somehow returned to us and someone threatened to take her away again. If she came back to us, you would do _anything_ to keep her safe, wouldn't you?" When the king said nothing, Nuada demanded, "_Wouldn't you?"_

"And what would you do, my son? What would you sacrifice to protect the lady you love?"

"If I must, I'll kill every assassin who dares set their sights on her, human or fae." Nuada stepped back and sighed. "I'm sorry, Father, but you'll have to kill me to stop me from protecting her. I gave her my word. I gave the children my word that I would keep her safe. More than that, I love her. I cannot simply stand back and… I cannot be the king you are, _Athair_," the prince confessed. Balor frowned. "When Mother died… she took you with her. You came back eventually, but you were no longer whole. The greater part of your heart and soul is with her even now. You aren't the king you used to be. If I lose Dylan, I will become what you are, and I cannot do that to my people. They need better. They deserve better."

King Balor stared at his son - the strength and defiance in every line of his body, the sorrow and apology in his eyes. The fact that Balor didn't call his son out for such a speech merely proved what Nuada had been saying. No, the tired old king had never fully recovered after the queen's death. Nuada wasn't wrong about that. And while the treaty had to be protected… what _would_ Balor have done, if it had been Cethlenn in danger?

"You have sent the message you desired to those who seek to harm your lady," the king said finally. "Have you not?"

Nuada inclined his head. "I believe so, Father."

"Then you will not interfere in the release of the other two humans?"

"I will not."

"This moderates your punishment - a little." Balor sighed again. "You disobeyed an order from your king in front of the royal guards. This cannot go unpunished. But you knew that when you did it, didn't you?" The prince nodded. His face remained expressionless. "Shades of Annwn, Nuada, I don't _want_ to punish you!"

A crack showed in the prince's calm façade. "I know, Father. I accept whatever punishment you deem just. I will explain to Dylan."

Balor's hand clenched into a tight fist. "Fifty… twenty iron lashes at dawn."

Surprise flitted across the prince's face. "Twenty?"

"Do you wish it to be fifty?"

"No, Majesty," Nuada said softly. "I am merely… confused. You once sentenced me to two-thousand iron lashes for nearly the same offense-"

"And I was wrong to do that," Balor said. "I'm not a monster, whatever your lady may think. I'll not torture my own child for doing what he felt he had to do. But I cannot avoid punishing you, either. This will have to do. I know you love her. I understand the fear of losing the one you love. I know what it is… to lose what makes your life worth living. I would not condemn you to that bleak existence if I could help it." Aged amber eyes turned to cool topaz. The king of Bethmoora commanded, "Now leave me. Tend to your lady. Enjoy what is left of Midwinter's night. I shall see you at dawn."

Nuada bowed to his father and king, and left. Balor sat back in his chair and heaved another sigh. He wouldn't torture his own son for protecting the mortal woman… this time. But how often could Balor make allowances, balancing making his son and the mortal happy, while still upholding the honor of the king and the kingdom? The old Elf didn't know. He prayed he would never have to find out.

**.**

Dylan paced the length of the healing chamber, wondering what was taking Nuada so long, knowing that if she hadn't just narrowly escaped death that night, she would've gone looking for him if he'd kept her waiting much longer. But Nuada had killed someone tonight. A human. And that meant he was probably closeted with the king at the moment. What would Balor do to him? Hurt him? Bursting in on the king and prince like an overly attached girlfriend wouldn't help him at all. So she paced, even though her leg ached abominably and her head was still pounding. It wasn't because of the now-healed concussion, though. She had a tension headache. All her thoughts zipped through her mind like hyperactive ferrets.

A group of assassins had tried to kill her. One of them, a Dilong Elf and former guard, had said that the rightful heir to the Dilong throne knew Zhenjin was unworthy to become emperor, but wanted the prince to remain alive. Who was the rightful heir to the Jade Dragon Throne, if not the emperor's eldest son? Dylan wished she knew more about the royal families of Faerie; it would've given her more information to work with. And why had the assassin seemed so offended by Zhenjin? The creep had been willing to kill Zhenjin against orders from "the rightful sovereign," strictly because the Dragon Prince had done _something_ to anger him.

Not all of the assassins worked for the same person, either. One of the human assassins had said "our _masters_," not "our master." The thought made Dylan feel sick. That probably meant there was more than one person out to kill her - and possibly Nuada. Not just a bunch of people, but a bunch of well-placed, powerful, probably rich - rich enough to hire assassins, at any rate - people, and they were working _together_. Pro-human fae. Most of the assassins had been Irish fae, but that didn't necessarily mean they were from Bethmoora, Eìrc, or Cíocal. Hiyori was an Onibi Elf, but she took employment in Findias as a journeymaid seamstress. Eamonn was a Star Elf, from the northern kingdom of Zwezda, yet he had an Irish name and accent, and seemed to have been a Bethmooran native. The assassins who'd tried for her tonight could, looking at it realistically, be from anywhere in the Twilight Realm.

Did this have anything to do with the attacks that had come just before her and Nuada's return to Findias? It seemed plausible that at least one of the "masters" had been behind those incidents. It seemed too much to believe that _that many_ people wanted her dead. At least, wanted it enough that they'd actually try to do something about it. She wasn't just Dylan anymore, the mortal reasoned. She was the crown prince's lady, officially betrothed to the heir to the throne, with the blessing of the king. She was going to be a _princess_, for crying out loud. So who…

Ice stabbed into Dylan's chest. The door to the healing chamber clicked shut. She whirled, ready to… what? Ask Nuada what had happened, perhaps, or apologize for ruining the ball gown the prince had bought her, or something. But it wasn't Nuada who'd walked in the room and locked the door. It was the second human assassin, the one whose nose she'd broken. Dried blood still caked his face. His nose was a lopsided mess… but he smiled at her.

The blood drained from Dylan's face. How had he gotten away from his captors? How had he gotten past her guards _again?_

"No Elven princes to save you now," he snarled, taking a step toward her. "No guards. No dogs. Just you and me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of thick, brown leather with handholds on each end. "The last thing you'll feel is me wrapping this around your pretty little neck and choking the life out of you. Filthy whore." The assassin slid his hands into the loops at each end of the strap and gave a sharp jerk. The leather snapped hard enough to sting the air. Dylan took a step back. Her knife - where was her knife? The assassin smiled wider. "Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ killing you."

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_**Author's Note:**__ so because I'm rushing to __**finally**__ get this posted, there's no references or review prompt today. But I still hope you guys enjoy the chapter, and of course if you can think of any questions or comments or whatnot, I'd love to hear them. I'll post again by Valentine's Day, I hope, but after that (like, literally the day after that) we're moving, which will take like, 2 weeks, and so I'm not gonna have as much access to my computer as normal. And I'm sharing this computer with 3 people because my roommate's computer keeled over for some reason (we're still trying to figure that out). BUT! I'll have a chapter up (hopefully) in time for Saint Patrick's Day in March, if not sooner. Loves to everyone! Buh-bye._


	86. Killer Queen

_**Author's Note:**_ hello, everybody! So I'm running a bit late with everything for various reasons (working on a new book, tax time, my job, being sick a lot – grrr – and trying to get my other book ready to publish). But I finally have 85 ready for you guys! It's a bit short (blame my beta), but hopefully it'll tide you over until the 1st of March when I can finally hopefully get 86 up (which will have some interesting things in it for you). BUT! In this chapter, we have some…exposing, I think is the word I want. We'll se. So hope you enjoy!

Love, LA

PS – there's no author's note at the bottom of this because I'm in a hurry (I'm on break at work right now).

**_Important Question:_** How do you guys feel about me breaking up Once into different series fics? Since it's already broken up into 10 books, how would you feel about me breaking up the books and posting them separately? This is technically against the rules, from what I understand, but I've gotten some complaints about the length of Once, so... yeah. How do you guys feel?

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**Chapter Eighty-Five**

**Killer Queen**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Fear, Evasion, Another Attempt, Loss and Fury, Dereliction of Duty, Bloodshed, and a Potential Enemy Unveiled**

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Nuada strode down the main corridor of the Healers' Wing, followed by a silent retinue of guards, wondering if his father had gone mad. Why would Balor let him off with such a light sentence? Had the prince really gotten through to the old king by mentioning Cethlenn and the vow Balor had made? Usually bringing up the late queen enraged his father. Nuada hadn't meant to dredge up memories of his mother. The words about Balor's vow to his dead wife had simply sprung off Nuada's tongue without conscious thought. And instead of growing angry, it seemed only to make Balor sad.

_Mother,_ Nuada thought, _is this your doing, somehow? Is Father healing from your loss at last? Or is this another trap of his?_ The Elven prince bit back a sigh. If his mother were here… if Cethlenn were still alive, many things would've been different. Perhaps the treaty might never have been forged at all. Or if it had been, the Hidden Ones would've actually enforced it at Cethlenn's urging.

Suddenly he wondered, if his mother had never died, would he have met Dylan? Would he have ever become the man he was now? Would he have Wink in his life, as father and brother and friend? Would Nuada have ever gone into exile in the first place? If not, what of Lorelei? Would he have ever known her? What about Erik, Aso, Laigdech, or Yang, or any of his other acquaintances and friends in his life? Would he have lived the life he had?

Nuada shook his head. Where were these thoughts coming from? His mother was gone. No amount of rumination would ever bring her back. And there was no way to know if Balor were trying to trick his son and heir until whatever trap the king possibly intended had been sprung. Worrying over it did nothing. He would simply have to be wary.

A sharp, lancing fear suddenly stabbed just behind his breastbone. Nuada stumbled. Forced himself to swallow back the icy lump of terror choking him. What…? Where was the fear coming from? It was so familiar…

_Oh, gods. Dylan!_

The Elven warrior bolted down the hall. His guards, momentarily stunned by the abrupt speed, scrambled to follow after him.

**.**

"There's no use running," the assassin crooned, smiling still as he advanced on the mortal. "I'll catch you eventually."

Dylan backed up, careful to match her speed to the assassin's slow approach. She groped almost blindly behind her, let her gaze dart around as if searching for a means of escape, forced herself to take panting, gasping breaths. She deliberately projected terror to the advancing would-be killer. It wasn't hard - fear had her by the throat in a near-choking grip. But she could still think. Still plan. Still figure out a way to defend herself. She'd spotted her dirk lying on the bedside table. As she backed up, the psychiatrist did her best to keep the weapon hidden from the assassin's sight. Let him try to attack her once she got her knife in her hand. Even with only a few knife-work lessons under her belt, she could still kill him if she had to. Part of the lesson from the royal forest slipped into her mind…

_"The blade goes here, right here, in between the ribs." His hands covered hers gently as he brought the dirk to his chest. "Move your hand, just a little, a flick of the wrist, and sever the aorta. Or push, a little harder through the visceral pericardium. Withdraw the blade and they will bleed out in-"_

_"Seconds," Dylan finished, voice barely above a whisper, hands steady where once they trembled._

If the assassin got close enough that was _exactly_ what she'd do to him. She wasn't going to just let him kill her.

She barely suppressed the flare of triumph when her questing fingers brushed the cairngorm stone set in the hilt of her dirk. Walking her fingers over the hilt, she curled her hand around it. The assassin came closer. Dylan smelled the reek of sweat and the copper of blood as the human male stepped up to her. Cocking his head, he smiled.

"Silverlance ruined that pretty face, didn't he? Yet you still let him have you. You think he'll really marry you? You think slapping a wedding ring on your finger makes you less of a whore? How could a night's pleasure be worth the lives of an entire race? You'll watch from his bed as he butchers us all. What's your plan to keep him from killing you when he gets tired of rutting with a lowly human? Hmmm?" The assassin sneered at her. His green eyes were like jade glass as he drew closer. "You think, if he plows you often enough, he'll plant his seed in your belly? You think he won't kill you or your half-breed whelp-"

Fury smoldered in her eyes, burning like black fire in her chest, as she whipped her dirk around, aiming for ribs and aorta. The human assassin yelped when her blade found his flesh. Blood splashed Dylan's fingers. But she was exhausted, and drained from the healing, so her blow was off-center; the dirk skittered off a shielding rib. Before Dylan could adjust her grip and try again, the assassin grabbed her wrist and twisted viciously. The bones snapped with a sickening _crack!_ A scream of pain ripped out of Dylan's mouth.

The assassin flung her to the ground. She landed on her broken wrist. Screamed again as tears poured down her cheeks. Before she could get enough breath to scream again, weight slammed down on her back, a shadow whipped across her vision, and something cold and hard wrapped around her throat. Tightened. Dylan choked, her hands scrabbling at the leather garrote clamped around her throat. She clawed at the strap, fingers struggling to slip beneath it and loosen the crushing grip, but all she succeeded in doing was drawing blood. Agony seared her broken wrist. Cruel laughter echoed in her ears as the killer tightened the strap further, the cool leather biting into her flesh.

"Time to die, _Lady_ Dylan," the assassin murmured. Spots danced across her eyes. The blood roared in her ears and her lungs screamed for air. Time seemed to hang suspended as she slowly asphyxiated. Against her will, she whimpered. The assassin merely chuckled low in his throat. Darkness crept in around the edges of her vision.

A concussive _boom_ and a splintering _crack_ assaulted her ears as blackness descended.

**.**

Nuada's heart went still in his chest at the sight of Dylan going limp beneath a familiar form straddling her body. Her head fell forward, her hands dropping to the floor. The human pinning her to the ground with his weight gave a low chuckle and pulled the leather strap around her throat even tighter.

Rage bloomed in the pit of Nuada's belly, mingling with acrid terror. The Elven warrior launched himself at the assassin before his guards could even think to stop him. With a feral snarl, he grabbed the human male, jerked him away from Dylan, and threw him with all the strength he could muster into the wall. The would-be killer's head hit the stone wall with an audible _crack_. The fae warrior took a few heaving breaths, fury boiling in his blood, terror and grief threatening to strangle him, and stalked toward the mortal who _dared_ to lay hands on Dylan. The human would die. To hell with the king's gods-forsaken treaty; the assassin would die _now_, and Nuada would be the one to kill him, and kill him _slowly_.

Just as the assassin had killed… killed…

Pain was a taloned hand squeezing his heart as he thought of Dylan, lips tinged blue and hands limp, eyes closed, far too still beneath her assailant… his Dylan, his heart, his _calman geal_, his solace, and this human bastard had _killed_ her. Had stolen her from him, stolen everything, _everything_ that mattered, leaving him with _nothing_…

A strangled gasp and a fit of coughing barely registered at the periphery of his awareness as he attacked.

**.**

Dylan clutched her throat with one hand, sucking in deep breaths, coughing hard enough it shook her entire body. Tears wet her cheeks as she struggled for air. Pain screamed through her broken wrist until she thought she might actually be sick. She blinked hard to clear the shadows from her vision and looked around frantically. The assassin, where…?

Nuada. She saw him wrestling with the human, who was somehow holding his own. There was a flash of light on metal and the patter of blood striking stone. Nuada snarled, baring his teeth, eyes crimson and feral with hatred. Blood soaked his sleeve and dripped down his arm from a cut across his bicep. He ignored the blood and drove his fist into the assassin's face. Crimson blood spurted from the human's already-broken nose. The assassin lashed out, cutting Nuada again, slashing at his unprotected stomach and chest. More amber blood flowed. A mortal fist caught Nuada in the mouth. Liquid gold dripped from the prince's split lip. He didn't even bother to spit out the blood flooding his mouth. He simply continued beating the assassin with merciless fists.

_He'll kill him,_ Dylan realized. Somehow she got to her knees, cradling her broken wrist to her chest. _I have to stop him; he'll kill him. If he kills him, the king will…_

A scuffling sound from the hallway caught her attention. Two figures wrestled beyond the shattered remnants of the healing chamber door. Torchlight glinted off an iron helmet. A voice she vaguely recognized yelled, "Let me go, curse you! He needs help!"

"He disobeys the king by attacking the human," another voice snapped. "Balor _told_ him to let the mortal go. He has obviously refused."

The Elven warrior roared, an animalistic sound of pure rage. Dylan's head whipped around in time to see the mortal drive a small knife into Nuada's side. The breath escaped the mortal woman in a breathless, horrified cry. She grabbed the edge of the healing bed, desperate to get to her feet. The assassin flipped Nuada onto his back. Before the prince could do more than start to get up again, the assassin grabbed the wooden chair standard in the various healing chambers and smashed it across Nuada's face, then again when the enraged Elf kept coming.

Dylan cried, "No!" Nuada hit the floor again, amber blood leaking from several lacerations on his face. His head hit merciless stone. The assassin hit him with the chair a third time. "Nuada!"

As if from far away, she heard that first voice yell, "He's your prince! That human will _kill_ him!"

"I'm sure the king would actually prefer it that way."

Snarling, the human assassin threw the chair at the dazed, prone prince and turned on the mortal. "You thought you were safe?" He spat. Blood spilled from a deep gash on his forehead. His features were barely more than pulp. One pupil was dilated, the other a pinprick. Dylan knew she was looking at a dead man walking; her would-be killer had a potentially fatal concussion. His body just hadn't realized it should be dead yet. How was he still functioning? The pain should've brought him down like a tranquilizer. How… "At least I'll die knowing I killed you," the human added, "and there was _nothing_ your precious prince could do about it."

Before he could take more than a couple steps in her direction, however, Nuada surged to his feet and attacked once more.

Dylan didn't just stand there like a frightened damsel and let Nuada fight her attacker again. Broken wrist or not, she would _not_ let him hurt Nuada anymore! Never again!

Shaking off the paralyzing fear, pain, and shock, she dropped back to the floor, though pain screamed through her bad leg and she couldn't put weight on her broken wrist. Casting about frantically, she found her dirk where it had skittered halfway under the bed during the initial tussle with the killer. Propping herself precariously on one elbow, she reached with her good hand and managed to drag the courtship blade from beneath the bed. Somehow she got back to her feet, though she was running on fumes after the long night and too many healing spells. She saw that Nuada had the assassin pinned by the throat. A snarl of hatred twisted his features. His eyes blazed sanguine red. His shirt was splashed with scarlet and gold.

"Nuada, don't kill him!" Dylan yelped. "You can't!" Her prince didn't even look at her. Rage and loathing kept him focused entirely on the assassin trapped beneath him. Dylan sought for something, anything, which would get him to loosen his grip. She knew better than to try and stop him herself. Trapped in a battle mindset, he might hurt her without realizing it. But she _had_ to stop him. The human male was slowly going limp beneath the prince's strangling grip. Nuada growled vicious curses in Gaelic. If he killed him, then King Balor would…

Flash of light on metal. The assassin's fist shot out and connected with Nuada's ribs. Nuada jerked. The assassin made an odd twisting motion with his arm. There was a muffled _crunch_. Nuada grunted as vicious pain flashed through his side. Liquid gold spilled down his belly to drip to the floor. Dylan hadn't even managed to struggle to her feet before the assassin hit Nuada once more. Twisted his arm again. There was a second _crunch_ and more blood flowed. A third blow brought even more blood. The prince groaned, faltered - just a little. Just enough. Before he could recover, the killer head-butted the prince in the face twice. Nuada hit the floor sprawling. Spitting blood, the killer lunged for the prince. A small, spiked weapon gleamed in his fist.

Only one word echoed in Dylan's mind. _No…_

Hatred, black and cold and poisonous, flooded Dylan's veins. With a half-snarled scream of rage and terror, she launched herself at the assassin before he could touch Nuada again.

**.**

Erik growled and vainly attempted to heft his hammer as he strained to escape Guardsman Siothrún's grappling hold. The royal guard had dragged him down the hall, _away_ from the healing chamber, when the prince had pinned the human assassin and begun beating him. Erik wouldn't have cared, except that as the Butcher had hauled the Nordic Elf down the corridor, Erik had seen Nuada hit the floor, bleeding.

"Let me go, curse you! He needs help!"

"He disobeys the king by attacking the human," the Butcher snapped at the dökkálfr. "Loén," he added to his junior partner, whose eyes darted frantically between the door and his senior partner, "stay right where you are!" Erik growled like a wolf, teeth bared, and tried to twist away from Siothrún. The royal guard slammed Erik forcibly into the wall. The Nordic Elf's mouth hit stone. His teeth cut his lips, drawing silver blood. "Balor _told_ him to let the mortal go. He has obviously refused."

"He's your prince! That human will _kill_ him!"

Tonelessly, the guard who'd been sent to fetch Chief Healer Somhairle - and sent his junior partner to do it instead - said, "I'm sure the king would actually prefer it that way."

"Bastard! How can you-" Erik's verbal assault was quickly cut off when a shrill but still masculine shriek echoed down the corridor from the healing chamber. Erik frowned. "That wasn't the prince." Another, lower shriek followed the first. "What is-"

"He killed the human," Siothrún snarled. There was a strangled cry from the chamber. The sharp smell of blood flooded the corridor. Both guards and the dökkálfr heard a choked whimper, a gurgle, and then silence. "That treasonous wretch _killed_ him." The guard abruptly released Erik and bolted down the hall toward the chamber. The dökkálfr and the younger guardsman followed hot on his heels. All three warriors halted in the doorway. Siothrún swore viciously. Loén staggered back. Erik's mouth fell open in utter shock.

Dylan hunched on the floor, pale as a corpse, white-lipped, her cheeks sprinkled with red, her hands gloved in crimson gore. Human blood spattered her simple, blue _leine_. She trembled violently. Every breath she drew hitched and shuddered. A dirk, smeared with blood and dripping scarlet on the floor, was clutched in one hand. Her other hand was cradled to her chest, the wrist swollen and purple with bruising. The mortal woman's gaze was glassy, vacant. She didn't even notice when Prince Nuada, moving stiffly, covering his side with one hand, gently pried the knife out of her hand and set it on the floor a safe distance away. The prince spared not a glance for the assassin. He didn't need to anymore.

Erik swallowed bile as he stared down at the dead human male on the floor. Nuada hadn't killed him. The prince didn't kill so inelegantly or so savagely. But Lady Dylan… he couldn't put the image Nuada had painted of the human woman together with what she'd done to this would-be killer. How many times had she stabbed him? Where had she even come by the strength?

"Dylan?" The prince whispered, gently touching her cheek. Her skin was icy. "Dylan, look at me."

She only shook her head. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off the corpse. "I didn't… he hurt you, I… I had to… I didn't want to…"

"Nuada," Erik said softly. The prince glanced at him. Erik nodded to the hand clapped to Nuada's side. Blood seeped between white fingers - not so much that the prince was in danger of bleeding to death, but enough to show that he was truly hurt and in need of healing. "You're wounded."

"It can wait," the prince replied in a low voice. "It hurts, but it isn't deep. Siothrún, fetch Healer Lóegaire. _Now_," he snarled. To the human girl, he added, "Dylan, it's all right. Look at me." He turned her face to him and peered into her glassy eyes. "You did nothing wrong, mo duinne. Do you understand me? You did nothing wrong. You saved my life. Look at me," he said when her eyes darted back to the dead assassin. "Look only at me. Erik, do something with that," he said contemptuously, flicking his eyes to the corpse. "Get it out of here. Don't look, mo duinne. Look only at me." Nuada cupped her cheek with his free hand, uncaring of the iron-laced blood smearing her skin, blocking her view as the other Elf hefted the corpse and dragged it from the room. "You were very brave, Dylan. It's all right. We're safe now. You saved me."

"I killed him," she whispered. "I didn't… I shouldn't have… I couldn't get a clean shot, I missed the first time, I couldn't-"

"Shhh," he said. "I know. You tried to make it quick, I know. It's all right." He reached out and pulled her against his side, holding her with one arm. One of Dylan's hands scrabbled weakly at his shirt before clutching it tightly. The other hand, Nuada saw with a fresh spike of hatred and rage, hung limp at a sick angle on a broken wrist. Dylan buried her face in his chest and sobbed, half in relief and half in pain. Nuada held her close and pressed his cheek to her hair. Relief shuddered through him. She was alive. She was _alive_. He'd thought… oh, gods, he'd thought…

"I'm here," he whispered against her hair. The assassin was dead, so he could focus on his lady, who trembled because of the vicious pain throbbing through her wrist as well as the ebb of the adrenaline in her blood. "I'm here, Dylan. You're safe. You're safe now."

Nuada pressed his lips to her temple. He ignored the arrival of Guardswoman Ailís and his two remaining bodyguards. Prior to entering his father's study, he'd dispatched Guardsman Lorcc and Guardsman Mahon to make sure 'Sa'ti and A'du weren't still at the servants' solstice party (and if they were, the guards' new assignment was to escort the children back to their mistress's suite). He'd sent his other two guards, Étaín and Brádach, to ensure Dylan's sister remained unharmed, for his lady's sake and just to be safe, and to keep her in the consort's suite until further notice - at Dylan's request. Wink and Lorelei had gone to the servants' nursery to check on Niamh, the halfling child that, according to rumor, was Nuada's illegitimate daughter. The last time assassins had come after Dylan, they'd also attacked the children, Wink, Lorelei, and Dylan's brother; Nuada was taking no chances this time. And Tsu's'di and two of Nuada's guards, Ríagáin and Odhrán, had been injured in the previous altercation and so were with Healer Conn in another room of the Healers' Wing. All but one of Dylan's guards was also with the healers and/or being interviewed for more information about the initial assassination attempt.

"He'll not touch you again, I swear it. You're safe." Glancing at the guards in the doorway, he barked, "Fetch Chief Healer Somhairle and Healer Táebfada! Ailís, send word to the king that Lady Dylan has been attacked _again_." The three Butchers left to do as he bid.

"He tried to hurt you," she whispered against his shoulder. "I had to stop him, I-"

"I know. I know. It's all right." He slowly got to his feet, bringing her with him. The room spun in dizzying circles. He swallowed back the lightheadedness, ignored the blistering pain in his side, and focused on the one who needed him. "Listen to me. We're both injured. We need a healer-"

Her eyes widened. Some of the glassiness faded. "You're hurt." She scanned his face, which bled from dozens of scrapes and cuts, then her eyes dropped to the hand pressed to his side. "You're bleeding. Sit down."

"I'm well enou-"

"_Sit_," she snapped, voice oddly brittle. "Sit down." Her good hand shook as she feebly pushed him toward the bed. Knowing that arguing with her would only distress her further, and feeling sick from the pain and loss of blood, he did as she said. Was she trying to sublimate her shock and revulsion and fading terror in work? She'd done the same in the sanctuary all those moons ago. Why not now?

Dylan sank - or rather, flopped - to the floor. She didn't seem to notice the pool of blood on the ground, or how the blood soaked her skirt. A dull sort of anger flashed through her eyes when, after pulling Nuada's hand from his side and cutting away his very expensive velvet tunic and silk shirt, she saw the four puncture marks, oozing amber blood, surrounded by darkening bruises. She touched the bruise with light fingers. Bone-deep, nauseating pain made Nuada's side spasm. He hissed a sharp oath through clenched teeth.

"I think your ribs are broken."

Nuada's eyes landed on the weapon the assassin had used against him. It looked like a slim knife, but dozens of slender spikes studded the blade. Nuada swore again.

"_That_," he snarled, "is a torturer's weapon; a gancanaugh blade. When the spikes are activated with the right movement, they have enough magically-boosted force to break bone." Which meant his ribs probably _were_ broken, and also explained, he thought sourly, feeling rather lightheaded, why the wound bled so much and hurt so badly, yet wasn't deep enough to have hit any internal organs or major blood vessels.

Dylan tried to grab the pillow from the bed and hunched her shoulders, shuddering. Nuada glanced at her sharply. Carefully brushed the hair back from her face and studied the familiar features. She still had the cut from the arrow graze on her cheek and a bruise where the Dilong assassin had struck her. She'd refused to let Somhairle tend either, protesting that it was just a little bruise and a scratch and not worth the bother. The cut had started bleeding again. A tiny dribble of blood smeared her cheek with red. Her eyes were slightly glassy - from shock, he thought. Her face was white as milk.

"Sit down, mo duinne," he murmured, tugging her skirt a little. "Let's tend to your hurts as best we may before we see to mine." It was a testament to how shaken she was that she actually obeyed without protest. Nuada cupped her broken wrist. At his touch, Dylan went even whiter.

"Bad?" He asked. She nodded. "I can set this, at least. It will hurt less if I do. Shall I?" She nodded again, scrunching her eyes shut. Tension radiated through her entire body. Knowing this, Nuada tried to be as quick as possible when he yanked sharply on her wrist, then shifted the bones so they fit together properly. Dylan's scream escaped through clenched teeth. Two tears rolled down her pale cheeks. "There. Finished."

She let out a shuddering breath and bowed her head. Another tear dropped from her eye to splash the skirt of her simple velvet dress. She wiped at her face with the back of her uninjured wrist. Nuada reached up and lifted her chin so he could meet her eyes.

"I am so sorry," he murmured. Her eyes widened and she frowned, baffled. "I swore to protect you, and what sort of job have I done? I bring you into my world, promise you a life of magic and wonder as a princess, but all I give you is danger. Twice tonight you were nearly killed. _Twice_, Dylan, and I am yet too selfish to let you go."

Gentle fingers brushed the edge of the royal scar. That touch, chaste as it was, seared him to the bone. He covered her hand with his and closed his eyes.

"It was my choice," was all she said. Then she withdrew from him, pulled the pillow from the bed, yanked off the black linen pillowcase, and awkwardly folded it into a cloth pad. Gently moving Nuada's hand out of her way, she pressed the cloth to the bleeding punctures. The pressure made him grit his teeth against the invectives burning in his throat. "Hold that there," she mumbled. "A healer's coming, right? So just… just hold… that there. I know it hurts, but keep pressure on it." Dylan looked around as if in a daze before just sitting on the floor and closing her eyes. She drew a shaky breath.

"What in the name of all the gods beyond the stars _happened?_" Nuada glanced over to see Táebfada and Somhairle standing in the doorway, both of them with mouths agape.

Lóegaire slipped between them and surveyed the congealing blood pool, the broken chair, and the other remnants of the fight. The Elven mind-healer said to the prince, "I had heard you were both attacked by Faerie-born human assassins, Your Highness." Nuada nodded, never taking his eyes from Dylan's waxy face. "Did _she_ kill…?" Lóegaire trailed off. Nuada nodded again. The old Elf woman frowned. She wasn't all too sure Lady Dylan was mentally stable enough to handle the psychological aftermath of killing someone, even a murderous attacker, with the brutality apparent from the blood spatter on the floor and the mortal's dress. "How is she?"

"She needs a healer," the prince murmured. Dylan, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was the topic of conversation, pressed her forehead against Nuada's knee. She tucked her broken wrist against her chest. He laid the hand not slicked with his own blood against her hair. "Her wrist is broken. She's injured her right knee, she's bruised up, there may be some damage to her throat, and she has a cut on her cheek."

Dylan finally stirred. "Nuada's hurt," she whispered. She didn't lift her face from his knee. The fingers of her uninjured hand twisted in the loose fabric of his trews. "That monster hurt him."

"Don't worry, Lady Dylan. I will see to the prince personally," Somhairle said after a long silence. When he took a step forward, Dylan's head shot up. Her eyes were wide, her expression wary. Somhairle held up his hands. "I'll not hurt him, my lady, I swear to you."

The mortal eyed him. "You work for the king."

Everyone froze. Nuada forced back the blood-loss-induced lightheadedness and touched his truelove's face. "Dylan, you can trust Somhairle. Neither my father nor those loyal to him would hurt us."

"Then why didn't Siothrún help you when someone tried to kill you?" She demanded, voice nearly breaking. Her eyes slashed from Nuada's face to the Butcher Guard standing behind the trio of Elven healers. "I heard you. I _heard_ you, you bastard." Nuada's eyes widened. She didn't notice. "I heard what you said. You said, 'The king would actually prefer it' if the assassin killed Nuada. You wouldn't help him. And if the king _didn't_ order you to abandon your prince, you're dead. I'll tell the king you betrayed the royal family. You left Nuada to die."

The guard shook his head. "The attack may have left you… confused, my lady. I would never betray my king-"

"Oh, stop lying," Erik said from behind the guard. He shoved Siothrún out of his way and stalked into the healing chamber. Human blood smeared his clothes and skin. Sensing impending confrontation, Lóegaire came further into the room, careful to maintain her distance from the warriors. "You stopped me from going to Nuada's aid," Erik snapped. "You refused to help him against the assassin because he was human. Or because you've no loyalty to the crown prince of your kingdom; I can't decide which. Lady Dylan isn't confused. She just knows how to pay attention. If not for her courage and quick action, both she _and_ the prince might very well be dead now. But you were no doubt counting on that, weren't you?"

Nuada caught Erik's eye and inclined his head. The dark-haired Nordic Elf nodded - Siothrún was going nowhere. The prince focused on the mortal glaring with obvious suspicion at Somhairle. "Dylan, Somhairle is trustworthy. He's a healer, like you. You told me once of the Oath you took when you finished medical school, do you remember? Somhairle took a similar oath. He is my father's friend, but I've known him since I was a child. He would never hurt me. You can trust him."

Edgy, unable to suppress the nerves and adrenaline jumping in her blood, unable to ignore the fear still festering in the pit of her stomach, Dylan shook her head. "No. I want Táebfada to look at you. Please." Nuada agreed without argument. Normally that would've surprised her, but Dylan was too busy eyeing the potential enemies in the room. The female Elven healer went to the prince and immediately placed her hand over the cruel wound in his side. Dylan felt some of the pain-induced tension fade from the prince's body. She glanced at him. He offered her a tight smile. Táebfada suddenly reached out and touched Dylan's wrist with her other hand. Dylan tensed, shoulders hunching defensively. There was a crackling sound, a flash of heat, then an icy chill spread through her wrist. The pain and bruises began to fade. The healer returned her entire attention back to the crown prince while Dylan reached out and picked up her bloody dirk, gripping it in one white-knuckled fist.

"If it pleases you, Your Highness," Somhairle said, "my lady, I will report what's happened to the king. I swear to tell only the absolute truth," he added when Dylan's head whipped around and she glared at him. "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, I mean Prince Nuada no harm. Nor do I mean any harm to you. I will go to the king and tell him what has transpired. All of it."

Siothrún gave a weak laugh. "Somhairle, you cannot possibly believe this mortal's wild accusations-"

"I will also speak to Captain Phelan and Lieutenant Jarláth about what has been said tonight," Somhairle growled at the Butcher. He no longer resembled the moon-skinned, blond vulture Dylan had compared him to the first time she'd ever met him. Now he looked like nothing so much as a silver and gold wolf intent on bringing down his prey - and his prey, this time, was Guardsman Siothrún. Somhairle bowed to Nuada. "Since you _should_ have stepped in and aided the prince. Excuse me, Your Highness."

Erik drew his sword. Siothrún reached for his, but the sound of other swords being drawn from the corridor arrested the movement. He turned to see Lorelei with her short-sword naked in her hand. Behind her stood Siothrún's own partner, Loén, his sword unsheathed, as well as Ailís and a very pale Tsu's'di. Wink eyed the guard and curled the fingers of his bronze fist, making them _clink_ together menacingly.

"On the authority of Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," Lorelei said, voice as icy as a mountain lake in deepest winter, eyes cold as dragon's gold, "we place you under arrest, Siothrún mac Suibhne, on suspicion of treason. I suggest," she added, and there was a ripple of something chill and ancient in her voice that had Siothrún's hand falling from the hilt of his sword to rest at his side, "that you come into the corridor and wait for your captain and lieutenant like a good boy. _Come_."

To nearly everyone's surprise, Siothrún obeyed the rhinemaiden's suggestion. He walked like a man in a trance, ignoring everyone and everything around him. Once in the hall, Siothrún sank to the ground and sat, obedient as a child. Erik bowed to Nuada and followed the guard. Lorelei and Wink exchanged a glance; Lorelei went to stand with Erik, while Wink poked his head into the healing chamber.

"You look like death warmed over," the troll rumbled in his native tongue. "And the lassling doesn't look much better."

"I'll be fine, old friend," Nuada replied in the same language. He glanced down at Dylan; now that everyone she didn't trust had left the room, she'd relaxed, laying her head back upon Nuada's knee. She stared at nothing with unseeing eyes. A chill whispered down the prince's spine. "I do not know about my lady. She has killed for the second time tonight, but this time it was a bloody affair. She's never seen a man killed that way before, much less done it herself. I don't know what her state of mind will be when we are finally alone and she has to come to grips with what's happened."

Wink nodded. "She'll want to bathe. Fresh clothes, too. And you both need food. Perhaps… perhaps you should take her to the sanctuary. She'll feel safe there."

Nuada had been thinking the same. "We'll go as soon as the healers are finished. Keep your ear to the ground, my friend. Keep an eye on Siothrún. If my father summons me or if Zhenjin… if anything happens, send word immediately. _And find the third human assassin and bring him back here._ Do not harm him in any way if it can be avoided; certainly don't kill him. I wish to speak to him - he may have useful information. I shall return by dawn, if not earlier. We'll talk more then." Wink inclined his head and left his prince to the healers.

Once Táebfada was finished healing the prince's puncture wounds and broken ribs - not completely healed, which would take too long, but enough that he didn't need to remain in the healers' care - Nuada dismissed Táebfada. Lóegaire, on the other hand, was harder to get rid of.

"Lady Dylan needs to be in a safe place, Your Highness," the old woman insisted. "She's fragile right now-"

"I know," the prince replied. "I have such a place in mind. She'll be safe there. She'll _feel_ safe there." The Elven warrior met the old woman's amber eyes. "I swear to you, Lóegaire, I will take care of her. But I need to get her to a safe place now. I can feel she's close to breaking. Everything else can wait while I take care of her."

Lóegaire eyed the prince for a moment. "I've known you for centuries, my prince. I've seen you grow from boy to man. I know you're an honorable man, or I wouldn't agree to this. If His Majesty tries to seek you out, I will tell him what I told you regarding Lady Dylan: that she needs to be somewhere safe in order to recover from tonight's ordeal."

After a moment, Nuada said, "My father is the king."

She smiled. "Lady Dylan is my patient, and you are my prince, and a good man trying to do right by her. Let me deal with the king." The mind-healer swept out of the room, leaving the prince and mortal woman alone.

Nuada touched Dylan's shoulder. She didn't lift her head from his knee. It was as if she'd withdrawn completely from the real world. It wasn't a flashback - she wasn't afraid - but there was something wrong. "Mo duinne," he murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She hadn't allowed Táebfada to heal anything but the broken wrist; every time the healer attempted to touch her after that, Dylan had tensed so much, Nuada had been afraid she'd snap. So he was careful of the cut on her cheek as he brushed his fingertips along her jaw. "Dylan, I'm going to take you to the sanctuary. To our haven. Do you understand? I'm going to take you somewhere safe, my love. You needn't be afraid - of anything. We'll be safe."

Slowly, Dylan nodded. Nuada reached into his shirt and pulled out the gold and ruby ring. Slipping it onto his finger, he whispered the words that would take them to the underground haven where everything had first begun for them.

**.**

_Thwock. Thwock. Thwock._

Guardsman Brádach felt a muscle above his third eye spasm.

_Thwock. _

His fingers twitched as irritation surged through his veins. He told himself to remember his dignity. Remember the treaty. Remember his orders.

_Thwock-thwock._

Guardsman Étaín, Brádach's junior - and more laidback - partner, glanced over his shoulder at their current (and most annoying, in Brádach's opinion) charge. Being a member of the Butcher Guards meant that a guard learned to read body language from the neck down, due to rarely being able to see your fellow guardsmen's faces. So from just the set of his young shoulders and the way he angled his body, Étaín projected amusement to his senior partner as he asked Brádach, "Where did she even get that thing? And what is it?"

_Thwock_.

Brádach gritted his teeth as he considered the troublesome, neon-green projectile currently impacting the wall with a repetitive and resounding _thwocking_ sound. "I believe the humans call it… a tennis ball."

_Thwock-thwock, thwock-thwock._

"I know you bozos speak English," a chipper female voice said from behind the two guards. "English and Irish are the two main languages of the Court, and you guys have to speak both of them. My sister told me all about that."

Francesca grinned and shot her tennis ball - which she'd pulled out of her purse to alleviate some boredom and irritate the guards who were supposedly on her sister's orders to keep her in her room - at the stone wall of Dylan's… parlor? Sitting room? Whatever it was. The ball hit the stone with a heavy and satisfying sound of impact.

"So I know you know I want out of here."

"Lady Dylan has said she wishes you to remain in this suite," Étaín replied with an apologetic shrug. Unlike Brádach, he didn't mind the human woman's childishness. His younger sister, Máirín, liked throwing bouncing balls at hard surfaces when bored, too. So Étaín only added, "It's for your safety, Lady Francesca."

_Thwock. Thwock._

"I'm not a lady," Francesca replied. "And I'm older than Dylan; don't my wishes take precedence? I want to see her." The tennis ball bounced off the wall and landed in the waitress's hand. She'd been stretched out on the sitting room couch, but now she sat up and fixed Étaín with a look. The young guard met her eyes with equanimity; at least, Francesca was pretty sure it was equanimity. It was hard to gauge while he wore that heavy iron helmet. "Look, she's my little sister. You tell me there was some kind of 'altercation,'" she made sarcastic air-quotes with her fingers, "and that she's with a healer, for crying out loud, and then you won't let me see her. I'm kinda freaking out. Some sympathy would be nice."

"You have my sympathies, Lady Francesca," Étaín replied, deadpan. Francesca gave him a look that could've peeled paint. The young guardsman sighed. "Milady, we answer to-"

"You like musicals?" She asked suddenly. He frowned and cocked his head to convey puzzlement. She sighed. "A musical. It's like a play, except with a lot of singing. Or like an opera, but with talking. D'you like that kind of thing? Do fae even _do_ that kind of thing?" Étaín nodded. "Okay, so there's this musical I like about this crazy old Spanish guy who thinks he's a knight. Like every good knight, he's looking for a princess or noblewoman to fall in love with and woo. Because he's crazy, he meets a kitchen wench and thinks she's a noblewoman. Both he and his squire call her 'my lady.' You know what she says to him?"

Étaín shrugged, though he couldn't deny being intrigued. He adored theatre. "No - what?"

Francesca smiled sweetly. "She said, and I quote," the mortal dropped the sweet smile and glared, "'Don't you "my lady, me," or I'll crack you like an egg!' For the last time, I'm not Lady Francesca. You can call me 'Miss,' but Dylan's the lady, not me. Now, you were saying about answering?"

Brádach opened his mouth to bite off a scathing retort, but the sight of Étaín stopped him. The young Butcher had turned to look at Francesca, and his entire posture had gone soft and sloppy. His head was cocked to one side, and there was something warm and amused in his eyes, which Brádach could see through the slit of his helmet. Danu's mercy, the boy was infatuated with the human. Nothing wrong with humans per se, but this shrew was getting on the senior guardsman's last nerve. But Étaín had a predilection for shrews and harpies…

"We answer to the king, Miss Francesca." His partner could hear the laughter in Étaín's voice. "After that, we answer to the prince, the princess, and our captains and lieutenants. Lady Dylan requested you remain here until she could come to you. His Highness Prince Nuada turned that request into a direct order. You can bounce your tennis ball off my chest or even my helmet, for all the good it will do you. If my choice is between obeying my prince and being beaten to death by a woman with a tennis ball, or giving into the wielder of spherical death and being impaled like a butterfly on a corkboard, I choose the former."

The mortal began tossing the ball in the air and catching it. Brádach eyed the object with distaste. Étaín smiled behind his helmet. Francesca raised one black eyebrow and tossed her curly hair over her shoulder. "I could impale you like a butterfly on a corkboard if you _really_ wanted me to," she practically purred. The young guard's eyes widened slightly. "And I'm pretty good at delivering death to men by balls. So either way, you're kind of… um…"

She said a word that, only because he'd spent some time in the mortal world, Étaín knew was a crude word for fornication in modern English. He smirked.

"I'll take my chances with the prince, Miss Francesca."

She nodded as if this confirmed something. "So _that's_ how the door swings. Got it." She looked at the tennis ball in her hand. "Don't worry - I'll be _real_ gentle." Before he could ask what she meant, she tossed the ball at him. It ricocheted off his helmet with a hollow _bong_ and returned to her hand without a hitch.

Étaín folded his arms across his chest. "Well thrown." Brádach rolled his eyes at his partner - they were supposed to be _guarding_ the human, not _flirting_ with her; the whelp was actually enjoying the mortal woman's harassment! - but Étaín ignored him.

Francesca smiled. "Like I said - I'm good with balls."

Brádach bit back a groan.

"But," Francesca added, "I also have a boyfriend."

Now Étaín was the one who groaned. "Alas for my poor heart," he murmured. "You wound me, my lady. Have you not a shred of pity?"

The tennis ball bounced off his head.


	87. Brief Sanctuary

Author's Note: Hey, everyone, sorry I'm late with the update! Hope it was worth it! Loves to you all.

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**Chapter Eighty-Six**

**Brief Sanctuary**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Wounds, Heartache, Healing, Tenderness, New Information, a Father's Love, a Friendship Still Strong, and Leaving**

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Nuada stood in fresh black trews, stripped to the waist, leaning against the sink in the sanctuary's privy to study his lacerated face in the mirror. Several cuts and scrapes marred his right temple, cheekbone, and jaw. Brown bruises spread down that side of his face. That human wretch had hit him with a stars-cursed _chair_. And while the punctures in his side and his broken ribs were mostly-mended, and the sanctuary's magic was slowly healing his more minor injuries, sickly yellow and brown spread like a disease down his right side. And he still had a black eye and bruised jaw on the other side, and a cut lip. If not for the need to get Dylan to the sanctuary quickly, he would've had everything tended by the healer, but… well, he'd had other priorities. At least he'd been able to wash. He felt as refreshed as possible under the circumstances.

Finally he walked back into the main room of the subterranean haven and found Dylan. She'd spent nearly an hour in the tub; the only reason she hadn't fallen asleep and drowned was because he'd ordered the crinaeae bound to the sanctuary's water-system to keep an eye on her. While she'd been in the bath and he'd showered, another elemental had set up a meal. Dylan hadn't touched a bite of it, though she had to be starving. When he'd summoned Lóegaire in Findias, he'd done so because if Dylan broke, the Elven mind-healer would've been able to help. But Dylan hadn't broken - _then_.

Nuada stopped in the doorway to the main room.

Dylan hunched on the bed, Cethlenn's golden quilt draped loosely around her shoulders. She was dressed almost ridiculously in a pair of Nuada's sleeping trews and one of his tunics; they hadn't had time to grab clothes, and she'd begged to be allowed to wear one of his shirts. She looked like a lost waif in those clothes. Pale and trembling, lips pressed so tightly together they were bloodless, she wrapped her arms about herself as if cold. Her eyes, when they fixed on him, were wide and wet. Even as he watched, two crystal tears rolled down her cheek. He strode to her and knelt, grasping her hands. They were like ice in his grip.

"I'm here, mo cridh." Nuada gently stroked her knuckles. "It's all right. It's all right, my love."

"I killed someone," Dylan whispered. A chill went through him at the self-loathing in her voice. Nuada sat beside her on the bed and pulled her into his arms. "Nuada, I killed two people and… and while I did it, I didn't even care. That time in the royal forest, when I killed the dipsa in the clearing… I didn't want to do that. I felt bad then; you remember. I was practically hysterical. Even though it was self-defense, even though I'd had to kill them, I hadn't wanted to. But tonight…" She shook her head. "I didn't care. I was covered in someone else's blood and I didn't care. I didn't care about killing. I didn't just kill that second man, either. I stabbed him to death. I… I butchered him. I-"

Nuada jerked her tight against him. "No, beloved," he whispered against her hair. "No. You did what was necessary, nothing more. I'm sorry that kind of violence had to touch you. I know you seek to preserve life, to help others. I'm so sorry. It is my fault, none of yours."

"S'not your fault," she mumbled. "I did it, I… am I evil?" He stared at her. "I should care that I killed, shouldn't I? I should regret it, the necessity of it. Like before. But this time, I don't. I was _covered_ in his blood. He made the most horrible sounds… but I didn't care. I wanted him dead. I was just so angry, I… I _wanted_ him dead. I murdered him."

"Stop it." He gripped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. "Stop it now. That's not true. You were protecting yourself. Protecting _me_. Without you, I might very well be dead now. You had to kill him."

"Not like that," she protested. She could still smell the reek of blood; even now, it made her stomach roll. She could still hear the sick gurgling of the assassin's dying breath. "I didn't have to kill him like that."

"How can you condemn yourself but not me?" He asked softly. She jerked back, eyes flashing with protective love and the faintest tinge of anger. "I killed the first human, did I not? Bound, unarmed, I drove my sword through his chest. I'll even admit I felt immense satisfaction doing it. The man you executed wasn't bound or helpless. He was armed and meant to kill us both. You're smaller, physically weaker than he was, and you were badly injured. You did what you had to - nothing more. You are _not_ evil, Dylan." He cupped her uncut cheek. "It was the only way to protect us both, my love. You defended yourself and me as best you could."

Nuada pressed his lips to her forehead. He wanted to kiss her mouth - to hold her against him and wrap his body around hers, make her feel safe and protected and strong again - but he knew if he did that, the night's events would rise up, break his restraint _and_ hers, and they'd end up tangled together in the sanctuary's lone bed, trying to drown pain and fear in a haze of desire. He wouldn't do that to her. That wasn't what she needed from him. And he _would_ be what she needed, by the Fates, just as she always tried to be for him.

"You say you don't regret taking that assassin's life, but I feel your sorrow. How could you not grieve, even for your enemies? You, who prayed for mercy on Eamonn's soul, who bid me spare the mortal killer who sought to take your life; who pleaded with me on behalf of the leanashe." He kissed her temple. "Yes, the assassin's death was a hard one, but it was relatively quick. You were frightened, Dylan, exhausted and in pain. You acted instinctively to protect someone you love. There is no evil in that. Do you understand me?"

After a long time, she nodded. "Yeah. Okay, yeah." She swiped at the solitary tear on her cheek. "Okay. It was just… a shock. That's all. Oh, I'm sorry about the gown," Dylan whispered. Nuada frowned. "I just remembered. You were mad before; I'm sorry. I had to cut up the skirt so I could run. I know it was expensive and-"

"I don't give a damn about that," he snapped. "I only care about you. I wasn't angry about the gown; I was merely worried about… everything. You and Zhenjin and what my father would do." Nuada nuzzled her hair. "I shall buy you a new gown as soon as you wish. I'll buy you dozens in moonbeam silk and silver velvet and cloth-of-gold. I will give you the world if you ask it of me."

Dylan cuddled against him. "You're a total romantic. You know that, don't you?" She sniffled. Gestured helplessly, pushing stray curls from her face. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm such a crybaby tonight. I just… tonight was supposed to be… Everything's been so… and Zhenjin… he was hurt so badly and that Elf… the one I killed, he was _torturing_ him and… and he…" Suddenly, she burst into tears. Pressing her face into Nuada's chest, she sobbed, "Nuada, I was so scared. I didn't know what to do, I was so scared, and you were hurt, and Zhenjin! I thought he was going to die and I thought that man was going to kill you, too. I was so scared!"

"Shhh," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I know. I know. But I'm here now. It is all right, Dylan. I'm here." When she was calm again, exhausted and limp in his arms, Nuada wiped the last of her tears away with his thumbs. Drawing a deep breath, he took his courage in hand and whispered, "Tonight was… I was frightened, too, Dylan." She stared at him, stunned. "When I saw the assassin with you…" He swallowed hard. "You were so very still. I thought… for a moment, I was afraid… I thought I'd lost you. I thought I was too late."

"Ohhh." She brushed the backs of her fingers over his cheek. "Ohhh, Nuada. No, I'm all right. I'm fine. Really, I…" Her eyes widened and she flushed. It was the first bit of color to come into her cheeks since the final attack. Drawing back, she sighed. "I should be ashamed of myself. I'm sorry, Nuada. I'm so selfish."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

She touched the cut on his lip, so lightly he barely felt it. "I _just_ realized you're still hurt. I was so wrapped up in my own problems, I didn't even notice… I thought Táebfada would've…" Dylan sighed. "But you told her not to, didn't you? You told her to do only what was absolutely necessary so you could bring me here as soon as possible. Didn't you?" He offered a negligent shrug. "Come here."

She slid her hand around the back of his neck and drew him down so she could brush her lips against his mouth in a soft kiss that sent heat licking along his spine. Then she touched her lips to the bruise on his jaw; whispered a kiss at the corner of his eye to soothe the painful bruise there; feathered little kisses down the injured side of his face, always careful of the cuts and scrapes. She let her lips trail across his scraped knuckles, soft as gossamer.

Nuada, in turn, kissed the cut on Dylan's cheek and the faint bruise from the Dilong assassin's cruel backhand, infusing the minor injuries with soothing magic to take away any pain. "I like this better than healing magic," he murmured, brushing his lips against the soft flesh at her inner wrist; though Táebfada had healed Dylan's broken wrist, he kissed it once more. Then, carefully, he leaned in and touched his lips to the raw marks on her throat where the assassin had tried to strangle her. Dylan gasped and froze. Nuada froze as well, suddenly uncertain. He'd let the little game, a way to ease the tension still riding them both, get away from him. He hadn't meant-

Dylan's fingers tunneled in his hair. Was she trying to stop him… or encourage him? He shifted, readying to pull back, and his breath misted against her throat. Dylan made a sound that might've been a whimper and Nuada went very still, desire whispering through his veins. His truelove's fingers twitched against his hair. Nuada murmured, "Tell me what you want, Dylan. Tell me what you wish me to do, and it is done. Shall I stop?"

"I… I don't… I can't think," she mumbled. He felt her trembling. "We shouldn't… I can't think."

Nuada knew he walked a very fine line, so he withdrew to kiss her cheek again. If she was too dazed and distracted by what he was doing to her, innocuous as it was, to give him coherent permission to move forward, he refused to take it any further. He'd have to be a beast to take advantage of Dylan when she was so shaken, so dependent on him for emotional support. He hadn't even meant to take things this far… but she was very good at straining his control. So although he wanted to kiss her throat again, bask in the scent of her skin, he didn't. Instead, pale fingers smoothed over the necklace of rust and gray-blue bruises on Dylan's neck, sending soothing magic into the cruel marks. After a moment, his truelove relaxed.

"Come," he said lightly, as if both their hearts weren't pounding. As if she couldn't see the fire in his gaze; as if he couldn't hear the quickening of her breath. "We both need food. You've had quite a bit of healing done, and your body needs fuel for the spells." Nuada indicated the well-laden table with a nod. "Shall we?"

The meal was simple but abundant - a lot of fresh bread with butter, honey, and jam; sausage-and-egg pocket pies, kept hot with warming spells; a bowl of sliced golden apples; a pitcher of deliciously cold milk, better for restoring energy than cider or juice. The apples tasted sweeter than anything Dylan had ever eaten. When she mentioned it, Nuada smiled.

"They're from my special store that I keep here. When we were here last winter, I had run out and hadn't yet gotten more. They're the quert of Ynys Affalon; when freely given, the amber fruit aids in healing."

"The apples of Avalon?" A wisp of memory tickled the back of her mind. When Nuada opened his mouth to say something, she held up a finger, silently asking him to be quiet for a second. She closed her eyes to help herself think. The apples of Avalon… why was that important? She was so tired, and it had been such a long night, she couldn't think. She'd talked to someone about the magical quert before. When? Who?

Suddenly Balor's voice whispered through her thoughts. _Among other things, the kings of Mag Mell desire… the quert of Ynys Affalon…_

Dylan's eyes snapped open. "Where did you get these?"

Surprised, it took Nuada a moment to remember. "From Princess Eilonwy of Annwn; a birthday gift. She sends them to me every year. Why?" He frowned. "Eilonwy is a dear friend, mo duinne, and would never hurt-"

"No, no," she said, waving a hand to brush that aside. "That's not it. I was wondering how easy these were to get."

"Not easy at all," the prince replied, puzzled. "The yellow apples are the most common, and the only ones left unguarded by Avalon's… defenses. Even the royal family of Annwn cannot get their hands on any but the yellow fruit - and _only_ a few select royals have managed to convince the keepers of Avalon to part with any of the fruit before. Why do you ask?"

Pausing every few sentences to eat, Dylan explained the conversation she'd had with the king the day before about Mag Mell. She expected her prince to get angry; when she'd told him about the king mentioning Mag Mell as a possible cure for her mortality before, he'd been furious with his father for even suggesting such a thing. But instead, Nuada grew thoughtful. Dylan waited while he stared off into the distance, occasionally remembering to take a bite of the roll in his hand. She knew he was thinking, pondering obstacles and possibilities. Since she needed to stuff her face, too, she could wait to pester him.

Finally, the Elven warrior shook himself and met her eyes. "If Mannanan and Tethra cannot get their hands on the apples of Avalon, doubtless the ones they seek are either black or silver. Silver apples are said to confer true immortality - ageless, indefinite life - to those who partake of them, but the black fruit are lethally poisonous, and without antidote. Both are incredibly rare and are closely guarded by the island itself."

"But could we get our hands on them?" Dylan pressed. "I'm not sure how I feel about giving super deadly poison to guys who'd tell a father to kill his own children, but the _silver_ ones don't sound too dangerous. How difficult are they to try and get?"

A strange feeling coiled in the pit of Nuada's belly as he considered the full import of Dylan's words. _If_ Balor was right, _if_ the kings of Mag Mell wanted the silver apples of Avalon, and _if_ Nuada could get his hands on them, then making Dylan immortal was no longer a far-off dream, it was a real possibility. One that could possibly be accomplished by the time they married in forty-six days. After all, they had the backing of an Irish king. They had a potential means of obtaining the apples through King Arawn of Annwn - or at least a source of information about _how_ to get them. The trip to Avalon by ship took less than two weeks; the same for the trip from Bethmoora to Mag Mell, after a week-long trip overland from Findias to the western Bethmooran coast.

It took Nuada a moment to realize that the odd feeling burgeoning within him was… hope. Everything he longed for, everything he wanted for himself and for Dylan - a long life together, having a family as she so desperately wished - was all within their grasp if he could only find a way to get to Avalon and get the fruit from the sorcerous orchards.

But there _was_ the question of the Golden Army and the prince's plans for humanity. He would have to tell her… eventually. Before they married, unless he intended to throw away honor for selfishness and deceit. Yet wasn't that one of the reasons he sought to grant his truelove immortality in the first place? The Elf knew Dylan would leave him for what he had to do to protect the fae. But if she were immortal, as he was, she would have centuries to find a way to forgive and come back to him. They could be together eventually. Dylan was only just thirty. If she obtained the longevity of the Elves, she would stay as she was for decades upon decades. They'd have more time to heal the inevitable breach between them and still be able to raise a family together. He could still give her that precious dream of being a mother after she forgave him for the sins he would have to commit to save his people.

"Nuada?" Dylan ventured into the silence after her question. Her prince had gotten a wistful look on his face and his eyes had turned distant and shadowed. She ever-so-lightly brushed her fingertips against the back of his hand. "Hey."

He jerked himself back to the present. "Forgive me, mo duinne. I'm not sure how easily we can get the silver apples. We don't yet know if those are the ones Tethra and Mannanan truly seek. We'll have to look into it. In the meantime, we need to finish and get back to Findias. I don't know the present hour, but my Father will no doubt be looking for me-"

As if events had conspired to back up this statement of potential impending doom, there was a soft chiming sound and a low grumble. Nuada glanced at the sanctuary entrance and snapped something in swift, sharp Gaelic. A tiny, dancing ball of azure light flitted through the stone and bounced its way over to the table. It tinkled and chimed at the prince, who pursed his lips and nodded gravely. He stroked the top of the little light with a gentle fingertip when it fell silent.

"Thank you for telling me. If you go to my lair near the Central Park Station - you know the one - you'll find payment for your trouble. Go carefully; you know how the tunnel cats enjoy wisp for their dinner." The will-o-the-wisp jingled at the prince before zipping away. As soon as it was gone, Nuada passed a hand over his face and sighed. "Eat quickly. My father wants to see me in less than an hour's time, and your sister is making a ruckus, demanding to see _you_. We will table this discussion for now, but there's time to look into it, I promise you."

Dylan nodded. "Okay. We'll finish eating, go back, and I'll handle Francesca while you handle the king. And Nuada?" He paused, another roll already halfway to his mouth. Dylan smiled. He looked just like a little boy; a banged-up little boy, but a little boy nonetheless. "Thanks for bringing me here. Seriously. I needed it. Thank you."

He inclined his head. "It was my pleasure," he said, and Dylan knew he meant it.

"There's one other thing," she said some time later, as they were preparing to go back to the castle. "The Dilong assassin I killed said something I didn't understand. He called Zhenjin 'pretender to the throne.' Do you know what that means?"

Nuada's eyes widened, then he swore with such vehemence Dylan's cheeks burned. "Yes, stars curse it; I know _exactly_ what that means." He swore again before running a hand through his hair. "It means at least one of the people behind tonight's attacks is Prince Shaohao, Zhenjin's elder brother."

"He has an older brother? I thought he was the heir."

"He is," Nuada growled. "Huizong stripped Shaohao of his rank as heir two centuries ago and banished him to the Yue Mountains with three hundred armed guards to prevent him from leaving the Porcelain Palace. He was to have no visitors, not even his various leman and concubines, nor his children. No contact with the outside world at all."

Dylan stared at him. "He can't even see his kids?"

Nuada shook his head. "It was better for everyone that way, truthfully. When one of his concubines gave birth to a daughter instead of a son, as the healers had predicted, he strangled his daughter in her cradle." Dylan made a small sound of horror. "Shaohao is completely and utterly mad. He's killed more than one of his own siblings and more than one of his own children. Once he suspected one of his various mistresses of consorting with his brother; he had his brother murdered and he killed the woman himself after bedding her - Zhenjin told me of it years after. We were only boys when it happened."

Weak-kneed, Dylan sank into a chair and simply stared at Nuada, one hand covering her mouth.

"The emperor tried for centuries to reason with Shaohao. He killed seven of Huizong's other children in that time and tried to kill several others. Only two children were safe - Zhenjin and Hôu Junjï. Before learning what he was, Zhenjin adored his eldest brother. Shaohao was mad, but he knew he meant the world to the second prince, and Zhenjin openly detested the thought of ruling the Dilong Empire. Shaohao believed Zhenjin would never try to take the throne from him. Hôu Junjï lacked the power to connect with the land, which made him safe from assassination. Because Shaohao seemed to legitimately care for his two younger brothers, Huizong thought he could be reasoned with."

It took a few tries before Dylan managed to ask, "What changed?"

A mirthless smile curved Nuada's mouth. "Huizong has several wives and many concubines - it's the custom in Dilong. None of them bore aught but sons for centuries, yet the emperor longed for a daughter. When his favorite wife bore one at last, he doted on her above all his other children."

Dylan's mouth fell open. "Shaohao went after Mïng Xiân?"

Nuada nodded. "Zhenjin and Hôu Junjï were the ones to hold him off until the Téngshé arrived and arrested him. It doesn't surprise me that Shaohao would attempt to kill Zhenjin. But why he went after you, I don't know."

"Well, that's weird, because the Téngshé that attacked us said his orders were to leave Zhenjin alive."

"What?" Nuada frowned. "You're certain?"

She nodded. "He said… lemme try to get it exact. He said, 'We were going to leave _you_ alive, Your Imperial Highness, as per the orders of our illustrious sovereign, but as you're little better than a dog to the Jade Emperor now that we've crippled you, honor dictates we put you out of your misery.'"

Dark lips pursed in thought. "The emperor must be told, as must Zhenjin. But this explains why I couldn't pierce the glamour and find you, if Shaohao's power was behind it."

"But you're the heir," Dylan protested. "Aren't you magically stronger than this prince?"

"No," Nuada muttered. "We are equal. He isn't the heir anymore, but he was; he still possesses the strength to bond with the kingdom and the land. He is also centuries older than I, and the firstborn."

Dylan cocked her head. "Is Nuala older than you?"

He shook his head impatiently. Clearly his mind was elsewhere as he answered, "No, I'm the elder twin, but I'm not firstborn to my father."

"Wait, what? You're not?"

Startled, Nuada focused completely on the conversation. "You didn't know?" Dylan shook her head. "I had an elder brother and sisters, but they were all killed before I was born. I didn't know them. Magically, Shaohao and Zhenjin are stronger than I, though not by a great deal. I'm older than Zhenjin, which helps me. My connection to the kingdom is stronger, as well. We're nearly on par - I'm fourth-born. But Prince Shaohao… I don't know if he is stronger than Zhenjin, and if so by how much. As heir, Zhenjin should be more powerful… yet he couldn't see through Shaohao's glamour."

"Can fae combine power?" Dylan asked. "Like… if one horse pulls a cart, it takes a certain level of strength, but if two horses pull a cart, it takes less strength from each to get the necessary total; the effect doubles, the more horses you get. Can faeries do that?"

Nuada frowned. "I… don't know. Rather, I know that they _can_, but I don't know if the effect is the same. I do not know if two non-heirs can match the power of an heir, for example, or if several crown princes and princesses can match the power of a monarch. It is difficult to combine power that way; personalities and agendas often interfere. A spell might be able to blend different sources of magic, but… royals have strong wills. They must, in order to rule effectively. I don't see being able to blend such strong wills together - no more than one or two, at least. I do not even think my sister and I could do it. Perhaps when we were children, and much closer, but not now."

"What about tapping someone's power against their will? Can that be done?"

"Only through foul means," the prince replied. "I've heard of it - the former crown prince of Onibi, Prince Zeburan, forcibly drained the power of two of his sisters in an effort to kill his father, Emperor Suzaku, with magic. He bound them with ensorcelled iron and… it's been so long, I can't recall what else may have happened. Only that the current crown prince exposed the plot before the emperor could be slain. But there are two people in Findias who may know what is required for such a thing."

"Who?" Dylan asked, slightly disturbed. Someone in Findias knew how to rape someone of their magic?

"Crown Prince Emīru and Princess Shāuddo," Nuada replied. "They're both part of the Onibi envoy. We can request an audience with them tomorrow." Then he sighed. "But now we _must_ go. My father is waiting."

"What happened to your brother?" Dylan blurted. She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to ask, but the question seemed to leap off her tongue without permission. A follow-up grabbed her by the throat and bounced out of her mouth before she could stop it. "And your sisters?"

There was a long silence. "Muirchertach, my brother, and Muirfionn, his twin sister, did not survive but a few hours past their birth," Nuada said at last. "My eldest sister, my father's firstborn, was murdered as a child." Horrified, Dylan covered her mouth. Nuada murmured, "Her name was Boann."

Boann_,_ Dylan thought, the name of their daughter in Nuada's dream from the previous night. She'd been named for his sister.

"I should have been unsurprised that you didn't know," her prince added softly. "My father's courtiers know better than to speak of it, or of my mother."

Dylan wanted to say something, offer some sympathy. She didn't know why - by his own admission, Nuada hadn't known his siblings. He hadn't felt their loss when they died. But he _did_ feel the weight of responsibility their loss had left him with. What would his life have been like if the three eldest children of King Balor had survived? But she said nothing. Only took Nuada's arm when he offered it and allowed him to take her back to Findias.

**.**

Dylan was surprised but grateful that Eimh and Sètanta were waiting in Nuada's room when the spell took them there. The hounds didn't bark at the sight of their master and his lady, but Eimh rushed to Nuada immediately and snuggled into Nuada's arms. The prince rubbed the top of her head and the silky ears until the she-hound's tail was just a white blur. Sètanta sat at Dylan's feet and leaned against her legs. She laid her hand on his head.

Dropping to Nuada's bed, Dylan sighed. After everything that had happened, she just wanted to sleep; it was almost dawn. Though there was no way in Hades she was sleeping on Nuada's bed. Not after learning someone had poisoned his sheets with Branwen's Tears. Yes, they'd stripped the bed, gotten him a brand-new mattress and bed linens, and washed the frame with some sort of magical cleansing potion thing; that was why Dylan was okay with _sitting_ on the Elf's bed. But there was no way she was going to actually sleep on it. And if Nuada sat down, she was getting up - just to be safe.

*Oh, Master,* Eimh whimpered. *We couldn't find you _or_ Mistress.*

The mortal's eyebrows shot up. She was "Mistress," now?

*You are both hurt,* Sètanta said. There was a low whine beneath the words. *You need a healer.*

"We are well enough," Nuada told his dogs. "Has anyone been in here looking for me?" Both hounds answered in the negative. "Where is Wink?" Eimh, dropping back down to all fours, informed her master that Wink was in Master' study waiting for Master's return. "Contact him in your way," Nuada commanded. "Tell him Lady Dylan and I are here."

It only took a few minutes for a metallic knock to sound at the prince's bedroom door.

"Enter," Nuada called. Wink slipped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. Nuada moved to the window seat and folded his arms across his chest. "Report, Wink."

"Prince Azurefire's condition is stable; the healers are confident he'll make a full recovery." The troll noticed the lassling relax a little when Nuada relayed this news in English. "Siothrún mac Suibhne has been imprisoned and awaits testing to see if Lady Dylan spoke the truth when she accused him of treason. Guardsman Loén is also imprisoned."

Dylan went ramrod straight. "What? Loén? Why?"

The troll shrugged. "He was Siothrún's partner."

"So?" Dylan sputtered. "Is there proof he was in league with Siothrún?"

"That is what the Lord Provost is trying to figure out. The young guardsman claims to be innocent. We'll see. And rumors are flying about Prince Azurefire and Lady Dylan," Wink added. After Nuada relayed this, but before he could make any comment, Dylan growled under her breath and jumped to her feet. She started pacing, teeth clenched, eyes hot. Wink made an inquiring noise.

"I swear, I'm going to _strangle_ the next person who implies I'm sleeping with Zhenjin! Ugh!" Then she paled and looked at Nuada, who watched her impassively. "I mean… I wouldn't _really_-"

Nuada said her name, softly. Indicated he wanted her to sit beside him. When she'd perched on the edge of the window seat, he tucked her under his arm and shifted so that his hair brushed her cheek and his breath warmed the fragile skin at her temple. Wink saw how the lassling angled her body to match Nuada's position; she seemed to move without conscious thought. The troll remained silent as something unspoken passed between the pair. Nuada raised an eyebrow. Dylan nodded slowly. Nuada smiled and turned back to his vassal.

"The fae assassins are to be executed at noon," Wink said. What had _that_ been about? "Your agents recaptured and detained the remaining human assassin. The king knows we have him, but since we haven't harmed him, hasn't insisted on his release - yet. No doubt he'll grow impatient soon enough and force us to let him go. The assassin hasn't responded to our questions.

"Finally, your father wants to speak to you. I'm not sure he believes that you _didn't_ kill the second human. The king himself examined the body, though not closely, to see how the assassin was killed. He doesn't believe the lassling capable of that level of violence." Wink frowned when Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. He knew the mortal didn't speak the language of the silver cave trolls, but he also knew she knew enough of the language to piece together what he was saying. Nuada was translating as a courtesy, and to relay all the little nuances of his words. "If you cannot convince him of the truth, my prince, and that you had nothing to do with Dylan's decision to kill the assassin, you'll get more than a mere twenty lashes at dawn."

Dylan made a strangled, inarticulate sound. She turned wide, horrified eyes to Nuada as the blood drained from her face. "_What?_" She whispered. "_What's_ he going to do to you?"

"Mo duinne-" Nuada began, but she jerked away from him and surged to her feet.

_"What is that monster going to do to you?"_

The prince grasped his lady's shoulders. "Remember yourself, Lady Dylan," he snapped, his tone a whiplash command that drove the sick terror from her eyes. "Remember," Nuada said in a much gentler tone. "We spoke of this before - you must take care how you speak of the king in front of others."

She nodded, calmer now. "Forgive me, Your Highness." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He was right; she was a princess, dang it - or close enough that she needed to remember to act like it. "My apologies; I was caught off-guard. It won't happen again." Dylan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Your father's going to flog you? Again?"

Nuada bit back a sigh and shot Wink an irritated look. His vassal sent back a look of supreme eloquence before leaving the room. That look clearly said, _It isn't my fault you didn't tell her. Last time I checked, you had more between your ears than cotton fluff and wheat chaff._

The Elven warrior didn't bother biting back the second sigh. He looked into Dylan's worried eyes and, keeping his voice firm and gentle, said, "I knew when I killed that assassin that because I did it in front of witnesses - palace healers, my father's guards, and a few nobles and royals visiting us for Midwinter who accompanied me in my search for you - I _knew_ the king would have to punish me for what I'd done, in order to maintain his image as king. I also knew that I had to kill that human in order to send a message that I would protect you from anyone who tried to hurt you. My father understands this. It isn't my father who punishes me for this - it is my king. There's a difference. I can live with this because of that difference."

Dylan shook her head. "He's going to flog you. You almost died last time. How… how many lashes?"

"Twenty."

Her eyes widened. "Twenty what? Twenty-hundred? Twenty-thousand?"

Nuada smiled. "No, my love. A mere twenty. The whip will be tipped with iron, but I will be all right. My father was merciful - as merciful as he could be, under the circumstances. In truth, I'd expected much worse." Seeing the unspoken question in her eyes, he added, "It will happen at dawn." Then he hesitated. "I do not want you to accompany me."

Cool anger filled her gaze. "The king ordered me to stay away."

He shook his head. "No. _I_ am _asking_ you to stay away. I don't want you there."

She looked as if she'd been slapped. "Why not?"

"When I was punished before, it hurt you. Deeply. Even now you bear the emotional scars. I won't inflict that on you again."

"You're asking me," Dylan said softly, "to let you walk out there alone. You'll be alone."

"Wink will be with me."

Dylan allowed her eyes to drift closed. "You'll still be alone." And somehow, Nuada knew that was true. Ever since she'd wriggled her way into his life, entwining herself with his heart and soul, hadn't he felt one step removed even from those he loved and trusted most? Even Wink? He was used to being with her; he never felt alone in her presence. A touch, a glance, a smile was enough to remind him that he faced nothing alone. And he was sending her away. For her sake, and only for a little while, but she would still be away.

His lips were warm and soft when he pressed a fervent kiss to her brow. Her sigh was warm and soft against his throat. "I will be all right."

**.**

Dylan had several things she wanted to do: take a real bath, eat a blueberry muffin (her favorite), check on the kids, go yell at the king, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order. But because she had responsibilities as a sister and as a friend, she didn't do any of them. Instead, with Nuada and the hounds serving as escort, she managed to avoid Francesca spotting her as she snuck into her suite to change into her own pants (she kept Nuada's tunic), then snuck into the hallway via Nuada's suite and went _back_ to the Healers' Wing. She would go to her sister at dawn, when Nuada… Dylan didn't want to think about what would happen to her prince at dawn.

Nuada sent a page to deliver a note to the king informing him that Lady Dylan wanted to see Prince Zhenjin (the Elven warrior made certain to remind his father that Zhenjin had saved Dylan's life), and if the king wished to speak with him, he would be acting as escort until better protection could be established than Dylan's currently absent guards (reminding the king that the mortal needed her retinue back and that something more needed to be done to protect her, since the guards clearly hadn't been enough).

Which was the main reason, Dylan figured, Nuada decided to wait in the hall with the dogs while she was escorted into Zhenjin's healing chamber by Somhairle. King Balor had ordered his personal physician to oversee the Dilong prince's care.

"He's a bit dozy," Somhairle murmured to the human. "It is all right for you to wake him, but try to keep it brief, milady." Excusing himself, the healer slipped out of the room, leaving Dylan with Zhenjin.

It hurt to look at him. Where once his skin had been a healthy copper, now it looked nearly gray. Pain had etched haggard lines into his face that had yet to disappear. He wore a very loose, undyed tunic - standard fare in the Healers' Wing, she'd learned after Nuada and Zhenjin's duel. The unlaced collar gaped enough that she could see the bandages swathing his chest and shoulder. A thick blanket of green wool covered most of his body. Sweat dampened his black hair to his forehead.

"Zhenjin?" Dylan murmured. She knew better than to touch him to try and wake him. "Zhenjin, wake up." Someone, Dylan saw, had left a stuffed toy dragon on the bed beside him. Considering its catfish-like whiskers were tied with pale green bows, the mortal was banking on Mïng Xiân being the culprit. "Zhenjin."

Dark lashes fluttered briefly before revealing a pair of jade reptilian eyes. He peered at her, confused, before a slow smile spread across his face.

"Dylan."

She smiled back, relief flooding through her. "Hi."

He closed his eyes, still smiling. "I must've died and gone on to the Star Kindler's afterlife."

She frowned. "What?"

"Why else would I wake up to the face of an angel?"

Biting back a smile, Dylan rolled her eyes. "First of all, that was lame. You don't really say that to girls, do you? And second of all, I'm not fluffing your pillows for you, or whatever you're about to try to sweet-talk me into."

The Dragon prince grinned, laughing, then winced. "Ugh, do not make me laugh, I beg of you. Mercy."

Allowing herself to laugh, she approached the healing bed and sank into the chair beside it. "How are you?" She asked softly. His grin melted back into a smile.

"I'm well enough," he murmured. Reaching out, he grasped her hand and squeezed her fingers in reassurance. "And you? You look better than you did, but not completely healed." He frowned. Peered at her. His eyes widened suddenly and a shadow of rage crossed his face. "Your neck…"

"One of the assassins got to me," she mumbled, looking away. "He had a fondness for leather garrotes, apparently."

Zhenjin swore. "I'll kill him, if Silverlance doesn't beat me to it." The prince frowned when the mortal offered him a tight smile. "Dylan?"

She extricated her hand from his grasp. Nervously toyed with a loose lock of her hair. She couldn't meet his eyes when she said, "I'm the one who beat you to it." He stared at her. "I killed him. He went after Nuada, so…" She shrugged. "Nuada was down, we didn't have any guards, and the assassin was going to kill him. I had to do something."

"Do you think I would think less of you?" Zhenjin asked after a moment. "Because you killed to protect him?"

"It was…" How had Nuada described it? "It was a hard death."

"No more than he deserved," Zhenjin replied. "He went after an innocent woman and one of the best men I've ever known. Did Silverlance find out who their employer was?"

Dylan drew her good knee up to her chest and propped her chin on it. "They had more than one, I think. A group, working together. Nuada says he's pretty sure one of them is your brother, Shaohao." Zhenjin closed his eyes and swore with startling creativity. His eyes snapped open when Dylan laughed. He arched a brow. "That's exactly what Nuada did," the mortal said. "Do you know why he'd come after me?"

"Not you," Zhenjin sighed. "He's after Nuada. Silverlance is one of my strongest and truest allies in Faerie; when he is king, if my brother attempts to become emperor, Dilong will lose Bethmoora as an ally. Shaohao can't have that; if Nuada pulls away from Dilong politically, so do several other nations: Mytikas, Eìrc, Gevaudan, Annwn, Elphame, Álfheim, Nyame... Nuada's very influential, internationally. The kings of Elphame, Mytikas, Eìrc, and Annwn are close friends of his. The heirs to the other countries are friends and allies as well. And if Annwn, Gevaudan, and Nyame pull away from Dilong, so will Alaka, Eathesbury, and Onibi. King Balor will not risk war by withdrawing his support from my kingdom, even if it falls into my brother's hands - but Nuada would. He would forget the humans and go to war against the Dragon Empire if Shaohao took the throne.

"Most likely someone approached him," Zhenjin added, "and tried to convince him that eliminating you would make killing Nuada easier; or they bargained with him that if he helped to assassinate you, they would help him assassinate Nuada. What doesn't make sense is why Shaohao does not come after me directly…"

Though it sounded as if he'd been talking to himself and not to her, Dylan ventured a thought. "Nuada said you and your brother Hôu Junjï were the only two members of your family safe from Shaohao before his exile. Maybe he really cares for you. If he loves you, it might be why he hasn't moved on you yet."

Zhenjin shook his head. "My brother has no heart with which to love," he muttered. The bitterness and pain in his voice squeezed Dylan's own heart. It was obvious that he hadn't yet recovered from his brother's betrayal. Had he known of Shaohao's evil before his attack on Mïng Xiân and merely held out hope he could be reasoned with? Or was there more to it than that? "I learned that lesson the day he attempted to murder Mïng Xiân," her friend added, and now rage mingled with grief, "_my_ Mïng Xiân, my little orchid - tried to murder her in her cradle. I learned then that there were no depths to which he would not go." Zhenjin sighed. "Forgive me for being so morose," he said. "I'm merely overtired."

"Do you want me to go?"

Oddly, the question made him smile. "You're asking me if I would rather lie in bed alone than enjoy the company of a beautiful woman?"

Dylan scoffed. "Are you propositioning your best friend's fiancée?"

"Are you absolutely mad?" Zhenjin demanded with an even brighter smile. "You are the ideal of western feminine beauty, Dylan, but you're not worth Nuada cutting out and feasting on my liver. I will need that when I'm emperor."

**.**

In the corridor, Nuada heard Dylan's bright laughter and wondered what his old friend had done to make his truelove laugh like that. It seemed Zhenjin was particularly skilled at coaxing a smile or a laugh from Nuada's lady. The Elven prince fought back a flash of something that might've been jealousy at the thought. Dylan cared for Zhenjin, both for his own sake and because he was Nuada's friend, and she enjoyed his company. But that was all. Nuada would eat glass before giving any credence to the rumors that Dylan was allowing herself to be wooed by someone Nuada trusted with his life. She _liked_ Zhenjin, but the crown prince knew that Dylan _loved_ Nuada more than any other.

Yet it was Zhenjin who always made Dylan laugh.

Nuada bit back a sigh. It was such a small thing - Zhenjin had always been easygoing and charming, unless he chose to shuck his naturally laidback demeanor in a fight, either physical or political. The Tuathan prince, on the other hand, had never been easygoing. Not since the queen's death. He could feign it if necessary, of course, but being with Dylan had taught him to truly relax at times, smoothed out some of his edges. He didn't have the talent of putting aside rage and bitterness and hate to charm a smile or a laugh from his truelove; especially since one of the things Nuada enjoyed about being with Dylan - one of the things he _needed_ - was that he never had to hide how he felt in her presence, and she never rejected or attempted to punish him for that honesty. Zhenjin _could_ put aside his darker emotions for a moment, though. Dylan hadn't laughed at all since the attack… until now.

"Nuada."

The Elven prince froze, then slowly looked up from the patch of floor he'd been studying since Dylan had gone in. King Balor stood a few paces away, looking old and weary. His guards, led by the female Butcher captain Sáruit ingen Chuinn, waited a few yards away, giving the king and prince some privacy. Nuada took a moment to wonder what his father needed privacy to say; would Balor tack on another punishment for the death of the second assassin?

Balor strode forward and, before Nuada could blink, embraced him. Nuada's arms came up reflexively. His father hadn't embraced him in… gods, how long had it been? He couldn't remember.

"Father?"

"Are you all right, my son?" Balor demanded, pulling back to grip his son's shoulders. The worry in the king's eyes was plain as a campfire in the dark. "Ailís and Somhairle told me you'd been hurt; Nuala's been taken care of, but they said you refused more than the necessary healing. How badly are you hurt? Is Dylan all right?"

Stunned, Nuada could only stammer, "We… we're both fine. I've a few cuts and bruises, nothing more. Everything else was seen to. Dylan is as well as can be expected." Thinking of his truelove's injuries helped push down the prince's shock enough for him to remember Balor wasn't just his father, but his king. "Are you going to punish her, Your Majesty?" The prince asked.

A flicker of hurt in Balor's eyes when Nuada made the transition from son to prince; apparently he hadn't been ready to be king to the Silverlance yet. But Balor stepped back and pulled his kingship around him like a cloak, allowing his son to be the crown prince - for the moment. "Why would I punish her?"

"For killing the second assassin."

The king pursed his lips. "There was a great deal of rage in that killing. I hadn't thought _her_ capable of such a thing."

Nuada noticed the emphasis on _her_. Of course Balor thought the younger Elven warrior capable of that level of violent savagery. Nuada had fought that way before, even as a boy. The first time had been the day Queen Cethlenn was killed. He'd brought down two of her assailants before they'd taken him prisoner. Wink had been impressed. Lóegaire, who'd seen to him often over the following months, had been concerned. His father had been horrified.

He said the only thing he could. "She thought he was going to kill me."

Balor's gaze sharpened. "How close was it?"

"If not for Dylan, he might have succeeded in killing us both." Concern lanced him when Balor paled and the king's eyes widened. "She saved me, Father. And she exposed Siothrún's treachery… unless…" The prince eyed his father and king. The old Elf's eyes flashed copper.

"You think I ordered one of your guards to abandon you to death?"

Nuada looked away. He didn't know where the words came from when he said, "I know I'm not the man you would wish. We differ a great deal politically, especially regarding the truce, and sometimes convenience-"

Balor grabbed his shoulders again and gave him a small but fierce shake. "Convenience be damned! You are my son! I love you. How could you think…"

Pain twisted Balor's features when wary bewilderment flashed across his son's face. The mortal woman's words came back to the old king as he studied his heir. _At least he_ knows _I care about him. Can you say the same_? The first time Nuada had accused him of attempted assassination, he'd thought the prince was lying, trying to cloud the issues surrounding his belated return to Findias. Once that had been cleared up - he'd sent some men to the forest and they'd recovered the decaying dipsa corpses; which, along with Lady Dylan's testimony, corroborated Nuada's story - so many other tribulations had cropped up that Balor hadn't thought about the fact that his son had believed him responsible for the attack in the royal forest. But that fact had just been thrown in his face.

"If you do not know that, if you don't believe that, then I've failed you yet again as your father. Forgive me."

Uncertain, hating the sorrow on his father's face and in his eyes, Nuada said slowly, "You told me once that it is better to break your own heart than to break your honor. If you felt that honor dictated I be-"

"No," the king said. Prince Nuada tried to hide his surprise. "Not like that. A king does not skulk in the shadows and knife his heir in the back. Honor dictates I treat you with the courtesy due your rank. If the day ever comes…" Balor swallowed hard, and looked away. "If the day ever came when such action on my part was necessary, my judgment wouldn't strike like a serpent in the grass."

"And will that day ever come, Father?"

Balor met his son's gaze and found he couldn't answer.

**.**

"You're on edge," Zhenjin murmured.

The mortal ducked her head, but couldn't keep herself from shooting a furtive glance at the door. Balor was out there; she wasn't sure how she knew that, but she knew it. He was talking to Nuada, and whatever he was saying had her prince… she wasn't sure. It was as if she were picking up echoes of emotion coming from the far end of a long tunnel. Nuada was upset, but she couldn't gauge the flavor of that upset - whether it was pain or anger or sorrow or something else.

"Nuada killed one of the assassins," Dylan blurted. Heat flushed her cheeks. But Zhenjin reached out and gripped her hand. It was such a little-boy thing to do - such a comforting thing - that Dylan instantly felt better. She met jade eyes and said, "There were three human assassins and Nuada killed one of them."

"King Balor means to punish him," the Dragon Prince said softly. She nodded. "A flogging?" Another nod. Dylan felt her bottom lip tremble and looked away. Zhenjin squeezed her hand. "Oh, don't. Do not cry, Dylan. Silverlance will be all right."

She sighed. "I'm just tired and worried. Nuada said he'd be all right but… he said the king has to punish him, for appearances."

Zhenjin nodded. "You and I have spoken of this before. Royals must maintain a certain image. If King Balor doesn't punish Nuada for disobeying him, the king looks weak to his nobles, his subjects, and the visiting dignitaries. He cannot afford to look weak right now, especially not after the attempted assassination in October. Bethmoora has many allies, but there are many who would attempt to move on the throne if they thought they had a chance at success. The king is old, and tired, but he's holding out for Nuada's sake. Kingship is a heavy burden, Dylan. If Balor is slain, Nuada would have to take the throne. In a way, the king is protecting him. Silverlance knew all of this when he slew the assassin."

"If Nuada knew, then why did he do it?" She demanded. "He's going to get hurt, and for what?"

"Because he loves you."

"Then I wish he didn't!" Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned away, yanking her hand from his and hunching her shoulders. "I wish he didn't," she repeated in a whisper.

Stunned, knowing he'd pay for it later, Zhenjin pushed himself slightly upright to get a better look at her. "You do not mean that," he said. He knew her, as well as Silverlance did. She couldn't possibly mean that. "You love him."

"I'd rather he hate me forever than get hurt because of me," she said. "Which isn't fair," she added with a sigh. "I know it's not fair, because I've gotten hurt to protect him lots of times, and he hates that. But I'm used to being hurt. I'm _not_ used to people I love being hurt. I hate it."

"It is the price you pay to love," Zhenjin said. "And he is a warrior and a prince; it's his nature to protect, as it is yours. That is why you will make a fine princess."

She smiled wanly. "You give great pep talks."

"Great what?"

Her smile widened. "Never mind. It's not import- _will you lie down?_" She growled, switching from sorrowful mortal woman to irate healer in a blink. "Get horizontal this minute. Stupid Elven princes with your dumb macho attitudes," Dylan muttered. "Ugh, you're _just like him._ What are you, twins?"

"If I give an impertinent answer, do you plan to smack me?"

"I ought to," she quipped as he managed to sink back down onto the mattress. "Jeez, you nearly died. You're in no shape to be rolling around in bed."

He grinned impishly. "A prince isn't a prince until he is a warrior, and a warrior isn't a warrior unless he can seduce a beautiful woman. So Nuada and I were taught in our youth. I am in fine shape to be… rolling around in bed. I believe you mentioned a sister once…"

She snorted. "Casanovas, the both of you. And my sister has a boyfriend." Then Dylan paused, and sighed. "I don't know if you've heard, but there are some rumors about us. You and I, I mean. That we're… together."

There was a long silence. Then Zhenjin murmured, "If you wish to… disassociate yourself from me, I will understand. Your reputation is important, and-"

"What? No! That's not it! I just… I wasn't sure if you still wanted to be friends if people thought there was something hinky going on."

He chuckled. "I do so love your mortal terms. Never fear, Dylan. If someone tries to slander you to me, I shall enjoy making paste out of them for their trouble." He grinned when she laughed at his word choice. "There; that is a sound I like very much."

"Thank you, Zhenjin. You're a good friend." He inclined his head. "Anyway, I should go see if… if Nuada needs me."

Which, Dylan reflected when she poked her head into the hall, might not have been the best idea. Balor raised both eyebrows at the sight of her. Nuada gave her an unfathomable look. Did he want her out there? Or go back in the healing chamber? Why did he look… she couldn't tell if he was sad or merely exhausted. How much sleep had he gotten? Knowing him, not much. And his expression was so… Had Balor said something? The dogs, which sat at Nuada's feet, didn't seem agitated. Maybe she was imagining things.

Dylan stepped fully into the corridor and dipped a small curtsy - small, since she wore a pair of black pajama pants instead of a skirt. "Your Majesty."

"You explained things to her?" Balor asked his son. Nuada inclined his head. "Good. Are you well, Lady Dylan?"

She paused a moment to consider, then said tonelessly, "I am well enough. Thank you." Was it her imagination, or had Nuada's mouth twitched? "And you, sir? Are you all right? None of the assassins got to you, did they? You weren't hurt."

"No," he said, clearly surprised she'd bothered asking. "I was well-guarded. Allow me to offer my apologies that the guards I provided were not up to the task of protecting you. After the prince's punishment, and after you've had some rest, we will see what can be done about increasing your security." The king glanced down the hall, a distant look in his eye. "It is nearly dawn, my son."

Nuada tensed; Dylan stiffened at his side. Dawn. Nuada's flogging. The prince said, "Allow me to escort my lady back to her suite and I will return for my punishment, Majesty." Balor gave a regal nod and moved down the hall.

The moment he was out of earshot, Dylan turned to her prince. "Let me go with you."

"No," he said softly. "I'll not have it."

"But-"

He touched a finger to her lips, and she fell silent. "You look as if you might cry at any moment," the prince murmured, "and I cannot bear that. I could not bear to see what my punishment will do to you. Please, Dylan. Do this for me. Go back to our suites. Or stay here with Zhenjin if you wish; he'll look after you."

"He can't even sit up," she protested, though she smiled. "I could knock him over with a feather."

From behind the closed door came the muffled reply, "I resent that."

Dylan started in surprise while Nuada rolled his eyes. "Gods, he's nearly as bad as Günther; Álfar have big mouths, loose tongues, and too much arrogance for their own good. Zhenjin was fostered for a few decades in Álfheim and never broke the bad habits he acquired there." The Bethmooran prince shook his head. "But that is beside the point. Have mercy, my love. If you don't return to your suite and placate your sister, I cannot be held responsible for my actions."

Dylan offered him a sad smile. "You're trying to distract me from what's going to happen. You're trying to make me laugh. Thank you."

"If Zhenjin can offer you such comfort, surely I can as well." He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb just beneath the nearly-healed cut. "Do not look so sad, mo cridh. All will be well. I'll escort you back to your sister and return to you shortly. Come."

He offered his arm. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, and allowed him to lead her back to her room.


	88. In the Bleak Midwinter Pt 1

**Chapter Eighty-Seven**

**In the Bleak Midwinter (Pt. 1)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Sisters, a Diverting Task, a Day's Respite, Relief, a Confession, Grief, Gifts, the Vassal's Oath, and a Sudden Shadow**

.

.

"Father, you cannot mean to flog my brother on Midwinter's Day!" Princess Nuala watched her weary father from the comfort of a chair as the old king paced. Balor rubbed his left shoulder, where the harness for his hand of silver and wood attached, as if it ached. Nuala smoothed her hands over the folds of her blue gown. "Father, it is Midwinter's Day! A day of rebirth and renewal, a day of hope and light. A time for family and friends. Surely you can grant Nuada clemency!"

The princess was exhausted, but she wouldn't go to bed until she'd spoken on her brother's behalf. Though she was ashamed of his actions—a blatant disregard for the truce and the king's wishes—she could understand. She'd _felt_ the heart-stopping terror in Nuada when he'd seen the crossbow bolt aimed at the mortal woman's heart. And the king hadn't heard the vicious threats spewing from the human murderer as he'd raged at Dylan and Nuada, either. Nuala had. Just the memory of those threats made her queasy.

_I'll cut her into little pieces and feed her to your dogs…_

"He deliberately disobeyed me, Nuala," Balor snapped. "Before witnesses! My guards, my servants. Visiting dignitaries, including your betrothed! What would you have me do? He must be punished for his transgressions!"

"But surely forgiveness would send a more appropriate message, in light of the season!"

Balor slumped into a chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So I should pardon his crimes because he is my son and I do not wish to ruin our holiday?"

"I…Father…Father, the human threatened Dylan's life!"

"And your brother sent a message that flies in the face of everything I stand for!" The king surged to his feet, expression thunderous, but the strength soon left him and he fell back into the chair again, breathing harshly. "He wanted to send the message that he will kill anyone who threatens what is his, in spite of my orders. That is unacceptable, Nuala."

She ran a hand through her silvery hair, unbound now in the early hour of dawn. As a princess, she understood what her father was saying. If he didn't punish Nuada, it would make him seem weak. Even weaker than showing a disunited front—which Nuada had already shown by disobeying the king in the first place. But it was Midwinter's Day, and surely an exception could be made.

"Áthair, Nuada loves Dylan so much. He could do no other than protect her. You know he is willing to accept whatever punishment you deem fit, but that such punishments won't prevent him from doing what he feels he must. One need only hearken back to this previous October to see such!"

The king grimaced. October, a few days ere Samhain, had brought Nuada beneath the lash. Two-thousand stripes, and he'd received only half, but he'd been willing to take them all for the sake of the mortal that had nearly died tonight. Balor knew, just as well as Nuala, what the prince was willing to sacrifice for the mortal woman's sake.

Balor sighed. Things had been going so well, stars curse it! Yes, Nuada was under house-arrest, but they'd managed a handful of civil conversations over the last month, and that was something, wasn't it? Nuala knew her father didn't want to hurt Nuada. Didn't want to punish him. But she also knew he felt it was necessary. And yet…

"I will delay his punishment for one day," the old king muttered. His daughter perked up, scarcely able to believe her ears. "Let him have Midwinter's Day for himself and his lady. Time enough to punish him tomorrow."

Nuala curtsied deeply to the king. "Thank you, Áthair. Thank you so much."

Balor waved away her gratitude, then rubbed his shoulder again. Nuala frowned—the king's shoulder seemed to pain him often these last few days—but inclined her head and left the room to find her own bed and get some much needed sleep.

**.**

"Where have you _been_?" Francesca demanded the moment Dylan stepped into her sitting room. "What the heck, Dylan? D'you _know_ how long I've been stuck here? And your guards need to stop sitting on sticks, know what I mean? The young one's cute and all, but…"

Francesca trailed off when she saw her sister's stark pallor, marred by faded bruises that hadn't been there when she'd sent her little sister to get publicly engaged at a royal ball. The waitress got to her feet without another word. Ignoring both Butcher Guards, she went to Dylan and slid an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the bedroom. The guards didn't attempt to stop them. Inside, Francesca found Dylan's two talking dogs—she wasn't even going to think about how strange it was that her sister had _talking dogs_—lying across her massive bed. Two canine heads lifted, ears perked. A milky puddle of fur and a sprawling mound of black both bellied over to make room. When the mortal psychiatrist sank onto the bed, Francesca sat beside her.

"Dylan? You okay?" Concern twisted in Francesca's stomach when the younger woman merely swallowed and nodded. "What's wrong? Did something crazy happen at the ball?"

"An assassination attempt."

"Holy sh—" The waitress cut herself off before the curse could escape. "Was anyone hurt?" Dylan nodded numbly. "Who?"

"Nuada," she whispered.

Well that explained a few things—like why Dylan looked ready to collapse in a heap of sobbing head-shrinker. "Will he be okay?" Dylan closed her eyes and nodded. Francesca relaxed. At least her baby sister's fiancé wasn't going to die. That would've just been cruel. "Okay. Well, you look like you need some sleep. How about you lie down and…" She trailed off when her sister shook her head vehemently. "Why not?"

"I have to wait for him to come back," Dylan said softly. Francesca frowned.

"From where?"

Dylan drew a breath that rattled. "Being punished."

"Whoa, wait. What?" Francesca demanded. In soft, halting words, Dylan explained everything that had happened, including Nuada killing one of the human assassins. Throughout the recitation, Francesca's eyes grew larger and larger, and she pinched her lips together until they were thin and bloodless, but she didn't interrupt. When her sister explained how she'd eliminated the second mortal assassin, Francesca hugged Dylan tightly. She could feel Dylan's heart pounding hard in her chest, hammering against the arm Francesca draped around her. The story ended with Nuada escorting Dylan to the suite and waiting for her to go inside before he'd strode off down the hall toward his dawn-tide flogging.

"That is…" Francesca trailed off. She wanted to call this King Baldy a douche, but she wasn't sure if the guards could hear, and whether she could be locked up for badmouthing the king. So instead, she asked, "You gonna be okay for a minute?" Her sister nodded. "I'll be right back, okay?"

With one last reassuring squeeze, Francesca slipped into Dylan's bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and _think_. Someone had tried to kill her sister and her sister's fiancé, and apparently it wasn't the first time. She needed a minute to process that disturbing concept. And she needed a few minutes to push through the feeling of helplessness and figure out what, if _anything_, she could do to give her baby sister a hand amidst all this craziness. Part of her wanted to tell Dylan to get the heck away from this Prince Nuada…but at the same time, she knew Dylan wouldn't listen. She was obviously gaga over the dude, and considering that he was being _flogged_, for crying out loud, because he'd killed someone to protect her, obviously the prince was just as googoo over Dylan.

In the bedchamber, Dylan curled up on the bed with her head on Sétanta's flank, tucking her knees against her chest. Somhairle had done something to eliminate the ache in her bad knee when he'd healed her fractured skull, so the movement was smooth and swift, without pain. Her chest ached, though—ached with the thought that somewhere in the castle, her prince was being hurt because he'd protected her from a group of assassins.

_I'll be all right, my dearest,_ he'd said outside the door to her suite. Nuada had seen her anguish, because he'd enfolded her in his arms and pressed his lips gently to hers, a sweet promise that everything would be well. His breath had been warm against her mouth, his hands strong and sure as they'd smoothed over the plains of her back. _Be brave for me,_ he'd whispered.

She couldn't take it, the helplessness. The thought that somewhere, Nuada's blood spilled without justification and no one was standing for him. The first time the king had flogged her prince, Dylan had been the only one to challenge Balor over the cruelty. Now even she was powerless...

Dylan surged to her feet. The dogs lifted their heads, watching her stride toward the bookcases lining her bedroom walls. She couldn't help Nuada while the king had him, but there _was_ something she could do while she waited for her prince to return. There were things the two of them needed to know in order to put their plan to make Dylan immortal into action. One of them was how to get to the Isle of Avalon and the natural magical defenses the island would use to repel them, both from its shores and from its sorcerous orchards. The kings of Mag Mell, who possessed the power to make Dylan immortal if offered the right incentive, wanted the quert of Ynys Affalon—the magical apples of Avalon. Nuada had said the two kings most likely wanted either the lethal black apples or the silver fruit that granted true, non-aging immortality. Both were protected by guards as well as enchanted means, though the prince didn't know what they were. But there were some books about Avalon on the shelves in her room; Dylan could learn some of these details for her prince while he was…busy.

And if that didn't keep her occupied until Nuada returned, she would write a request to the Onibi envoy seeking audience with Prince Emīru and Princess Shāuddo, since the two Japanese Elven siblings apparently knew about combining various fae powers to create a grand magical total stronger than an heir or monarch's magical power levels. That, Dylan and Nuada had theorized, was how the disinherited Prince Shaohao of Dilong, Prince Zhenjin's eldest brother and the former heir to the Jade Dragon Throne, had managed to keep Dylan and Zhenjin glamoured long enough for assassins to attack them without anyone being able to find them.

The mortal had just settled with a book titled _Avalon: A History of Its Defensive Magics_ when Francesca came out of the bathroom. She saw her sister stretched out on her bed, a book open on the mattress in front of her and three more beside her, and smiled. She knew exactly what Dylan was doing.

"Can I help?" Francesca asked, hopping onto the bed. "Any of those in English?"

Dylan handed over the book she'd been reading without a word—though she smiled gratefully at her sister—and snagged a second book for herself. This book was written in Old Gaelic; slightly different than the modern Irish language, it was close enough that as long as Dylan took time to mentally translate (as opposed to having to keep up with a rapid conversation) she'd be okay.

But would _Nuada_ be okay?

**.**

Nuada stumbled down the corridor, weary beyond belief and stunned by his father's decree. The prince had come to the king's formal receiving room as ordered, only to be informed that his flogging would take place at dawn the next morning. He'd only been able to stare at his father in shock for a moment before the king had gripped his son's shoulders and said, "I do not wish to punish you. It is Midwinter's Day; consider this brief respite my gift to you, my son. And your sister's gift, for it was she who spoke for you. Enjoy the holiday and be with your lady. There is time enough for punishment tomorrow."

Now Nuada's hand clamped hard around his bedpost. Nuala had spoken for him? Why? Because she believed him deserving of mercy? Or because this was Midwinter Day, and therefore it was right that she should beseech for clemency for her twin?

Gods, but he was so tired; too tired to try ferreting out the undercurrents of his father's motives regarding this bit of mercy—if mercy it was. No, he wouldn't fret about such things tonight. He would merely find a few hours sleep if he could before seeing to everything that was required of him today. Midwinter's Day or not, his duties did not cease. There were things to be done: checking on Niamh, the halfling child, and receiving a report on her recovery; giving his gifts to Dylan and the children, as well as his family and Wink and a few others; taking Dylan to see Shang, since it had been a full twenty-four hours since his lady had seen the lóng mâ. And there was information to be had from the mortal assassin they'd captured last night, the only one to survive.

The prince passed a hand over his face and bit back a groan. If only he could rest…but there was too much to think about. Too much to concern him at the moment.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, when he thought of that moment when Dylan had gone limp beneath the assassin, and he'd thought she was dead. Dead, gone forever. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten his tongue. She had been so terribly still…

Slumping to his bed, Nuada dropped his head in his hands. Even now, the memory of that briefest of brushes with death threatened to unman him. He had come so close to losing her.

_And if I_ had _lost her?_ He asked himself, cold dread flooding his veins like poison. _What would have happened to me then?_

He knew. First there would have been vengeance, a terrible retribution to pay back the destruction of his very world. And then, with her killer's blood still hot and wet on his hands, Nuada would have lain down beside Dylan's chilled body and simply ceased. By the time anyone would've been brave enough to draw near him in the cooling of his berserk rage, he would have merely…stopped. There would have been nothing left of him.

And that frightened him almost as much as the thought of losing Dylan.

**.**

Francesca had quickly fallen asleep; she'd put in a full day of work before coming to Findias the night before, and she hadn't slept at all since entering the faerie realm. Dylan didn't blame her for passing out, sprawled facedown into the mattress, the book half-tucked beneath her limp body. The psychiatrist simply continued perusing the book currently open in her lap. So far, she hadn't found anything pertinent to the orchard defenses, or even relevant to the apples themselves, but she'd only been looking for perhaps thirty minutes. If she kept it up, maybe she'd get lucky and find something useful.

As if the thought had conjured a stroke of luck, her eyes lit upon the word _quert_ about halfway down the page. Shifting position to get more comfortable, so that she lay on her stomach on the bed, Dylan folded her arms atop the mattress and rested her chin atop them, gaze devouring the words.

"_There are six species of magical quert to be found on the Isle of Avalon: red, green, yellow, black, silver, and gold. Each species of apple bestows a different boon or curse upon the one who tastes of it. The red apples restore youth. The green can be used to reverse dark magic, and the yellow aid in healing. The black apples of Avalon are a lethal poison without antidote that kills in minutes. Most highly prized by all fae are the silver and gold apples; the former bestows true, unaging immortality, and the latter is rumored to possess the power to grant any one wish to the one who eats it. While those who dwell in Avalon have sometimes chosen to bestow the red, green, or yellow apples as gifts to fortunate favorites throughout the centuries, even they do not have access to the other three orchards. The black orchard is guarded by…_"

Dylan's entire body suddenly went cold, as if someone had plunged her through a thick sheet of ice into a river in the middle of a winter night, then she flushed as hot as if she'd stepped into a sauna. She lifted her head as something in her chest tugged at her, urging her to get up. It wasn't a warning; not exactly. It was…it was…

She heard a shuffling sound on the other side of the door leading from her room to Nuada's, and she knew then exactly what it was. Nuada had returned.

The mortal was on her feet and across the room in seconds, almost as if her feet had wings. Francesca didn't wake. Without pausing, Dylan yanked the door open and darted into Nuada's room, closing the door quickly behind her. She took several steps forward, then stopped, biting her lip. Nuada slumped on his bed, his shoulders hunched as if he were wounded. But of course—he was. Dylan took another step forward.

"I am not hurt," he mumbled, raising his head. His gaze was inexpressibly weary as he watched her. "My father delayed my punishment in honor of Midwinter's Day."

With a soft, wordless cry of relief, she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. Her lips found his cheek; she pressed a dozen kisses to it, overwhelmed by the sudden lifting of some great weight from her shoulders. "You're not hurt," she mumbled, running her hands over his shoulders and along the muscles of his arms, feeling the tension even through his thin linen shirt. "You're not hurt."

"You were worried," Nuada murmured, still watching her with unfathomable eyes.

"Of course I was," Dylan whispered as her hands slid back up his arms, over his shoulders and to his neck, his strong jaw, his cheeks with the royal scar carved deep. Her thumbs brushed over the scar in a tentative caress. She felt a small tremor go through him. "Of course I was."

Moving as if afraid of bleeding to death, Nuada leaned in and kissed Dylan's forehead. "I am well enough," he murmured. "You should get to bed. It's late."

Dylan pulled back slightly, feeling almost as if she'd been slapped. "Nuada…"

"I need you to leave, Dylan," he said. "Please."

Stung, she asked, "Why?"

Nuada squeezed his eyes shut. His hand, which had been pressed flat-palmed to the bedclothes, clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white. Through gritted teeth, he half-snarled, "Because I nearly lost you tonight. Because I have killed men tonight, and their blood and their deaths hang around my neck like stones. I ask you to go because I need you so much in this moment that I am a breath away from tossing my honor aside and begging you to come to my bed so that I might find some solace in your arms, your body. And that makes me ashamed."

She reached out, her fingers just brushing his cheek. He drew a shuddering breath and grasped her hand, turning his face into her palm. His lips whispered a kiss against the center.

"When I joined the army," he mumbled against her hand, "and I killed my first man, my captain sent me to one of the army followers. 'Purge yourself with a beautiful woman,' he told me. Such has been my habit since then when the deaths I deliver become too great. But I would not dishonor you so, my lady. I would not use you, even if you were willing; use you like some beast with a whore to salve my conscience and cleanse my soul. Yet the need is still so strong. You have always comforted me, and I…I _ache_ for you, Dylan…and you were nearly _killed_…" He shuddered.

Now it was Dylan's turn to lean in and kiss his forehead. "If I go, will you be all right?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. "I will be fine."

So she kissed his forehead again, whispering, "I love you" against his hair, and went back to her own room, leaving him alone.

**.**

Usually Dylan woke slowly, unless something startled her out of sleep: a nightmare, an attack, or a cat jumping on her face. But for some reason, on Midwinter morning she bolted upright out of a sound sleep, heart slamming hard against her ribs, tears running down her cheeks. She wasn't disoriented or afraid; it wasn't a nightmare. She hadn't been dreaming of the future, of a family and a life with Nuada, either (and even if she _had_ been, that dream wasn't impossible anymore, and had lost the power to make her cry). Why was there this heaviness in her chest? This crushing sorrow? It wasn't John. She could feel him in the back of her mind, sound asleep still—he worked nights, after all; it made sense for him to be dead-asleep in the middle of the afternoon. So who…

She threw her legs over the side of the bed the moment the thought came to her. Nuada. Something was wrong. He should've been asleep, but instead he was somewhere nearby—his study?—and his heart was breaking. Or had broken. Why hadn't he woken her? But of course he wouldn't. She'd been up all night. She still felt tired, though her phone said it was almost two in the afternoon. Would she ever get any decent sleep in Faerie? Luckily yesterday had been her last day of work before her two weeks of Christmas vacation, so she could catch up on snoozing later with a cat-nap or ten.

Her bed was warm, though her chamber was positively frosty, so her leg wasn't too stiff, and whatever Somhairle had done to it the night before was probably helping, too. Scrambling out of bed, she got to her feet with minimal discomfort. Where was Nuada? His room? His study? What could've happened that she was actually _feeling_ his sorrow? Had the king said something to him about last night after she'd left her prince? Had Nuala?

A thought froze her for a moment. _Zhenjin_. What if Zhenjin had…?

"My lady?" Dylan jumped a little at the sound of Fionnlagh's voice. She turned to the leader of her female retinue. Fionnlagh stood at attention by the window with Gráinne, both of them watching her intently. Fionnlagh asked, "My lady, are you all right? Are you ill?"

Dylan shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you. Are you both okay? And Ailís and Onóra?" The two guardswomen nodded. "What about Uaithne and Ailbho?" Another nod. Dylan got the impression her guards were smiling at her. Well, she'd been worried because all of her guards had been injured—except Ailís, at least until the human assassin Dylan had killed had arrived. What had happened to everyone else but herself and Nuada was a bit of a blank after that (though she knew the dogs were with the kids). But now that her concern had been dealt with, she asked, "Do you know where Prince Nuada is?"

"He has been in his study all day, milady," Gráinne replied, "so far as we know."

All day? Dylan frowned. She'd left him in his bedroom; hadn't he slept? Forcing herself not to bite her lip, Dylan thanked her guards and made her way toward the door joining her bedroom with Nuada's. Fionnlagh stopped her at the door, offering her a thick wool-silk over-robe of gorgeous heather blue glittering with fine silver threads, a more feminine match to the blue tunic she often borrowed from Nuada. Dylan frowned.

"That's…not mine."

"It is, milady," Fionnlagh reassured her. "A Midwinter gift from His Highness, should you get cold at night. And it _is_ cold in the castle, milady."

Surprised and touched—she'd thought Nuada's store of gifts for the holiday was used up after last night's jewelry and the gowns he'd bought her—Dylan slipped on the blissfully warm, deliciously soft robe over her black Hello Kitty sleep-shirt. Immediately the chill of the room seemed to dissipate. She wore her blue silk socks, the ones Nuada had bought for her with the silver starbursts, and the enchanted silk kept her toes warm as Fionnlagh preceded her into the prince's room to make sure it was secure. That done, and when the path to Nuada's study was considered "clear" by both his few guards as well as hers, Dylan went to the study door and knocked softly.

There was no reply. She knocked again, frowning. Nothing. To the guards' surprise, Dylan tried the knob. Finding it unlocked, she let herself in, shutting the door firmly behind her. The guards stared at each other, marveling at the human woman's daring. Not even Princess Nuala entered the prince's study without his leave. Would he throw her out?

But the door didn't open again.

**.**

In the study, Dylan leaned against the door and stared at her prince. He sat slumped in his desk chair, which he or a servant had dragged near the fireplace. The fire had died to nothing but glowing embers on the hearth. Several candles guttered in pools of wax in the crystal chalice-like holders. The light was dim as deepening twilight. Nuada leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Was he sleeping? Dreaming? Was that the source of the pain Dylan felt emanating from him?

He twitched; a sharp jerking movement that made her jump. His head twisted sharply to one side. His hair, lose from the braid he'd worn earlier that morning, spilled across his cheek and shoulder; the sullen glow from the hearth turned the silvery strands to blood. She saw his fingers convulse on the arm of the chair. His short nails bit small crescents in the dark leather. Dylan took a step toward him.

"No," Nuada whispered. "Please…please. Oh, gods, don't…" He drew a breath that was almost a sob. Dylan choked on a gasp. "Please, Dylan," Nuada moaned softly. Dylan's hand flew to her mouth. What was he dreaming? "Do not do this." His fingers spasmed against the chair-arm again. His head jerked to the other side. "I beg you, beloved…please, wait. Dylan, just _wait_." She folded her arms around her belly defensively, sorrow and confusion and the faintest whisper of hurt swirling in her chest. Was he dreaming of her leaving him? Why would she ever? Why did he even consider that to be a possibility? Didn't he trust her after everything? "Dylan." Nuada whispered her name like a prayer. "Please, just wait. Just hold on a little longer."

She jolted. Not leaving him…_hold on a little longer. Hold on._ Was she dying in his nightmare? Clearing her throat, Dylan said, "Nuada." Sharp, firm. She couldn't be sure if the flutter of silver-gold eyelashes and the furrowing of moon-pale brow were because he'd heard her calling, or because of the cruel dream that held him trapped. "Nuada," she said again.

A tremor went through his entire body. He sucked in an agonized breath, as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. Then Nuada bolted upright, much as she had upon waking, eyes snapping wide open and a breathless agonized moan escaping his lips before he sank back against the chair, panting for breath. He brought a white-knuckled fist to his parted lips as he gritted his teeth hard enough that Dylan's jaw ached in response. A low, pain-filled snarl filled the dim study as he hunched his shoulders against the weight of the nightmare.

"Nuada?" Dylan whispered. He flinched as if she'd struck him, then his eyes widened and he twisted in the chair to stare at her, eyes twin gleams in the dimness. He surged to his feet. She stepped toward him, and then he was pulling her tight to him, burying his face against her hair. Dylan felt his ragged exhale before he dragged the scent of her into his lungs. "Nuada, it's all right. It was a nightmare."

"Yes," he rasped against her hair. "Yes. I didn't make it," he added, an ache in his voice. "When the assassins first came. I was too late. I found you, you were so white, so cold, your gown soaked with blood. You were barely breathing." She cuddled closer, the warmth of her breath soothing against his throat. "I held you as…You whispered my name, and smiled for me. Then you were gone."

"It's all right, mo airgeadach," Dylan soothed in a whisper. His grip on her was tight, just shy of too tight, but she could bear it for his sake. "I'm fine. I'm fine, you saved me. I'm fine."

He pulled back to gaze down at her. What did his Elven eyes see in the gloomy light as the fire continued to die? What _could_ they see? All Dylan could really make out with Nuada's back to the hearth was the gleam of his eyes as they roved over her face. Nuada swore under his breath, some Gaelic oath Dylan didn't recognize, and then his mouth was on hers, hot and hungry. He held her captive with his kiss until her knees went weak and her body went limp in his arms. Only when her hand came up to smooth slowly over his cheek and along his jaw, a soothing caress, did he ease back, breathing hard.

"Why?" He demanded in a voice as soft as firelight. "Why is nothing easy?"

Her fingertips trailed over his jaw again, finding tension. She traced the fine Elven features, forehead and slender brow and the spiral scar at his temple, one edge of the royal scar, the curve of his mouth. When she touched his lips, a small smile drew them upward, as if against his will.

"Because," she murmured, "nothing easy is worth having, and what's worth having is worth fighting for."

There were heartbeats of silence, and then Nuada asked, "Am _I_ worth it, Dylan?"

Suddenly Dylan remembered a night, perhaps a month ago, when she'd wept in Nuada's arms over the darkness of her childhood and the horrors of lost innocence. She remembered the words he'd spoken to her then when she'd told him that she wasn't worth him risking himself. Meeting her truelove's eyes now, Dylan murmured, "If not you, then who is? You are worth everything."

Nuada remembered those words; she could see it in the widening of his eyes, feel it when he bent his head and kissed her again, gently this time, a sweet tasting. She'd never thought before about different types of kisses, save those with lips closed and those with mouths open. With this kiss, as with every other Nuada gave her, her prince showed her that all kisses, when done right, were different. His lips were velvet and warmth, gratitude and reverence, as if every brush of his mouth over hers was both desperate plea and tender reassurance. The blood burned in her cheeks as Nuada kissed her chastely; strong hands cradled her face as if she were made of fine porcelain. Thumbs sweeping along the fragile edge of cheekbone, fingers pressing gently against the smooth column of her neck, he pressed his mouth to hers as if trying to memorize the shape of it. The kiss broke like the dawn, slow and easy. She brushed her knuckles over his cheek in a mimic of the caress he often bestowed on one of her scars.

"Are you okay?" She whispered, skimming his cheek with her knuckles again. "You haven't slept, really, have you?"

He sighed. "Not well, but…I will be all right." He kissed her again, gently. "I want to hold you, beloved, if I may. Shall we go to your sitting room? With your guards present," he added wryly, "I shan't be hard-pressed to remember my honor."

Laughing a little, Dylan nodded. "Sure."

**.**

Dressed in a fresh shirt and trews (the ones he'd worn were badly wrinkled from tossing and turning) the night before, Nuada sank down on the sofa in Dylan's sitting room, his truelove curled up on the seat beside him.

"So," Dylan murmured, "today is Midwinter Day, and that means presents, right? Like this." She lifted the soft robe, silk-and-lamb's-wool of heather blue. She hadn't noticed when she'd put it on, but her initials (minus her surname) were embroidered on the lapel in royal-blue silk thread—DRSN. "Thank you, by the way."

Nuada nodded.

"Well, that's good," she murmured. "I figured there would be gift-exchanging or something, so I brought some of the presents from the house. I hope you like them."

The prince jolted. "You…bought me…a gift?"

She shrugged, smiling. "Gifts, plural. One of them might not have turned out how I wanted it to, but hopefully you like it. You wanna open them?"

He stared at Dylan as if he'd never seen her before. With everything going on, it had never occurred to him that she might take time to prepare solstice gifts for him. He'd done so for her, but…but that was different.

How long had it been since he'd received a Midwinter gift from someone other than Wink? Oh, sometimes Lorelei or another friend bequeathed something, but only if he was actually staying with or near them for the holiday. Well, he remembered, the húli kit, Yun Fei, always sent a gift; she never forgot the prince who'd saved her life as a toddler. But other than that, only Wink had consistently remembered his birthday and Midwinter. Even his father and sister were conservative with gifts, though Nuada made a point always to send things to his family.

"I…" It was such a small thing, gifts, and yet…and yet it wasn't. "I would be honored to open any gifts you might bestow upon me, milady."

With a sunny smile and a quick kiss on his cheek, Dylan bounced off the sofa and scampered into her bedroom. She returned with her arms full of packages. She set a few aside—"For the kids," she said, "when they wake up. I don't want them fetching these particular things from my closet."—but laid three parcels before him on the low sitting-room table. Nuada glanced at her. Dylan perched on the sofa beside him, wriggling like a child with suppressed excitement. It must've been contagious; Nuada found himself strangely nervous as he unwrapped the largest package.

Folds of blue cloth appeared beneath crinkling paper, glinting in places with gold thread. The moment Nuada lifted the material, he knew what it was: a quilt, like the one his mother had made for him before her death, fashioned with love in the heart of the maker. Without quite realizing what he did, Nuada pressed a square against his cheek, a patch of blue suede so soft it could've been velvet. Dylan didn't need to ask if he liked it; she could tell.

The second parcel surprised him even more; it was a greatcoat. A very _nice_ greatcoat. Just as good as the mink-lined velvet cloak he'd given Dylan as a courtship gift. Butter-soft black leather lined with smooth, burgundy Elven silk; slitted back-panels for ease of movement when walking, riding, or even fighting. When Nuada tried it on, it settled around him as lightly as a wisp of cloud, the rich aroma of good leather enveloping him. How had Dylan been able to afford such a gift? Had she made this as well? But no, he knew she lacked the skill. Where had the coat come from?

"A jorōgumo in the East Village made this for me," Dylan murmured, "to pay me back. I'd healed her daughter of an illness that might have killed her if left untreated. The local healer refused to help, because they were spider fae. Probably afraid of the daughter biting him while delirious with fever. Anyway, d'you like it? I figured, since you're always buying me stuff, I should return the favor."

"It's marvelous," Nuada murmured. A jorōgumo? The spider fae, native to Onibi, were incomparable weavers. Even Themba, Master Tailor of Findias, couldn't compare with their skill. Prince or not, this sort of article was beyond his grasp unless he knew one of the man-hating Japanese arachnoids personally—which he didn't. That also explained why it fit perfectly even though he'd never been measured for the garment. Just one of the talents of the unearthly jorōgumo seamstresses.

In the final package, Nuada found a matching pair of black leather riding gloves. They fit perfectly when he tried them on. "Thank you, mo duinne."

She smiled. "You're welcome. You've got other presents, but those are for Christmas. I know the kids have gifts for you, too—somewhere—and they'll want to see—"

"Presents!" The high-pitched, overjoyed cry had both adults twisting around to see A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti scrambling out of their room, rumpled in their pajamas, each clutching a wrapped parcel. Tsu's'di emerged as well, moving somewhat stiffly and stifling a yawn. Speaking in unison, the two younger ewah cried to their prince and mistress, "You guys slept forever!"

"I couldn't hold the savages back any longer," Tsu's'di added, grinning.

Dylan grinned back. "Sorry about that. A'du, can you get the rest of the packages from my closet, please?"

The little boy shoved his package into his sister's hands, shot Dylan a salute, and raced to obey. 'Sa'ti skipped over and handed one present to Nuada, the other to Dylan. Then she plunked herself on the floor. At a nod from the prince, Tsu's'di slumped into a chair. A'du came back dragging an assortment of wrapped items on what looked like the blanket from the boy's bed. Nuada raised an eyebrow. A'du'la'di stopped next to the sofa, panting.

"Couldn't (pant) carry 'em (pant) all. Had to (pant) drag 'em," the boy said.

"Bum," his older brother replied. A'du merely stuck out his tongue before continuing his task. He finally brought the gifts to their proper spot in front of the adults and flopped onto the floor.

Then to Dylan's surprise, Brádach and Étaín—two of Nuada's guards—knocked and entered from the prince's suite, bearing more gifts (the two Butchers had been under orders to deliver said parcels upon the cubs' awakening). These were deposited with those from Dylan's closet. Dylan glanced at Nuada, wondering how many of those were for her, and hoping the answer was "not many." He bought her so many things already, things she didn't deserve. The mortal hoped her prince intended most of the packages for their children.

"Just think," she murmured to Nuada. "When _we_ have children, they'll jounce us awake on Midwinter _and_ Christmas morning yelping about opening presents." The prince smiled. Then he lifted two packages from the pile and handed one each to A'du and 'Sa'ti. He fixed A'du'la'di with a stern gaze as the boy accepted the parcel.

"A'du'la'di," the prince said. The boy instantly straightened up. "From this moment forth, you may no longer carry my knife."

The cub immediately deflated. "But…but…" His eyes were wide and despairing in his small face. Dylan cocked her head, eyeing her prince. "But, Your Highness…what did I do? What'd I do wrong? I won't do it again, I promise!"

"You did nothing wrong," the prince replied. Dylan frowned, but waited for Nuada to add, "Open your gift."

Uncertain, A'du obediently pulled the string and peeled back the paper, revealing a box of polished white wood the length of the child's forearm. Lifting the silver latch and propping up the lid, he peered at the contents. His eyes widened and a deliriously happy grin broke across his face. His gaze darted to Nuada, down to the box, to Nuada again and then back to the box. With trembling hands, he lifted out a knife in a silver-chased white leather sheath. A moonstone etched with his mistress's crest sat in the pommel of Elven silver. A'du expertly thumbed the sheath's catch and reverently drew the knife. Silver shushed against leather. An intricate flowering-vine detail was lightly etched along the length of the slender, shining blade.

"Oh, wow," 'Sa'ti whispered.

Tsu's'di leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, examining the knife from his chair. He let out a low whistle. "That," he said, "is a real warrior's knife."

"Like the one the prince gave _you_, Tsu's'di," A'du whispered, staring in delighted awe at the blade. Finally he raised his eyes to his mistress and whispered, "Look, _A'ge'lv_. Look what the prince gave me." Then he focused on his hero. "Thank you, Your Highness. I'll try to be worthy."

A warm smile spread over Nuada's face. "You already are, A'du'la'di. You're old enough to have a blade of your own, one that serves as a declaration of your loyalty. Bear it well."

The child nodded, trying to look solemn but unable to suppress his exultant grin. "I will."

Next to him, 'Sa'ti gave a cry of delight. Dylan wondered if Nuada had given _her_ a knife as well, but no. She was a bit young for a weapon as well-crafted as the one Nuada had gifted to A'du'la'di. A practice knife, maybe, but that wasn't what she'd unwrapped. Instead, 'Sa'ti held a doll. It was made of fluffy spotted cloth to give the illusion of fur, with a feline face and bright turquoise eyes identical to the little girl's. A blue velvet dress—very similar to the cougar girl's favorite church dress—adorned the figure. 'Sa'ti stared with avid joy at the doll, then looked up at the prince, squirming with happiness.

"I've never seen anything so pretty in my whole life!" She cried, squeezing the doll and raining little kisses on its fluffy head. "I love it, I love it!" Scrambling madly, she lurched to her feet and ran to the prince, throwing her short arms as far around his broad shoulders as she could reach, and hugged him. "Oh, thank you, Your Highness! Thank you! I love it!"

Nuada stiffened briefly, then remembered to return the little girl's embrace, patting her awkwardly on the back. Then, as if she'd suddenly recalled that _he_ was a prince and _she_ was a servant, 'Sa'ti stepped back and offered a quick little curtsy that Dylan found utterly adorable, still clutching the precious doll.

Dylan's gifts to the children were fairly standard—more picture books, as requested, for the cubs, and a box of fae candy to split between them. For Tsu's'di, there was candy, too (when Dylan remarked, "Because growing guys are always hungry," the cougar youth grinned); a trio of books he'd admired from the Troll Market; and a pair of silver-tooled, white leather vambraces tooled in silver that Dylan had picked out at the Floating Night Market in Manhattan.

"Whoa. Oh, _A'ge'lv_," Tsu's'di whispered, caressing the leather. "I…I…wow. Just…wow. Thank you. They're so…_cool!_" With 'Sa'ti's help – she was getting good at tying laces, from helping Dylan with her gowns – the youth put on the vambraces. They looked very fine gracing his wrists and forearms.

From Nuada to the children came the rest of their formal livery—including their last changes of Midwinter finery for the rest of the winter festivities. He'd also bought 'Sa'ti a knife, but hers was a simple practice blade. Tsu's'di received his own elegant blade, identical to A'du's, but larger. He gave a truncated bow to his prince and murmured, "Thank you, Sire. I'll try to be worthy of this blade, too."

Both young ewah were also gifted with leather slings, which Nuada informed them they were expected to master quickly (the stable-lads would no doubt enjoy teaching them the use of the country weapons). Second only to the knife and doll and candy—at least in A'du and 'Sa'ti's estimation—was the pair of small bows carved with beautiful knotwork, each sized specifically for their small owners. 'Sa'ti—and her doll—admired the polished length of her bow, made of white yew. Tsu's'di received an appropriately-sized bow, as well.

A'du inspected his own bow with more maturity and a sharper eye than Dylan would've expected from the child. Then he got to his feet and knelt before his prince, hand over his heart. Dylan and Nuada exchanged surprised looks before Nuada focused on the kneeling boy.

"A'du'la'di?" Nuada questioned cautiously, one eyebrow raised. The child raised his head. His expression was remarkably solemn.

"Your Highness…you're giving me a warrior's weapons, so…so I want to promise that you can count on me," he murmured. "For anything. I promise I'll always be loyal to you and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan. I…you know that oath Tsu's'di made when you found us? 'Sa'ti and I didn't make that oath. Just Tsu's'di. But I feel like…should I do it now? You gave me a knife and a bow and you said I'm old enough to have one, so…and people have been saying stuff."

The prince frowned. "What have people been saying?"

"That we're not really your vassals; we're just normal servants, because we didn't make the right oath or something. That when you and the _a'ge'lv_…when you break up…that you're gonna get rid of us. I want to say the right oath. I want to be yours and _A'ge'lv_ Dylan's vassal."

Nuada glanced at the cougar youth in his chair. Tsu's'di nodded, eyes hard and face solemn. So…someone had been saying things either to or within A'du's hearing. Idle gossip? Or something else? Giving away nothing of his thoughts, the crown prince of Bethmoora inclined his head regally.

"Very well. Oath or not, you will always have a place with us, A'du'la'di—you and your family. But as you wish, so shall it be. 'Sa'ti is not yet old enough to make this oath, but you and your brother are." And he would find out who'd been spreading this story of dissention between himself and Dylan later. "Both of you, retrieve your blades and kneel before me." After obeying, the cougar boys looked up at their prince. "Repeat after me."

He walked them through the formal oath of fealty, which outlined the duties and responsibilities of a vassal. At the end, he asked both of them, one at a time, his voice ringing with princely authority, "Art thou willing to become entirely mine and my lady's man?"

Tsu's'di nodded and gave the ritualistic reply. A'du'la'di, looking strangely adult, kept his eyes fixed on his hero as he said, slowly and carefully to keep from fudging the words, "Verily, I am willing."

"Then we accept your fealty with gratitude and love," the prince replied.

Tsu's'di nodded again, but the adult aura around the cougar child fell away, and A'du grinned. "Awesome."

"When will I be old enough?" 'Sa'ti asked in a plaintive voice. "I wanna be a real vassal, too!"

Nuada quickly calculated. "In nine years." Ewah aged one year of maturity for every five chronological years, and 'Sa'ti was thirty-one. When she was forty years old, she would be old enough to swear an oath of fealty.

The child looked horrified. "But that's forevers!"

Dylan smiled at the little girl. "In the meantime, you're still my favorite handmaiden."

"Yay!"

The three ewah, Dylan, and Nuada went on to open the rest of the gifts. The remaining gift from Dylan to the prince was a delight—somehow in her spare time (what little of it she possessed) she'd managed to put together one of the two miniature armies from the clockwork chess set they'd purchased at the Troll Market. He'd been able to put half the secondary army together before this, so if he took some time to finish, they would soon be able to play chess with the clockwork set.

From Nuada for his truelove was more jewelry—a princess, he explained to her when her eyes widened at the sight of a broach made of dark emeralds and amber seed pearls set in gold, needed jewels to help give the proper impression—as well as a set of leather-bound books containing legends from Bethmoora, which Nuada knew would she'd love.

But the thing that delighted Dylan the most was the socks. She cooed at crimson footwear patterned like ladybugs; snuggled exquisitely soft amber-colored cashmere stockings; sighed deliriously over green and brown socks like fuzzy turtles. Her favorite pair, however, was the socks that looked like #2 pencils. Dylan kicked off her slippers, stripped off her socks, and stuffed her feet into the pencil-socks. She wiggled her toes, rapturous. Then Dylan flung her arms around her prince and kissed him soundly on the mouth ('Sa'ti sighed about the "romanticalness" and A'du cried, "Ew!").

The children's gifts to Nuada and Dylan were something of a surprise.

For Dylan, the children had made a beautiful mosaic of the cottage against a piece of old but soft, well-oiled leather they'd requested from Nils, the Master of the Stables, and framed so it could stand up on the fireplace mantel. The granite blocks of the cottage had been pieced together from small, gray stones they'd collected (with permission) from the public gardens; the door was bits of pinecone, which made the ensemble smell of spicy evergreens. Stiffened fragments of lace made up the curtained windows. Tiny pieces of blue and white-frosted glass represented the blue and white lights that had decorated the eaves and walkway when the cubs had first come to the cottage. Small, dried flowers and green and brown stones approximated Dylan's garden, dusted with glued-on flour for snow. Carefully arranged bits of clean straw served for the thatching of Dylan's roof, also sprinkled with the flour (also glued, to keep from making a mess). More gray pebbles and several twigs dipped in whitewash formed the garden walls and wooden gate, and shiny black buttons of varying sizes made up the sky. The moon was a single, shiny button the color of pearl. Flecks of river mica glued to the buttons served for stars.

"Oh, wow," Dylan whispered, brushing loving fingers over the mosaic. She looked at A'du and 'Sa'ti, who watched her with mingled trepidation and excitement. "Where on earth did you two get the idea to do this?"

"It was 'Sa'ti's idea," A'du said promptly with a grin. "I helped get the stuff and put it together. Tsu's'di helped with the leather."

"And the glass," the youth added dryly. I was worried they'd cut their hands open or something."

"So it's from all of us," 'Sa'ti chirped. "You don't get your Christmas present until Christmas, though."

Dylan raised her eyebrows. "I get a Christmas present, too?" The cubs nodded. The mortal grinned. "Well, now I'm _really_ excited."

The cubs' gift to the prince was a carved wooden statue. The statue was a (somewhat messily) painted shield leaning against a sword thrust point-down into the ebony base. The device on the shield was a pair of crossed, black-handled lances, blades colored with shining silver and with golden grips, set against a crimson field. The wooden longsword had been painted silver, the hilt and cross-guard black and gold. It was a (rather amateurly rendered) recreation of Nuada's own blade. Gold paint on a bas-relief on the wooden base made it look like a trophy with a plaque. Words had been carefully etched into the plaque and filled in with black paint: _Honor and Valor_.

"It's like a trophy," 'Sa'ti piped up when Nuada simply stared at the medium-sized carving. Nervous, she directed her remarks to Dylan. "For the prince. Because he's brave and stuff." She and A'du'la'di exchanged a glance, then the child continued gamely, "We thought you could keep it on your desk, Your Highness."

"I carved it," Tsu's'di added diffidently. "Colum McCleod, in the stables, showed me how."

"And me and 'Sa'ti painted it. Is…is it okay?" A'du asked when the prince didn't speak. Nuada simply turned the carving over and over in his hands. "Do you like it?"

Uneasy, 'Sa'ti mumbled, "We're sorry we can't paint very good. We tried _really_ hard. Don't you like it?"

The prince took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing, and brushed his thumb over the words carved into the base. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the children.

"This is a very good gift," he said softly. The cubs grinned. Tsu's'di smiled; he'd been feeling uneasy, too, in the face of the prince's silence. Nuada added, "I'm honored by it." He would, he decided, keep the statue on his desk as 'Sa'ti had suggested.

"_Yes!_" A'du and 'Sa'ti high-fived each other.

"Milady," Nuada murmured, catching Dylan's attention. "There is something else I wish to gift to you. I'll fetch it, shall I?"

Still smiling, Dylan nodded, and Nuada left the room.

"What's all the ruckus?" A sleepy voice called from Dylan's room. Francesca had been shifted to Dylan's bedroom when she and Nuada had come into the sitting room. Now she stumbled from the bedchamber into the sitting room. "Good morning," the mortal waitress mumbled with a yawn, coming in to plop down on the sofa beside Dylan. She dropped her head on her sister's shoulder. "What's with all the presents?"

"Midwinter," Dylan said, dropping an arm around her older sister. "It's like Christmas for a lot of the fae." She hugged Francesca. "When do you have work? You're not going to be late, are you?"

Francesca shook her head, smiling a little oddly. "I won't be late, though I do have to get back soon." Grinning, she leaned in and whispered in her sister's ear, "I realized this morning I left my panties at Davio's place yesterday."

Dylan dropped her face in her hands again, this time to smother exasperated laughter. "You…are…such a—"

"Slut," Cesca said airily. "Yeah, I know. He's hot, though, Dylan, you have no clue. He's got these muscles…mmm."

"Mine's better," Dylan replied, but then she nudged her sister with one elbow and indicated 'Sa'ti and A'du with a nod of her chin to remind her older sister that they needed to keep the manly comparison of their respective loves G-rated while the kids were in the room. Francesca nodded, then arched a brow. Dylan rolled her eyes. "_Yes_, mine is better."

"Well, at least he doesn't live in a sewer," her sister said.

"Your boyfriend lives in the sewer?" Dylan exclaimed, startled. "Doesn't that bother you?"

Francesca shook her head. "I don't know how it works or whatever, but it's like the sewer's not even there. No smell, no rats, no damp or anything like that. You can't even hear the water in the pipes. The whole place smells like sandalwood, actually, and there's always nice music playing. And you can get to it without having to go through the rest of the sewers."

"Huh."

"So I do need to get back kinda soon…Anyway, since it's almost Christmas, weren't you going to take the kids to Mr. Mago-"

Dylan clapped her hand over her sister's mouth. "Shhh," the mortal psychiatrist hissed in her sister's ear. "They don't know about that yet. Quiet." Francesca raised her hands in mock-surrender. Dylan released her. "We have to get permission from the king before we can go, anyway. So shush. Don't get their hopes up."

"Gotcha," Francesca murmured. "Well, I'm gonna…" The other woman trailed off when Nuada strode back in, face inscrutable. He paused at the sight of Francesca intruding on the idyllic little Midwinter scene. "Um…"

Nuada gave her a sharp nod, then focused on Dylan. "My lady, I request your presence in the salle after you've made your goodbyes to your sister." Dylan didn't raise her eyebrows; she'd learned to mostly school her expressions since dealing with the king. Hadn't Nuada gone to get her another gift? He was empty-handed now. And why was he suddenly being so formal? Because of Francesca's presence? The thought of her sister reminded the mortal woman that _someone_ had to take Cesca back to the mortal realm, and due to the means of transport, only one of three people could do it—Dylan, Wink, or Becan, because they would have to take her back via the ensorcelled ring and the underground healing sanctuary. Becan didn't know about the haven; would Nuada trust him with that information?

Apparently he meant to do just that, because after a tiny knock about a foot off the floor from the front room of Nuada's suite, Becan poked his head past the door and then stepped into the room. He swept a low bow to the prince, bowed to his mistress, offered the children a smile, and nodded to Francesca, who waved jauntily.

"Becan will escort your sister back to the mortal realm, and accompany her to wherever she may wish to journey. Is there aught else you require before we go, milady?"

"Well, I need to get dressed."

He nodded and bowed to her. "I'll await you in the corridor." He picked up the new greatcoat Dylan had gifted him with and swirled it around his shoulders, jerking his arms through the sleeves and tugging the leather into place across shoulders and chest. Dylan realized he meant to go outside. A linen shirt and tunic wouldn't have protected him from the wintry chill. Nuada strode from the room, his guards following after.

Francesca let out a low whistle after the door shut behind him. "Something bit him in the-" Francesca glanced at 'Sa'ti, then said, "Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed. Oh, wait. Didn't he, uh…" She mimed cracking a whip.

"No, it was postponed," Dylan mumbled. "I don't know why he's suddenly so tense. Something must have happened."

"Okay, then something definitely bit him on his incredibly well-toned…posterior, Francesca substituted at the very last second.

"Huh," Dylan said, only half paying attention. As soon as they were alone, she was getting to the bottom of whatever was bothering her prince. "Never mind, Cesca. Becan will take care of you." On impulse, the mortal psychiatrist kissed her sister on the cheek. "Thank you for helping me, Cesca. I really needed it."

"No problem, sweets," she murmured, getting to her feet. "See ya later." She followed Becan into Dylan's bedroom.

Dylan waited a couple minutes to make sure they were gone—it was rather disorienting to watch someone simply blink out of existence—before going into her room herself to change. Whatever was suddenly bothering Nuada, she was going to find out exactly what it was ASAP.

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_**Author's Note:**__ Dun-dun-DUN! So what do you guys think? Questions, comments, smart remarks? Love you all! Feel free to review_. =)


	89. In the Bleak Midwinter Pt 2

**Chapter Eighty-Eight**

**In the Bleak Midwinter (Pt. 2)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Bad Report, a Few Good Shots, a Tumble in the Hay, a Lovespoon, a Visit with the Prince, and Talk of Torture**

.

.

"Are you ever going to tell me what's wrong?" Dylan asked as she watched Nuada stare at the weapons' racks on the far wall of the salle. He glanced at her, then glanced away. "I know something's wrong," she added, slipping her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. "Why won't you tell me?"

Nuada sighed, shoulders slumping. For a moment a look of defeat crossed his features, and then he said, "You remember the trouble the northern villages were having with bandits?" A muscle twitched in his jaw. "We've discussed it before."

Dylan nodded, daring drawing to draw close to him. "Yeah, I remember. You said it was the villages of…" She tried to remember. "Lallybroch, Etinsmoor, Fear Manach, Breifne, Laois, and Kilcommon." Six villages, Dylan thought, doing poorly since the summer, and under constant attack over the last few months by roaming bandits…and the king would do nothing.

Nuada's brow quirked. He looked…impressed. "You remembered them all."

"Of course," she said softly. "They're my people, too, now."

Her prince gifted her with a tender look of pride edged with something that might have been pain before drawing a folded paper from a pocket inside his tunic. He simply stared at it for several moments with a blank face and anguished eyes. The muscle in Nuada's jaw spasmed. Drawing a deep breath that seemed to hurt him, he handed her the paper.

It was a letter, the burgundy seal already broken. Dylan remembered Nuada saying once that burgundy wax was often used by village headmen for official missives because it was one of Bethmoora's colors. Touching the paper made ice trickle through her veins and spill down her back. She glanced at Nuada, who told her in a flat voice to read it aloud. She unfolded the letter.

"To Your Royal Highness, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, War Chieftain of the King's Armies, Heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, Sovereign Lord of Airgíalla, Sídhe Ulster, Broch Toruch, Roan Inish, Boyne, and Renvyle, greetings.

"In your last missive you bade us write to you at any time with further developments regarding the vile human bandits that have plagued most of the northern border villages these past four moons. Your Highness, I write to you now in my position as Headman and Steward of the village of Broch Toruch, locally called Lallybroch, to beg intercession on the part of the Crown. Though His Royal Majesty King Balor (long may he reign) has already decreed that no harm is to be done to the bandits raiding our villages, we beseech you now, Sire, to speak for us at Court and Council, for just this past sevenday two-dozen children from Etinsmoor, Laois, Fear Manach, and Breifne wandered into Lallybroch, many of them ill or injured, all bearing tales of rape, murder, and destruction in their home villages. We sent what men we could spare to investigate these claims and found the aforesaid villages had been razed to the ground. As I write this missive we have sent work details to care for the dead. No man, woman, or child was spared. The surviving children from each village escaped by chance or guile and were lucky enough to find each other while in hiding. I was told by their leader, a youth named Liam, that several of the children who managed to escape who were ill or injured died of their wounds or succumbed to sickness before arriving in Lallybroch.

"Liam is certain the bandits will come either to Lallybroch or Kilcommon before the Wolf Moon. As it stands, we lack the resources or fighting force to defend ourselves from such an assault, were it to come. Sire, please—you must help us. I beg you, as your servant, as the one you set to watch over Broch Toruch and its people, to speak to His Majesty the King and make him see reason.

"Ever your servant, Iubdan mac Doyle."

Slowly, as if her gaze were heavy as lead, Dylan managed to lift her eyes to Nuada's face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw tensed, the muscles at his temples jumping as he ground his teeth. His fists were clenched at his sides. At first, Dylan didn't understand…then she did. _Make the king see reason._ Nuada knew Balor would order him to stand by as his people were slaughtered.

Sudden resolve hardened her expression. "What does the king want?" Dylan demanded. Nuada frowned. "What do we have to bargain with?" She persisted. "Is there anything we have that he wants that we can give him? Something we can bargain with?"

"We," Nuada murmured. "We?"

Dylan locked eyes with him and nodded. "They're my people, too, now. I'm marrying you, aren't I? I'm going to be their princess. I'm not just gonna stand by and let them get hurt. There has to be something we can do."

"That's just it," the prince said with a sigh. "I can think of nothing we can give him that will force him to allow us to send aid of any kind. Nuala thinks if she and I go before him together, we _might_ be able to convince him, but I doubt it, Dylan. My father clings too strongly to the old ways, to that thrice-accursed truce."

She handed the letter back and started chewing on her thumbnail to help herself think, but her thoughts whirled around in her head. For some reason, the fact that Nuada had intended to give her another gift kept intruding upon her thoughts, even though that was possibly the least-important thing going on at the moment—

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Wait a minute.

"A gift!" Dylan blurted. Heat surged in her chest. She started to pace as Nuada watched her with furrowed brows. Excited now, she gestured with one hand as she spoke. "The king was willing to delay your punishment in honor of Midwinter's Day, right? Even though he's crazy…" She trailed off, realizing someone might overhear her insulting the king. "Crazy-devoted to his honor and the laws and all that stuff," she added quickly. She saw Nuada's lips twitch. "Because you're his son and it's a time of gift-giving and whatnot. What if, as a gift for his future daughter-in-law (and backed up by his actual daughter and his son), I asked him to send aid to the villages?

"Wait, wait, listen," she hastened to say when Nuada opened his mouth. "I know he won't send military aid. I know. But someone would have to escort this non-military aid to the villages, right? Someone like, say, the future princess who needs to become acquainted with her people. The future princess people keep trying to assassinate, and since she—I—won't be in the palace with a bazillion regular guards, my guard detail and yours will probably be bumped up, right? And if we brought, say…my brother, whom your dad plans to elevate to peerage, and my sister, who are both human, they'd need extra guards, too, right? And on top of that," she added, eyes narrowing in thought, "John's had military training, and he's human, and he's not bound by the stupid treaty or truce or whatever. Not yet, anyway. And Francesca's the _Home Alone_ spawn from Hades.

"So what if, just maybe, while we were delivering the medical aid and whatnot to the villages, we stayed a couple weeks in each one to survey how they're doing and stuff, and some random humans happened to show them better defenses and how to fight and such? Maybe a few friends of ours might be convinced to come along, too, who are strictly neutral and not bound by the treaty. Lorelei, for instance, since it wouldn't be fair to split her and Wink up during the holidays and Wink's definitely going with you." She stopped and spread her arms, flushed with triumph. "Well? What do you think?"

Nuada blinked. "I think…I think I would not have thought to look for aid from your brother or sister," he said. "And Nuala may have to be convinced, or she will suspect something. We'll have to think of a roundabout way to gain her help. But I also think that you are brilliant, my love." He drew her to him and covered her mouth with his, his fingers surging into her hair as he kissed her. She could almost taste his relief. When their lips parted, he murmured, "I do not know if it will work, but it is a better plan than I had, which was no plan at all. Thank you, mo cridh." His lips found hers again, a warm velvet slide against her mouth that made her knees weak and her stomach flutter.

"Mmm," she murmured dreamily against the heat of Nuada's mouth. "You just want me for my brain."

He kissed the corner of her mouth, the scar slashing down her cheek, the soft spot just beneath her ear. Then he whispered, "Mo cridh, your brain is _not_ what I'm thinking about right at this precise moment. Forgive me if I've disappointed you." He nuzzled that spot with his lips and Dylan squeaked.

"Oh, too close to my neck, way too close, can't breathe," she gasped as the warmth of his breath shushed against her throat. "Butterflies…trying to kill me. Can't breathe."

To her surprise, Nuada dropped his forehead to her shoulder and laughed. When she poked him, he chuckled, "Yes, must have a care with those _lethal_ butterflies."

"Shut up," she cried, laughing, and pushed him playfully in the shoulder. "Go…kiss a chipmunk."

"I believe they're hibernating," he said seriously.

With equal gravity, Dylan replied, "Oh, of course. Maybe in the spring."

"I shall be married in the spring," Nuada said.

"I won't be jealous," she said. "I promise." She grinned when Nuada covered his mouth and stared studiously at the ceiling with fierce concentration. His shoulders shook slightly. Good; she'd made him laugh. Even if he wouldn't admit it, it was still a triumph. "So is that why we came to the salle? Just to talk about the letter? Or was there something else?"

Nuada instantly sobered, though his eyes still twinkled. "There was," he said. "I've been considering this off and on over the last few weeks, and after last night it's decided: I'm going to teach you how to shoot."

First he helped her to choose a bow; that was why he'd been staring at the weapons' racks at first, to gather a selection of bows from her to choose from. He strung one and handed it to her, a bow made of supple yew. It was too hard for her to draw back far enough. Four bows later, Nuada finally settled for an elegant ash-wood bow with a silvery string. Dylan stared at the bowstring for a second before pointing it out to Nuada.

"That is unicorn hair," he murmured, testing the suppleness of the wood. "Soaked in hawthorn oil from the Royal Eildon Tree and then smoothed with melissae beeswax from Mytikas. It will help you aim as you need it."

"As I need it?"

He nodded and handed her the bow, which she drew easily, though not too easily; it had just the right amount of resistance. "This doesn't work in practice, but in a battle, the bow will always hit what you aim for, compensating for any lack of skill on your part. That doesn't mean we will not practice, however."

She nodded, grinning. "All right, then. Let's get to it."

**.**

Dylan ended up losing some of that enthusiasm in the first thirty or so minutes, seeing as she rather sucked at archery. Or at least she sucked at keeping the arrow nocked to the string. Nuada watched her, arms folded across his chest, while Dylan became more and more frustrated every time the point of the practice arrow dropped away from the arrow-rest at the front of the bow. It didn't help that they'd gone outside, either. It wasn't windy or snowing, but it _was_ cold, and while Dylan _was_ wearing gloves, she wondered if that was making it harder to do this. If she took her gloves off, though, her hands would get so stiff she'd be useless.

"Why can't I get this?" She demanded after what had to be the two-hundredth time she'd dropped an arrow without even being able to fire it. She turned to Nuada, frustrated with herself and feeling like she might cry because she was screwing up over and over again _right in front of him_. "Why won't it stay? I'm doing what you showed me, aren't I?"

Her prince sighed. He'd said he'd never taught someone to shoot before, and archery had come naturally to him, so he hadn't needed much in the way of teaching. The prince glanced around. Dylan followed his gaze. Wonderful; there were servants watching. Splendid. She _really_ didn't need any more pressure to perform to the populace's expectations at the moment.

Nuada stepped behind her and to one side and wrapped his hand around hers where it curled around the bow's grip. She wondered if he could feel the shape of the engagement ring through her glove. Squeezing gently in reassurance, Nuada guided Dylan's other hand holding the arrow to the string. The string slipped into the nock of the arrow like a key into a lock. He nudged her right arm up to position the arrow against the arrow-rest. His breath was deliciously warm against her chilled ear as he whispered, "Draw slowly; let the arrow-shaft slide across the grip like a caress. Let the fletching brush your cheek. Use your mouth as an anchor for the arrow. Keep every limb relaxed; do not get frustrated. You can do this, mo duinne. Feel the tension sing through the bowstring. It wants to be released, wants to snap and send the arrow flying, but _you_ are in control. Hold it steady. Sight down the shaft. See the target." She swallowed hard, feeling the bow trying to escape her grip. "You have all the time in the world," Nuada murmured. He was so warm at her back, and his hands were so gentle and patient. "Take your time, Dylan. Take a deep breath when you're ready, then expel the breath as you release."

She closed her eyes and took that breath, imagining the smooth grain of the bow, feeling the heavy tension in the string. The target was a big, black dot in the center of a crimson ring painted on a piece of canvas flung over a bale of hay; that target was her world until she finally shot the stupid thing. She opened her eyes. Then she let out the breath and she let go of the arrow, letting the bowstring fling it forward across the snow and wintry air.

With a satisfying _thunk_, the arrow plunged into the black heart of the target.

Dylan let out a delighted shriek a cat would've envied and threw her arms around Nuada, bouncing up and down in the snow and crying, "Did you see that? Did you see me? I did it! I did it!" Then she shook out her arm. "Ow."

Nuada grinned. "Well done," he murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Very well done. Now, can you do this?" Plucking the bow from her hand and nocking an arrow, Nuada fired off a shot. Right in front of Dylan's eyes, the arrow thunked into the center of the target, the point wedged right beside her own arrow.

"Wow," Dylan said. The Elven warrior let off another arrow. This one split her arrow in half. She slanted him a look. "Okay, now you're just showing off," she said.

He offered a negligent shrug. Eyes fixed on the sky as if he hadn't a care in the world, Nuada drawled, "Well, I would hate to see you get cocky from a single good shot."

Dylan pegged him in the face with a snowball. He spat snow and decided that, witnesses or not, retaliation had to be swift and certain, or she would never learn to stop doing that to him.

Eventually they got back to the archery lesson.

**.**

After archery, he took Dylan to the stables so she could visit with Shang. The lóng mâ colt butted his head against her side and made that bamboo-flute sound, stroking her wrists with his catfish-like whiskers when she petted him. She was surprised by the enthusiasm of his greeting, and even more surprised when he ignored Nuada for the most part to nuzzle and cuddle with her. They played tug-of-war with the silk rope-toy in his stall, and she fed him, and they left the stall after the baby dragon-horse had settled down for a nap.

Since it was warm in the empty stables—and there was some privacy, if one ignored the horses and other mounts, since the stable-lads were all down in the village for Midwinter's Day—Dylan and Nuada reclined on a thick bed of hay, leaning against a straw-stack, in one of the empty double-stalls. The sweet smell of the straw and the warmth from the dozing animals helped ease some of the tension in Nuada's body. He loved the stables; his father had often taken him here as a boy; and often in the weeks and months after the queen's death, he'd slept in a stall next to Lòman or another of the mounts he was friendly with—including the fat little pony-mare he'd had as a young boy, that his mother had named Lady Fair. Even now, the stable was still a place of refuge for the prince.

Dylan dropped her head to his shoulder and cuddled close. The prince laid his cheek against her hair; the soft, dark curls smelled of ice and snow, fresh air and sunlight. Dylan draped her arm across Nuada's chest, cupping his shoulder, and made a soft sound of contentment.

"I love you," she whispered sleepily. He shifted to look down at her, and she smiled dreamily. "I really do."

The words warmed him like hot mulled cider on a cold day, like the first glimpse of sunlight after the long dark night of the solstice. He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over her skin. In that instant emotion welled up inside him like a flood. It threatened to choke him, to undo him, as he thought of everything this woman meant to him, every way he needed her and everything that threatened to tear her away. His conversation with his father about Dylan and the Golden Army, his conversation with King Rennan mac Dela about the same thing, echoed in his skull. He thought of the gifts this morning, the archery lesson, the snowball fight in the practice field as if he were a carefree child again. She had given him so much. So much. What would he do without her? The breath escaped in a sharp exhalation as he leaned toward her.

"Gods," he whispered, voice trembling a little. "Gods, I love you so much. I cannot lose you, Dylan. I cannot-"

"You won't," she murmured gently. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

It took him a long moment to regain his composure, to erase the pleading in his eyes. When he was sure he had control of himself, Nuada settled back against the straw-stack. Drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Closing his eyes, the Elf murmured, "This is your fault, you know."

"What is?" Dylan demanded tartly. "The fact that you're madly in love with me?"

He slitted one eye open, feigning superiority and indignation. Let this become just another bout of playful teasing; it would help him forget the constant dread gnawing at his belly.

"How am I to resist when you look at me that way, temptress?"

"What way is that?" The mortal asked. Nuada could hear the smile in her voice. "Like I'm about to smack you like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar?"

Nuada allowed a lazy smile to curve his mouth. "Cookie jar, is it? Is this mockery I hear, my lady?" Dylan offered a prim little smile. "I think punishment is in order," the prince said with mock-severity. Without warning, he rose to his knees, reached out and grasped Dylan's ankles, yanking her away from the support of the straw-stack. She landed in the bed of straw with a gasping little shriek. Before she could escape, Nuada pinned her, one arm on either side of her shoulders, careful to keep his weight off of her and to keep his body from touching her. This was pushing his control a little, but he wanted to try something. "If you beg for mercy, I may show some leniency, my lady," Nuada murmured.

Dylan screwed up her expression in a condescending scowl and turned her face away, with a _hmph_ sound. "Do your worst," she replied with mock-hauteur. "I'm not afraid you, Silverlance."

"Oh, you are asking for it, my lady," he growled, and shook his head rapidly from side to side, so that little bits of straw-chaff rained down on her while the strands of his hair tickled her cheeks and nose. Dylan shrieked with laughter and tried to wriggle away, but she was trapped by Nuada's arms as he continued to tickle her. Only when she was breathless and gasping did he let up. "Mercy, then?"

"I will never surrender," she gasped, giggling.

He grinned. "Mo cridh, I have you surrounded. You may as well give in now."

Dylan's fist shot up and she cried, "Never!"

"You should not have said that," he growled low in his throat, and proceeded to tickle her again.

Finally, though, they had to leave the stable. After dusting themselves off as best as possible—which wasn't much—and knowing quite well how they looked, covered in bits of straw-chaff and with their hair disheveled, they made their way back to the castle. At least their guards knew they hadn't been doing anything of _that_ nature while tumbling around in the hay, save a few kisses.

After Dylan had taken a quick shower and washed her hair to get rid of the straw, 'Sa'ti helped her comb it out while Dylan sat in a clean dress and her new ladybug socks and opened the last of Nuada's gifts.

It was an intricately-carved wooden spoon the length of her forearm, the width of three of her fingers. Dylan recognized it immediately from her college studies as a Celtic lovespoon, a courtship gift for a woman a man was either planning to marry, or planning to ask for her hand. The spoon was carved with obvious care from oak wood, polished with oil to make the grain of the wood smooth and shining. It felt like satin under her fingertips. The sweet scent of almond oil emanated from the silky-smooth oak. _Oak for the strength of his love,_ Dylan thought, feeling tears sting her eyes, _and almond oil for promised devotion._

Dylan knew that each symbol etched into the slender wooden handle meant something, but she didn't know what. Her fingertips caressed a wooden padlock carved with two little keys on its base; beneath that, an old-fashioned ship's wheel, with tiny compass roses, stars, and anchors etched into the otherwise smooth grain of the outer-wheel through which thrust the slender wheel-spokes; a bell covered in intricate details, the tongue carved as if the bell were ringing. There was a heart, a blooming rose surrounded by leaf-bound vines so lifelike Dylan expected to feel the silk of petals and leaves, and the whole length of the handle edged with a delicate Celtic knotwork pattern, culminating in an elaborate knot in the bowl of the spoon. Dylan caressed the gift, tracing the masterful carvings, knowing that Nuada had made this for her himself.

She was so enamored of the spoon that she missed the little slip of paper that came with it until 'Sa'ti picked it up. Surprised, Dylan scanned the note. It was an explanation of the symbols on the spoon.

_Padlock—I Will Ever Be Faithful  
Keyhole—My Heart Is Always Open to You  
Keys—You Hold the Key to My Heart  
Ship's Wheel—I Will Keep You Safe  
Stars—You Are My Guiding Light  
Compass Rose—You Hold Me Steady In This Life  
Anchor—My Devotion Is Eternal  
Bell—I Look Forward to Our Wedding  
Heart—I Love You  
Rose—My Love Blooms Always  
Leaves—My Love Will Grow and Remain Ever Green  
Knotwork—We Will Be Together Forever_

When Nuada entered the sitting room and saw her holding the slip of paper and gazing down at the spoon in wonder, and then Dylan raised her eyes to his face and he saw the joy and love in her expression, he knew in that moment he had done well with his gift.

**.**

Dylan knew there were other things to do on Midwinter's Day, but she'd spent the majority of the day with Nuada, and there was someone else she wanted to see today.

When she rapped gently on the door to the healing chamber, she heard Zhenjin's muffled invitation. Poking her head in, Dylan smiled at the prince, who looked better than he had when she'd seen him that morning. The mortal came in and took a seat in the empty visitor's chair. Zhenjin's smile was warm as it spread across his copper-tone face.

"My lady," the Dilong prince murmured. "Happy Midwinter."

She grinned. "Happy Midwinter, Prince Zhenjin."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Zhenjin, please. We're friends, remember?"

"You started it with the 'my lady' thing."

The injured prince chuckled. "Very well, then. Happy Midwinter, Dylan. How are you?"

She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, and said, "I'm fine. How are you, though? Are your injuries healing properly? Any sudden stabbing pain or numbness or…" She trailed off when Zhenjin laughed. "What's so funny?"

"Always the healer," the prince replied, still smiling. "I am mending well, Dylan; worry not. I will be well enough to travel when it comes time for my country's envoy to depart."

A stab of disappointment slashed through her. "When are you leaving? Not soon?"

Zhenjin shook his head. "My father is _still_ trying to badger King Balor into forcing Nuada to marry Mïng Xiân. Never mind that you and Silverlance are betrothed. And judging from the kiss he laid on you last night—in front of witnesses, I might add—there is no hope of the prince ever forsaking you." Zhenjin winked at Dylan, who blushed hotly when she remembered the way Nuada had kissed her after receiving her public acceptance of his marriage proposal. "My father wastes his time trying to woo Silverlance away from you, but he refuses to accept that. He fears no one will wish to marry my sister if Silverlance refuses her."

"He can't be serious," Dylan replied. "She's only a baby. It makes sense for Nuada to say no, even if I wasn't in the picture." Suddenly Dylan snapped her fingers. "Hey, I got an idea. If the emperor is so desperate to marry into the Bethmooran family, why doesn't he wait a few decades and betroth Mïng Xiân to one of mine and Nuada's kids? Won't that work?"

A shadow flickered across Zhenjin's brilliant jade eyes, but he smiled and murmured, "Now there's a thought. If Silverlance gets you with child quickly after your marriage," another shadow passed behind the prince's eyes, "and no doubt he will, if that kiss was any indicator of his ardor, the age discrepancy between my sister and your child will be quite small by fae standards. I will suggest such a solution to my father. Of course, then he'll wish to speak to you and Nuada about it. Can you handle negotiations with the emperor of Dilong? He can be quite intimidating, even to mortals."

"Even to mortals? You make it sound like he likes humans. If I remember correctly, he called me a 'human slut' at the duel."

The prince sighed. "True. That had nothing to do with you being human, actually. He was merely angry that you were attempting to interfere with my duel."

"Is he over it yet?"

Zhenjin pursed his lips. "I do not know. He is generally fond and forgiving of mortals, but my sister is his favorite child, and if he's taken offense because of some perceived slight against her…I simply don't know what he thinks of you at the moment, Dylan. But I can find out for you. I'm certain it isn't anything too harsh. It would be impossible for him to hold a grudge against you overlong."

Dylan's gaze flicked to Zhenjin's. For a split-second something warm and gentle smoldered in their depths, and he smiled at her. Dylan smiled back, warm as sunlight, but then the warmth in Zhenjin's eyes vanished, leaving chilly blankness in its wake. Dylan flinched at the sudden frost in the prince's gaze. Seeing her slight recoil, the Dilong prince tensed, closed his eyes, and looked away. Cleared his throat. Suddenly the mortal wondered if Zhenjin wanted her to leave for some reason.

"I…do you want me to leave? You're probably tired," she mumbled, feeling inexplicably self-conscious. A weight on her chest made it hard to breathe. Why did Zhenjin suddenly seem as if he were angry with her?

His fingers twisted in the blanket covering his legs, knotting into a white-knuckled fist, and then relaxed. He opened his eyes and looked back at her, offering a wan smile.

"Forgive me, my lady; it is merely my…wounds…paining me. I would never wish you gone." His smile brightened slightly. "I've only just noticed—you look as if you've been outside. How is the wild winter world beyond my healing chamber? What have you and Silverlance been doing with your holiday? You're dragging him away from his work, surely, yes?"

She smiled back, and this time nothing strange happened, no cold glance or sudden look of pain. They spoke of nothing and everything—the diamond-crystalline beauty of the snow beneath the sun, the archery lesson, the sweet crispness of the winter air, the snowball fight in the practice field, and the beautiful gifts Nuada had given her (and the sweet gifts from the children). When she mentioned the lovespoon, that shadow returned to Zhenjin's gaze for a brief moment, and Dylan asked if his wounds were bothering him.

With a tight smile, the Dilong prince said, "Yes. This wound, I think, will be a long time in healing. Don't let it worry you, my…lady. Well, Silverlance gives wonderful gifts. Of course, he has always been one who loves with his whole heart. I am glad he has found someone to love again."

Startled, Dylan murmured, "Again?"

"Yes. After his time in mortal Japan…well, Nuada's heart seemed so cold, so remote from all who knew and loved him. He would tell no one what had happened, but those of us who knew him best were certain love had done him an ill turn. He threw himself into preparing for the coming war against the humans. You know of this war we all fear, of course, clever and well-connected as you are. Until his time in Japan, Nuada had thought that perhaps, just perhaps, the humans could be reasoned with to prevent all-out war. When he returned, though…" Zhenjin shook his head. "Whatever happened, it turned his heart away from any hope of salvaging mankind. We still believe it had something to do with a woman."

"Why?"

"There's a look in a man's eyes," Zhenjin murmured, dropping his gaze to Dylan's hands clasped on her updrawn knee. "When his heart is broken, shattered beyond hope of repair, there is a shadow of grief in his eyes until the wound heals. And if it never heals, a man bears that mournful shadow all his days." Reptilian jade eyes slid to meet the mortal woman's gaze, then dropped away again. "Forgive me, Lady Dylan, but I believe I am more fatigued by my own wounds than I first thought. I believe I shall try to rest a little now. May you enjoy the rest of Midwinter's Day."

As she rose to her feet and headed for the door, confused and uncertain, she managed to murmur, "And you, too, Prince Zhenjin. I'll see you tomorrow."

**.**

In Dylan's bedroom, seated on cushions before the fire and with their backs against the side of the bed, the Elf prince and the mortal cuddled together, watching the flames.

Nuada's mind buzzed with uncertainty. He still hadn't gone to question the final mortal assassin; not because he was loath to do it, but because he knew the king would be there, or one of the king's representatives, to ensure the crown prince didn't break the truce by torturing the human killer for information. Nuada already knew the assassin had a strong mental block, and trying to punch through it would shatter his mind, erasing any useful information to be had. There had to be another way to make the assassin spill his secrets…but short of torture or the threat thereof, Nuada could think of nothing.

"Your father's going to flog you tomorrow," Dylan murmured softly, though her voice held an edge, "for killing the human assassin."

"Yes." Nuada nuzzled his cheek against the softness of Dylan's hair for a moment, simply allowing himself to enjoy the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the way the golden light danced across her face. The fragrance of spiced evergreens, sweet apples, and cinnamon clung to her hair. Her head was a reassuring weight on his shoulder. But he had something he needed to say to her.

"Are you angry that I killed the human?"

Dylan sighed. "Did you _have_ to kill him? And why kill him...the way you did?" She'd been momentarily staggered by the ferocity of his rage when he'd plunged his sword into the mortal assailant's chest. She'd seen Nuada kill before. Kill brutally. But she'd never seen him kill an unarmed, bound man before. "Zhenjin explained it a little early this morning, but…but I want to hear it from you."

"I killed him because I could not officially execute him. My father will not punish me too harshly for killing him, not after what the mortal did to you, what he tried to do, but he would not allow me to execute the human, either. I will _not_ accept such a thing. I will not accept releasing a man, human or otherwise, when he attempted to kill my betrothed. As it was, I killed him as quickly as I could...to spare you."

"How would you have killed him if I hadn't been there?"

After an interminable silence, the Elven warrior murmured, "Slowly." _Very_ slowly. If he'd had his way, it would have taken days for the wretch to die.

"You would've tortured him to death," Dylan said softly. Nuada closed his eyes. Her voice was curiously blank. What was she thinking? "For vengeance," she asked, "or because it was necessary?"

He sighed. "Both. The most effective path would have been to torture him to death, to send a very explicit message to my enemies…but I would have enjoyed killing him."

A shiver went through Dylan, and Nuada cursed himself. His sister would've reacted the same way, horrified by the violence and cruelty in him. How many glimpses into shadow could he give his truelove before she turned away from him? How long could she tolerate the stain of darkness on him? Nuada clenched his teeth. He wouldn't pull away from her unless she ordered him to, wouldn't relinquish his hold on her. If she would push him away, let him have a few moments more to enjoy her warmth, the soft comfort of her in his arms.

"I know what that's like," Dylan murmured, startling him. It took the Elven prince a moment to process what she was saying and connect it back to the conversation. "To hate someone so much that hurting them is almost a relief. I've never killed anyone in the mindset, but I've tried."

Stunned, he jerked back to stare down at her. "You…have…"

"When you killed Westenra," she said, "do you remember seeing a thick red scar on his right wrist?" After a moment, the Elven warrior nodded. "That was from me. I bit him. Tore his wrist open with my teeth. I would've used something else but I was strapped to a gurney. I did my best to rip him apart, and it felt _good_ to hear him screaming."

The savage satisfaction in Dylan's voice chilled him. He allowed himself, often, to forget how vicious she had been toward her tormentors as a child. But then, she was entitled, was she not? After everything those human monsters had done to her? Drugging her, hurting her, raping her…

"But it's not just about vengeance for you," Dylan murmured softly, cuddling close to him again. After a moment's hesitation, Nuada slipped an arm around her slender shoulders and tried to relax. "It's about making a statement."

"Yes," he said, forcing the tension out of his muscles.

"What statement? Why did you have to send it by killing him that way?"

He pulled away from her to look down at her expression. There was no condemnation in her gaze, no disgust or fear. Only a curious uncertainty. A desire to understand. So he sighed and said, "I am an Elven warrior, Dylan, trained through centuries and honed in battle. My country and my people are more dear to my heart than anything else. Next to that is my father and my king, my sister...and you. There are others—Wink, Lorelei, Zhenjin—who are dear to me as well, but there is always, _always_ you.

"I care for you, Dylan. I love you. You are one of the only things in this world I fear I cannot do without, and my enemies know it now. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to wed me. Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to step into a life filled with so much danger and uncertainty...yet I'll not allow my enemies to believe they can threaten you, hurt you, or the gods forbid, _kill_ you, and that by my father's order I will stand for it. I won't. I can't.

"It is better to be loved than feared, but in this, I think fear is the stronger. I'll let no one harm you, Dylan. I'm sorry; I _had_ to send that message. But you were right there, so I was as merciful as I could be, because I did not wish you to see the monster in me-"

"You're _not_ a monster," she said sharply. "When will you see that? It was necessary. I understand that." Dylan touched his cheek. "I'm not looking for a reason to condemn you. I'm not like _them_." No need to ask who she meant by "them." Never looking away from those carefully blank eyes, she added, "I trust you. I _trust_ you. It's all right. I just wanted to...I wanted to understand. I want to understand you. How it is for you."

Nuada moved as carefully as an old man when he settled his forearms atop his updrawn knees. He closed his eyes and listened to the _snap_ and _crackle_ of the fire, the gentle shush of Dylan's breathing. If he listened carefully enough, he could hear the soft drum of her heart beating and, beyond the walls of her bedchamber, the sound of the children lightly snoring. Crimson and gold danced like shadows across the backs of his eyelids.

For a moment, all the prince could see was battle-fires glowing red through the bars of a prison cell. How it was for him? She wanted to understand him. She understood him so well already, but...but perhaps she would understand even better if he told her...

He opened his eyes.

"You know I fought in the wars against the humans," Nuada said softly.

"Wars? There was more than one?"

"Dozens over the centuries. We'd been at war with the humans since I was a youth, off and on through the years until the final treaty when I was in my twenty-first century. I began taking part in the battles after my fourteen-hundredth birthday." Seeing Dylan's horrified expression, he shrugged. "Other young men were joining the fighting much earlier. When things grew desperate during the final war, children as young as A'du'la'di were forced to fight to protect their homes and their families. Many lives were lost."

When silence descended between them, Dylan laid her hand on his arm. So many things, left unspoken, but conveyed with that gentle touch: _I'm listening. I won't judge what you tell me. Take your time. I'm here._

The prince cleared his throat. "I was captured," he said, and felt the sudden stillness in Dylan's body. "It was only my second battle. I'd gone into it with a few guards disguised as soldiers, to appease my father. They were killed in the fighting. I was captured by the human captain. I wasn't an officer, the humans could tell that easily enough, but they'd already learned to recognize the royal scar. They knew I was a prince. They decided to hold me for ransom."

Her voice was hesitant when she asked, "Did your father pay the ransom?"

"He did. I don't know how much it was. I only know that the men my father sent with the ransom died that day. The humans had no intention of handing me over once they received their blood money."

"It was a trap."

"It was a slaughter," he said bitterly. "I was still young enough that iron, salt, and elder-wood could bind me, and I was weak from lack of food and water. I could do nothing but watch as my father's men, my rescuers, were butchered before my eyes. Thirty-three men for one boy."

A feather-light touch against his cheek as she whispered, "Nuada-"

He twitched away from her. "Don't." Her hand fell back to her side and she simply waited for him to speak again. "When I wasn't returned, my father ordered the human camp raided in order to have me rescued. Wink was the one who found me at last. He and a few of my father's Butchers managed to get me home again. My father sent two hundred men to retrieve me; at least half of them died in the attempt."

"That's not your fault, though."

Topaz eyes flicked to her face and then away. "Isn't it? I wasn't skilled enough to avoid capture. I wasn't skilled enough, strong enough, to fight alongside the men of my country and defend our people from the predations of our enemies. My weakness resulted in the deaths of nearly one-hundred-fifty men." He paused, then said, "When I'd recovered, I told my father never to do that again."

"Do what?"

"Never to attempt to rescue me if I were captured by our enemies. He did not heed my wishes." Seeing her confused and heartbroken face, he explained, "I was captured again a little more than a century later. By then I'd made a name for myself as a savage fighter. The humans recognized me easily enough and, after toying with me for a time, they captured me."

"Toying with you?"

"Have you ever seen bear-baiting? Something humans did some centuries ago." Dylan shook her head. Nuada said, "Humans would chain a wild bear so it couldn't escape, then attack it. Not to kill it, but to hurt it. They would set dogs on the creature. Inflict painful, but never fatal wounds. When the bear was finally too weak to fight anymore, only then was it killed. I wasn't chained, but that was what the humans did to me until I was too weary to even lift my sword. Then they took me prisoner. They locked me in a cage of cold iron bars and..."

A small sound, low in the throat, jerked his attention from his memories to the woman at his side. He saw then that Dylan's face was whiter than skimmed milk. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes.

"Forgive me, my lady." Nuada's words were soft as he looked away. "I did not mean to distress you."

"No," she whispered. Clearing her throat, she shook her head and said a bit more loudly, "No, it's all right. Tell me. It's okay; I want you to tell me." She blinked as if to push back the tears waiting to fall. "What did they do to you?"

He drew a deep breath. "They tortured me. They wanted to know where the next strikes on their armies would come, and when. I wouldn't tell them. I had my own companies by then, though I wasn't skilled enough to lead them on my own; I knew that, and was blessed with superior officers under my command who taught me how to be a good leader. So I knew when at least some of the attacks would come.

"I'd never been tortured before," he murmured. "We Elves did not torture then, except to punish a crime that merits that kind of pain and degradation. Like Westenra and the men who attacked you in the subway. If I'd been able to, I'd have taken my time with them. But I had never even seen such a thing before. When Wink killed the humans who butchered my mother, I could scarcely see past the blood in my eyes. I could hear nothing but my sister's sobs and my own moans of pain, and the silence where my mother's screams had once ripped the air.

"I had _never_ been tortured before. But the humans tortured me. For days. Weeks, I think. I lost the ability to count the days or even the hours. There was only the pain pulsing in time with my own heart. Hunger was a wolf in my belly and thirst burned my throat until every rare, precious drop of water they allowed me threatened to shatter my strength like crystal beneath a goblin's hammer. I lived with the fear that I would break and tell my enemies what they wanted, and more deaths would be on my conscience. I was so afraid of breaking. In the end I vowed to take my own life if I thought I was too close. Nuala felt my decision through our link. Accepted it. Made peace with it."

"But your father got you out before it came to that."

"Yes. A company of Butcher Guards and the survivors of one of my own companies raided the human camp in the night. Wink and his brother had to carry me out; both my legs had been broken." He winced when Dylan made a soft sound of horror. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to say that last. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she murmured after a brief silence. "I never want you to feel you can't tell me things. It's okay." Dylan slid an arm around him and cuddled close. "I'm so sorry, Nuada." She touched his cheek in a brief caress. He turned away to look into the fire. Dylan gently but firmly turned his face back to her. "You try to be so hard," she whispered. "As if you think you have to be untouchable. Do you know how strong you are? How brave you are? I am in awe of you, Nuada. I hope one day I can be as strong and brave as you. What did I do, that God blessed me by putting you in my life? Do you know?"

He could only shake his head even as he leaned down to lay his mouth against hers. A warm press of her lips to his, the smooth satin curve of her cheek beneath his calloused fingers, the heat of her breath on his lips. Nuada closed his eyes. There was no fire and shadow against his eyelids now. There was only the image of Dylan's face behind his closed eyes, the sweetness of Dylan's perfume teasing him, the honey taste of her on his lips. He whispered her name against her mouth, as if just her name were some sort of talisman against the darkness of his memories.

Dylan pressed closer. Stroked his cheek with her fingertips, the side of his neck, the place where his pulse beat at the base of his throat. Even when Nuada broke from the kiss, gasping and trembling, to lay his forehead against her neck, she continued to gently, chastely caress him. Her touch was an anchor, a soothing balm.

"Those times, all the wars and the loss, were some of the darkest days of my life," he said against her throat. She wrapped her arms around him. "There has been a great deal of darkness in my life, Dylan. Only when you came into it did I finally feel as if I'd found light again." Nuada lifted his head to touch his forehead to hers. "Perhaps I am a coward, but I cannot live in darkness again. I would rather endure what my enemies did to me a thousand times over than have to live one day of my life without you by my side. I never thought I'd find a woman I would wish to spend the rest of my life with, to make a home and a family with, but I have—in you. I want to be with you forever. For all eternity. And I know there is darkness and ruthlessness in me, I know I can be cruel, but I promise you, I will do all in my power to be the man you see when you look at me."

His eyes slid closed again when she brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek. "Nuada, you don't have to change for me. How many times do I have to tell you that you're a good man? There's darkness in you. I know that. But there's darkness in me, too. I've never been in a lot of the situations you've experienced in your life. I don't know how I'd react to them if I did end up in them. I _do_ know that when I was a kid and a teenager, and when I first got out of the institution, I was in a pretty dark place, myself. That doesn't make you a bad person."

"My father condemns the shadows in my soul."

"Your father's an idiot," Dylan said tartly. "I don't care what he says. We've already proven several times that he's biased where you're concerned."

A wan smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "And you are not?"

She sniffed disdainfully. "Of course not. What kind of psychiatrist do you think I am? I'm not biased at all. I just happen to know you better than he does. So it's no surprise that I know you're basically a male, Elven Mary Poppins."

Clearly yet another human reference. Still, he asked, "Who?"

"You know, Mary Poppins. 'Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way.' No?" She smiled. "Character from a children's book. Not the point. My point is, you're just fine the way you are, Nuada. I didn't fall in love with you thinking, 'Oh, I can't wait to mold him like Play-Doh into something completely new.' I love you for you."

"You are the exception, darling," he said without rancor. "Not the rule."

"A'du'la'di loves you just as you are, too. He really looks up to you. He admires you; didn't you see that this morning? You're like a father to him."

He scoffed. "Quite a poor one."

"No," Dylan insisted. "No, you're not. You're wonderful with him, and with 'Sa'ti. They both adore you. And A'du'la'di wants to be just like you when he grows up; he told me so himself."

With a groan, Nuada sank back against the side of the bed and covered his eyes with one hand. "He should not wish for such a thing—to be a cold, shadowed, embittered warrior shunned by those he holds most dear."

"I don't shun you," she said softly. Nuada dropped his hand so he could look at her. Dylan added, "You remember how, in the story of Hans the grovelhog, his princess that he loved so much put on iron shoes and walked the world over three times, until the shoes were worn away to nothing? For seven years she walked in search of her husband. If you ever disappeared from my life, Nuada, I'd walk the world over three times for seven years, wearing iron shoes that would then be worn away to nothing. I'd walk the world over a hundred times for a thousand years. I'd search until I found you again."

He brushed a lock of hair from her face. His fingertips ghosted along the thick scar slashing down her cheek. "As I would for you, if you were ever lost to me. I have loved before, but never as I love you. It is like...like a fire in my belly. A fever in my blood. I cannot escape thoughts of you, and I don't want to."

Dylan laid her palm against his cheek, her thumb stroking the edge of the royal scar. The breath Nuada drew came thick and ragged. He met her eyes, twin pools of silver-misted blue.

"You know," Dylan murmured, voice distant and almost dreamy, "from the moment I first saw you in the subway, you seemed…familiar to me. Everything about you. Like I'd seen you before, like I'd known you before…all this."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "A past life? I thought the Star Kindler's children didn't believe in reincarnation."

She shook her head. "We don't. That's not what I mean. When I saw you, you were so familiar. Past the blood and the pain and the fear, I saw you and you scared me, but at the same time my heart was saying, 'There he is. I've found him. He's come to protect me again.'"

Nuada's brow furrowed. "Again?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it," she said. "But that's what I felt—that I'd known you or seen you once, that we'd known each other once, and you'd come back into my life just when I needed you most."

And Nuada remembered the drawings—those stacks of children's drawings, some of various landmarks and denizens of Faerie, but others of _him_. Dylan had seen things after every session of electroshock "therapy," and been ordered to draw them so her tormentors could learn more about their young victim. When Nuada had gone to put an end to that filth, Westenra, he'd flipped through Dylan's file and seen the drawings. Including the dozens of drawings of himself. He'd meant to ask her about them, but then so much had happened—Dylan's confession of love for the prince, those first ravenous kisses in the music room, his exhaustion, the assassination attempt in the royal forest, the constant danger, dancing around the king's plans, everything—that he'd forgotten.

"Dylan," he murmured. "Dylan…your drawings."

Silvery-blue eyes blinked up at him. "My what?" Quickly, Nuada explained what he'd seen in the file in Westenra's office and why he hadn't mentioned it before. Dylan's eyes widened with every word, until a spark lit within her gaze and she snapped her fingers. "Oh, my gosh. I forgot. It's been so long…they stopped electroshock therapy when I was sixteen. I'd forgotten about those drawings. But that's why you looked so familiar. I'd seen you before."

"But how, Dylan?" The prince asked. "How could you have seen me in these visions? I never saw you before that night in the subway."

Another helpless shrug. "I don't know; God? I don't know. But I…I can't believe I forgot about you. About seeing you. Maybe we knew each other in the pre-existence."

"The what?"

She waved a negligent hand. "Our life with God before this life on Earth. Sometimes people feel inexplicably drawn to or repelled by someone they've never met before, and a popular theory is that they knew each other in the pre-existence. Maybe that's it."

"But you're not certain," Nuada said. She shook her head. "You have no other theories?"

Dylan bit her lip, then nodded. "I've got one. God." She gave Nuada a soft, loving look. "Maybe God knew that I would die in that place." A harsh pain clawed at the prince's heart at the thought of her dying, alone and abused in that hellhole, so that he would never have met her. "Without some kind of hope, some light in the darkness, He knew I'd die. So He sent me visions of the one I needed to live for." Her fingers brushed along his jaw as her eyes caressed his face. "The one who would save not just my life, but my soul."

He grasped her wrist and turned her hand to plant a kiss on the softness of her palm. Closing his eyes, he asked a question that threatened to strangle him. "Then why did the High King not send me such a vision of you to comfort me in my darkness? Was I not worthy of such a gift?" To have seen the joy, the hope she'd brought to his life and know that it was waiting for him if he only endured for a time…

"Would it have comforted you? I was—am—human; why wouldn't you have loathed me on sight? On principle? You hated the children of Adam. You still do. It wouldn't have been a comfort to you, Nuada. It probably would've just upset you even more."

Clenching his teeth, hating that it was so, he had to admit she was right. He would have spurned the very comfort he'd craved, because it came from a mortal. "Mo duinne...I'm sorry."

"For what?"

_For everything_, he wanted to say. _For being a monster. For the pain I must bring you to preserve my honor and do what I must_. But he didn't say that. He only said, "For not being all I should be. For not being what you deserve."

She shook her head. "Nuada…you are everything I could ever want or need. I love you. Okay?" Dylan retraced the royal scar with her thumb. He felt that caress down to his bones. "I love you, Nuada."

Nuada pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. How long would she love him once she learned just what he was capable of? Torture, murder…genocide?

He knew, when the time came to unleash the Golden Army—when it the war with the humans dawned—he would find out.


	90. Fortune's Fool

**Chapter Eighty-Nine**

**Fortune's Fool**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Insomnia, the Princess's Plans, Punishment, a Fantasy, Tenderness, a Terrible Decision, and Cruel Confessions**

.

.

That night, Dylan couldn't sleep. Instead of trying, she'd finished perusing the books on Avalon and making mental notes on the defenses and obstacles that between her, Nuada, and the apples of the magical isle. The last book had been closed just as dawn peeped above the horizon.

She'd known at that point that Nuada was already on his way to see the king. Already on his way to be punished for protecting her. Her fingers had scrunched in the blankets as she'd tried to force the images away of Nuada being bound to the whipping posts, the lash cracking against his back, amber blood trickling down across moon-pale skin. She hadn't wanted to think of that. She hadn't wanted to think of her prince suffering for something so unfair. Instead, she'd gotten up and done something with herself.

Now she gazed out the window and tried to think of another way to help Nuada. She'd already written the request for an audience with Prince Emīru and Princess Shāuddo of Onibi; Nuada could look it over at his leisure when he returned, to make sure she'd done it right. With some coaching from Ailís and Fionnlagh, and with Nuada's permission, Dylan had also written a note to Nuala explaining her plan for getting the king to send medical aid and various sundry supplies to the northern villages (minus the nefarious subterfuge involving bringing in various armed guards to deal with any attacks while the royal party was visiting the border villages, though Dylan _had_ explained why she wanted to bring John and Francesca—to show them more of Faerie and her new life). That note would be delivered to the princess when she woke, probably over breakfast. With Nuala's help, Dylan was almost positive they could convince the king to help the villages as a "belated Midwinter gift" to his future daughter-in-law. Especially if Nuala and Nuada added a layer of subtext, that this would help make up for Dylan almost getting killed, _twice_, under the king's nose.

What else could she do, though? There had to be something she could do to help, or to at least ease Nuada's burdens. She knew, for example, that they were running out of time regarding the human assassin they'd recaptured. The king would push to have him released soon—in the next few days, most likely. Dylan also knew the fae had gotten nowhere with the assassin; he was saying nothing regarding his employer, his compatriots, his price—nothing. And because of the truce and the king's still-cooling wrath in regards to the two dead mortal assassins, they couldn't torture information out of their prisoner, either.

Dylan wasn't sure how she felt about torturing someone. On the one hand, it was such a cruel, terrible thing to do. On the other hand, this assassin had tried to kill her _and_ Zhenjin, and his employer probably intended to finish the job. And if other people were in danger, as well? Did the lives of potential innocents outweigh the inhumanity of torture?

But that was a moot point, anyway, wasn't it? Because even if Nuada were willing—and she wasn't sure her prince was above torturing someone for information when it put her in a direct line of danger—he couldn't do it anyway. No fae could torture someone in the king's custody.

No fae…

What if…what if she…but she couldn't. She couldn't possibly torture someone. Could she? To protect Nuada, to protect Zhenjin and perhaps others, could she torture someone? What if she didn't have to actually torture anyone? What if she could just imply…

Dylan scrunched her eyes shut and ran over a list of natural herbs she kept in stock in the cottage. Then she whipped out her phone and sent a rapid text to Dr. Hollis at St. Vincent's. Finally, she sent a text to John, asking if he was free in the next few days for several hours.

The reply texts came back, staggered, about an hour later. Yes, Hollis could get her what she needed…but why did she need it? She texted back that she couldn't explain but that she only needed a little of it, and would Hollis _please_ trust her? Please? He responded that he would drop off what she needed at her cottage—as a "gift." John replied that he was free whenever Dylan needed him. Dylan asked him to please be available Christmas Eve morning, _early_, and for John to bring his gun. Her brother was slow to respond, but he agreed, though he sent her a _WTF?_ emoticon.

Closing her eyes, Dylan pressed her fingers to her temples. She was a princess now—or would be. She couldn't just stand around and let Nuada do all the work of running a kingdom, protecting her and their people. It was her turn to step up beside him and do what princesses were supposed to do. She could handle this. She would do it for the fae. For Nuada. For Zhenjin.

The mortal rubbed her temples. She would do this, she thought, because she had to.

Just as that thought crystallized in her mind, she heard movement coming from the other side of the door leading to Nuada's bedroom.

**.**

Nuada closed his eyes as hot blood seeped from the wounds and trickled down his back to soak into the tops of his black trousers. He hadn't flinched during the flogging, though his face still remained tight with pain even now as he pressed his forehead to the post of his bed. He'd kept his eyes closed during the punishment as well. He hadn't looked at his father as a Butcher had whipped him; he hadn't wanted the king to see something he might mistake for accusation in the prince's gaze.

Nuada knew his father had been merciful in assigning him a mere twenty lashes. In truth he'd expected worse. The last time he'd felt the bite of the whip against his flesh, the number had been a hundred times that many, and he'd been chained with ensorcelled iron to iron whipping posts. This time simple leather thongs had bound his hands to keep him on his feet. And this time, at least, the person wielding the whip hadn't been intent on flaying flesh from bone with every strike.

He hadn't thought about the pain as the lash came down, though his back had burned. Instead he'd thought of Dylan, and of the thin filament of hope sparkling just beyond his reach. If they managed to get their hands on the quert of Ynys Affalon—if they made it, with the help of King Rennan of Eìrc, to the island of Mag Mell—Dylan would be immortal. He would never need fear losing her to time and death, as he did now. And if her mercy and her compassion, her forgiveness, allowed it…they would be wed in forty-five days. No…forty-four days, now, as dawn already filled the sky with carnelian fire and threads of rose and gold. They would be wed and she would at last be his wife. Except that…except that she would never stand for…unless he…

Ignoring the pain and the shadows at the edges of his thoughts, Nuada had allowed himself to imagine marrying Dylan. She would wear white, as she'd requested, with the traditional gold. In his mind's eye he saw her swathed in iridescent moonbeam silk, the soft material luminous as a pearl. She would hold a bouquet of lacy white snowdrops; one of her favorite flowers. He fantasized about the way the faint breeze would tease him with the fragrance of her perfume. Not lilies and roses, not for this. Something else. Something different.

He'd tried to imagine the feel of Dylan's slender hands in his as she finally drew close to him beneath the Royal Eildon Tree and the marriage ceremony began. Her eyes would be lit from within, like sunlight through misted sapphires. When they exchanged vows, sealing their pledge with a kiss, he knew he would be happier in that moment than he ever had been before. He could think of only two other events that possessed the power to make him happier, and those were only possible if they could secure Dylan's immortality.

_But if—no, when—when she is at last as long-lived as an Elf and we are wed, I will do all in my power to give her that dearest wish of her heart,_ Nuada swore silently to himself as his back spasmed with the sudden memory of pain._ I will do all that I can to give her the child she yearns for. I swear to you, my love, you will have the child you desire._

A dull ache in his shoulders as well as the throb in his healing ribs from the unnatural position he'd been forced into had yet to fade. He remembered focusing on the king seated on his throne in the King's Hall, and stepping purposefully away from the whipping posts and coming to the foot of the dais on which the king's throne rested. Kneeling, he'd bowed his head before the king. Blood had slipped down his back, tickling his ribs and rolling in tiny amber droplets down his shoulders and arms as he knelt. It could have been worse; he'd known that, and he was grateful that though his blood cooled on his skin in the morning air, he was still able to move without debilitating pain, and his back remained unflayed, though the wounds burned.

"Is it finished to Your Majesty's satisfaction?" The crown prince had asked in a voice tight with pain and exhaustion. He hadn't slept since the night before last, and he hadn't slept _well_ in many nights. On top of that, he'd been healed—was still being healed—by magic. His body was now flagging under the punishing trials he'd recently undergone. Though the flogging hadn't been brutal, the pain still swept over him in red-hot waves.

Balor had inclined his head. "I am satisfied," he'd said in a voice that rang through the nearly-empty Great Hall. Only a chosen few had been called to bear witness to the prince's punishment—Nuada's guards, the Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Steward, the Lord Provost, and Chief-Healer Somhairle, as well as the king's retinue of guards—including the female Butcher Captain, Sáruit ingen Chuinn. At King Balor's words, all of the witnesses had offered a fist-to-chest salute typical of the Butcher Guards, but one that was also used in formal matters such as this. It was a gesture that meant, in essence, "We hear, we see. We understand and accept. Thus we bear witness."

Nuada had raised his head in time to see his father stretch out his hand, offering his son a hand up. After a moment's hesitation, Nuada had taken it. Balor had pulled his son to his feet. Shock had rippled through the prince, quickly masked, when he'd felt how thin and frail his father's grip had become. Dylan had said she thought the king was ill. Was he? Or had he merely gotten old in Nuada's prolonged absence from the Golden Court?

"Go to your lady, my son," Balor had murmured so that none but perhaps Sáruit could hear him. "Let her fuss over you. It will soothe her to be able to help you."

A wan smile had tugged at dark lips and Nuada had said, "No doubt she will henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife."

Balor had smiled and inclined his head. "No doubt."

Now Nuada's hand clamped harder around the bedpost. He had no intention of letting Dylan tend to him; he had no intention of letting her see him until the bleeding had stopped and his wounds were wrapped. Nuada hadn't forgotten the terrible grief and fear in Dylan's eyes whenever she recalled the flogging he'd suffered at the king's order. The prince would take care of himself and his wounds; only then would he seek out the comfort of Dylan's presence.

As if the thought had conjured her, the door betwixt their rooms opened and Dylan stepped into his bedchamber.

**.**

Dylan took several steps forward into the room, then stopped, biting her lip.

Nuada stood beside his bed, one hand gripping the bedpost so hard his knuckles burned stark white against the blue-tinged gray of his skin. His hair hung in a braid over his shoulder, silvery-gold and unstained by blood, so far as Dylan could tell. He pressed his forehead against the tall bedpost. His eyes were shut, the silver lashes like feathery crescent moons against his cheeks, catching the dancing light of the fireplace. Lines of strain marred his features. Tension screamed in every line of his body. Dylan took another step forward. She glimpsed smears of blood on Nuada's shoulders and on his sides. His fingers were blood-stained, as well. He clutched a dark cloth in his other hand. A clean tunic lay on his bed.

"Go from me, Dylan," he whispered. "I do not wish you to see—"

"Shut up," she said softly, coming to him. "Just shut up." She pulled the cloth from his hand. It was damp. Where it touched her skin, it left faint smears of amber. "You're hurt. Let me see." When she tried to move around to get a good look at his back, he shifted, angling toward her so she couldn't see his injuries. "Nuada—"

"Will you allow me no pride, woman?" He snapped, regretting it the moment hurt flashed across her face.

Dylan swallowed. Then, without ever breaking his gaze, she asked in a quiet voice, "Will you allow _me_ no comfort, after the night I've had? The _week_ I've had? I've been waiting for you to come back since before dawn. Seeing you nearly killed right in front of me—twice—just two days ago and I haven't slept all night, knowing you were being hurt and you won't even let me look, won't let me _help_—"

"Forgive me," Nuada whispered. He reached out to touch her cheek, but drew his hand back when he remembered the blood on his fingers. "I…did not mean to speak sharply. You need to do this?" She nodded. He sighed. "Very well, then…little healer." The corner of his mouth curved in a crooked smile when she huffed a laugh. "I arranged for servants to bring the necessary things to my study. I merely came in here to retrieve a shirt, but then I realized how much I was bleeding and…" He trailed off, realizing he was coming as close to rambling as he ever did. He blamed it on blood loss and exhaustion. "Come with me," he concluded.

Nuada's guards said nothing at the sight of their bleeding prince or his tense betrothed as they moved across the front room of the prince's suite to the study door. Neither Nuada nor Dylan said a word, either; the mortal kept her eyes on the floor. She didn't want to look at Nuada's ravaged back with witnesses watching her, in case she started railing at the king again.

Inside the prince's study, Dylan draped the tunic over the back of the bronze visitor's chair intended for large fae like Wink and went to Nuada's desk. Spread out across the ebony surface were bandages, clean cloths, and two large wooden bowls—one full of steaming, soapy water and the other full of clear, fresh water, also hot enough to send lemon-scented steam wafting upward from the smooth surface. An empty porcelain bowl sat on the desk beside a few vials of what looked like oil. Dylan ignored those. Instead, she dipped one of the cloths into the bowl of soapy water and wrung it out.

"Before you look," Nuada murmured, his voice gentle; he perched on a tall stool to give her easy access to his wounds. "I wish you to understand that it looks worse than it truly is. I promise you, I am not badly hurt." She nodded and handed him a damp cloth to clean his hands. When he was finished, she twirled her finger in a circle, silently ordering him to turn around so she could get a look at the damage to his back. After a moment's hesitation, he obeyed.

It wasn't as bad as she'd expected; Dylan understood that in the rational part of her mind. This was very different from when Nuada had hung half-conscious from the iron whipping posts, blood sheeting down his back, the flesh a gory ruin that would've made her sick if she hadn't already had experience with such terrible wounds. Now, though old blood crusted the moon-pale flesh and fresh blood seeped from the wounds, there was at least actual flesh left on his back in the first place. Dylan swallowed and stepped forward, bringing up the cloth to begin cleaning Nuada's injuries.

The soap stung in the open lashes. Nuada's breath came in a long, slow hiss; he barely stifled a low groan. His fingers clenched, but he forced them one by one to loosen and relax. Dylan's touch was gentle as she stroked over his back with the soft cloth, as if she were slowly brushing the blood and pain away. The tender way she bathed his wounds reminded him strongly of those first few months in the sanctuary. He'd been a fool not to savor the intimate touches she'd bestowed in the course of healing him all those moons ago.

He suddenly remembered how she had once had to kneel on the floor in front of him between his knees, dressed only in a loose white under-shift, while she tended to the healing gunshot wound in his belly. And before that, when she'd cleaned the blood from his skin after the makeshift surgery that had saved his life, and she had knelt before him then…only that time, he'd been unashamedly nude.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. Her hand stilled at his back. "For how I behaved in the sanctuary when we first met. I must have made you very uncomfortable."

After a moment, Dylan gave a soft, low laugh that swept over Nuada's skin like a caress, and began wiping away the blood once more. "A little bit, but…it's more of an issue now, actually. You know, trying not to remember how you looked naked."

Despite the lines of fire cutting across his back and shoulders, Nuada found himself smiling almost wolfishly. "My lady…do I take that to mean that you think about me without my clothes?"

"If you weren't injured, I'd smack you," she replied tartly.

"It was a simple, innocent question."

She snorted. "There is _nothing_ innocent about you, Your Highness. And you don't see _me_ asking questions like that." When he merely chuckled, she paused in her ministrations. "I have _never_ asked if you fantasize about me naked."

"Darling," Nuada replied, "of course you don't. You're not a woman who wastes time asking questions with obvious answers."

His truelove was silent long enough for him to start to—figuratively—sweat when she asked in a quiet, almost timid voice, "Nuada…_do_ you fantasize about me…like that?"

To his surprise, heat flared across his cheeks. He wasn't blushing…but if he'd been younger, he might have been. His stomach twisted a little, but he gave her an honest answer. "You are a very beautiful woman, Dylan. One of the most beautiful women I've ever met. You may say that is only my opinion, but that isn't the point. I find you…alluring. Yet I also know that for me to deliberately think about you in such a way would make you uncomfortable and perhaps upset you, so when I find my thoughts taking such turns, I do my best to curb them, though I admit your beauty makes it difficult." He didn't see her cheeks flush. "Sometimes I have thought about what it would be like," she went utterly still, "to make love to you." Her breath hitched when he said, _make love_. Nuada continued, "But it was not so much a fantasy as a plan. When our time comes, I want it to be everything you wish it to be, and so I have considered various…skills I might employ to ease your fears and see to your comfort. Our wedding is less than two moons away. I do not want anything to distress you. Does…that offend you?"

"Oh, no," she said, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice. "That's sweet, actually. I know you're used to just…you know, having a girl if you want her—and if she's okay with it—so I know it's hard for you to not have that with me. I know it frustrates you a lot that I'm so uptight. Thank you for not pressuring me."

How had they even gotten on this subject? He wondered with some amusement. It seemed like the last thing they'd be discussing while she mopped up his lash-wounds. But aloud he only said, "Frustrates me? Is that what you think?" Though it made the tight flesh around his wounds stretch and burn, he reached behind and grasped one of her hands. Her fingers were slender and warm against his skin. "I will tell you how being forced to wait affects me, Dylan. It makes me anticipate the day when I can finally surrender my body to you all the more. If I am in any way frustrated, it is merely because I am eager to show you what lovemaking _should_ be, for I wish to erase the scars on your heart if it is within my power."

Dylan sighed softly. "Romance is certainly your forte. I love you," she added. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm glad you're with me, Nuada. I'm just…I'm so glad we're together."

"As am I, beloved," he murmured. "You bring me joy when I had thought it lost, faded from a gray and dreary world. You are my breath and my heartbeat." He pressed a kiss to the warmth of her palm. "You are everything."

She drew a shaking breath. "We're going to be okay," she said, not knowing why she felt compelled to say so, but knowing he needed to hear it. "We will. Don't worry." She must have been finished cleaning out his stripes, because after she stopped to wet and wring out a washcloth, it didn't sting with soap when the new cloth touched his skin, and he smelled the fragrance of lemon. He didn't speak until she'd begun washing away any lingering traces of soap.

"Sometimes it is difficult, wanting you so much. I feel as if without you I cannot breathe or think or even stand. As if without you, I have nothing. I have _never_ loved someone like this. If I could, I would forsake all who attempted to stand between us and simply come to you, offer myself…but I cannot. You do understand that?"

A soft cloth chased the remnants of moisture on his skin as Dylan skimmed the drying cloth lightly over his back, careful of the clean wounds that had finally stopped bleeding. "I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me…but I think…I think you're trying to say that if you didn't have responsibilities—all the things required of you as a prince—you would devote yourself…"

"To you," he murmured. "Yes. Dylan…if war breaks out between the humans and fae…I…I must—"

"Don't leave me," she said softly, fiercely. He froze, then turned slowly to face her. Her eyes were wide and wet, but she didn't cry. Not this time. She only set the drying cloth on the desk and reached out to cradle his face between her hands. "Promise me that if there's a war you won't…reject me because I'm human or ship me off somewhere or something. I mean…war sucks and I know you worry about me, but I worry about you, too. If things really do go that far, I…" She trailed off, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly on the words she wanted to say before she finally whispered, "I want to be with you when it happens. I want to protect you. Don't leave me alone, Nuada. I've been alone, in one way or another, most of my life. Now I'm not…because of you. Please don't take that away."

"Dylan…" Stars curse it, he didn't _want_ to! He'd sworn never to send her away, never to abandon her, but what else could he do? She would never stay with him if he attempted to resurrect the Golden Army. Even if she did eventually forgive him the sin, for the time she forsook him, his truelove would be alone. And in a way, was not her greatest fear to be alone? "Dylan, there will be things I am forced to do if—when—war comes. I don't want you to—"

"To what?" She asked. "Look at you like you're a monster? Nuada, I trust you. I know you would never go against the dictates of your honor. You would never do anything evil. War is terrible, but you'd fight it as cleanly as possible, I know you would. You'd never do anything that could make me think of you the way _they_ do."

He covered her hands with his. How often would they dance with words, coming so painfully close to the knife edge of his past and present sins, before he finally found his courage and just confessed? Would she understand that it wasn't hatred or rage or vengeance that drove him, but fear? Fear for his kingdom, his people. For all the Fair Folk. How would his people survive in a world shared with humans? They couldn't. They simply could not. Would Dylan, with her tender heart and her forgiveness, understand that necessity drove him to condemn his own soul to Hell in order to save those he had sworn to protect?

"I do not want to lose you."

Dylan shook her head as if in disbelief. "Why do you keep saying that? It's not going to happen."

"One day," he whispered. A hundred images and memories flashed through his head, some nightmare and some all too real: Dylan bleeding and broken on his bed after Eamonn had taken her from him that first night ever in Findias; the sight of her when she'd strode out of his study, eyes damp with tears of hurt and anger, just after telling him she hated him; rage filling him when he'd pierced the assassins' glamour and seen the crossbow bolt aimed at her unguarded heart; the wreck of her fragile mortal shell beneath him as he broke her to pieces; Dylan, his truelove, lying so still beneath the assassin who'd made it into the Healers' Wing. Ah, gods, to lose her…to lose her to death or to lose her love was enough to break him. Nuada stroked the backs of her hands with the very tips of his fingers, tracing fragile bone and tendon where it stood out against the delicacy of her skin. To never touch her again, to never hear the velvet caress of his name on her lips ever again…the mere idea was nearly more than he could bear. "One day you will—"

"No." She shook her head. Brushing her thumbs along the edges of the royal scar, she said firmly, fiercely, "No. It's you and me against the world, right?" She smiled and leaned in until he could feel the soothing warmth of her body against his bare skin. "Here's what's going to happen. We're gonna get our hands on those magic apples or whatever and the kings of Mag Mell will make me immortal." Dylan leaned in closer until her lips brushed over his with every word, phantom kisses. "Then we'll get married, and we'll have a million kids and we will be happy. Do you understand what I'm saying? Happy. You and me."

The words tasted foreign on his tongue when he said, "As much as you love children, I doubt a million young ones will make you happy, mo duinne." A weak smile curved one corner of his mouth. Dylan laughed softly, but the laughter faded when he added, "War is a certainty, Dylan." He squeezed her hands, though whether he was attempting to comfort her or seeking his own comfort, neither of them knew. "When it comes…when we declare ourselves and our existence to the humans—yes, that is how we intend to begin the conflict—they will not accept my people. If we are to try and find a place for ourselves in the mortal realm, your kind will not give it to us; we will have to fight for it. Blood will be spilled, innocent blood. If I am to protect my kingdom, then the fae must strike before the humans do. The blood of innocents will stain my hands, never to be washed away. I will be the monster my father has named me. You will condemn me as murderer, and forsake me."

"What are you talking about? It isn't going to be that way," she protested. "The humans will accept us when we reveal ourselves, and if they _do_ attack us…you would never hurt an innocent, Nuada. You didn't hurt me," she reminded him. "You saved me. You didn't even know me, and you almost died trying to save my life. A human's life. You're too honorable to ever hurt an innocent."

He wrenched away from her. "Stop it." Her faith slashed at him like knives. "You don't know that."

"Well, have you ever?" When he hesitated, she added, "Have you ever killed an innocent person on purpose? Or ordered someone else to?"

"No," he cried. "How can you ask me that? I would never…"

Except that he _would_ when it came time to raise the Golden Army. He would have to unleash it on every man, woman, and child of the race of Adam. He would _have_ to, because once the war began, the fighting wouldn't stop until all of the adults were dead—that was how humans _were_—and then it would only pause briefly until the next generation of humans grew up. Then the war would begin anew. He had to do it. If he didn't, his people would fade. They would die. _All_ the fae would die.

Yet if he did this, he would lose Dylan. Oh, gods, to have her walk away from him…

He wondered suddenly if he truly possessed the strength to defend his people after all. Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps his strength had spilled onto the pavement of the New York subway tunnels along with his blood the night he'd met the woman who'd stolen his heart. And just perhaps he no longer possessed the courage to sacrifice _everything_ for the good of his kingdom.

In fact, he knew he didn't. He'd known it in a distant part of his mind since walking into the healing chamber and seeing Dylan lying there as if dead. He'd tried to forget, in some of the frivolity of yesterday, how the hollow ache he'd felt at her pseudo-loss, the emptiness filling him like cold poison flooding his limbs, had stripped him bare, leaving him nothing but grief and black rage. And Nuada knew that once the rage had been spent, he would have simply collapsed beside her lifeless body, curling himself around her as if to impart some of his own warmth, his own life into her, a feeble and vain attempt to bring her back to him.

And after? He would have been Prince Nuada Silverlance no more. He would've been nothing but an empty shell. If he _ever_ lost Dylan, it would be the breaking of him. And if she ever walked away from him, it would be the breaking of her—her heart, her spirit. Nuada knew then that he would do anything to protect her from such pain, and anything to keep her.

The force of this realization nearly felled him. Nuada stared at Dylan, at her beloved face, as the true depth of what she'd done to him by making him love her finally dawned.

He was lost now. He'd become her slave, in all the ways that mattered. If she forbade it, he couldn't go against her and raise the Army. If she threatened to walk away from him, he would be forced to give in. And she _would_ walk away from him. Oh, gods. Oh, gods, he…he had no choice anymore. He lacked the strength to abandon her in favor of his people. The thought of losing her…it hurt so much it was nearly crippling. The very idea of hurting her even half as much as it would pain him to let her walk away made him almost physically sick. He was like his father, then—his very soul entwined with the one he loved, until he was nothing but a shade of a man without her. Nuada had become what he'd sworn never to be. Regret and bitterness were as ash in his mouth.

"Damn you," he rasped. Obviously stung, her confusion evident, Dylan dropped her hands and stepped back. Nuada's legs shook as he rose to his feet and took a step toward her. How had this happened? _When_ had this happened? She had shattered his honor; stolen his resolve, his drive to do what was right by the people he owed his loyalty and protection to. Had his father known this would happen? Were the gods merely toying with him? Was he to be Fortune's fool, the plaything of the Fates? "Damn you. And damn my own soul in the bargain."

"Why?" Dylan whispered. The hurt and subtle shading of betrayal in her voice was like a fist in his belly. Understandable, that she would be confused and upset. Moments ago, they had been whispering reassurances to each other, professing their undying love, and now he was cursing her as well as himself with audible bitterness. No doubt she believed him mad. "What…what did I do?"

_Nothing,_ he wanted to reassure her. _Nothing, my love._ And yet at the same time he wanted to confess, _You have broken me as no weapon of my enemies ever has. You are my downfall. You are my greatest weakness. With you I am no longer the man I was, but a doppelganger, a shadow without honor or courage or strength. And yet to be without you…then I am nothing at all. What have you done to me?_

"I will never be able to live without you, will I?" He asked softly. He wanted—needed—to reach out and take her into his arms, hold her. She looked so confused. He knew he wasn't making sense to her but he feared that if he stopped long enough to attempt to soothe her or marshal his thoughts, he would say the wrong words and lose her anyway, despite the realization that had come to him. "Do you remember how I have said, 'I will do _almost_ anything for you?' And you have said the same?" Warily she nodded. "That isn't true for me anymore," Nuada said, and loathed himself when Dylan flinched almost imperceptibly. "Now…there is no almost. I _would_ do anything for you, Dylan. Somehow you have made me need you that much. I've no strength left, no honor, no wisdom or courage that can stand up to whatever you would ask of me. I have killed for you. Risked death for you. I would do _anything_ for you. Anything."

For a moment she merely stood there in stunned silence, leaning against the edge of his desk. Finally she shook her head. "I…have no idea what to say to that. What brought all that on?" When Nuada shook his head and gestured almost helplessly, Dylan nodded. "Okay. It's okay." She spoke softly, the way _he_ would speak to a skittish horse. "I think you're just tired—"

"No, Dylan. Listen to me." _Please_, he thought. _Please listen. Please understand_. "If you asked it of me, I would forsake my kingdom and my people. I would follow you to the end of this world and beyond to the next. If you were taken from me, I would follow the shadow of your footsteps across kingdoms and realms and even through Hell. To be with you I would become your shadow, the echo of your heartbeat, the whisper of your breath. Do you understand?" _Can you understand?_ He wondered. _Can you see what you've wrought within me?_

"I would never ask you to abandon Bethmoora," she murmured, trying to soothe him. "You know I wouldn't."

Never consciously, no. She would never do such a thing. Yet she challenged him with that impossible choice, forcing him—with her presence in his life and her goodness, her forgiveness and her devotion to her God and His laws, with her mercy—to admit that he lacked the strength to do the right thing any longer, lacked the courage to stand by his people if it meant she would no longer stand by him. He couldn't hurt her that way, and he could no longer deny himself.

Nuada bit back a sigh of frustration. He'd made his choice; to explain now about the Golden Army and what he meant—what he _had_ meant, Nuada corrected himself—to do with it would only scare or upset her. Or worse, turn her against him, even though he had bitterly surrendered that last hope for his people. Yet without explaining _that_, how was he to make her understand?

"I know you wouldn't," he said. "But if you did…I would."

"But…why?" Was that the light of comprehension in her fey-like blue eyes? "Why would you do that?"

"When my mother died, my father…lost himself. He has never come back, not really. He is a ghost now, a shade, where a hale and hearty warrior once tread the paths of the world. Dylan…without you, I am the same. For too long I've agonized over the thought of your loss. Just two nights past, you were nearly taken from me. I thought I'd seen you murdered before my eyes. But it is not only death that could part us. There will come a time when war looms, and when that day comes…

"I will have a choice," he confessed. "I thought it made decades ago, when I decided that mankind could never be salvaged, but…but now, when I look into your eyes, when you whisper my name in sleep, when I see the smile on your lips that I know is reserved for me alone…I find the choice taken out of my hands. If I had brothers or sisters who could take the throne and safeguard my people, I would step down to be with you. As it is…this love is like a blade in my chest. I do not know if the wound is a mortal one, yet I feel my heart's blood leave me when I look upon you. You hold the future of my kingdom in your hands." Nuada grasped Dylan's hands and brought them to his chest, right over his heart, cupping them there in the same way he had that bloody day in the royal forest, as if trying to warm them. "You hold my heart and soul, Dylan. Have mercy."

Dylan took a step forward. Nuada's heart thudded hard against his breastbone. She drew nearer, and his breath caught. Nearer still, and he found he had no breath anymore, and his heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to bruise bone. Moonlit blue eyes locked with sunlit topaz. Nuada swallowed. She understood—he could see it in those beautiful eyes. Dylan understood. Perhaps not all of it, but she realized that he had been ready to make a terrible choice, and she had pulled him back from the brink of potential destruction and sure despair.

"Mercy, then," Dylan whispered, her voice exquisitely gentle, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Her mouth was soft and sweet, a balm against the raw ache in his heart at what he had done, and decided to do. Lips like silken fire caressed his. Need inflamed him; not physical need, not the ever-present desire for his truelove's body entwined with his, but a need of the heart. He matched her kiss, a silent plea that she never leave him, never abandon him as others would when they learned of this. Dylan answered him with warmth, with gentleness. Nuada trembled; he could feel everything she offered him in this kiss—her life, her love.

That was all he could count on to sustain him now. The warrior prince had lost his honor. He had forsaken his people and damned his own soul. To keep the one who meant more to him than any other—including Wink, his father, his sister—he would commit the most selfish act he could have _ever_ imagined.

**.**

Perhaps an hour later, Nuada leaned down and pressed his lips to Dylan's smooth, untroubled brow. She shifted in sleep, making a small sound of contentment before subsiding. He breathed in her scent, letting his lips whisper across her skin from forehead to temple and along her cheek. After she'd finished tending his injuries, the two of them had merely leaned against his desk and held each other. Nuada had said nothing—but then, he hadn't needed to. Dylan had understood that while he was loath to explain why, he'd needed the comfort of her embrace. Only when he'd felt steady again had the prince suggested that Dylan get some rest. Nuada had dressed in a clean tunic and trews and now Dylan slept, utterly exhausted by work the day before as well as the long night of excitement and terror.

Nuada would not sleep. He had something he needed to do before another moment passed. So after brushing a farewell kiss across Dylan's lips—she was all he had now, really—he straightened his loose tunic; the bandages kept the linen of his tunic from rubbing painfully against his half-raw stripes. He moved more easily now, as well, thanks to his truelove carefully massaging the healing oils into the muscles over his cracked-but-mending ribs.

With one last lingering glance at Dylan, he took himself from her room. As he stepped into her sitting room, Dylan's guards slipped into the bedchamber to guard her. The thought of giving her into their safekeeping left his chest so tight it ached. After all, her guards had proven ineffective against this latest attempt. But this needed to be done.

Striding silently through the castle corridors, he eventually found himself outside the door to Zhenjin's healing chamber. He cast out with his sense of mind-touch and found things as he'd requested—within the chamber, Zhenjin, Arawn, and Bres waited for him.

The four of them had always been close, closer than Nuada had been with any of the rest of the "inner circle" plotting out the map of the coming war against the humans. While Nuada considered Kamaria and Farai of Nyame, and Anterion of Mytikas, to be his friends (and dear ones), these three were his confidantes. The four of them had fought in battle many times, and saved each others' lives. Nuada had even saved Arawn's family once, and had long ago been betrothed to his daughter. Apart from Wink, these men were his dearest friends. They deserved to hear his decision first.

Nuada prayed they would remain his friends after they heard him out. He wondered if Wink would still call him friend and brother—still call him lord—after he'd confessed to the silver cave troll what he meant to do.

He stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind him. Judging by the expressions of the king and the two crown princes, he looked as haggard as he felt. Slumping into the spare chair someone had brought into the room, he studied his friends. Bres's sapphire eyes were sleepy beneath his knotted golden brows. Zhenjin's face was tight with pain as well as worry. Arawn's expression was closed, but his gaze showed concern. One didn't call a meeting such as this less than three hours after dawn without inciting some worry.

"Silverlance," Bres said into the heavy silence. "You look well enough, considering assassins had you in their sights not two days past." The Fomorian prince's voice held a false joviality, as if he strove to shove back the seriousness of the situation. When Nuada didn't smile, he added, "Is your…lady…unharmed? I'd heard she was well."

"Lady Dylan is as well as can be expected," the prince said softly. He hadn't missed Bres's pause. "That isn't why I have called you all here." Nuada swallowed and forced himself not to grit his teeth. He was no coward. He would admit his crime to his friends and comrades, his brothers-in-arms, and take their censure as he deserved. Nuada Silverlance did not hide from his sins. "There has been…a new development in our war efforts."

Bres immediately sat upright, a grin spreading across his sun-kissed face. "You found the third Golden Crown piece!" The prince of Eìrc slapped Nuada heartily on the back. He seemed not to notice the twisted expression of pain on Nuada's face, but neither Zhenjin nor Arawn missed it. The Dilong prince eyed his friend, silently asking with his gaze if he was all right. Arawn watched the exchange of the Chinese Elf's look and Nuada's brief nod with a sharp gaze. Bres added, "Well, now, and so we are one step closer to our victory over the mortal scum."

Nuada shook his head, ignoring the agony in his back. "No, Bres. Neither my agents nor I have found the final piece of the Golden Crown." Taking a breath and taking his courage in hand, he added in a voice as firm as he could make it, "Nor will we be continuing the search for it."

Arawn's brows lifted until they nearly disappeared into his hairline. He brushed a lock of brown hair from across his forehead, but said nothing. Zhenjin's eyes sharpened, but he didn't speak either, though his gaze held a wealth of speculation.

The crown prince of the Fomori gave voice to their collective thought.

"_What?_" Bres demanded, incredulous. "_Why?_"

Nuada forced himself meet those accusing eyes, which were now as glacial as frozen sapphires. "Our plan to use the Golden Army in the coming war has had unforeseen costs, costs too high for me to ignore. I cannot do as we have planned." He took another breath. It seemed to catch in his lungs and strangle him. Somehow, he managed to speak the final damning sentence. "The Army will not be used in the war; it will remain asleep. I entreat you, Prince Bres, and you, Prince Zhenjin, to follow my example with your own ensorcelled Armies."

There was silence—heavy, terrible silence, as brittle as a sheet of ice and just as cold and cutting—as the three fae royals absorbed the news. Arawn didn't react at all. He merely watched Nuada with that same sharp, perceptive brown gaze. Zhenjin pursed his lips and closed his eyes, as if having a terrible truth confirmed. Yet again, it was Bres who spoke, though this time Nuada couldn't be sure if the heir to the Fomorian throne gave voice to his own sentiments, or the collective thoughts of those assembled.

"You have done this—betrayed us—for _her_, haven't you?" The prince demanded. He surged to his feet, rage contorting his handsome features into a mask of dark fury. "For your human bitch."

Zhenjin sat upright, wincing. Arawn laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Nuada watched Bres with narrowed eyes.

"Have a care, Bres."

"No," the other prince snarled. Pain mingled with the rage in his eyes. "No, I stood back and let you make a fool of yourself over your little mortal slut. I said nothing when you asked her to be, for the gods' sake, your wife! But this…you betray us _all_ with this, and then demand we follow your example and forsake our kingdoms! How dare you? May the gods damn you, Nuada, have you no honor? Will you abandon your people—our people—to die at the hands of the humans?"

Silverlance lunged to his feet so that he stood eye to copper eye with Bres. He didn't know where the words came from, but they crowded in his throat until he had no choice but to speak or choke on them. "I will _never_ abandon my people! You know this genocide has _never_ sat well with me, much as I despise the humans, but I thought it necessary to protect the Fair Folk!"

Bres sneered. "And a paltry twelve-month between your whore's legs has changed your mind? She _must_ be something special."

"Watch your tongue."

"Try and force me, _coward_," the Fomorian spat. "Because you fear losing your place in your slut's bed, you forsake your honor and abandon the courage to go to war for the sake of your own people?"

"Bres!" Zhenjin snapped. "That's enough!"

But the prince was beyond anyone attempting to reason with him. "You're just like Balor; no spine, no bollocks. Is your manhood such a pathetic thing that a common-born human whore can turn your head, force you to forget the plight of the Kindly Ones and uphold the shameful truce between our proud races and the barbaric humans?"

"I said," Nuada spoke, every word carved from jagged ice shards, "that I would not use the Golden Army, nor would I wipe out an entire race. I have enough innocent blood on my hands to last me until death and beyond. _But!_ That does not mean that if war threatens, I and my kingdom will not fight. I will not abandon my people to the twilight and shadows."

Bres shook his head. "Your words mean nothing, traitor. I once called you 'brother,' but no longer. I will never forget this betrayal, Silverlance, and neither will your people. What do you think they will do when they learn you've forsaken them for some whore? You think they'll not care that she's bought your loyalty by letting you plow her like a rutting bull?" Nuada's hands flashed out and fisted in Bres's blue linen shirt. A low snarl rumbled in his chest. The other prince only sneered. "Go on, then. Strike me in defense of your trollop. Turn your back on everything we have always stood for, everything we've always believed in. And when you rut with that human bitch, I hope what remains of your soul and your honor sickens and dies from the shame of your cowardice."

Sick with rage, nearly shaking with it, Nuada shoved Bres away from him. He wouldn't strike a crown prince of an allied nation over words, cruel though they might have been. Princes couldn't afford to act like brawling soldiers. And Bres _was_ his ally—or had been. His beloved sister's (unofficial) betrothed. And his friend. So he would not hit Bres. Instead, Nuada's hands curled into fists at his sides and he ground his teeth.

"I make allowances for your shock and the love you bear your people," the crown prince of Bethmoora snarled. "But if you speak one more word against my lady, the love I bear you, my brother, will suffer for it."

The crown prince of Eìrc scoffed. "Pretty words, Your Highness, but I will not be charmed. You think you can betray your honor and your bloodline? When your people learn who has turned your heart against them, how quickly will they hunt down your harlot and tear her to pieces? How much faith will they keep in a prince who turns his back on them? The Fates will see you suffer for it. Mark my words, Nuada—when everything you love has been taken from you, you will regret your treachery this day." Without another word, or so much as a backward glance, the Fomorian prince swept from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Arawn rose to his feet, a shadow in his black clothing and cloak. He inclined his head to Zhenjin, then pinned his gaze on Nuada. In a voice devoid of emotion, the king of Annwn murmured, "I will consider your words, Prince Nuada, and discuss them with Queen Penarddun. I shall speak with you further at another time." Then he, too, left.

Now there was only Zhenjin. Nuada met a reptilian jade gaze and said nothing; only waited for his friend's condemnation. To his surprise, Zhenjin sighed and settled back against his pillows, closing his eyes again wearily.

"You love her so dearly," the Dilong prince murmured, "that you cannot bear the thought of life without her, or the thought of what heartbreak she will suffer if you do as we have always intended. She has stolen your heart from your people, Nuada."

"Zhenjin—" Nuada began, but the prince cut him off.

"You are very lucky, Silverlance," the Dilong Elf said softly. "Do you know that? You love and are loved by one of the best women to ever breathe. Not only that, but you possess the ability to truly _keep_ her. Your life will be a happy one—a wife who loves you desperately, children by her, everything you might wish. All you need do is sacrifice your honor." Nuada could not suppress a flinch, but Zhenjin merely sighed again. "I do not condemn you, my friend…my brother. Because if I thought it would do me any good, I would do the same."

Stunned, wondering if he'd heard properly, Nuada stared at his friend. "You…would…"

Zhenjin drew a deep breath and met Nuada's eyes. "I know how you feel, Nuada. If any of our comrades could claim to understand what you feel for Dylan, truly I would be the one…and for that, I consider myself to be Fortune's fool." Then Zhenjin turned his head, as if he could no longer bear the weight of his friend's gaze. "Now go from me, old friend. I am tired, and you've given me much to consider."

With nothing more to say, Nuada left.


	91. Depths of My Sin

_**Author's Note:**__ Sorry I'm late with this final of the 4 revamped chapters, everybody! I apologize! But here it is, at last, and with an ALL-NEW chapter in honor of Beltaine, May 1st, AND Mother's Day! So yayayayayayayayayay! Enjoy, everyone! This chap didn't have a LOT of changes, but the previous ones did, and some minor changes were made here. Chapter 91 is ALL NEW. Hugs!_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title:**__ the chapter title was taken from a line in the song "Underneath" by Adam Lambert._

.

.

**Chapter Ninety**

**The Depths of My Sin**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Prince's Rage, a Vassal's Oath, Concern, Talk of War, a Terrible Confession, Dylan's Choice, and Plans for Vengeance**

.

.

"That bastard! That treacherous _bastard!"_

Cíaran and Dierdre, sitting on the sofa in the parlor of the Fomorian guest suite, jerked upright as Crown Prince Bres slammed through the door swearing. Dierdre shrank back and Cíaran's eyes widened as their prince sent the door crashing closed, and then strode six paces into the room and kicked a footstool so hard that two of the legs snapped off when the stool struck the wall. The gancanaugh siblings had rarely seen the Fomorian heir so enraged. Bres turned without a word to either of them, heading for the small table set out with the breakfast a maid had brought for the prince while he'd been gone. With a bestial roar, Bres swept the entire meal to the floor amidst a symphony of shattering glass and the chime of silver striking stone. Then the prince stopped, muscles quivering like a wild horse's after a strenuous run, and bowed his head. His shoulders heaved as he took several ragged breaths.

After a moment, Dierdre rose to her feet with a rustle of velvet skirts. Hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt, she cautiously approached Bres. When she was perhaps two paces away, Cíaran quietly cleared his throat, and his sister laid a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Bres?"

With a low snarl, the Fomorian rounded on her and struck her a vicious backhand that sent her sprawling to the floor. Cíaran interposed himself between his liege lord and his sister when Bres took a menacing step toward the now-weeping gancanaugh woman. Blood leaked between her trembling fingers from the cruel cut marring her cheek. Dierdre's eyes, wet with tears, gazed beseechingly at her prince when Bres growled low in his throat.

"Bres!" Cíaran shouted. "What's come over you? What's happened?"

The prince fixed his eyes on the woman on the floor. "You. You want to rut with him? You desire him in your bed? Silverlance?" Dierdre went white as a corpse. _"Answer me!"_ Bres roared. Cíaran's eyes were now so wide they seemed ready to fall out of his head. "Do you want him, yes or no? You want to bring him crawling over knives and broken glass to kiss your feet? Do you want the traitor to suffer?"

"My prince," Cíaran said softly. "My _friend_. What. Has. Happened?"

As if all the life had drained from him along with the rage that suddenly seemed to disappear, Bres fell to his knees, a hollow confusion marring his face where once fury twisted the handsome features. He slowly shook his head. "I know not," he whispered. "Cíaran…Nuada will not give us the Golden Army."

"What?" Cíaran demanded. "What…why…he told you this?"

Bres nodded slowly, as if it were almost too difficult a thing for him to attempt.

Dierdre hissed. Bres slowly lifted his eyes to her face. The disguised gancanaugh growled, "It's _her,_ isn't it? The human strumpet. Somehow she's convinced him to betray us this deeply. She's managed to strip him of even that last shred of honor."

Bres nodded again. "He'll not aid us in any way. I knew we'd lost him—I _knew_ he'd betrayed us by falling in love with that filthy human slut—but I thought…I thought…"

"You thought his honor would at least compel him to help us find the third Crown piece and give us another weapon against the children of Adam," Cíaran mumbled, sinking to the floor. After a brief hesitation, Dierdre slowly came to lean against her brother, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. Cíaran withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his sister. She pressed it to the cut on her cheek. "So, too, did we all. We all thought that even if he'd been compromised, even if honor compelled us to execute him for the treachery of his heart…that he would at least fulfill that oath."

The Fomorian prince shuddered. "He was the one searching for the lost artifacts." Bres's voice was empty of anything but shock and…grief? "He had his network of agents searching for nearly all of them. He and Arawn and Zhenjin…but mostly Nuada. And I doubt it very much if he will tell us what information he has gathered."

Dierdre twisted her fingers in Cíaran's sleeve. "Will he destroy whatever findings he's managed to scrounge together?"

He shook his head. "I do not know, Dierdre…but I think it likely. We have lost whatever progress has been made toward that part of our plans for the war." Bres slumped against the leg of the table and dropped his head into his hands. "How could he do this?"

"Bres…" Dierdre's unglamoured teeth, sharp as needles, sank gently into her bottom lip as her prince's hands clenched into shaking fists pressed to his temples. One needed to walk carefully with the prince in such an uncertain temper. Provoke him, and he might strike her again, and this time Cíaran's questions might not be enough to stay his hand. But the gancanaugh felt this latest betrayal of the Tuathan prince keenly in her belly, just as the Fomorian heir did. She'd known Nuada was capable of much…but this? "Bres…"

All at once the tension drained from the prince's body. He dropped one limp hand into his lap and stretched out the other toward her. "Come to me, Dierdre." A flicker of hesitation, then Dierdre moved to Bres's side. To her surprise, he gently pulled the blood-spotted handkerchief from her grasp in order to lightly dab her cheek. "Forgive me, my sweet. To strike one's loyal followers without cause is the sign of a weak leader. I had a momentary lapse." He leaned in to kiss her mouth. Her lips trembled, and a small tremor went through her—she didn't trust this quietude—but she didn't pull away, either. "You didn't deserve to feel my wrath, my lovely one." Another swift kiss.

Cíaran held himself as still as a serpent waiting to strike. Bres rarely apologized for anything. Perhaps he _hadn't_ meant to strike Dierdre. Perhaps he'd merely lashed out in his fury. The prince _did_ consider such a thing weak, and he abhorred weakness, especially in himself. Using fury and hatred to further one's goals was admirable; allowing your fury and hate to use _you_ was simply pathetic. Bres stroked a fingertip over the curve of Dierdre's unmarred cheek.

"You know who does deserve my wrath, sweet Dierdre?" The prince asked softly, his lips grazing hers with every word. Cíaran thought absently that if he'd been in the same position with Lilè or Fiona, his sweet little hob chambermaids, there would've been something tender in it. There was very little tenderness in the pose of his sister and the prince who bound her to him with an arm about her waist and his touch at her cheek. Menace smoldered in the glacial sapphire eyes of the Fomorian. Cíaran's sister shook her head, a look of mute pleading and dread on her face. Cíaran wondered suddenly just how long he would live if Bres tried to kill Dierdre and Cíaran drove a knife into his chest to protect his kin. The thought shook him; was he truly considering betraying Bres? After this latest cruel blow from a man they'd both once considered a friend? But Bres's next words alleviated any fear for either Dierdre or himself in Cíaran's mind. "Silverlance. Silverlance and his _whore_."

The gancanaugh lord relaxed the merest fraction. "We already planned to kill the little harlot."

Bres shook his head impatiently, his features twisting into something akin to a snarl. "It's not enough. I want to _shatter_ him with her death. He betrays us to the last for her sake? Let him see where it will lead him. And when we're done with her, Silverlance will _beg_ me to kill him."

Even Dierdre was shaken by the venom oozing from his words. She whispered, "And will you, my prince?"

Hate was an icy, brutal thing. It seemed to flood Bres's blood with ice, to frost over the bitter rage and hurt within him until there was nothing but the deathly cold of his freshly-laid hate. He'd been disgusted by Nuada's previous betrayal. Enraged by it. He'd been set on avenging their cause against him. This, however, was different. For some reason, this knife in the back felt strangely personal.

Would he kill Nuada after destroying his precious little human tidbit? When Nuada offered his throat to Bres's knife—and when the Fomorian was done with _Lady Dylan,_ Nuada certainly _would_ bare his throat and even offer Bres the knife to cut it—would Bres kill him? Or leave him a shattered remnant of the man he'd been, to live out his many centuries in soul-killing grief?

The answer came to him, and he smiled. Dierdre whimpered, but self-preservation prevented her from drawing back from her liege and lover. Even Cíaran flinched at the madness edging Bres's smile.

**.**

"I will ask you one last time, my prince…is this the path you wish to take?"

In another part of Findias, Nuada gazed back at the silver cave troll he loved as a father, brother, friend, and vassal. Wink's face was unreadable in the candle- and lamp-lit study. Nuada's heart threatened to fragment his ribcage as it sped ceaselessly in his chest. He kept his palms pressed hard to the polished ebony surface of his desk, fingers splayed to keep them from tapping or fidgeting in any way.

Did Wink see the pulse jumping spasmodically in his prince's throat? Did he see the pleading in Nuada's eyes, the only part of his prince's face not kept carefully blank? Did Wink even consider Nuada to _be_ his prince anymore?

"It is," Nuada said firmly. Then, his voice softening, but never taking his eyes from his vassal, he added, "I'm sorry, Brother."

He could read nothing in Wink's Cyclopean gaze, nothing. What was his friend thinking? What was occurring within his canny mind and great heart? Did he feel as Bres did? Would he now forsake Nuada, as Nuada had forsaken his people in their plight? A muscle in the prince's sword-hand twitched twice before subsiding. He didn't look away from the troll's gaze.

At long last, Wink sighed—a mournful sound that seemed to strike Nuada like a massive bronze fist in the chest. The cave troll shook his head. Slender, ebony back-bristles drooped. Nuada tensed, waiting for his vassal's verdict regarding the prince's decision. It would've been pathetic to beg, to plead with his friend to stay by his side, to please not abandon him as so many others would for this. As Bres, once his friend, already had. Yet the crown prince would not beg. Never. Not to avoid the consequences of his own cowardice, his own weakness. He merely waited.

"I feared this path," the troll murmured at last. The words were like knives thrusting beneath Nuada's ribs to draw vital blood. "Though I care for her, when I saw your mother's ring on the lassling's finger, when I saw the way you looked at her as if she were your own life's blood and the breath in your chest, I feared you had lost touch with your convictions. I feared she'd stripped your strength from you."

"Wink…" Nuada trailed off. What could he say? Hadn't Dylan done just that?

The troll shook his head slowly. "No, my prince. There are no words you might say to explain."

Nuada's eyes burned, and a deathly cold seemed to steal over him at his vassal's words. He half-rose from his seat, the implacable mask disintegrating under the weight of Wink's sorrowful gaze. "Wink," he managed. "Wink, we will still fight. We will still wage our war if it is necessary. The humans will not crush my people beneath their heel again. I swear to you." Then he broke enough to add, his voice almost child-like in its pleading, "My brother…I would never abandon the fae. Surely you know this of me."

Wink sighed again. "And if simple warfare is not enough?" He asked softly, peering into his prince's face. "I do not seek to wash your soul in innocent blood, my prince. _You_ know this of _me_. Yet you have sworn oaths, and you have a duty to fulfill: your people before your own happiness; your people before _her_ happiness. If we go to war, and the humans begin to bear down on us like a plague as they've done so often in the past, what will you do then? Will you stand as the sword and shield of your kingdom, of your subjects? Or will you retreat, offering up your people to the slaughter for fear that she will spurn you if you do not?" The troll's slumped shoulders came up, and he lifted his hands in a weary gesture. "Where will you draw the line, Nuada? How much innocent blood is too much, and how much is too little?" Wink dropped his hands. "Think on my words."

He turned to walk out of the study, but just at the door he stopped. Without turning back to the stricken prince, he added in a low rumble, "And know this also, Nuada—no matter what you decide, you are always my son, my brother, my friend…and my lord." He touched one massive hand to his heart, though he still did not turn. "Sire, I am your servant—until my lord release me, or death take me."

With those words, Wink left Nuada's study. Nuada sank into his chair and dropped his face into his shaking hands, unsure whether the taloned hand squeezing his heart was merely a sick sense of relief, or the cruel twisting of guilt.

**.**

When Dylan woke the day after Midwinter, the day before Christmas Eve, she didn't go to check on Nuada right away. He needed to sleep, and she didn't want to risk waking him. He'd been so tired and rundown lately. Not even lately—he was always rundown, never sleeping enough. But after the exhausting time this morning, he would've gone to sleep. Right?

She paused in the middle of brushing her teeth and wondered. _Would_ Nuada have gone to bed like a smart man? Or would he have stayed up all night and all day worrying about everything that was going on?

She'd almost made up her mind to look in on her prince when Guardsman Ailbho knocked on her bedroom door and informed her she had a letter. Since she was dressed—though she wore the bathrobe for extra warmth—she opened the door, taking the letter and cracking the gold-flecked blue wax seal with a word of murmured thanks to her young bodyguard. It was from Nuala; the princess had agreed to speak to the king this afternoon, giving the king the impression that his daughter wanted to help the villages herself as well as offering the aid for the king's tenderhearted future daughter-in-law. Nuala signed off the short letter with the final admonishment to "take care of my brother," as well as a reminder that wedding preparations for the prince and his future bride would begin fairly soon.

_I wonder how much work I'll actually have to do,_ Dylan wondered as she asked Ailbho to have a page send up a breakfast tray. On a hunch, she added a request for a second tray for Nuada. He was still mending thanks to the spells laid into the healing stab-wounds and his cracked ribs from the assassination attempt and would need the extra food. _I mean, my demands aren't very…demanding. I've got my preferences. Maybe I should write them down and give them to the royal wedding planner. Or Nuala. What if the wedding planner doesn't listen to me because I'm common-born? Or pulls the "interfering mother-in-law" routine, minus the mother-in-law part, and just bulldozes over me?_

_Am I really going to let them do that? Ugh, whatever. As long as my dress is white and modest. I can talk to Themba later today. Who knows how long it'll take him to make a royal wedding dress? Plus, don't I need a coronation dress, since I'm being made a princess?_ Dylan rubbed her temples. Why was she thinking about this? So Nuada didn't have to think about it. With everything else on his plate, he didn't need to be worrying about their wedding on top of it all, and she knew that if she didn't take charge at least somewhat, Nuada would worry that she wasn't happy with the preparations. _Why did we agree to get married in less than two months again?_ She wondered a bit wryly. _Out of control hormones?_

Dylan took a few minutes to write a quick thank-you to Nuala and to ask her opinion on whether she ought to take Nuada with her to see the royal wedding planner whenever they happened to meet with them. Then, since she had a moment, Dylan made a quick list of "must-haves" and thoughts about her wedding on a piece of scratch paper.

_- Modest white dress (Temple-appropriate)  
- Flowers: snowdrops, white rosebuds, baby's breath, something gold?  
- Sisters and John in attendance  
- Invite Uncle Thad, Aunt Niamh, cousin Renee  
- CAKE!  
- The children? Bridal attendants/groomsmen?  
- Find out Bethmooran royal wedding customs  
- What's Nuada wearing? Wanna find out  
- __Don't panic!_

At the last second, as she was perusing the list, Dylan added, "_Want Zhenjin, Roiben, Kaye, and Moundshroud there_." Smiling at the thought of Moundshroud at her wedding—and a little worried that her Dilong friend wouldn't want to come; he'd been acting a little weird since the announcement of her betrothal to Nuada—Dylan put the list in a drawer of her desk in the nook-room and went to go see whether Nuada had actually slept or not.

A page arrived with the two breakfast trays just as she was leaving the nook-room. Dylan asked the page to set up the breakfast in the nook-room, so that she and Nuada could maybe play chess while they ate. She knew, instinctively, that he _needed_ to take a break and relax. Even during their "break" that the king had given them from all the politicking and court events, Nuada hadn't actually rested. His mind had been engaged with so much, most of which he wasn't sharing. Perhaps he didn't want to burden her. Maybe he was still struggling with the problem of Lady Dierdre and whatever trouble she was in. But there was something else, too. Something that was hurting him, and Dylan had no idea what it was. At first she'd thought it was about the villages, and maybe that was part of it, but there was more to it than that. And she was going to find out what it was—hopefully over breakfast. She was starving, and Nuada probably was, too.

She poked her head into the front room of his suite, where his guards all posed in various states of attention or relaxation. When she asked Lorcc about Nuada, the young guardsman informed her that the prince had been in his study most of the day. Dylan frowned and knocked on the study door. Like the previous morning, no one answered. When she tried the knob, however, the door wasn't locked, as she'd half-feared. She poked her head in.

Nuada sat slumped in his desk chair, his head half-cradled in one hand, fingers at his temples, rubbing as if he had a headache. Dylan could barely see him in the dimness, since—like yesterday—the candles were guttering and the fire in the hearth had died down to sullen coals and a few feeble flames. Only his proximity to the fire made him visible. Nuada didn't raise his head when Dylan cleared her throat.

"Hey," she called softly. "May I come in?"

"As you like," the prince muttered, shifting to prop his forehead in a cradle of two fingers and his thumb, still massaging as if in pain. Dylan stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. "What is it?" Nuada demanded.

Her eyebrows drew down in surprise and a little hurt. They'd been all cuddly earlier that morning. What had happened to make him so surly? Keeping her voice tranquil, Dylan murmured, "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I got a note from Nuala; she's going to talk to the king today about the northern villages."

The prince nodded wearily. "Good. Good. Was that it?"

She frowned. "Are you all right?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Dylan."

"Have you slept at all?" She asked, trying to keep her voice gentle.

Nuada sighed and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, giving her a look that somehow spoke of infinite patience, though she could barely see it in the dim light. "I am not tired, Dylan. When I am, I will sleep."

Why did it feel like he was irritated with her? Probably because he was. The question was, why? But she didn't ask. She only said, "Nuada, you haven't really slept for the last…Heaven knows how many days. You need rest. You _look_ tired."

He waved that away. If he'd been anyone else, Dylan would've been mad at this point, but Nuada _never_ blew her off. Not like this. He would tell her he was "well enough," and then act like a macho idiot to prove there was nothing wrong, but he'd never brush her concerns aside so coldly. He seemed distracted - more so than usual. A cool whisper of concern in her chest told her there _was_ something wrong here.

She tried again. "Have you eaten? I had breakfast brought up for us. Come on, we can eat breakfast in the nook-room and I'll let you murder me at chess."

Her prince shook his head. "I am not hungry."

The psychiatrist in her came to the fore. When an alpha male couldn't be rousted out of whatever dark mood had come over him, one way to bring him back was to ask for his help. It had worked with Nuada before; at the first Midwinter banquet, when the king had stripped him of his lance again and placed him back under house-arrest, she'd kept Nuada from brooding over it by hinting that her knee was bothering her (which it had been, since her meds hadn't kicked in yet) and she needed his help getting to her seat. But that had also been applied to surface temper, nothing as deep as this felt.

Dylan came to stand beside his chair. He lifted his eyes to her. She couldn't see his expression, but she could almost feel his mild exasperation. He didn't want her around. Why? Gently, she caressed the back of his hand.

"Is it selfish of me to tell you that…that I miss you?" She whispered. He frowned.

"Miss me? I'm right here."

She shook her head. "Physically, yes…but there's a wall between us right now, and I don't know why it's there, or what I've done to put it there, or anything. Something's bothering you; what is it?"

He sighed. "I have much on my mind, Dylan, that's all. It is nothing to concern yourself over."

"Then why won't you sleep? Or eat?"

Now there was an edge of anger in his voice. "I'm not hungry. How many times must I _say_ it-"

"You're scaring me," she murmured, and his anger died away. He only stared at her, brow furrowed. "You say you're not tired, but you've slept maybe six hours in the last three days. You say you're not hungry, but when was the last time you ate? Was it when we went to the sanctuary? Because you didn't eat much then and your body still has healing spells in it that need fuel. You're hurt, but I have to fight you to let me take care of your injuries. You won't eat, you won't sleep, you won't let me take care of you without a fight, you look like you're chewing glass half the time, and you expect me to believe there's nothing wrong?" She shook her head. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said…" Nuada sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I did not mean to imply such a thing. I'm sorry, mo duinne." He caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Forgive me."

"What's wrong?" Dylan asked softly. "Tell me what's wrong. Ever since the night of the ball…no, even before. Ever since I came back from work and you seemed so despondent, you've been acting strange, and it's only gotten worse since then. What's wrong, Nuada? Did something happen?" She hesitated, then whispered tremulously, "Did I do something?"

"No," he said immediately. "No, mo crídh, my heart. It's only that I've been wrestling with a grave problem, one that troubles me."

"The war with the humans?" She bit her lip, then forced herself to stop. That had just been a guess, but from the way he'd tensed, she knew she'd guessed right. "Nuada, is it the possibility of war that bothers you? Or the way I'll react if the fae go to war with the humans?" Sometimes it was a struggle to read him, especially in bad light, but not then. Dylan nodded thoughtfully. "Look, the fae deserve a part of the mortal world. Humans live in Faerie; why shouldn't you guys get to live in the mortal realm? Especially since so many of you already do? You have just as much of a right to be there as we do. I don't know about in other countries, but in America, the Native Americans are treated as a sovereign people separate from regular US citizens; why not the fae? You were there first. And if the human race declares war on the fae for demanding what is rightfully theirs…what do you think I'll do?"

It took him a moment to speak. "I do not know, Dylan. I don't know what action you would take if I demanded you go to war and sanction the potential deaths of your sisters—"

"My sisters are civilians," she replied, "and I doubt they plan on enlisting in the military." It seemed to be an understood fact that Nuada wouldn't allow assaults to be made on civilian locations. And as far as she'd seen, the fae didn't go in for terrorism or suicide bombing. Some of the fae were dishonorable—she'd seen that often enough—but Roiben and Nuada and Zhenjin and the royals like them were men, lords, of honor. They would never break that honor with soulless bloodshed. War between humans and fae would be terrible, but it would involve warriors, and no one else.

"Your brother?" Nuada asked, voice carefully neutral. The mortal woman looked away. "Would you allow me and my people to go to war against your brother, your twin, the other half of your heart and soul, knowing he may be cut down in the conflict? And if he _did_ die?" She flinched. "If you lost him, how would you ever be able to love me after that? Knowing that I had your brother's blood on my hands?"

She shook her head. "I would talk to John before it came to that. He would never fight in an unjust war, which is exactly what it would be."

Nuada stood in one swift movement and gripped her shoulders, but lightly. "And if women and children were killed? If the blood of innocent mortals stained my hands, would you love me then? Would you look into my eyes with love in your heart? Would you be able to bear my touch, knowing I was responsible for the deaths of your people? Could you lie beside me as my wife, night after night, and bear my children, and be my princess, when all the while the lives of your kind mark my soul with the sins of their deaths?"

"What are you talking about? Nuada, you would never hurt innocent people. Where is this coming from?"

"I…I…" He jerked back from her and turned toward the fire. His hands closed around the top of the chair's back with a violence that made the leather creak. "Gods. _Gods_."

The first sliver of fear whispered down Dylan's spine and she stepped back, demanding, "What? _What?_ You're really scaring me. What's wrong?"

It seemed almost as if the words were torn from him when he confessed in a whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The words drove her back several steps. "I can scarcely bear to look at you as I say this. The words are like stones on my heart. When I first met you, the world stood before me in simple black and white. There were the fae, and there were humans, and that was the end of the divide. It was us, or them.

"Then I found you that night in the subway, so brave, so strong, everything I had thought humans could never be. You fought for me, you healed me. You broke through all of my defenses. The world was no longer black and white, but stood before me in shades of gray. You've shown me that some humans are not the scourge I once thought them—your brother, who loves you so much; you spoke to me of your aunt and uncle, who helped you when you needed them; even your sisters have shown that they can, at times, act as if they possess hearts."

Dylan shoved at her hair, leaning back against the door, chilled. She hugged herself. "I don't understand. Why is that bad?"

"Because of the war that is coming," he whispered. "Because of what I meant to do when it came." He drew a sharp breath. "I would have slaughtered every last human in the mortal realm, and in Faerie, once the war began. Every man, woman, and child." She saw him hunch his shoulders, bow his head. In a voice tight with some emotion she couldn't name, Nuada continued, "It seemed the only way. We have the means…and it seemed the only way to ensure the safety of my people."

Sick horror stole into Dylan's throat, stealing her voice and her strength. She staggered back until she hit the door. Her knees buckled and she slid to the floor, staring at the dark shadow that was her prince, her love. Dylan's fingers were like slender threads of ice when she pressed them to her trembling mouth.

"How many more wars could the fae survive? Only this one," he said. "Only the last. Either the humans would all die…or the fae would. There was no hope in any path but that one. The humans would fight us to the last man, they would butcher us all...and if we didn't kill those who didn't fight at first, they would rise up, and fight as well, and we wouldn't survive." His voice, already choked with horror of his own, twisted with disgust and despair when he added, "And the children…when they grew up, they would rise against us as well, to seek vengeance for their fallen ones. They, too, had to die."

"No," she whispered, finding her voice at last. "No. You would never…" Dylan had seen the prince with A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti. She couldn't imagine the man who could handle them so well, who loved them so much—even if somewhat distantly—ordering the merciless butchering of innocent children. She shook her head. "No. You wouldn't…you _couldn't_…"

And then Nuada laughed; a terrible sound without humor, like the rattle of a final breath in a dying man's chest. He said, "No. No, I could not. I thought I could. I thought I could sacrifice the love of my family. I thought I could bear the weight of that hideous guilt for the rest of my days, endure an eternity suffering in Hell or the barren wastes of Annwn or whatever afterlife the gods saw fit to punish me with, if only my people were safe. I thought I could be the monster who saved us, who could bring about the end of our slow creeping death. I thought I had the strength to cut out my own heart and destroy my own soul for the sake of those I am sworn to protect."

_Tears_, she thought. _He's crying. I know he is. I can hear it…feel it. Why is he crying? Because he can't kill children? Innocents? Or because he once thought he could? Why is he crying?_

She'd seen Nuada cry only once, tears of grief after a nightmare where he'd lost everything and everyone he loved; the nightmare had climaxed with her death in his arms and Nuada's vengeance upon his father for killing her. She'd seen him shed a single tear of heartsick pain once before that…but she'd never known Nuada to weep silently, as _she_ often did, the guttering candlelight catching on the diamond tracks on his face, his voice husky with suppressed sobs.

"But I do not have that strength," Nuada rasped. "I don't have the strength to shame my mother's memory with slaughter, or to lose my father and sister forever, separated by a chasm filled with innocent blood. I don't have the strength to uphold my honor and protect my people. I do not have the strength…" He drew a breath as though it pained him to do it. His hand crept toward his chest, toward his heart. "I do not have the strength to look into your eyes and watch the love you bear me wither and die like a blush rose in the first cruel grasp of winter, to see it replaced by loathing and betrayal. I may be strong, but I am _not_ that strong, my darling, my love, my own dear soul, my solace and my heartache. I cannot do it…and so my people are condemned to this slow execution, and I have lost you after all." And the tall shadow that was Prince Nuada sank to its knees and did not speak again.

She couldn't move. Could barely breathe. This…was…impossible. Utterly impossible.

But Nuada wouldn't lie to her.

_Heavenly Father,_ she prayed silently, _what do I do? How am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to think?_

Because she was numb. Numb with shock and uncertainty and fear. She wasn't afraid of Nuada—even now, somehow, Dylan _knew_ he would _never_ harm her—but she _was_ afraid of what this meant for her, for them. The sapphire ring sat heavy on the heart-finger of her left hand, the final link in a chain tethering Dylan to the man kneeling on the floor in the shadows.

Slowly Dylan managed to get to her feet, her back sliding up the smooth wood of the study door. The doorknob brushed her shoulder as she rose, and it rattled. A low sound issued from the kneeling shadow—a sound of bone-deep anguish. Dylan froze. Why…? Then it dawned on her: Nuada thought she was leaving. He thought she was abandoning him, now that she'd learned the truth of what he'd intended to do to her race.

And was she? Was she going to leave him for what he intended?

_Had intended,_ she thought. What had he said? _I cannot do it._ The words echoed in her head, a loop of despair and tenderness. _I cannot do it. I am not that strong, my darling, my love, my own dear soul, my solace and my heartache. I am not that strong. I cannot do it._

How easy would it be to leave him? To abandon him as he'd abandoned his plans for genocide? For genocide, Dylan thought with a roll of her stomach. Her Nuada, willing to commit _genocide!_

Except he wasn't…_couldn't_. Except the decision to do so had been eating away at his soul like a cancer, and for how long? How much of the despair she'd always seen in his eyes was a result of that decision to throw away honor and conscience to save his race? How long had he been living under that shadow? How long had his spirit slowly been crumbling, piece by piece, under the weight of it? Damned if he abandoned the plan that called for the massacre of billions, because his people would die and he would break his vows as prince of Bethmoora…yet damned if he went through with the decision to murder innocent people, because it _would_ be murder.

He'd chosen not only to be damned for forsaking the path of genocide, for abandoning his people—in _his_ eyes, anyway, for she knew him, and knew that was how he viewed it—but not just for those two things. He believed himself damned because he thought she would leave him for even considering…

_Heavenly Father, what's the right choice? Do I stay, or do I leave him? I…I don't want…_

She tried to move her hand toward the doorknob and found her fingers frozen, pressed to the polished rowan wood of the door. She tried to flex them, tried to shift them just a millimeter toward the knob, but it felt as if they were glued to the cool wood, held there by the weight of the engagement ring on her finger and the merciless heaviness in her chest.

_I cannot do it…my love…and I have lost you after all._

When Dylan tried to take a step away from the door, toward Nuada, she seemed only to have shifted her weight the merest increment, and suddenly she was across the room, rushing to him, and for one wild moment she didn't know if she meant to embrace him or attack him. Her heart thundered wildly in her chest and she tasted the salt of tears on her lips. Then she collided with Nuada's shoulder.

He turned, caught her, and overbalanced so they both went to the floor. He sprawled on his back, the breath knocked out of him; she half-landed on the broad expanse of his chest. She pushed herself up on her hands, placed on either side of his head, and looked down at him. This close, she could see the paleness of his face, the shadow of his eyes, the moonbeam glimmer of his hair. Something that twinkled like a diamond slipped off the tip of her nose to splash his cheek—a tear. Nuada took a shuddering breath and reached up as if to touch her, but he curled his fingers into a tight fist at the last moment, as if afraid.

"Oh, gods, don't cry," he whispered. "Please."

Dylan tried to breathe, to speak, but she didn't even have the strength to move. A strangled sob rose in her throat, and she dropped her forehead to Nuada's shoulder, twisting her fingers in his tunic, and soaked it with the hot tears he'd begged her not to shed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She demanded through her sobs. She felt Nuada shudder against her, and his fingers curled gently around her upper arms, as if holding her in place. Yet she knew if she struggled away from him, her prince would let her go. Another sharp sob rose in her throat. Her fist struck his other shoulder weakly. "Why? Dammit, Nuada, why? _Why?_ Why would you lie to me like this? How could you? Why wouldn't you just tell me?"

His fingers convulsed against her arms through the sleeves of her gown and bathrobe. He whispered, "Tell you? Tell you I am the monster my father has always named me? Tell you that I meant to betray you? Tell you that my duty demanded I sacrifice your family, your friends, all you hold dear to the blades of war and genocide? How could I? When should I have told you, Dylan? When would you have had me shatter everything between us, shatter the world under our feet? When should I have spoken those words and broken your heart?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know, but…but if you'd told me, then…"

"Then what? You would have left me that much sooner?" His fingers around her upper arms tightened fractionally at the words. "Refused my love and turned me away, thrown me from the haven of your heart and never looked back? What would you have done?"

Dylan lifted her head from the warmth and the feral, wildwood scent—still so comforting—of Nuada's shirt. Balancing on one elbow, she wiped at her eyes and cheeks with her hands. Sniffled. She had _no_ idea where the words came from when she spoke, but they spilled from her lips like the first rays of dawn across a windowpane. "I would've told you the truth—_that I love you_. I love you so much it hurts me. So much that sometimes I can't breathe or think or even stand," she added, echoing his words from their moment at sunrise. "I love you so much that it would kill me to walk away from you, and if you were going to do this…then it _would've_ killed me. But you're not, and if you'd told me sooner, all of this anguish you feel…I could've _erased_ it."

Nuada shoved upright, balancing with one hand on the floor behind him. Dylan nearly fell over again. Even in the shadows, she could see Nuada's eyes were wide. Then he said something sharply in Gaelic, though his voice was hoarse, and the nearly-dead embers of the fire snapped to life, giving brief light. He stared at her with eyes flickering between that sickly xanthous gray she'd only seen once before and the beauty of honey-gold flecked with jewel-like glints of sunfire and carnelian.

"What?" He rasped. His gaze roved almost frantically over her face as if searching for something. "_What_ did you say?"

"I love you," Dylan said, and Nuada trembled. His eyes widened further. "_I love you_, Nuada. I love you more than anyone…than anything…ever. What you've told me, it's damaged us, but…but you were willing to risk me walking away to tell me the truth, and you're _hurting so much_, and I…I can't walk away from you like this. I would be killing a part of myself. If you hadn't…changed your mind, then I—"

"Then you would still have walked away," he whispered. "Walked away, carving out pieces of your own heart with every step, killing yourself little by little, spilling your heart's blood drop by drop until there was nothing left." Slowly, as though she were a mirage that would vanish away the moment he touched her, Nuada's fingertips alighted on Dylan's cheek, weightless as a drifting snowflake. "Yet I forsake bloodshed, and so you remain? You will stay with me even though I considered…though I planned to…" He shook his head. "Do not toy with me, Dylan, I beg you. If you would strike at my heart, strike true and swiftly, then leave me to die of the wound."

She met his eyes. "For as long as I may, I'm with you," Dylan said, as tears trailed warm and wet down her cheeks. Nuada's breath caught as he recognized his own words from perhaps only a fortnight ago. Though his heart had been breaking, he'd sworn to remain with her until Fate dragged him away. "Until the stars themselves fall to earth and the world turns to dust. For as long as you will have me, my prince, I am yours, as you are mine."

And then he was kissing her, his mouth sliding over hers, warm and firm and almost desperate, pressing in until she gasped and drew close. His kisses tasted of disbelief and hope, joy and remorse. His lips were so soft as they pressed to hers. The rasp of his heavy breathing, shuddering still, echoed in her ears along with the roaring of her blood in her head. She moaned softly when Nuada leaned forward, moving over her as she fell slowly back until only his arm across her back kept her from falling to the floor. Her hands slid around his neck, fingers twining through the silk of his hair, and he groaned against Dylan's mouth. He was drowning her with his taste, with the feel of his mouth, with the thud of his heartbeat pounding through him and through her. She tasted the sweetness of fey tears on his lips. Did the salt of her own tears sting against his mouth?

"Dylan," he whispered against her mouth, "oh, Dylan, I love you, I'm so sorry, I love you, Dylan," and sweet words in Gaelic, murmured as soft as falling snow while he kissed her. Then her shoulder blades touched the soft carpet and Nuada leaned over her, his lips never leaving hers as he cupped her cheek. His fingertips caught her tears, so that they slid like drops of dew along his fingers. If they burned him, he gave no sign. Tremors racked his body as he pressed close, seemingly desperate for the warmth of her. His skin felt so cold against her hands, but his lips were scorching…

It was only when she felt his weight against her that common sense snapped her back to reality. Regret and shame—_how_ did she keep ending up in these situations with him?—and embarrassment briefly swamped the torrent of other emotions swirling through her and Dylan pulled back from him to cry, "Nuada, we're on the floor."

Dylan could see that it took her distracted prince a moment to process her words. Meanwhile he remained warm and solid against her; not lying directly atop her, no, but it was all she could do to focus on reminding him of just what they were doing and why it was a problem instead of pulling him even closer. "I…Dylan?" Nuada mumbled.

She cleared her throat. "If we don't stop, we're going to end up…" Perhaps it was childish, but she couldn't seem to actually utter the words _making love_ while he was looking at her like that, and she didn't want to call it simply _having sex_, maybe _especially_ when he was looking at her like that. As if she really was everything to him. As if he would die without her.

She still needed him to get off of her, though. "Nuada—"

He moved abruptly, rising and bringing her to her feet with a warrior's quickness. "Forgive me, my love," he said, brushing his palm over the softness of her cheek. "I didn't mean for things to go so far. I was…overcome. It will not happen again." His eyes darted over her face before fixing on her eyes. "This gift you grant me, this clemency…I cherish it. I will earn back your trust. I will do whatever I must to prove myself, I swear to you."

With a hand on his cheek, Dylan said, "I know you will."

"Dylan," he murmured, covering her hand with his and turning his face into her palm. "_Thank you._" Nuada shifted his weight, and his eyes slid tightly shut, as if he were in pain. The shallow lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as something that might've been discomfort crossed his features. His breathing hitched. His hand spasmed toward his injured side, but he closed it into a fist. "Ahhh…"

In an instant Dylan remembered Nuada's injuries—still mending ribs, lacerated back—and his somewhat graceless tumble to the floor under her weight. "Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?"

Nuada shook his head. "It's nothing, Dylan—"

_"Don't lie to me,"_ she whispered. His eyes snapped open and he stared at her, at the desperation plain on her face; there was nothing she could do to erase it, and she didn't try. In a voice that trembled slightly, Dylan said, "Enough lying. Either by commission or omission, enough lying. Trust me. Let me help you. Are you hurt?"

After a moment, he bowed his head in acquiescence. "My wounds have reopened."

Pushing him toward the desk—he would ruin the leather chair if he bled on it—she commanded, "Sit." He obeyed her without question. Was that because of what he'd seen in her face? Or because of the guilt she could still see plainly in his? Dylan pushed the thought away and went in search of fresh candles.

She found them in a cabinet, replaced the ones that had gone out, and lit one from a dying candle to set flame to the rest. After she built up the fire, Nuada quietly directed her to where he'd stowed the leftover medical supplies from that morning. A few words in the Old Tongue from the prince heated and cleansed cool water from a pitcher Dylan poured into one of the wooden bowls. In the porcelain bowl they'd used at dawn, Dylan poured more of the healing oils. Nuada warmed them with a murmured spell.

Once she'd helped her prince remove his shirt, she carefully unbound the blood-spotted bandages to reveal the lashes. Blood oozed from the deep lacerations. Quickly but gently, she cleansed the fresh blood and rewrapped his wounds with clean bandages. Then she focused on his side. To Dylan's surprise, the muscles over Nuada's mending ribs were swollen, warm and tender. She narrowed her eyes and relayed the information.

"Infection?" Nuada asked. Dylan shook her head.

"I don't think so. Hold on, lemme try something." She pressed her fingers hard into the flesh. Nuada jerked and bit back a startled yelp. "Not infected. There'd be a sort of give in the flesh, and it would change colors. I think when we had our little tumble," a smile curved her mouth when Nuada's lips twitched, "you strained or tore the healing tissue. The only thing is to take care with it. With the spells still on you, it should heal relatively quickly." Dylan brushed her fingers over the hard knot of injured muscle. "The oils will help release some of the tension and reduce the swelling, too."

Dylan dipped her fingers into the pleasantly warm oil and smoothed it over the injury. Her fingers tingled at the contact with both the magic and whatever herbs were in the mixture. The same thing had happened earlier that morning; she wasn't concerned. The sharp, sweet scents of mint and eucalyptus filled the air as she began kneading Nuada's side. He hissed in pain before relaxing slightly as the oils' magic—and the magic of Dylan's clever fingers—took effect. He groaned appreciatively as Dylan loosened the tight, painful knots of inflamed muscle.

She'd been working in silence for some time when Nuada asked abruptly, "Do you feel obligated to do this? Because you're a healer?" She flicked her eyes from her task to his face and back again.

"No," she murmured. "I'm taking care of you because I love you." She felt the shiver go through him. "After all this, you still don't believe me?"

He shook his head. "It isn't that. I…it humbles me that you can forgive, can love me despite…" He sighed. "Why is it that I was trained as a boy and as a youth to give great speeches, yet words fail me when I'm in your presence?"

She laughed. "You do okay," she said, still kneading. "You always manage to impress me."

"Do I?" He asked softly, earnestly. She paused, and a chill swept through him. Then she leaned in to kiss the knife-scar on his bicep. He tensed at the brush of her lips, then sighed and relaxed.

Dylan said, "The benefit I have with you is that I _know_ you. Yes," she added when first he jolted, then winced in pain, "yes, I still feel I can say that, because I understand you, and this plan you had, and why you would…You felt you had no other choice. I've known you believed the humans had to be…dealt with…for a long time, I just never thought you'd actually have a plan to _do_ it. But you're a slave to your people, Nuada. I've always known that. I've seen it in your words, your actions, in the breaking of your heart.

"I know what desperation is," Dylan whispered, extending her arm and rolling back her sleeve to bare the deathly white mound of scar tissue at her elbow. She met his eyes. "I _know_ what desperation is." And she did, didn't she? A woman who was once a twelve-year-old girl, soaked in her own blood, ready to die to save herself…she understood desperation well enough.

"Dylan," he whispered, unable to look away from her. "I am so very sorry for this." For the darkness in him, for the cruelty he was capable of, but also for hiding it, for doubting her love for him. For everything.

She nuzzled his arm with her cheek. "I know. I forgive you."

They were silent for a time, and then he said, "My people…what can be done for them if war comes? What if we cannot win without…without casting aside our honor?"

"I don't know," she said. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat. Dylan laid her forehead against the warm, solid muscle of his upper arm and murmured, "But I promise you, we'll figure it out. Together."

**.**

"I like your plan, my prince," Dierdre murmured, cuddling against the Fomorian's chest. Bres kissed her forehead and drew the blankets over them both. Dierdre stretched like a contented cat and purred, "I have one suggestion to make to truly break Silverlance, however."

Bres arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" He idly stroked the length of her bare arm, from smooth shoulder to delicate wrist. "And what's that?"

"Make recordings," the gancanaugh said, grinning. "And enchant them so that we can see Silverlance's poor, heartbroken little face when he watches them over the weeks and months…it will be lovely to watch him _suffer_ for betraying you."

"Betraying _us_," Bres muttered. "Betraying our cause. But you're right. What a brilliantly cruel thought; well done, my sweet."

Her smile was like a knife's edge when she said, "Thank you, my prince." And she pulled him in for a greedy kiss.

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**Author's Note:** dun-dun-DUNN! I'm excited for Bres's evil plans to come to fruition, lol. I really am. Will things come to a head before Dylan and Nuada's wedding? Who knows? Reviews are love! Happy (belated) Mother's Day to all you mothers (and future-mothers and surrogate-mothers) out there!

**References Made in This Chapter:**

- Wink's vow "until my lord release me or death take me" wasn't intentionally copied from _The Return of the King_ live-action film, but I thought I'd mention it, just the same.

- "The words are like stones on my heart" is from James Cameron's _Avatar_. It's a beautiful line and I had to use it here.


	92. Sleep, My Tarnished Silver

_**Author's Note:**__ at last, the follow-up to Nuada confessing the truth of the Golden Army! And dealing with several plot elements that have been prowling around the edges of the story (like what to do with the assassin, how to help the northern villages, etc). So hope you all enjoy!_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title**__: this is a line from the Heather Dale ballad "Tarnished Silver," which is sung (abridged) in this chapter and (I think) really applies to Dylan and Nuada in some ways._

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**Chapter Ninety-One**

**Sleep, My Tarnished Silver**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Plots, Circumventing the Truce, a Confession, Tarnished Silver, Plans for Many Things, Love of Country, and the King's Gift**

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Dylan and Nuada did not play chess over breakfast when they finally emerged from the prince's study late that morning. The mortal couldn't tell if Nuada's guards had overheard anything that had occurred beyond the study door, since they acted as aloof and bodyguard-ish as usual, but Nuada didn't seem to care, so she didn't ask him or try to find out. She would hold off until later for that, if it became a problem. In the meantime, there were things she and Nuada needed to discuss.

They shut and locked the nook-room door—after Dylan informed Uaithne to please keep the children from disturbing them—and Dylan sank into her chair on the yellow-diamond side of the chessboard. Her breakfast tray sat kitty-corner to it. Nuada's sat opposite hers on the white-diamond side. Gingerly her prince sat down.

"You eat," she said, "and I'll tell you what I've been up to while you've been…otherwise engaged, okay?"

Nuada nodded and took a bite from a piece of toast slathered with melted butter and honey. A smile tugged wearily at the corner of his mouth when Dylan made a face.

"Okay, so here's the deal," she began, and explained her correspondence with Nuala about the villages (and the wedding); her plan to keep on top of wedding stuff so Nuada didn't need to worry about it unless he wanted to; the hope of speaking to the king herself about a few things, including the details of John's elevation to peerage and her own court standing; and finally, her plan to get information out of the remaining human assassin without breaking the treaty.

The Elven warrior raised his eyebrows when she explained what she meant John to do in order to get information out of her assailant. "Your brother will be armed, so he stands as a visual threat, but how do _you_ plan to actually deal with the wretch?" Nuada asked.

Dylan sighed. Scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs, she stared at it with distant eyes for a moment before sighing again and saying, "I'm going to do what psychiatrists who work for the cops always do—profile him. I can use my insights into his psyche to push his buttons, make him talk, say things he might not under other circumstances. I've done it before. Psychological manipulation. John can read me well enough to know when I'll need him to step in or do something."

"My father may not approve of your plan," the prince murmured. Dylan glanced up from her breakfast, and Nuada saw a subtle shift in her gaze, a hardening in her eyes he'd never seen before. The woman who looked back at him wasn't his truelove or a mind-healer or anyone familiar. He realized suddenly that he was looking at Dylan the princess.

"We're not killing him, crippling him, or even hurting him. John might—_might_—knock him around a little, but he's had training in non-invasive interrogation techniques. It's a compromise; isn't that what politics is all about?"

"You think you can sell such an idea to my father?"

"I'll do my best. If I gauged your dad right when I talked to him yesterday after the assassination attempt…he was scared. You nearly died, and the thought of losing you—especially when you two are starting to reconcile—frightened him. He's probably scrambling for a way to keep you safe and uphold the truce right now. I'm giving him a way to do that. I should get a medal. And of course there's always my medical backup plan."

"Your medical…"

She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. "Before I explain that, I just want to say that if people's lives weren't potentially at stake, if this guy hadn't been involved in trying to kill Zhenjin, trying to kill _you_, I wouldn't be doing this. I don't…I won't say I'm a merciful person—"

"Though you are," Nuada said softly, "for here you sit, despite what you know of me."

A quick shake of her head. "No. That's not mercy. That's…selfishness and understanding and—"

"Selfishness?" He scoffed. "_Selfishness_? You?"

"I am yet too selfish to let you go," she mumbled, staring at the table, echoing the words Nuada had used only two nights past when he'd apologized for the dangerous life he'd dragged her into. "I'm complicating things for you, making things more difficult. How many times has someone tried to assassinate you, Nuada? Now tally up how many of those attempts occurred _after_ you met me, because you chose a life with me." She sighed again. "You chose me, and how do I pay you back? By adding to your burdens…" Dylan trailed off when Nuada raised a hand.

The prince took a long drink from his glass of wine, then met her eyes. "As you once said to me," he murmured, "it was my choice. And, if I may be so bold, my lady…what a glorious choice it is." He smiled when she did, inclining his head. "You were saying?

Feeling inexplicably better, Dylan nodded and continued, "I'm not the nicest person when I'm…erm…"

"Riled," he supplied. She nodded.

"That's a good word. I'm not the nicest when riled, but I _a m_ a bit…squeamish. I can admit it. I have to be furious to try and hurt someone. I don't know if I'll be able to handle hurting someone in cold blood for information, instead of in the heat of a fight for my life or yours. So with that said…if it turns out I'm not strong enough, hard enough to go after the assassin physically, or if the Spirit tells me I shouldn't, I can try dosing him with sodium pentothal. Truth serum," she explained, seeing his puzzlement. "It doesn't compel you to tell the truth, and it doesn't last long, but it makes it harder to keep from spilling whatever comes into your head, and usually a person's first mental response to a question is the most honest answer."

"Why not simply begin with that method?" Nuada asked. His brows furrowed when Dylan paled slightly. "Dylan?" When she took a moment to sip from her cup of hot cider, giving herself time to formulate a response, Nuada noted her hand shook slightly.

She set the cup down and murmured, "Your father doesn't trust either of us, but he knows one thing for certain—you love me. You'll do anything to protect me. You won't let me get hurt. So…how that applies to the serum: your father will suspect you of trying to poison the assassin, maybe to kill him out of vengeance or just to torture him so you can ferret information out of him; you know, tell him you'll give him the antidote if he tells us what we want to know. King Balor might even suspect me of doing something like that. He won't let us inject the assassin with the serum without testing it out first. Since you're fae, even though you're royal, I have no idea what it will do to you. So if someone was going to test it before giving it to the assassin, they'd have to be human. Your father would insist on testing it on _me_, since he knows if it _is_ poison, you won't let anyone inject me with it."

Nuada studied his truelove. Throughout this explanation, she'd grown paler and paler. Yet the Elf knew the potion wasn't poison, or Dylan would never have suggested it.

"Why do you fear taking this truth serum if it will not hurt you?"

His lady shuddered and hung her head, drawing a shaky breath. Her fingers twitched; he remembered that she'd said the latent "medicinal" toxins in her blood had that effect when she was agitated. If he looked under the table, he was fairly sure Dylan's toes would be scrunching.

"I…this is going to sound stupid, but I'm afraid of needles." She swallowed hard and gave a shaky little laugh. "Something like that stabbing into me, the drugs swimming around in my blood…I hate it. It always reminds me…" She trailed off; he didn't need her to continue, because he'd walked through memories of violent injections with sleepy poisons whispering in her veins. Dylan continued, "The last time they doped me with sodium pentothal was…was the night you came to my cottage after our fight and pulled me out of that nightmare of Patrick and Xander."

Nuada said nothing for a long moment. When he finally did speak, it wasn't what she expected to hear. "You know," he said conversationally. "I would very much like to present you with their severed heads as a wedding gift. And the head of this…Ivan."

Dylan's eyes shot wide. "How do you know about Ivan?" How did her prince know about the Blackwood boys' father? She hadn't told him…

"You talk in your sleep when you're having nightmares," Nuada said, slanting his eyes away. "I heard you at the cottage. Talking, I assume to the human police, in your sleep. Often you spoke to…_them_. Begging them for mercy." His hand convulsed into a fist around his wineglass. His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "Sometimes you did nothing but scream."

She looked away. "I didn't know you'd heard…all that. I'm sorry—"

"Do _not_ apologize to me for _that_," he snapped. Her eyes flicked back to his face, feral with anger. "_Never_ apologize for what those monsters did to you, do you understand me?"

After a long moment, Dylan nodded. They ate for several minutes in silence, both skirting warily around the sudden tension hovering over them like a storm cloud. Finally Dylan broke the silence.

"It's going to be difficult," she said, "if you're father demands we test the truth serum first. For me, I mean. But I'll get through it."

The prince nodded, then stared at his half-empty plate. "Thinking about you in that place, those poisons in your blood…I've lost my appetite."

"Eat anyway," Dylan-the-Healer commanded. "Your body needs fuel. You look…you don't look well."

His lips quirked into a wan smile. "I _was_ hit thrice in the face with a chair, mo crídh." But to oblige her, he forked up several mouthfuls of sausage and eggs. As he obediently ate, he asked between bites, "When will you attempt to put your plan into effect?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "I want to get it over with, but I need a day to prepare. I can have Becan escort John here, can't I?" Nuada nodded. "I was thinking…how should we bring this up to the king?"

A humorless smile curved dark lips. "We'll inform him we're remanding the assassin to mortal custody." At Dylan's confused look, he elaborated, "Your brother works for the human government, does he not?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes! And once John accepts custody of the assassin, he can do whatever he wants to him, as long as it's not illegal, because he works for the FBI. Wait. Does the assassin have any special rights or anything that I need to worry about?"

"He cannot be executed without a fair trial," Nuada said. Polishing off the last of his eggs and sausage, taking up another piece of toast, he added, "If we give him over to your brother, is he not protected by whatever rights and laws affect human criminals in America?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, because…well, for one thing, I'm a political figure now, right? The future bride of the crown prince, lady of the Bethmooran Court, blah-blah. So the Geneva Convention is really the thing when dealing with crimes against heads of state and international hoopla. And because the humans and the fae aren't currently at war, we don't have to follow the Geneva Convention, which means we can, by rights, do whatever we want with this guy, short of murder. And since John is a federal agent on foreign soil…hang on, lemme check something."

She pulled her phone out of her skirt pocket, her fingers flying over the slick dark surface. Sharp beeps and whistles filled the air for several minutes as she frowned at the machine in fierce concentration. Her eyes darted frantically over the screen as if she were reading something. Then a smile of savage satisfaction broke across her face.

"Yep. Federal agent on foreign soil dealing with an international incident involving someone of dual citizenship—that would be me—and a perpetrator not of American origin…that perpetrator is not protected by American rights if the crimes were not committed on American soil. Ha!" Then Dylan hunched her shoulders. "I shouldn't sound so happy about that."

"Why not?" The Elven warrior asked with a sharp, wicked smile. "_I_ am happy."

She shot him a look. "Of course you are. You want to kill him."

Nuada's expression morphed into something too savage to be called a smile. "Yes, I do. He tried to kill you. I want to rip him apart. I would do it with my fingernails if I thought I could get away with it without endangering you or bringing my father's wrath down on you…but my father, like my other enemies, know how to hurt me now."

How much had it cost him, she wondered, to refer to his father as an enemy? Mending fences or not, Nuada still didn't—couldn't—trust the king. The lashes on his back, and what they meant, were proof of that.

"That reminds me," Nuada said, breaking into her thoughts. "Before our wedding, we must elevate you to peerage."

Dylan blinked. "Um…how is _that_ related to the assassin?"

"The sooner you're given a title and lands, wealth, the more protection you will have. I want it done…quickly."

"Okay. How quickly?"

"Before the end of the calendar year."

"That's in eight days!" She protested. Nuada offered a negligent shrug. "I…I…so…in eight days?"

Nuada drew a breath, let it out slowly. "I would prefer sooner."

Her eyes widened. "Um…how much sooner?"

The prince thought about this for a minute, then asked casually, "The day of the stars is usually the one chosen for such an auspicious occasion."

"And what's that in English?"

"Saturday."

"The day after Christmas? That's in three days! There is no freaking way! We're already planning a wedding in less than forty-five days, how am I supposed to plan a…an elevation or whatever it's called, too? On top of interrogating assassins and popping off to bandit-ridden villages and learning how to actually rule a country? I can't even hit the target at archery without you breathing on me or catch a fish with my bare hands or ride a horse." Immediate panic vented, Dylan closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. Hunching her shoulders, she tapped her fingers on the tabletop, took several slow breaths, then rolled her shoulders and opened her eyes. "Okay, panic attack over. Princess time now. Three days? Okay. What do I have to do for this?"

Nuada smiled. _That's my girl_, the prince thought. Something had changed her in the last several days. He wasn't sure what it was, only that it had made her determined to be everything she thought a princess should be.

"You will need a formal gown, Bethmooran colors, as well as…hmmm. I will have to speak to my father about the gifting of tithes and properties, but you'll at least receive…well, I wanted to give you _that_ as a wedding gift, not as a land-grant from the Crown. Hmmm…"

"Give me what?"

"A surprise. One dear to my heart. But that is neither here nor there. There are only a few things you need concern yourself with, beloved. One is making sure you don't trip on your way to my father's throne, where you will kneel before him."

She shot him a dirty look. "That's your advice? Don't trip? Not helping my confidence. How does this even work?"

"My father plans to bequeath a portion of the lands owned by the Crown to you, and endow you with the title of 'lady,' as is the custom. Bethmoora has no titles such as 'earl' or 'duke'—your status at court is defined by your wealth and your lands, so my father will gift you appropriately. I'll ask him for permission to move this plan forward later in the day when I go to speak to him about…everything."

"Do you need to talk to him about…what you told me this morning?" A thought widened her eyes. "Wait …is _that_ why the two of you have been at odds all this time? Because you thought the humans couldn't be salvaged?" She must've seen the truth in his face, because before Nuada could answer, Dylan smacked the table with the flat of her hand. "What a jerk!"

Startled, Nuada eyed her much as one might eye a rabid squirrel. "I…beg your pardon?"

"He's been a jerk to you this whole time because you were trying to protect your people? I mean, yeah, you were going about it wrong, but that's what you wanted. You just wanted to protect the fae. And he said that made you a monster?" She dropped her face into her hands and then bounced her elbows on the table in frustration. The silverware and plates rattled. "Didn't he see how desperate you were? Oh, my gosh, he doesn't understand you at all! Instead of working with you, he just…ugh!" Then she picked up her head and shook out her hands as if they were stiff, muttering, "Okay, okay." She ran her hands through her hair. "I'm calm. I'm done. I'm just…I can't believe he didn't realize…" She shook her head.

"Realize what?"

The wealth of sorrow in her eyes stunned him. "How much it was hurting you, to think you had no other choice than something so terrible in order to protect your people."

Nuada shrugged. "At first I…I thought I could bear it…but as my family retreated from me and the years grew long…I wondered sometimes if I might go mad. And my father and sister weren't the only ones to turn on me."

Dylan scowled. "Like Ethine." His truelove muttered something beneath her breath that, had she been anyone else, Nuada might have suspected to be another word for a she-hound. "I hate her," Dylan added more loudly.

"I thought the High King's children weren't allowed to hate others."

She sighed. "We're not supposed to. It's a flaw. So we've got stuff to do, I suppose, since you're probably not going to bed like you ought to." He saluted her with his wineglass. "Yeah, that is _so_ not gonna fly with me, Your Highness."

Nuada arched a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

His truelove pinned him with a steely gaze. "You've eaten. Now you need to sleep."

He scowled. "I am not a child, Dylan, to be ordered about."

"You are going to collapse," she insisted, "if you keep pushing yourself like this. You haven't really slept in days. You can't keep doing this."

"Oh?"

Dylan sighed. "Please don't fight me on this. Please. I am really scared for you." He frowned, but didn't interrupt. "We talked about this earlier. Your body needs rest. Please do this, Nuada—for me."

The pleading in her gaze seemed to hit him like a blow. He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers to his temple, sighing. "You know I would do much for you—"

"Anything, you said."

His gaze darted to her face, then away. "I do not wish to sleep."

"Why?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw. He gripped the arm of the chair with enough force that Dylan heard the wood creak. Nuada squeezed his eyes shut. Through gritted teeth, he murmured, "You know that I have often had…dreams. Dark dreams. But lately…lately they haunt my nights without respite. I only escape them in exhaustion, and then only for an hour or two."

Slipping on the shield of her professionalism like armor, Dylan leaned back and crossed her ankles, assuming the pose she often used at work. "All right," she said in the warm, encouraging way she used in the office. "You've been having nightmares. Let's talk about that."

He shook his head. "It matters little."

"It matters enough that you're flogging your body into exhaustion in order to sleep," she replied softly. "Which means it matters a lot. Tell me about your dreams."

Nuada lifted his wineglass and stared at the burgundy liquid, swirling it gently. "Do you remember the nightmare I had in Roiben's sithen? Where all I loved had been murdered—Wink, my friends, my sister. You."

"Yes."

"I knew, even in that nightmare of blood and Hell, that it was a dream. But these night phantoms…they are _so_ real." His gaze turned distant. A shadow of anguish passed over his face. "Do you know what it is, to watch as the people you love most are butchered night after night, and you are powerless to save them?"

She had to force herself not to go to him, attempt to hold him. It wouldn't help. Not yet. Instead, she said, "Actually, I do. That first night in Findias, I dreamed of Eamonn torturing and killing you…over and over again. I thought I'd lose my mind."

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. It's a sort of madness, isn't it? Visions of blood and screams and slaughter dancing in your skull…mayhap your Christian Devil's idea of a jest, to torment me thus. Every night I see the dead and the dying. My people—enslaved, raped and butchered by the humans. My father murdered. My friends put to the sword. And my sister…I cannot speak of what I see of her in these nightmares…or what I see of you. Only that you both die in my arms, again and again, night after night.

"When I awaken, always I must touch Nuala's thoughts; feel her life-force through our link. She despises the touch of my mind in hers, I can _feel_ it, but I can do no other than ensure she's well. And then I go into your room and…" He trailed off, pressing his lips together.

"Tell me," Dylan encouraged gently. "I won't be upset."

"It soothes me to watch you sleep," he murmured, and took a sip of wine. "You look so peaceful, since the Elven potion prevents your darker dreams. The barest caress of moonlight through the curtains washing your face with silver, the soft glow of the hearth embers limning your hair with copper and gold…I look on you and in that moment, I know you're safe, and the dreams are a distant pain. Then I return to my own bed and…and the darkness returns, and I see it all once more. Feel it all again…that _agony_ of losing everyone I love. Everyone…" He sighed, then met her gaze. "It is a weakness I must overcome, nothing more."

Nibbling on a blueberry muffin gave Dylan a minute to think. Finally, she said, "When I sang to you that night at Roiben's—even though I sucked—you didn't have a nightmare after you fell back asleep, did you?" Nuada shook his head wearily. "You wanna try that? Since I have my phone and it actually _works_, I can call up a video on Youtube and actually keep in tune. Let's try that."

Nuada scoffed. "The legendary Silverlance, put to bed with a kiss and a lullaby like an infant?" He shook his head again. "It seems I've fallen far indeed."

"No, you haven't. You're just tired and stressed. Come on—let me sing you to sleep." He was about to say _no_ when Dylan added, "Please, Nuada?"

After a moment where she could see pride warring with tiredness, he canted his head in silent acquiescence. He went to change into sleeping trews and a tunic and ready for bed while Dylan finished her breakfast. She met him, phone in hand and the internet already up, in his room. When he stretched out on his belly across his bed, Dylan frowned. Nuada pretended not to see. He expected to wake sometime in the next hour, perhaps two, from a nightmare; why slip beneath the covers when he'd only kick them off while thrashing in his sleep? Besides, it would've humiliated him for Dylan to tuck him in like a child.

Dylan settled on the bed beside him. He stiffened, uncertain why her nearness filled him with tension, but relaxed when all she did was caress the edge of his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. The worry in her eyes was a dark shadow against the blue. Leaning down, Dylan brushed her lips across the back of his shoulder above the bandage. An electric spark, a kiss of lightning, shivered through his body. Nuada crushed a fistful of velvet coverlet in his hand. He knew he couldn't turn over and kiss Dylan as he wished while they were so close to his bed. Too much of a temptation to try coaxing her down onto his bed and…no, he wouldn't dishonor her by succumbing to temptation.

"Close your eyes," she whispered gently. "Just think about my voice. All right?" A small movement of her thumb as she pressed a button on her phone, and slow piano filtered from the phone-speaker. Taking a breath, Dylan began to sing.

Her voice, with the music, was low and sweet. She was no minstrel or lady-bard, but she _was_ in tune, and her voice shaped the Gaelic words lovingly as she tangled her fingers with Nuada's. Her thumb brushed slow circles across the back of his hand as she coaxed him with the simple but poignant lullaby.

_"__Codladh, mo airgead loite;  
Lig dom tú marbhánta arís.  
Codladh, mo gheimhridh gan sneachta;  
Lig dom te tú aon uair amháin sula dtéann mé."_

_'Sleep, my tarnished silver,'_ Nuada thought as tension began to ease from his aching muscles. _I am that, am I not? Tarnished silver…she always knows. I've never heard this song…she sings so sweetly with the music. I've never heard her sing like this before,_ he realized even as he let his eyes drift closed, let his shoulders relax. The dull but persistent ache in his back, shoulders, and mending ribs eased somewhat.

"_Codladh, mo céadair tar éis titim;  
Lig dom a bheith do bród lagú a shealbhú.  
Codladh, mo abhainn;  
Lig do chuid abhainn i gcoinne mo gcladach,  
Agus fág mé cad a bhí nite amach roimh._"

_'Sleep…let me have your weakened pride.' Gods, am I that weak, that she sees through me so easily?_ Nuada wondered as the slow caress of her thumb on his hand lulled him closer and closer to sleep. By the Fates, he was so tired. He'd been shoving it down and away, letting the pain burn the exhaustion back, but no longer. It rose up, a grasping tenebrous hand. Instinctively he fought it, knowing as Dylan continued to sing that it was futile.

_"Codladh, mo séipéal dhorchaigh;  
Lig dom nglúine roimh leat anois, mar sin,  
Gan fiú mar tá mé.  
Codladh, mo scáth gan lasair;  
Lig dom fuarú an tine ar lasadh aois go fós…_"

_Why do you think yourself unworthy, beloved?_ He wanted to ask her. _'Unworthy as I am_,' she'd sung. '_Sleep, my flameless shadow._'_ Yes, I am your shadow, your heartbeat. Don't let me dream, Dylan. Not of losing you again. Promise me…_

He felt her lips on his shoulder once more as music continued to play. Heard the whisper of _I love you_. Nuada sighed, feeling suddenly warm and drowsy and strangely comfortable. Something soft fell across his legs; he realized it was a blanket and wondered absently where it had come from just as sleep finally came to him.

_"Codladh, mo airgead loite…_"

Dylan watched Nuada's breathing deepen and even out. Watched him sink into slumber. He'd sleep for awhile, she thought. The healers would check on him in a few hours to change his bandages. In the meantime, she had something very difficult that she needed to do if she was going to go through with marrying her prince.

She needed to tender her resignation to her office.

**.**

Hours later, lunch eaten and banquet perhaps a couple hours away, Dylan brushed her hair in front of the bathroom vanity while 'Sa'ti tried to find a hair-piece in the contents of the polished, white-wood jewelry box on the counter. The cougar maid was extremely careful with the delicate silver, gold, and platinum necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and other jewels. Dylan's handmaiden sought for something silver with garnets, to match the wine-red velvet gown her mistress intended to wear to banquet that night.

The mortal had had a bath, smelled great, looked great—except she was missing jewelry—and was ready for anything. She hoped. Her dirk sat on the vanity beside her makeup box; the sight of it reassured her. Eimh and Sétanta curled up at her feet, dozing, made her feel better, too.

"How about this?" 'Sa'ti presented a hair-piece, a series of silver chains with a trio of garnet teardrops that would rest against Dylan's forehead.

Dylan considered. It _did_ match the garnet teardrop earrings 'Sa'ti had already picked out, and the silver-backed garnet broach. She smiled at the little girl. "Good choice. Run and fetch my boots, would you, hon? "

"Okay!" 'Sa'ti raced to the door while Dylan turned back to the mirror. Only 'Sa'ti's cheerful, "'Scuse me, Your Highness," arrested her attention just as the hounds lifted their heads and began wagging their tails.

Dylan turned to watch Nuada lean casually against the doorframe to her bathroom. She studied him with the eyes of a healer and finally smiled. He needed a little more sleep—eight hours wasn't enough when he was so tired—but he looked much better than he had in a while. The shadows around his eyes had lightened, and the air of exhaustion hanging like a sickness around him had dissipated quite a bit. When he smiled, her heart lightened.

"No nightmares?" She asked as he pushed off the doorframe and approached. Nuada shrugged.

"One," he replied. "It woke me, and I couldn't sleep again…but I feel more rested than I have in some time. Perhaps you might sing to me again tonight before I retire."

It had cost him a lot, she knew, to ask. It was still so hard for him to admit weakness. She smiled and nodded. "Sure." A flutter tickled her stomach when Nuada leaned down and brushed a finger over her cheek; tingles of magic spread across her face just before her prince kissed her—a slow, sweet kiss that left her breathless. When he broke away, she mumbled, "Magic?"

He smiled. "I would hate to ruin your makeup when you've taken such pains, mo crídh."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Okay, so banquet's in, what, two hours?"

"Three; it will be late tonight, as my father is apparently unwell." Nuada frowned as he spoke, and Dylan felt a twinge of unease. "Mahon, one of my guards, informed me when I woke. _Áthair_ has remained in his chambers most of the day." The prince sighed. "Perhaps it is merely that he's growing old…"

Dylan took his hand. "You're worried for him."

Nuada sighed. "He was always so strong when I was a boy. I thought nothing could fell him. It is…difficult to imagine him, to _see_ him, as an old man." Then the prince seemed to shake himself. "Well, there are a few things that need to be seen to before we can dine with our fellow nobles."

Letting him change the subject, she said, "Okay, what's on our agenda?"

"If you are to join the ranks of my father's courtiers in the timeframe I desire, we must speak to Themba about your wardrobe, the Lord Chamberlain about most of the domestic details, the Lord Steward and my father regarding his plans for your gifting, Jenny Hob about housekeeping details, the Lord Provost about security, and if there's time after, to Nils Fjøsnisse about your horse."

Dylan blinked, taken aback. "About my what?"

Nuada waved a negligent hand. "I thought we might begin working on your riding, especially if we mean to accompany the caravans to the northern villages in January."

"I don't _have_ a horse."

"Oh?" Nuada gave her an odd little smile. "Are you sure about that? Because I received a message from Nils just yesterday; something about a lovely white arion mare from Shahbaz arriving in the stables on Midwinter morning."

Her mouth dropped open. "You bought me a horse?"

"It would seem so."

She grinned. "I love you."

"Yes, I know."

**.**

First Nuada sent a quick note to his father, requesting an informal audience and informing him of his wish to rush Dylan's elevation to peerage (for protective measures). The king wrote back fairly quickly; his response arrived while Nuada himself was arranging the silver chains and garnets in Dylan's hair—a trick he'd learned from Nuala.

Balor acquiesced to the date set, praising his son's timing—while the rush would be a bit of an inconvenience to the servants, it was a well-planned maneuver in garnering Dylan further protection with status and title, and word would spread quickly through other kingdoms of Dylan's new rank, in addition to news of her upcoming wedding to Prince Nuada Silverlance.

With the king's permission, Nuada went in search of Jenny.

Dealing with Jenny Hob, Head Housekeeper of Findias, took less than ten minutes. Nuada simply went to find her issuing orders with Caspar to the staff in the kitchens, along with Nils, who was eating his supper. After receiving their curtsy and bow of obeisance, and after Jenny had finished with her current set of orders, Nuada bade drew her aside and told her and Nils the news: that Dylan was to be elevated to peerage in three days.

Jenny's eyes widened and she tapped the seven fingers of her right hand on the tabletop while she sipped from a tin cup of blue Cornish ale (a particular favorite of hers). She gazed steadily at the prince's betrothed, an odd look in her brown eyes that Dylan couldn't read. A cool frisson whispered down the mortal's backbone. Suddenly, she got the feeling Jenny didn't like her. Which was ridiculous; the hob housekeeper didn't have a reason to dislike the human woman, and she'd been consideration itself when Dylan had been so distraught over Nuada's injuries after his duel with Zhenjin.

"This is your wish, Your Highness?" Jenny asked Nuada, who smiled and inclined his head. She nodded. "Then it shall be as you wish. The King's Hall will be ready to bear witness to the ceremony in three days' time. I and my lassies will see to it."

"My thanks, Jenny; I know it's an inconvenience," he murmured. She waved away the notion of "inconvenience" and smiled at him indulgently, though her eyes flicked often to Dylan. Nuada turned to Nils. "And my lady's horse?"

Nils smiled at Dylan, who smiled back. After several visits to the castle's chapel the past few Sundays, she and the one-eyed stable fae were good friends. "Never you fear, milady," Nils murmured, and winked. At least, Dylan thought it was a wink. It was hard to tell, since tomte only had one eye in the middle of their foreheads. "Énna's a gentle beast, knows you've not much experience with riding. She'll never let you fall from her back. She's an arion mare, so she's got the language of men and horses, both, and you two should become good friends." To Nuada, the Master of the Stables added, "If you don't mind my venturing an opinion of Lady Énna, Your Highness, she'll foal easy and comes from good breeding lines."

Dylan didn't roll her eyes, but she smiled when Nuada nodded and murmured, "Good. I'd thought to bring some new blood into the stables," and launched into a rapid discussion of horse-breeding with the tomte that lasted a good seven or eight minutes. Then Nuada seemed to remember they had places to be, so he and Dylan left the two high-level servants to their meal and went to find Gobhá, the Lord Steward, who was doing paperwork in his study.

**.**

The mortal wasn't sure how she felt about Lord Gobhá. He was tall and doughy and pale, like Lord Box-Head, but he didn't have creepy worm-fingers. Instead, his hands sported the long, elegant fingers of an artisan…except they were tipped with razor-sharp black talons. Dylan knew that was actually quite common among the _féar gortach,_ the Men of Famine—which was what Lord Gobhá and Lord Iríall, the chamberlain, were—but it was still unnerving to see him steeple his slender fingers and watch the jagged claws click together. He listened to the prince's simple statement that Lady Dylan was to be given the rank of Bethmooran lady, both title and land, in three days without batting a beady black eye.

"The king has been slowly making provision for such an event, Your Highness," the steward of the Golden Court murmured. "It is traditional for the gifting to include…" Lord Gobhá unrolled a scroll that had been sitting on his desk, which bore the well-penned writing of a professional scribe, and rattled off, "At least one province and its tithes and revenues, ad minimum. Have you any specific provinces in mind, Your Highness?"

"I believe Éas Ruaíd and Fionntrá, the provinces neighboring Kilcommon, are part of the king's lands, and near enough to my own lands to be convenient."

Before Dylan could even moderately freak out about becoming the sovereign lady of not one but _two_ provinces in Bethmoora, it was agreed on (pending the king's approval) that as of Saturday, the so-called Lady Dylan of Central Park would afterward be known in truth as Lady Dylan of Central Park, Éas Ruaíd, and Fionntrá. By the time Dylan had enough thought to squeak out anything half-resembling a question, she and Nuada were leaving Lord Gobhá's study and arrowing for the Lord Provost's office near the Butcher Guard barracks.

"I feel like I've been dropped off a cliff," Dylan mumbled as she and Nuada headed for the offices of Lord Íomhar, the Lord Provost of Findias. "Where are those places again? _What_ are those places again?"

"Éas Ruaíd is a hill-province on the north-eastern border. Fionntrá stands southeast of Éas Ruaíd. The Irish kingdom of Eìrc stands near them; King Rennan mac Dela is a friend, and tolerant of humans, so won't take offense to your fiefdoms being on his border. In truth, it's the safest place for you, and protected by hills on the borders you share with Lallybroch, Kilcommon, and Boyne, three of _my_ provinces.

"Éas Ruaíd means 'the red waterfalls.' You will love it there, Dylan," he added, pausing to turn and take her hands. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. "It is beautiful country. There's a small stretch of coast near the estate, and high rolling hills and mountain cliffs with waterfalls that roar down like thunder. When the sun is setting, it sets the falls afire—ruby and carnelian and gold, shining with light.

"And Fionntrá—that means 'the white towers'—has beautiful clear rivers with sandy white shores where we can walk together in the golden light of the dawn. I can show you the forests - the birch and aspen trees, the ghillie dubh and sylvans in the woods. And there are limestone caves with the most incredible rock formations, sheeting stalactites as thin as a needle in places, and stalagmites that tower taller than a giant. The drow have sculpted those caves over millennia. You will _love_ it there, Dylan."

Pleasantly stunned by the obvious wealth of love in his voice for the two provinces of his kingdom, she smiled wonderingly. "Wow. You must love being there."

He grinned. "There is not a single province of Bethmoora I do not love with all my heart. I cannot wait until we are wed, that I may show it all to you. Fionntrá and Éas Ruaíd, Boyne and Roan Inísh, Renvyle…gods, you'll love it."

"I think I already do." And suddenly she couldn't wait to see it, either.

**.**

Meanwhile, in another part of Findias, Princess Nuala sat before her father in his study for the second time in as many days, petitioning him on behalf of her brother and his lady.

"Father, I have seen Lord Gobhá's reports," the princess said softly. Despite her demure attitude, her golden eyes were as hard as her twin's gold-washed plate armor. "Four villages utterly decimated in less than a moon. Children made orphan, our people slaughtered." When the king opened his mouth as if to protest, Nuala remembered Polunochnaya's coaching in her chambers and said quickly, "I would never ask you to cast aside your honor, Father. I would never ask you to break the truce. But surely sending supplies and medicines to those in need is not dishonorable?"

Balor rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. "Your brother put you up to this, didn't he?"

"As a matter of fact, he didn't. I've been discussing it with my ladies-in-waiting, and we deemed it prudent that I speak with you. Father, Midwinter may be past, but you've yet to give Dylan a gift as befitting a future daughter of the king. You know she is a healer, and tenderhearted. She, too, has heard of the northern villages and their plight. I think it would be a grand gift to send non-militant aid on her behalf to help the villagers."

The old king sighed. "My daughter, think of what your brother will construe from such an action. He will view it as a weakening of my resolve to uphold the truce, and think to use his lady as a tool against me—"

"No, Father! If you play it through properly, Nuada will not come to that conclusion at all. Nuada has played the obedient son with this betrothal, rushed though it is, and much as Dylan does not wish it because of her faith. He has not ridden out or sent his agents to kill these human bandits in opposition to your commands, though you know he might have. He hasn't harmed the human assassin currently held in custody. Nuada has been loyal and obedient to you, Father, save in killing that assassin, and he accepted what punishment you ordered without protest. Where once we feared Dylan to be a negative influence, instead I think she may be a steadying force in Nuada's life. He seems far more calcitrant now. Should not such bending to your will be rewarded?" When the king looked as if he might argue, Nuala added, beseeching, "Father, I beg you, do not think the worst of my brother without first giving him a chance!"

"I have given Nuada many chances over the centuries—"

"But he has changed," Nuala insisted. "Anyone with eyes can see it. He attends council meetings as you've ordered, though you know he believes them to be a waste of time; he surrendered the Silverlance to you not once, but twice, and hasn't attempted to regain it against your will; he submits to house-arrest, and speaks not a word against you to his supporters, though you know he could.

"And most importantly, he has made it _very_ clear to all and sundry that despite Dylan's humanity, he loves her deeply. He does not make light of his attachment to her before friends or enemies, opposition or supporters, even though his love for her damages his political stance with the anti-human faction of the court. Does this count for nothing? Nuada will see this gift for what it is: mercy for our afflicted people, a peace offering to his mortal lady, and a very kingly gift indeed, something Dylan desires greatly—for you know that no healer can stand aside and allow others to suffer—and yet cannot obtain on her own.

"Please, _Áthair_? Think of the political benefits. You draw Nuada closer to your heart, as well as Dylan, who has my brother's ear. You gain a little more support from the anti-human faction while still placating those in favor of the truce. We banish any rumors that we cannot or will not protect our people from predation. With one simple gift, you have done all this, and shown the kingdom that while Nuada Silverlance may chafe beneath the yoke of your kingship at times, he remains loyal to you, for he does not move against the bandits in _any_ way, passive or aggressive, without your leave."

Balor sat back in his chair and rubbed his aching left shoulder as he considered his daughter's impassioned but reasonable words. Nuala was right in every argument presented. And if Balor agreed to send any sort of aid to the villages in his son's fiefdoms, Nuada would be grateful. It would draw the prince closer to the king not just politically, but hopefully emotionally as well; might help serve to mend some of the old heart-wounds between them.

Aged amber eyes rested on the fair-haired princess. Balor smiled, warmth tinged with weariness. "When did you become so wise, my daughter? Very well. This gift I will bestow upon the northern villages on Lady Dylan's behalf. Send word to your brother at your leisure, that he may have his secretary draw up lists for the quartermaster as he wishes. So long as it is affordable and purely non-militant in nature, it will be given."

"Thank you, _Áthair_. Thank you." Nuala rose to her feet and dipped a graceful curtsy to her father, the heavy velvet of her skirts rustling with the movement. Then she darted to the king and kissed his weathered cheek. "Nuada and Dylan will be so happy." With that, she rushed out of the room to find her twin.

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**Author's Note:** yay! The King is behind them! Yay! Maybe the villages won't be razed to the ground before Balor gets off his fat butt. I mean…what? I didn't say that. And is anyone concerned about Balor being ill? Hmmm…

Anywho, hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Reviews are love! Huggles to all of you!

And keep an eye out for _Obsidian_, the sequel to my YA novel, _Glass_. It's coming out sometime in the next 2 weeks. How long it takes to pop up on Amazon, I have no idea. Blurgh. But I'll keep you posted!

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**About "Tarnished Silver"** – I abridged it to make it a little less depressing and more soothing. The song is very pretty, but also very sad, whereas the way I've abridged it, I hope it's more gentle and soothing and "here, let me have your burden awhile."

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**English Translation of the Abridged "Tarnished Silver"**

Sleep, my tarnished silver;  
Let me dull you once again.  
Sleep, my snowless winter;  
Let me warm you once before I go.

Sleep, my fallen cedar;  
Let me have your weakened pride to hold.  
Sleep, my aimless river;  
Let your torrent rest against my shore,  
And leave me what was washed away before.

Sleep, my darkened chapel;  
Let me kneel before you now, as then,  
Unworthy as I am.  
Sleep, my flameless shadow;  
Let me cool the lingering fires of old.

Sleep, my tarnished silver...


	93. Dance with the Devil

_**Author's Note:**__ Am I back with another chapter? Oh, yes! Why? In honor of publishing my novel_ Obsidian _in paperback and to the Kindle (as well as working on my new book/movie review vids for Youtube; I'm wearing makeup and everything). And also to welcome back JasperIsAManlyMan because she's awesome and I have missed her! So hope you guys enjoy this chapter. And for those of you reading_ Once Upon a Winter's Night, _chapter 3 is being posted today as well. Love you all! Hugs!_

_**Concerning the Chapter Title**__: "Dance with the Devil" is a song by Breaking Benjamin and fits with a particular scene in this chapter._

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**Chapter Ninety-Two**

**Dance with the Devil**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Brawl. Some Advice, a Hyena, Confessing to the King, Trousseau, an Argument, a Cruel Warning, and a Plea for Belief**

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Having finished their business with the Lord Provost and the Chamberlain, Nuada and Dylan were on their way to the palace tailors, when a shrill adolescent echoed down the corridor. Dylan would've been concerned at the sound of any unhappy child, but Nuada stiffened upon hearing the voice, recognizing it immediately.

'Sa'ti.

Lengthening his stride, he made his way down the corridor, Dylan following at a limping jog. He rounded the corner in time to see his lady's handmaiden shoved roughly to the floor by an Elven noble-boy of perhaps nine or ten centuries. Another Elven boy held 'Sa'ti's precious doll, a Midwinter gift from her prince, high over his head. Nuada recognized the stance of a taunting bully. A few other Bethmooran boys stood in the hall as well, watching the "fun."

What made Nuada hesitate—out of curiosity—to intervene was the fact that he wasn't the only one to respond to 'Sa'ti's distress. A'du'la'di lunged for the boy who'd shoved his sister. The Elven boy ducked and drove his fist into A'du's face, no doubt blacking his eye. Another boy—fae, but not Elven, and familiar to Nuada—launched himself at the lad who'd punched A'du. The attacking fae boy was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. His silver-rimmed spectacles skidded across the stone floor to fetch up against the wall.

An Elven girl perhaps A'du's age, blond hair tousled and one lip split and bleeding, tackled a third Bethmooran boy. A smaller girl with flame-red hair and snapping green eyes shrieked in outrage and, with two Elven girls around the same age, mobbed the boy who'd punched A'du'la'di.

A'du and a sturdy, well-muscled lad with thick black hair and garnet eyes squared off against four other Bethmooran boys. A'du'la'di's crimson-eyed friend bared his teeth in a lazy smile and made a gesture that clearly invited the Bethmooran lads to come try for a piece.

"G-g-give it b-back," a young voice demanded. The fae boy had found his spectacles and now stood glaring at the noble-boy holding 'Sa'ti's doll. "She's j-j-j-j-just a little g-g-girl. G-g-give it b-b-b-back to her n-n-n-now!"

"Make me, Welshman," the Bethmooran boy sneered.

Dylan nudged Nuada. "If you're not going to stop them, get out of my way so I can!"

But the prince held up his hand. "I find this interesting," he murmured, keeping an eye on the children. "Do you know who those children are?"

She started to say no, of course she didn't, when she stopped. Holy crow, she _did_ know those kids. She'd seen them before—at the first midwinter banquet, when the envoys had been introduced. The boy with the glasses was Prince Llŷr of Annwn, youngest son of Arawn. The blond girl with the crimson eyes was Shāuddo of Onibi. A boy went down beneath a pack of rabid five-year-old-looking girls Dylan recognized as Princess Abigail of Saami and Kale and Lily Wentworth of Eathesbury, the two little princesses who'd used Sétanta as a handhold while making their curtsies to the Bethmooran royal family. And the dökkálfr bashing heads beside A'du'la'di was Siegfried, youngest brother of the crown prince of Álfheim. In fact, the only people missing from the fray who, it seemed, should've been there were-

Nine-year-old Lady Kate of Elphame, mortal foster-sister of Lady Kaye, and the scarlet-haired changeling boy who served as her diminutive "Elf knight," Lord Bean, rocketed down the corridor whooping war-cries and launched themselves into the fight as well.

With the arrival of the cavalry, the Bethmooran noble-boys found themselves slowly giving way before their younger opponents. Nuada was content to let the children fight their own battles until one of the older boys—the one holding the coveted doll—kicked a crying, pleading, clutching 'Sa'ti in the face.

The cougar girl went sprawling to the floor. Everyone froze. 'Sa'ti blinked at the ceiling, sucked in a breath, and let out an ear-piercing scream. Then she began to cry, great whooping sobs mixed with caterwauls as she clutched her face.

The girls raced to their fallen friend. Siegfried, A'du, Bean, and Llŷr lunged for the boy who'd kicked 'Sa'ti. In the same instant, Dylan shoved forward and yelled in a voice any sergeant on the battlefield would've envied, "_Enough!_"

Again, everyone froze. Seeing Dylan and the prince, A'du grimaced but stood his ground. Siegfried didn't look fazed in the least by the appearance of the adults. Then again, he was a Viking; perhaps this sort of thing was common in Álfheim. Bean glared at the boys he'd been fighting.

But Llŷr took advantage of the distraction and kicked the Bethmooran boy hard in the shin. The boy yelped and hunched over. Llŷr balled up his skinny fist and clocked the other boy on the point of the chin with incredible speed. He dropped like a stone, the doll slipping from his fingers. Llŷr picked it up. With one furtive glance at Nuada, Llŷr went to a now-quietly-weeping 'Sa'ti and handed her the doll. She clutched it to her chest. Llŷr drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the side of her face that hadn't been kicked, wiping away the tears.

"What is going on?" Dylan demanded. Scanning the children, she picked the one she figured was least likely to try to lie or prevaricate. "Prince Siegfried?"

Siegfried stepped forward; there was a slight hitch in his step, as if he'd strained something. He offered her a deep bow. "Your Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance, my Lady Dylan of Central Park, I was walking with His Highness Prince Llŷr and Her Imperial Highness Princess Shāuddo when we heard a ruckus in the corridor. We thought we heard a girl crying, so we came to see if we could help. We found _them_," gesturing dismissively at the Bethmooran boys, "messing with these little 'uns," making a gesture that encompassed 'Sa'ti, Kale, Lily, and Abigail, "and our new friend here," clapping A'du'la'di on the shoulder.

"They t-t-t-t-took her d-d-d-doll, Your Highness," Prince Llŷr stammered. "It w-w-wasn't r-r-r-right. It w-w-w-wasn't honorab-b-ble. She was j-just a l-l-l-l-l-little th-th-thing." One of the Bethmooran boys, the one Llŷr had punched, snickered at the prince's stutter as he rose to his feet, and Llŷr flushed a brilliant scarlet. Casting a defiant glance at his enemies, Llŷr added, "Th-th-they k-k-k-k-kicked her! In the f-f-face!"

"Did they, now?" Nuada asked in a silky purr. The Bethmooran boys paled to a sickly grayish-blue. A'du and his new comrades clenched their fists at their sides and tried not to look nervous. The cluster of girls huddled closer together, and 'Sa'ti's sobs quieted. "I wonder what their fathers would say about the foolishness of young nobles attacking visiting dignitaries and royals. Or what they might say about the cowardice of their nobly-born sons bullying a little servant girl." One of the boys gulped audibly. "If they were _my_ sons," Nuada added with a snarl, "I do believe I would give them such a thrashing that they wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for a week."

At that point, Dylan had to wonder if the leader of the doll-thieves hadn't lost his mind, because he limped forward, lifted his bruised chin defiantly, and said, "My father's not going to do anything to me. He'll be happy I made the little bint cry."

Nuada's eyes narrowed, darkening at the edges to bronze. "A gentleman does not use such language in front of ladies."

The boy jutted his chin at the prince belligerently. His eyes slid to Dylan, settled for a deliberate moment, then shot back to Nuada. "I don't see a lady."

A'du'la'di lunged for the Bethmooran boy, snarling and hissing, but Siegfried and Llŷr hauled him back.

From the corner of her eye, the mortal woman saw her prince's fingers twitch. She knew what Nuada was thinking—that he wished he had the right to beat the noble-boy senseless, or at least spank him like the brat he was. Instead of giving into that urge, however, the prince merely folded his arms across his chest and asked coolly, "What's your name, boy?"

"Lord Hamish mac Galen of Óic Bethra."

Dylan started in surprise. Lord Galen the Younger of Óic Bethra had been the leader of the drunken louts who'd tried to assault her the night Zhenjin had escorted her back to her rooms from the stable. Lord Galen wasn't old enough to have a son Hamish's age, which meant Hamish was probably his younger brother. Was it coincidence that two of the three lords of Óic Bethra had insulted her in the last week? Doubtful.

A'du'la'di tried to lunge forward again. Bean joined Siegfried and Llŷr in restraining the cougar. "I don't care if you _are_ a lord. Don't talk to the prince like that. You're s'posed to call him 'Your Highness!'"

Young Lord Hamish sneered at A'du before dismissing him as unimportant.

"And was this little…adventure…all your own idea?" Prince Nuada asked.

"It was," he said with haughty confidence. "What of it? You can't do anything to me; everyone knows you're in disgrace for breaking the treaty. Again. Because you killed a human and murdered your own kind to protect your new trollop."

Nuada pinned the boy with a look of vicious ice. After several long moments of heavy silence, Lord Hamish started to look less sure of himself. A few more moments, and he quailed under Nuada's implacable stare. The boys behind him looked ready to start crying for their mothers. They went gray as corpses when the Elven warrior drew his sword; the blade whispered against the leather sheath and the light seemed to sing when it touched the keen edge. Moving too quickly to register, Nuada lunged forward, stopping with the edge of his blade resting lightly against Hamish's throat. The boy swallowed reflexively. Dylan saw his knees knocking together.

"Listen well, boy. Your father is a member of the Bethmooran council. Both your father and your brother have sworn oaths of fealty to His Royal Majesty King Balor. Thus, they have sworn fealty to the Crown and to the royal family—including me."

Nuada's arm twitched fractionally. The flesh of the boy's neck dimpled beneath the fine edge of the sword, though there was no blood. Hamish's lips trembled.

"Do you know the penalty for disrespecting a member of the royal family?" Hamish's mouth moved soundlessly. "Answer me, _Lord_ Hamish," Prince Nuada barked. The boy shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I will tell you. For commoners, it is a day in the village stocks. For nobles, it is a day in one of the cells in King Balor's dungeon. However, as the crown prince, I _could_ choose to take grievous offense and have your tongue from your mouth." At this, Lord Hamish whimpered. "Or remove the head from your shoulders." Nuada lightly tapped the sword against the boy's neck. Hamish squeezed his eyes shut as two fat tears leaked out. "And in case you were unaware, interfering with my vassals counts as treason. You would do well to remember that.

"With that said, I want you to pass along a message to your father, Lord Hamish. Tell him I said that if he chooses to take issue with my bedroom habits, he would do well to take it up with me in person, _like a man,_ and not send his sons to fight his battles for him against my servant girls." Nuada drew the sword away from Hamish's neck. There was a faint yellow line against the paleness of his throat. "Now go along with you, insolent whelp, and remember what I've said."

As Hamish turned to run, Nuada's arm snaked out and the flat of his sword caught the Elven lordling hard across the backside, making him jump and yelp. He scuttled off, followed by his cohorts, leaving the prince with his lady and the gaggle of children who'd interfered on 'Sa'ti's behalf.

Siegfried and Bean sniggered at Hamish's humiliation, but stopped instantly when Nuada turned to them and, sheathing his sword, said, "In the future, you would do well to remember that when choosing between rescuing a lady's valuables and defending the lady, the lady's protection is always paramount. Understand?"

The boys bowed to the prince with murmured assent. Nuada scanned the quartet of boys and the clump of girls.

"Are any of you besides 'Sa'ti hurt?"

"I'm not hurt, Your Highness," 'Sa'ti sniffled. She emerged from the mass of adolescent girls swiping at the fur on her cheeks, and added, "Shāuddo made my face all better."

Dylan glanced at the blond Elven girl. She shrugged and stuck her hands in her pockets. Unlike the other girls, the Onibi princess wore black trews and a black tunic embroidered with golden flames. The Japanese features seemed at odds with hair like a golden flame and crimson, reptilian-slitted eyes. Dylan understood the coloring—Onibi royals were said to be phoenixes in Elven form, and flame-yellow and fiery crimson fit with that—but it was still odd to see blond and red where she should've seen black and brown.

Shāuddo said in accented Gaelic, "It was my privilege to aid the servant of Prince Nuada Silverlance." She bowed to the prince.

Nuada offered a truncated bow—more of a dip from the waist—and said, "My thanks, Your Imperial Highness. If you would honor me, my lady and I seek an audience with Your Honorable Brother, His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Emīru, and yourself."

Shāuddo didn't smile, but Dylan recognized the crinkling around her eyes as the Onibi equivalent. "I will convey your message to my Honorable Brother, Your Royal Highness. Please excuse me." To 'Sa'ti, she added, sounding more like a little girl, "We'll play tomorrow, _hai_?" The cougar girl nodded eagerly, and after receiving Nuada's permission, Shāuddo walked away.

The Elven prince glanced at the other children. "Begone," he muttered. "All of you. Return to the keepers you no doubt escaped from. Except you, Llŷr."

Prince Llŷr hunched his narrow shoulders. Only when everyone but 'Sa'ti and A'du had gone did Nuada speak at last.

"That was a good strike, the fist to the chin," the Elven warrior murmured. Llŷr smiled shyly and polished his glasses on the hem of his tunic. Dylan wondered if she'd ever seen a dorkier, sweeter fae in her life. She didn't think so. "Next time, instead of throwing yourself at your enemy and being batted aside like one might swat a fly, try that strike from the first. Understand?"

"Y-yes, s-s-sir, Prince Nuada."

Nuada gestured down the hall. "Off with you, now." As the young prince scampered off, the older fae noticed Dylan eyeing him with a soft smile on her face. "I've known Llŷr since his infancy," the prince said, sounding almost defensive. "He understands the ways of a warrior, for all he is a scholar." Then Nuada focused on A'du and 'Sa'ti. "We will have words, you two and I, later this evening."

"Are we in trouble?" A'du asked diffidently. Nuada sighed.

"No," the prince replied, pressing two fingers to his temple. "I merely have a headache. Begone with you. And stay out of trouble. Go to the kitchens to have your eye tended to, A'du'la'di!" He called after the retreating children. They waved to show they'd heard him and scampered out of sight.

Nuada sighed and leaned his shoulder against the wall next to a window. Giving her leg time to recover from the jog, Dylan hoisted herself backward onto the sill. The warmth of the sun on the back of her neck was absolutely lovely.

"I like how you handled Lord Hamish," Dylan murmured with a grin. "But you know I already sent the request to the Onibi envoy for an audience?"

He inclined his head. "Yes, but now Emīru is more likely to grant it, because we defended his sister's honor, as it were."

"Oh, I gotcha. Why send the kids to the kitchens?"

"One of Caspar's cook-girls will put some cold meat or ice on A'du's eye, prevent it from swelling. We don't bother healers for such trifling injuries, usually."

"And what was that about bedroom habits?"

The prince scowled. "Children do not spout such insults without hearing it from someone else first. _Lord_ Hamish insulted you in a way he would never have thought of on his own. Which tells me that not only has Lord Galen the Younger turned against me, but I'm almost certain Lord Galen the Elder has as well. Stars curse it, anyway. Some of the anti-human faction are practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of a mortal becoming our next princess, possibly our next queen. The fools…" He trailed off when Dylan went white. "Dylan? What's wrong?"

It took her a moment to stammer, "Q-q-queen?" She shook her head. "I'm not going to be queen. I'm just going to be a princess. You're a prince. I mean, your father's not stepping down when you get married or anything like that…is he?"

"Not that I know of. Gods, I hope not," he added with a grimace. "I have enough on my plate at the moment as is. No, but surely you've thought of the long-term, Dylan? You are crowned a princess, you are made immortal, and we wed. Several long centuries down the road—the gods willing, that is, that it be several centuries at least—I will be king, and your husband. Thus you will be queen of Bethmoora." Seeing her stricken expression, he hazarded, "You hadn't thought of that."

She shook her head numbly. "Nuada…I can't be a _queen_. I don't…I don't know anything about running a country."

He waved that aside. "You will learn during your time as princess, my love, and from governing Éas Ruaíd and Fionntrá, as well as the fiefdoms you will gain when we wed. I will teach you, Dylan, never fear. When the queenship falls on you, you will have centuries of experience governing already. And I will rule beside you as well. You needn't do it alone."

Dylan closed her eyes and drew a breath. She didn't have time to panic. She didn't have the luxury of panic. She'd made a commitment to Nuada; she would become a princess, marry him, and help rule and protect the Bethmooran people by his side (although she'd expected that to be in a more limited capacity than as _queen_).

Still, it was more than a little…daunting. She opened her mouth to ask Nuada for some soft word of reassurance when the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor and Princess Nuala came rushing around the corner toward her twin brother.

"Brother, it worked!" She raced to her twin and threw her arms around his neck. Shock and pain flickered across Nuada's face before he smoothed it away behind a blank mask. "Father agreed to your proposal! He's going to gift Dylan by aiding the northern villages! It worked!"

It took the prince a moment to understand just what his sister was saying. Then, an exultant grin flashing across his face, Nuada hoisted Nuala into the air and spun her around once with an almost-adolescent whoop of triumph before hastily dropping her to the ground and hunching over slightly. Nuala winced, as well, shoulders hunching and one hand stealing to her side. She gave her brother a sharp look of concern.

"Ahhh," he hissed. "Shouldn't have done that. My back and ribs have not healed quite yet…ow." Nuada smoothed a hand over his side. "That was foolish. But this is brilliant news," he added, grinning despite his pain. "Oh, sweet sister mine, you are a wonder." Impulsively, the prince darted in to kiss his sister's cheek. "Well done."

Smiling back at her twin, Nuala then turned to Dylan. "By the way, Dylan…have you been to see Themba about your wedding dress? Because I have some wonderful ideas."

_Here we go,_ Dylan thought with a smile. _Time for Nuala to play with Dylan the Doll again._ But the mortal decided she didn't really mind. It was kind of nice having another sister—almost-sister—who liked to play dress-up and didn't dress like a stripper.

"We were just on our way there," Dylan said. "Do you want to come?"

**.**

The vast chamber that the palace tailors and seamstresses called home swarmed with activity, and its center, like an ebony lion, Themba stood waiting for them. Immediately after bowing to the royal twins and Dylan, the Master Tailor of Findias took the mortal's hands and kissed them.

"Congratulations, my lady," he said in his deep, rumbling voice. "I wish you and His Highness all the joy in the world. Now, you are here about your wedding trousseau, yes? And a formal gown? Three days isn't much time, especially with Midwinter having just passed and Christmas in two days, but for you, my lady, we will manage!"

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "Word spreads quickly," the prince said dryly. "We only received the king's permission for the ceremony's date a few hours ago."

Themba's white teeth flashed bright against the midnight of his skin. "If the castle gossip ceased, Your Highness, the walls would fall in. Now where is…ah. Hiyori!" The Nyame Elf beckoned to the slim Onibi journeymaid seamstress Dylan had become fond of, who scurried over and bowed to the prince and princess, then to the mortal. "Hiyori, where is my book?" Without a word, only the crinkling of laugh-lines around her crimson eyes, Hiyori presented a loosely-bound book that Dylan realized a moment later was an artist's book. "Come with me, my lady, and we shall see your wishes fulfilled."

Though the tailor spoke to Dylan, it was Nuala who grabbed Dylan's hand with childlike delight and practically hauled her to the relatively quiet alcove Themba was heading for. Nuada followed after, wondering if he were already beginning to sweat. He was only here to ensure Dylan got her way regarding her wedding gown. He had promised her it would be white, and modest by the standards of the Star Kindler's children. Once that was established, he would go to his father and confess…everything.

Then the prince had a thought. _Sister,_ he ventured through the link he shared with his twin. _I must attend to some business. Will you look after Dylan?_

_Of course,_ his sister replied. _I'm sure you would rather be practicing in the salle than listening to us gush about clothing. I will ensure she looks as she ought to for your wedding, Brother._

_Nuala,_ Nuada said, _Dylan has specific requirements for her wedding gown._

There was a moment of silence. _Requirements?_ Nuala said at last.

_She will tell you. She is to have her own way in all things, Nuala._ Aloud, turning to Dylan Nuada said, "A ghrá, I must attend to some things. I shall return before you're finished here." Conscious of the curious eyes of the staff on him, he leaned in and lightly kissed his truelove's cheek. He would've preferred her lips, but they were in public. "Enjoy yourself."

"I love you," Dylan murmured. The wealth of emotion in the three simple words soothed him. She knew; she knew he intended to speak to his father about his change of heart regarding the humans. Knew it, loved him for it, and wanted him to know she would be with him in spirit during the interview.

"You are my life," he whispered. Forget propriety; forget the servants. He would kiss her lips because he bloody well felt like it. Nuada started to lean forward. "Mo duinne—"

A gagging sound arrested him. Feral amber eyes slanted to Nuala's far-too-innocent face over Dylan's shoulder, then to the smile tugging at Themba's mouth. The glare the Elf leveled on his twin promised sibling retribution. Brushing Dylan's cheek with his knuckles, Nuala bowed to his sister, kissed his truelove, and departed.

Nuala turned to Dylan. With enthusiasm resembling a hyena pouncing on a gazelle, the princess said, "So, Dylan, your wedding gown. I was thinking Bethmooran colors, red and gold. What do you think?"

"I…" Dylan resisted—barely—the urge to yelp for Nuada to come back. She could handle this without his help. She wasn't a baby. It was her wedding, after all. And she wanted a white dress, so for the love of French toast, it would _be_ white.

She glanced at Nuala again. The hyena-look was still there.

_This is going to be harder than I thought…_

**.**

Sometime later, in another part of Findias, Nuada gave the chamberlain a curt nod as he bowed the prince into the king's study. The prince entered and bowed low to his father; the precise, military-sharp movements allowed him to hide his nerves. He didn't know how this interview might go. The king had yearned for his heir to give up his vendetta against the humans. Now Nuada intended to do just that, at least as far as the Golden Army was concerned…but would the king believe him? And how would the news change things between them?

"Lord Iríall said you wished to see me, my son," the king said softly. Wariness edged his voice. No wonder, Nuada thought. On the heels of Balor offering aid to the northern villages, his son requested an audience. Balor continued, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The prince took a moment to find his composure. Having already revealed his betrayal of his people to Dylan, a few trusted members of his inner circle, and Wink, it seemed almost too much to ask him to do it again…but he knew he must. His father needed to know. And perhaps, just perhaps, Nuada could use this perfidy of his heart to purchase further aid for his people from their king.

"My royal father," Prince Nuada murmured, "I have a confession to make."

Balor's brows furrowed. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he frowned. He sat back and nodded for his heir to continue.

Drawing in a breath that threatened to strangle him, Nuada found he couldn't meet his father's eyes. This was what Balor wanted—a part of what he wanted, at least—yet Nuada knew he couldn't look his king in the eye when confessing that he was too much the coward to stand for his people. Nuada gripped his right wrist with his left hand until his fingers and wrist ached. Feeling as if he were swallowing glass, he managed to say, "I have abandoned my quest for the Golden Army."

The king jerked upright. Wide-eyed, he stared at his son. "What did you say?"

"I've abandoned my quest for the Golden Army. I will no longer seek the third Crown piece. I will no longer attempt to raise the Army. I…though we _will_ fight if war comes between the fae and the humans, I…I will no longer seek out such a war. Bethmoora, at least, will not be the instigators of that bloody conflict, should it ever come."

_When_ it came. He knew it would; he knew that, in order for his people to survive much longer, something had to change in the way the humans and the fae interacted. Dylan believed the humans would help his people, but he couldn't trust the children of Adam. Dylan had faith, hope. Nuada had abandoned hope long ago.

Balor stared at his son in stunned silence. What did the king see? Did he see the prodigal son returned from whatever supposed madness had urged him to seek for the Crown piece? Or did he see a man broken, stripped of his honor, of what made him a warrior and a man? Did Balor realize he'd finally, _finally_ managed to break his son's spirit?

Nuada had been able, he was sure, to bear the loss of his father's love; hadn't he already lost it the day his mother had been killed? As for Nuala, she'd slowly drifted from him since that fateful day as well. Others who'd left or would leave…they were not so dear that he couldn't live without them. But Dylan…he was so selfish, that he'd been willing to live with the guilt and the horror of the slaughter of Adam's race until she came into his life. He'd been willing to bear the sin of what the Golden Army would do, the destruction it would wreak…until _her_. Damn his soul, anyway. Damn his cowardice.

"You're in earnest," Balor whispered. "You are truly in earnest."

He nodded, heart heavy with shame.

The king made a sound then, halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and suddenly Balor was on his feet, coming around the hawthorn desk to grip his son's shoulders.

"Oh, my son," Balor murmured. "My son. I have prayed for this day for centuries. I am so very proud of you, Nuada. Long have I prayed…I had almost given up hope…but at last you've given up your misplaced hatred, this ill-begotten lust for revenge against the humans. The gods have answered my prayers at last."

And his father embraced him. Nuada stiffened as pain flashed across his back. His father faltered for a moment, then realizing the reason for Nuada's tension, loosened his grip. The pain from the prince's lashes slowly subsided.

Nuada wanted to return his father's embrace, but the hurt and grief at his father's words held him frozen. _Misplaced hatred, this ill-begotten lust for revenge…_Still Balor thought so little of him; thought he would butcher an entire race out of a thirst for vengeance. He loathed the humans—of course he did, with their festering, hungering, savage ways—but it wasn't his hatred that had led him to seek their destruction. Not hatred, but love—love for his people, and the drive to protect them. And still his father didn't see…

_I see you. I know you. I love you._ Dylan's words. They soothed the rawness inside him until he could breathe a little easier. Nuada found himself able to stiffly embrace his father.

"It takes great courage to admit when one is wrong," Balor continued, drawing back to gaze at his son with warmth and sympathy. "I understand how difficult this must have been for you to confess to me, Nuada."

_I wasn't wrong,_ the Elven warrior wanted to snap. _I am_ not _wrong! The humans will see us destroyed and there is now no guarantee that we will be able to defend ourselves! I am not courageous. Not anymore. I am a coward afraid of losing the thing he holds most dear._

But he held back the fury and despair writhing like serpents in his belly and said only, "There is one thing, Father. The human assassin in custody."

The instant wariness in Balor's eyes was like a slap. "What of him?"

"We need information from him," the prince replied coolly. "The identity of his employer, anything he might know. You do not wish him harmed. Very well. My lady has a plan to interrogate him without hurting him."

Nuada sparsely outlined Dylan's plan, saying that Dylan's brother, a human official in the mortal realm, would take the assassin into mortal custody and deal with him according to official methods. He didn't mention Dylan's idea to use truth-inducing drugs; once the assassin was remanded to John's custody, Balor no longer needed to know such things. Nuada _did_ mention Dylan would use her skills as a mind-healer to question the assassin, but that was all.

After a long moment, the king nodded. "Let the mortals care for their own, and punish their own," Balor murmured. "It is well done. This, too, fills me with pride in you, Nuada, that you are willing to work with the humans and let justice have its way with the assassin. Well done, my son."

Was he deceiving his father? His king? No, he was merely playing the political game. Eliminating an enemy when politics and the king's foolishness—he would never call it mercy—tied his hands. And it was necessary to protect Dylan, as well as those dear to her and her prince.

But it left Nuada feeling hollow when he merely nodded and said, "Very good, Your Majesty."

**.**

"I really think red would make a better impression, Dylan," Nuala murmured. Dylan had to resist the urge to slam her head into Themba's desk-table where she, the princess, the Master Tailor, and his journeymaid sat. "It _is_ traditional-"

"I'm not wearing a red wedding dress," the mortal interrupted. She'd been having this conversation with her fiancé's sister for the last goodness knows how many minutes, and she was done. Done. She didn't want to be having this conversation when Nuada arrived because then he'd feel obligated to get involved and tell his sister to take a hike. Plus she didn't want to cause friction between the royal twins when they seemed to be getting along for once. "Look, Your Highness-"

Nuala…well, if it had been anyone else, Dylan would've said she _pouted_, and said, "Dylan, we are going to be sisters. Call me Nuala, please."

She sighed. "Okay. Nuala, look…it may be traditional for a royal bride to wear red at her wedding, and I will gladly have red jewelry or something, but I'm a Latter-Day Saint, and I'm supposed to wear white at my wedding. So my dress is going to be white. Okay? Nuada already promised me."

The princess arched an eyebrow. "Oh, he did?"

"Yes. He swore to me on his honor as a Bethmooran prince. Besides," Dylan added, smiling to take the sting from her words, "my dress has to be white so I can wear it in the Star Kindler's temple when—if—Nuada and I ever go there together." _And if I haven't gotten fat from having a million kids,_ she added silently, swallowing a laugh.

"I…see," the princess said, in a tone that clearly indicated she really didn't. "Well, if that is truly what you wish…then white it shall be."

_Thanks for your permission,_ Dylan thought, more amused than annoyed. Aloud, she said, "But I do want to do things according to Bethmooran tradition, too. So maybe we blend the two?" She looked to Themba, who sketched in his art book with a look of fierce concentration. After about two minutes, he set the charcoal stick aside, wiped the smears of black from his fingers with a handkerchief, and slid the book over to Dylan. Her mouth dropped open.

She'd asked for a blend of two styles, but clearly Themba had already had such an idea in mind. The sketch was rough, but clear and concise—a simple white _leine_ as the base, though Themba's notes indicated the use of embroidery and beading for decoration, and a floor-length surcoat, white with golden detailing; an accessory, which meant Dylan could take it off when she wished to enter the temple. A modest neckline, wrist-length sleeves that belled out a little, a skirt that would no doubt just brush the floor and the toes of her boots…Dylan looked up at Themba.

"I like it," she said. Remembering her future sister's presence, she added, "What do you think, Nuala?"

"Well…it's a malleable design. It would look beautiful on you, Dylan, if the right cloth is used. Shall we take a look at Themba's suggestions?"

"Sure," the mortal replied.

The dark-skinned Elf led the two women to another table, where swatches of fabric lay waiting to be looked over. There were silks and velvets and sheer organdy and doeskin and brocade, all in white, that had Dylan's inner girly-girl drooling. Dylan found herself stroking an exquisitely soft, silky material with shimmering embroidery as luminous as a pearl in the moonlight.

"Ohhh," Nuala breathed rapturously. "Oh, Dylan, that's beautiful. Look at it." Nuala stroked the fabric, too, tracing a slender embroidered vine that trailed along the material with one finger. Where embroidered snowdrops bloomed, a tiny seed-pearl nestled at the heart of each blossom. "Couldn't you simply fall in love with it?"

In point of fact, Dylan _had_ fallen in love with it. She wanted it for her dress. She shot a pleading look, complete with puppy-dog eyes, at Themba.

The tailor grinned, delighted, and made a notation. Then he said, "The embroidery is not a…how do mortals say it…a print. It is custom." Seeing Dylan's puzzled expression, he explained, "We take a piece of the crushed-velvet and embroider it with the snowdrops and vines by hand in a pattern of your choosing, milady. Do you wish the embroidery to cover the entire gown, or perhaps as an accent?"

"Um…" Come to think of it, she wasn't sure she'd like to sit on seed-pearls. And it would look kinda weird if she had embroidered, pearly flowers all over her dress except on the butt. "Hmmm…a sparse patterning, maybe? Pearls are kind of delicate, right? I wouldn't want to, um, squash one or something."

Nuala laughed. "A very good point."

Themba inclined his head, showing his bright white teeth in another grin. "It shall be as you wish, my lady."

He showed them gold-embroidered materials for the surcoat, and with Nuala's opinions, Dylan made her choice. Nuala made Dylan promise to let her help choose jewels for the wedding ceremony. Remembering that Nuala enjoyed playing dress-up—and acknowledging that it couldn't hurt to have someone with so much experience helping make her choices—Dylan promised.

There were designs and materials to pick out for _other_ parts of Dylan's trousseau, some of which made her blush so hotly she thought her hair might catch fire, and then there was her gown for Saturday. That, unlike the wedding dress, had to follow a rigid set of guidelines.

"Some shade of red and gold, I think, my lady," Themba said, setting out the material. "Velvet and silk brocade, I think. Purely Irish in style, to appease the people and show them you appreciate the kingdom's history, our culture. Let's see…a gold velvet cape trimmed in ermine. No, silk is better. Burgundy…no, claret velvet kirtle, ruby silk shift, antique gold embroidery…it will look well with the matching cape. Ruby broach or garnet? Hmmm…we'll use a mixture of both, perhaps, after the form of the Eildon Tree. Your boots will match your kirtle."

Nuala's eyes widened. "Boots? Slippers, surely, Themba."

"No," Dylan practically yelped. "Boots work. Boots are fine. I like boots."

The Nyame Elf offered Dylan a reassuring smile. "His Highness has spoken to me before of your preference for boots, milady. Never fear, Princess," he added to Nuala. "We will take care of her. Now, we shall have the Eildon Tree embroidered _here_ on your over-gown…"

They'd just finished hammering down the details of the new formal dress and Nuala and Dylan were back to admiring the snowdrop-embroidered velvet when Nuada returned. He found himself bombarded with excited chatter that momentarily froze him in place. The legendary Elven warrior only found the fortitude to move when his sister presented him with a scrap of white cloth and demanded, "Is this not the loveliest thing you've ever seen, Brother?"

Nuada gathered enough wits to say, "Erm…yes. Lovely. A good choice." He cleared his throat. "Have you finished, Themba?"

"We have, Your Highness. I relinquish Her Ladyship to you."

Dylan laced her fingers with Nuada's when he took her hand, but her high spirits plummeted when he growled through their link, _You and I need to have words, Lady Dylan._

She masked her sudden uncertainty with a smile at Themba and Nuala, but she responded silently with equal gravity, _As you wish, Your Highness._

**.**

Nuada hadn't gone straight back to fetch his lady after speaking with the king. Instead, he'd sought out Lord Galen the Elder of Óic Bethrá to speak to him about young Lord Hamish's behavior. And what the whelp's father had had to say hadn't pleased the prince one bit. It had also given him a brief but intense urge to wring Dylan's neck.

Now he strode with her back to their joint suites, wondering what he was going to say to his lady about Lord Galen the Younger and keeping secrets and Prince Zhenjin. Fury at Lord Galen and at being caught unawares by his enemy crowded the words in Nuada's throat until he thought he might choke. Mingling with the rage was hurt—hurt that Dylan hadn't told him about Galen the Younger, that he'd had to find out about it from the wretch's father, and hurt because of what the Lords Galen had said Dylan had said to Zhenjin.

It was pathetic to be jealous of his friend. Perhaps Dylan hadn't meant the words the way they had come across to the Bethmooran lord. It was ridiculous to be upset that Dylan had managed to sway Zhenjin from his course simply by saying, _Please. For me._ Nuada knew why Zhenjin had acquiesced, of course. After their conversation that morning, of course he knew. But that didn't explain how Dylan had known to say those words.

He marched with her into her room, slamming the door in their guards' faces. He whirled on her, only to find her taking a seat on her bed, stretching out her bad leg atop the counterpane. The thought that she might be in pain stayed him for a moment, but then the tumult of emotions swirling in his chest spurred him on.

"Why didn't you tell me about Lord Galen?" Nuada demanded. Dylan swallowed and lowered her head.

"How did you find out?"

"That isn't the point," Nuada snapped. "Why didn't you tell me what he'd said to you? What he'd tried to do to you?"

Dylan sighed. "He was drunk, Nuada, he didn't mean it."

The Elven warrior snarled under his breath. Fixing her with a glare, he snapped, "The wretch called you a whore, insulted you to your face, propositioned you, tried to touch you without your invitation or permission, and you defend him with the excuse that he was intoxicated?"

"It's not like he attacked me!"

Incredulous, Nuada demanded, "What do you think he and his cohorts would've done if you'd been alone? He was drunk enough to press you. What do you think Lord Galen would've done without your escort to give him second thoughts?"

Her mouth opened and closed. Finally she confessed, "I don't know."

"I do," Nuada said too softly, "and it makes me sick." With a muffled snarl of fury, he turned to pace furiously up and down the length of the room. "The thought of him putting his hands on you…hurting you…I could cheerfully kill him, and make it take a _very_ long time, merely for attempting it. Dammit, Dylan, you should have told me!"

"You had other things on your mind."

"Things like this are _never_ far from my mind," Nuada yelled. "Do you have any idea how terrified I am that a member of my court, insulted by your humanity, will decide to hell with it, and hurt you? Kill you? Do you know what the fae _do_ to human women? Do you know what humans have done to my enemies and my allies—to their mothers, wives, sisters, daughters? Do you know how many of them want to pay back the humans, _any_ humans, after the same fashion? Why do you think I'm doing this?" Nuada demanded. "Insisting on your elevation so quickly? I'm doing it to protect you from treacherous dogs like Lord Galen."

Dylan regarded him with wide eyes, then lowered her head. She whispered, "I was trying…trying to be merciful. I knew you would probably beat the crud out of him for what he did, and I didn't want to make an enemy of him. I thought being gracious and letting him off with Zhenjin scaring the daylights out of him would be enough. And I didn't want to disturb you. You've been so busy and preoccupied…you have so much to worry about. I didn't want to add to it. I'm sorry."

Nuada sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Dylan…" Sighing again, he sank onto the bed beside her. "I'm sorry for shouting. I'm sorry for…I…I need to ask you something."

She brushed back a lock of hair. "All right."

"I spoke with Lord Galen the Elder after I went to see my father. He said the reason Zhenjin didn't cripple his son was that you asked Zhenjin to spare him. He claims your exact words to Zhenjin were, 'Please. For me.'" Warily, Dylan nodded. Swallowing his pride, Nuada asked, "Why did you say that?"

"I…I don't know. It just…the words just popped out. I knew they would work. And they did. Zhenjin let him go. Why?"

"There have been rumors, Dylan. Rumors about you and Zhenjin."

She flinched. "I know." Then her eyes widened and she glanced up at him. "You don't believe them…do you?"

"Of course not."

At least, he believed Dylan would never deliberately play him false, and neither would Zhenjin. Deliberately. But just as he'd started out with every intention of hating Dylan with every fragment of his soul until the end of time, Zhenjin had begun the same way. And just as Nuada had fallen under his lady's spell, bewitched in both body and soul, so too might Zhenjin fall. Zhenjin might, as Nuada had, find himself unable to resist the temptation.

Nuada had a sudden vision of his friend pulling Dylan into his arms, fastening his mouth to hers, kissing her with the same desperate fire that always smoldered in the pit of Nuada's belly. The image ran away from him, and now Zhenjin wasn't merely kissing Dylan, but touching her, caressing. Yet despite her adherence to the Law of Chastity, in this imagining Dylan responded ardently to Zhenjin's advances—

No! No, she would never. She valued her chastity too highly. Valued her love for Nuada too highly. She would never betray him. Never hurt him that way.

The way _he_ had hurt _her_ when he'd kissed another woman.

He'd intended to lecture her, chastise her, but in the face of his own self-doubt and her uncertain hurt, Nuada forewent the blistering lecture and merely drew her into his arms. Laying his cheek against her hair, he murmured, "You must be careful, Dylan. Everything depends on us going carefully for the future. You need to tell me if someone threatens you. It isn't a sign of weakness, and I need to know."

"Okay," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I was trying to help. I can't just run off and tattle on everyone who's rude to me, you know? It will make me look weak."

"Why does it matter to you what things look like to the court?"

"Because then your courtiers won't respect you," she said shrewdly. "They'll see it as you making a weak choice for their future princess, their future queen. It'll look like I'm scared of them."

"You need to be afraid of them, Dylan," the prince said softly. "They are all dangerous; you must take care."

Dylan sighed. "I know they're dangerous, but I can't let them think they scare me, even though they do. It's all about appearances—that's what you and Zhenjin keep telling me. So I need to appear unconcerned."

"That does not preclude you from telling me these things!"

"It does if you're going to blow my cover as the big, strong, brave warrior-princess by rushing off to beat the crud out of whoever decides to call me names that week!"

Nuada growled under his breath, "By the Fates, you try my patience. Fine," he added with a snarl. "Fine. I will make a bargain with you, my lady. If you swear on your love for me to tell me whenever someone threatens you in any way, then I swear on my love for you that I will not act rashly and expose you to either ridicule or censure. I will not damage the image of you as a strong future royal. Agreed?"

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "Agreed."

"Which means you will now tell me the surnames of Patrick and Xander so that I may hunt them down like the dogs they are and kill them."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "That is _so_ not what that means. Nice try. They're not a threat right now. The police are keeping an eye on them for me."

Her word-choice snagged his attention, but he didn't remark on it. Only filed away the fact that the human scum who'd torn away her innocence were being monitored by human law enforcement. If he grew desperate for justice, he would find a way to tap that particular resource. Somehow.

Aloud he said, "I want them dead."

"You're not the only one," she murmured. "If it didn't put you in danger, I'd let you have them in a heartbeat…but you know what you're father will do. Especially after giving you Westenra."

He sighed. "I'm sorry I grew so angry."

Jealous. He'd been jealous. Was jealous still. Pathetic, but there it was. Zhenjin had the power to give Dylan everything she desired. If the Dilong prince wooed her, won her, there would be no need for this dangerous venture to Avalon and Mag Mell. Zhenjin could shuck his immortality if he chose—and Nuada knew he would, if he thought it would do him a single ounce of good. If the Chinese Elf thought Dylan would ever love him, he would give up his throne, his power, his immortality, and live a mortal life to be with her. Zhenjin would be able to give Dylan children. The one thing that, as yet, Nuada couldn't. The one thing she desired above all else.

If he'd been more of a man, if he'd been less a selfish coward, he would've told Dylan of Zhenjin's affections and encouraged her to go to him, to accept his suit.

But he couldn't.

And he'd been so viciously angry at Galen's words, his thinly-veiled accusations that echoed Bres's fury far too closely. Lord Galen the Elder had been one of the few of Balor's generation who'd refused to lie down under the boots of the humans and be trodden into the dust. Nuada had admired him for centuries. Now Galen stewed in disgust, feeling the sting of Nuada's betrayal just as strongly as Bres surely did. Galen hadn't known about Nuada's plans for the Golden Army, but everyone knew Prince Nuada Silverlance intended to make war on the humans and drive them back at least to the original boundaries outlined in the treaty, no matter the cost in mortal blood. His supporters in that venture had been stunned by his declaration of attachment to Dylan before the Golden Court, and now…now that Nuada had asked Dylan to wed him, their outrage knew no bounds.

It hadn't been treason, what Galen had said. There had been no talk of moving against the Crown. Only words dripping derision and disappointment that stung like acid. Lord Galen had agreed to speak to young Hamish about his behavior, but Nuada harbored no illusions. The Bethmooran lord intended to inform his son that challenging Nuada openly was foolish; he had no intention of correcting Hamish's view of the situation. The boy would be polite to his prince's face, perhaps even to Dylan's, but he would still think of her as Silverlance's whore.

Nuada would take no chances with her safety. None. So he would have a quiet word with Captain Sáruit and Captain Phelan about keeping an eye on certain members of the court.

But for now, he needed to focus on something else. His lady had been happy when he'd fetched her from the tailors'. His fury had shattered that happiness. He needed to make amends. Gently stroking her cheek with one finger, Nuada lifted Dylan's chin.

"Forgive me," Nuada murmured. "I am…ashamed as I am of it, I am afraid for you here, mo crídh. Please forgive me."

"Of course I forgive you," she muttered. "I'm sorry I did something stupid. I suck at this whole…this whole political thing. I don't know how to walk the line between bravado and stupidity. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm trying, Nuada."

"I know," he said, cupping her cheek. "I know how hard you try. I see it. What you did was _not_ stupid; you meant to spare me unnecessary grief and to appear strong for me. How can I not appreciate such a thing?" Leaning in, Nuada pressed his lips to her forehead. Felt her relax. "Enough of this. Tell me how things went with Themba and my sister."

She shrugged as he drew back. "Fine. Got everything planned in one shot, so that's something. Had a fight with Nuala about not wearing red on my wedding day, though."

"Well," the prince murmured. Nuzzling the satin curve of her cheek, he inhaled her scent, felt her shiver when his breath caressed her skin. Nuada whispered, "Perhaps you can wear red on our wedding night." Dark lips quirked when Dylan gulped audibly. "The palace tailors can arrange a suitable garment for my beautiful future-bride."

"Is that all you think about?" Dylan asked, voice shaky, but he heard the smile in it. "The night you finally get to have your way with me?"

"As I intend to make it the best night of your life, one might imagine it occupies my thoughts. And you are so very beautiful. It truly astonishes me that I can think of anything else."

Dylan laughed. "I'll be having wedding cake that night. Nothing can compete with that. Sorry."

"I believe I'm being insulted."

"It's just a fact, Your Highness," she replied. "I'm sorry, but you and all your so-called prowess can't compete with wedding cake."

Nuada slanted her a dangerous look. "My 'so-called' prowess?" She gave him a sweet smile. Nuada's expression turned predatory. "Ah, I see. A challenge. Well, challenge accepted, my lady." He trailed kisses over her cheekbone to just beneath her ear, enjoying her shivers. Then, with his lips grazing her ear with every word and his breath warm against her skin, Nuada whispered, "Come the night of the Frost Moon, I assure you, you will be able to think of nothing else, not even cake, when I finally make you mine. You'll only be able to think of me."

"Oh, boy," Dylan half-gasped, fanning herself. "Um…wow." Her cheeks flamed scarlet. "How do you _do_ that?"

He grinned. "I am an Elf, my love; I'm irresistible."

**.**

Eventually they had to go to dinner. Dylan's wine-red gown, accented with silver embroidery, matched Nuada's silver-and-wine ensemble. With her hair loosely braided beneath the silver-and-garnet hair-piece and with a little makeup, she looked the part of a princess. Nuada certainly approved, if the way he kept staring at her was any indication.

Of course a few of the guests at the king's table commented on Nuada and Dylan's "absence" the last couple of days. Others replied in varying tones of humor and disgust that obviously they'd been too busy "celebrating" the king's blessing of their engagement to be bothered with holiday revelry.

There was dinner and dancing, minstrels and gleemen and other entertainments. A bit stiff from all the walking, Dylan decided she was going to sit out the dancing.

Nuada remained by her side except for one instance, when he spotted Lady Dierdre standing off by herself against the wall. Silently explaining himself to his truelove, Nuada went to speak to the Fomorian noblewoman. Dylan tried not to eye them suspiciously. She knew there was _no way_ Nuada would humiliate her by openly flirting with the noblewoman. He wouldn't deliberately set about seducing or wooing another woman, period.

But she couldn't help the icy _zing_ through her chest when Nuada let his fingertips rest ever-so-briefly on Dierdre's elbow as he spoke to her in low, earnest tones. Nor could she ignore the warm smile that spread across the Fomorian's face, though Dierdre shook her head at the prince. Nuada gestured toward the dance floor. Dierdre shook her head.

Dylan frowned. What was he saying to her?

Nuada made the gesture again. Another sad headshake from Dierdre, then _she_ gestured in _Dylan's_ direction. The mortal went cold. Nuada sliced the air with a dismissive wave of his hand. A lump formed in Dylan's throat.

_Really_? She demanded silently. _Really? I'm going to jump to conclusions just like that? I'm not going to doubt him. I'm not. She's in trouble, and he's trying to convince her to do something to help herself. That's all_.

An icy chill ran down Dylan's back. Her entire body stiffened as the warning burned like ice in her chest and along her backbone.

Then Prince Bres sank into the chair Nuada had so recently vacated. Scooting it back several inches to put space between himself and the human, Bres offered a tight smile. Dylan ducked her head.

"Your Highness," she managed. The Spirit wasn't telling her to run, or to scream bloody murder, but He _was_ screaming, _Warning! Danger!_

"Lady Dylan," Bres murmured, with a quick dip of his head in lieu of a bow, "I wondered if I might speak with you concerning a matter of some importance."

"I…"

"There is reason to be concerned for Prince Nuada's safety, milady," the Fomorian prince said. Dylan froze. "Lady Dylan, my words may distress you, but you are putting Silverlance in danger."

She fought for calm. "How?"

"Your very presence endangers him. Surely you know his stance against humans? That he intended to massacre them in the coming war, down to the last man, woman, and child?"

Dylan remembered Nuada's grief, his self-disgust, the horror nearly choking him as he'd confessed what he'd intended to do to save his people from the slow creeping destruction she herself had fought against nearly her entire life. She realized Bres thought she didn't know about that. He didn't think Nuada would've told her or that she would've stood by him had she known. And she realized that Bres had supported Nuada's plan. Still supported it. Did he know Nuada had abandoned his plans for genocide, unable to bear the guilt?

Without waiting for an answer, Bres continued. "Well obviously he cannot hope to perpetuate that very necessary slaughter with a mortal at his side. I doubt you intend to war against your own kind."

As she had many times to Nuada, Dylan said, "They're not my kind." Bres paused and frowned at her. "I'm Prince Nuada's betrothed," she said, hoping her voice sounded regal instead of squeaky with fear. "The fae of Bethmoora are my people now."

Bres's lip curled. His voice dripped disdain as he murmured, "Pretty words, milady, but you'll excuse me if I do not put my faith in the promises of a mortal."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. You still haven't told me how my presence puts His Highness in danger," she added, wondering how she could sound so calm when her teeth should've been chattering.

"Isn't it obvious? Your presence means his allegiances have changed; he no longer cares for his people."

She arched a cool brow. "Oh?"

Bres narrowed his eyes. "Indeed. If he truly cared, he wouldn't parade you on his arm like some prized treasure. He wouldn't rub his people's faces in the fact that he's abandoned them for the pleasures of your bed. Instead of attempting to fend off the creeping decay that has fallen over the Fae, he lifts your skirts at every opportunity and goes riding."

Now chilly anger warred with the bitter cold inside her. Color flooded her cheeks and she raised her chin. "If you only mean to insult me and His Highness, Prince Bres, I suggest you to take yourself somewhere else."

"Nuada was once my friend! And _you_—you, with your witch's guile, your siren spell—have somehow stolen away his honor, his courage, his dedication to duty. If _I_ have taken offense, how many of Silverlance's own people will begrudge your conquest? And how many of them might take it into their heads to punish their prince for bedding the enemy? An assassin nearly killed him not even a sevenday past."

"And I defended him," Dylan said coolly, "as _he_ defends _me_."

"Very touching, but one day, the knife or the poison or the arrow will get past even your _redoubtable_ defenses and he will lie slain at your feet, his lifeblood staining your hands, his death on your conscience, and all because you refused to free him from your widow's web. What clever words will you use then?"

Her knuckles were white, fists clenched in her lap. Only a Herculean effort allowed her to meet Bres's eyes.

"I don't know," she said softly. "But I'll tell you this, Prince Bres. If _anyone_ tries to hurt Nuada, I will make them pay. _Dearly_."

Bres's eyes went flat and cold as a snake's. "Are you threatening me, you filthy whore?" He demanded, voice a deadly hiss.

"I don't make threats," she replied. "I make decisions."

A shadow fell over them. Dylan looked up, relief threatening to make her cry when her eyes met Nuada's. He acknowledged her with a curt nod before focusing on Bres.

"_What_ are you doing here?"

The Fomorian raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. "Merely offering some friendly advice to your…lady. Enjoy your evening, old friend." Bres rose, bowed, and strode off. Nuada watched him mix into the crowd of fae courtiers, nobles, and royals before turning to Dylan.

"Are you all right?"

She opened her mouth to say _yes_, then snapped it shut on a sob. A shaking hand covered her mouth. When she thought she could speak without crying, she gasped out, "I need some air."

Startled, Nuada helped her to her feet. Her legs threatened to buckle. Only with his support did she manage to slip out of the ballroom into the quiet shadows of the nearby gardens. He took her to a nearby footbridge overlooking a small garden stream; the babbling of the water would prevent anyone from overhearing their conversation. Dylan stumbled to the railing, grasping it with trembling hands, and hung her head, simply breathing deeply of the winter night air. She didn't seem to feel the cold. After a moment, she sank to the ground, her legs giving out.

Nuada was beside her in an instant. "What is it?" He took her icy hands and chafed them gently. She was pale, eyes wide. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "Are you ill? What's wrong?"

"I never want to speak to him again," she gasped out. "He's…he's evil. Please don't _ever_ make me talk to him _ever_ again. I'm scared. I'm so scared. Hold me. Please, I just need you to hold me for a minute."

"All right," he murmured gently, gathering her in his arms. He'd never seen her like this without the weight of flashback. "It's all right, my love. You're safe; Bres cannot harm you. I'll never let him hurt you, I swear it."

"He said," she mumbled, the words spilling into the air like blood, "your people would never accept me because I'm human, that they'll try to hurt you, try to kill you. He said your death would be on my hands, and I couldn't tell if he was threatening you or not but I made him angry because I didn't back down. He told me I should leave you…I was so scared…he's evil, Nuada. Nuala _can't_ marry him, he's a monster. He's a _monster_."

She wasn't hysterical, the prince thought. Dylan was simply terrified. What had Bres done to make her react like this? There had to be more than what she'd told him. Had he threatened her?

Monster, she'd called him. What made Nuada different from Bres? What made the Fomorian prince the monster, when Nuada had been the one to organize the plan to raise the Golden Army and the other ancient weapons put to sleep after the last war with the humans? Was it only Dylan's love that made her believe some good remained in her prince? What made Bres so much worse than the Tuathan prince?

"You don't believe me," she whispered. The hurt in her voice threatened to gut him.

"He has been my friend for centuries, Dylan," he tried to explain. "He's saved my life countless times. We were brothers-in-arms. I—"

"I _know_ what I felt, Nuada. He's evil. He's…I felt so cold talking to him. There's something _wrong_ with him. Him _and_ Cíaran. Dierdre, too! I don't know what it is but there's something wrong! Please, you have to believe me."

He tightened his hold, spending a little magic to warm her against the bitter night, and murmured, "I'll look into it, Dylan. I promise I'll look into it."

But, she thought, feeling sick in her heart, he hadn't said he believed her.

.

.

.

.

.

.

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_**Author's Note:**__ oh, Nuada. *sigh* Really? Really, Nuada? I get that he's your buddy, but…ah, well. So we've had wedding plans made/worked on, some hopeful progress made with Balor, some sisterly moments between Dylan and Nuala, and more development with Bres. Ah, Bres. He's so useful as a villain. Anywho, what do you guys think is gonna happen next? Anything you want to see? Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and remember, reviews are love! Huggles!_

_Also, check out my book vlog (video-blog) of the novel_ Generation Dead _by Daniel Waters on Youtube. Just type in "__LA Knight Generation Dead__" and it's the video of the brunette girl at the top in black t-shirt. It's my first book review and it was completely off the cuff so it's a little all-over the place, but once I got into my zone, I think I did all right. Comments would be great – I've only got one from my husband and one from my foster-brother. So…yeah._

_And I'll do my references later (I'm at work, shhh…)._

_Love ya!_


	94. Song of the Caged Bird

_**Author's Note:**__ so here it is everyone! The latest chapter for June (yes, I know, I'm 4 days early; I've been a bit under the weather, and updating makes me feel better)! So hope you guys enjoy the chap. Some important stuff happens in this chap. Love you guys! See you at the bottom!_

_**Copyright Information:**__ The three songs played on violin in this chapter are "Song of the Caged Bird," "The River Flows in You," and "Arwen's Vigil." Check out Lindsey Stirling's beautiful renditions of the first two ("Song of the Caged Bird" is an original piece written by her) on Youtube on her channel, LindseyStomp. The Piano Guys did a beautiful piano-cello version of "Arwen's Vigil," also found on Youtube. Only the string-part of each song is used, obviously. You guys should check out the originals on Youtube, though, seriously._

**Chapter Ninety-Three**

**Song of the Caged Bird**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Nightmare, Doubt, Belief, Irish, Music, an Unexpected Guest, a Promise of Clemency, a Duel of Words, Francesca, and a Stumbling Block**

.

.

That night, Dylan dreamed. And in her dreams, she could taste Nuada's pain, feel it, just as easily as she could hear it. Hear _him_, screaming in agony while Bres tortured him…

And Dylan came awake screaming for the first time since coming to Findias. Jolting upright, screams tearing her throat, she felt the mattress dip and found herself wrapped tightly in gentle, comforting arms. Familiar embrace chasing back the nightmares. The rich, masculine scent of wildwoods cleansed the bitter stink of blood from her nose. Shaking, Dylan turned her face into Nuada's shirt and clung to him as sobs ripped out of her. Her prince rocked her, stroking her hair, whispering that she was safe, that everything was all right. Only when she'd cried until her voice had dwindled to almost nothing did she finally lie spent in his arms.

"What happened, sweetheart?" Nuada asked softly, still petting her hair. He sounded shaken. Well, no wonder; she hadn't woken from a nightmare so violently in a long time. "Everything is well. You're safe. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Bres," she whispered. Nuada stiffened. "He was torturing you, he hurt you so badly. I couldn't stop him. He…it was horrible, he c-cut out y-your eyes…there was so much blood. You were screaming. And then he...he poisoned me with Branwen's Tears and raped me in your blood. He wouldn't stop, I was screaming and you were screaming and I couldn't help you…"

Nuada shushed her gently, rocking her still. His lips brushed kisses across her forehead, against her hair. He murmured, "It was a nightmare, beloved. It wasn't real. I am safe, and so are you. We're safe. Shhh, hush now. You're safe."

"The sleeping potion was supposed to keep me from dreaming," she whispered. "Why didn't it work? Why did I have a nightmare?"

"I don't know; we will speak to Lóegaire and Táebfada about it in the morning after we deal with the assassin. But it is all right now, mo crídh. It's all right."

She let out a ragged sigh. "I don't want to go back to sleep. I don't want to sleep alone in the dark. Please, can I stay with you?" When he hesitated, unsure just what she was asking, she cuddled closer and begged, "Please? I don't want to be alone in the dark."

Carefully the prince scooped her into his arms and hefted her, holding her against his chest. He'd managed to snatch a handful of hours of sleep before waking to her screams. He doubted he'd be able to find slumber after this. Instead, he carried Dylan out of her bedroom, through his own, and into his study. One of his guards dragged in a sofa; as soon as the guard left, shutting the door behind him, Nuada laid Dylan on the loveseat and covered her with a blanket. He knelt before her and took her hands in his. Cold as ice, they trembled in his grasp.

Before he could speak, Dylan tensed and murmured, "The children! They must've heard me screaming, they must be terrified. I should go—"

"The hounds are with them. Sétanta fetched me when you started to moan in your sleep. I sent him and Eimh to the children just ere you awoke. They've no doubt told them you merely had a nightmare. Tsu's'di and the dogs will take care of them."

She nodded tiredly and shoved tangles of hair from her face. "Thank you."

"It was my privilege. Dylan…you truly fear Bres?" Nuada asked. "You truly fear he might attempt to hurt me? Or you, now that you're under my father's protection and we are betrothed?"

Dylan nodded. She rasped, "He hates me. More than my humanity, he hates _me_. Personally. Because I've corrupted you or something. He said things…" Nuada made a questioning noise. "He mentioned how, instead of trying to do right by your people, you kept yourself occupied by lifting my skirts and going riding. His words. He called me a filthy whore."

Nuada felt his eyes shift to hot copper. His fingers flexed briefly around Dylan's, but then he forced himself to relax. Giving into rage would help nothing. Instead, he kissed her knuckles. "You are not a whore."

"Why does it bother you so much?" Dylan asked softly; she'd seen the bronze fire of his eyes. "People calling me that?"

He turned his gaze to the fire and didn't answer for a time. Finally, he said, "When you first allied yourself to me…that was the insult my enemies flung at you. Silverlance's whore. You were my ally, my friend, unfailingly loyal to me. I loved you, though I knew it not. I knew you loved me. Shades, I was so angry when you said you couldn't remain at my side. Furious, because the first emotion I felt at your confession was fear, uncertainty—what would I do without you beside me?—followed by a pain that sliced deep and swift as a sword."

"I never meant to hurt you," she protested in a whisper. He kissed the backs of her fingers.

"I know that, a ghrá. I should have known it then. But in my rage I flung words at you like knives, and they broke your heart. I should never have spoken so. I saw what it did to you, though I didn't wish to admit that I could be so cruel as to break your heart that way. Once we reconciled, I decided to put it behind me…but then your brother showed me the truth depth of what I'd done to you with my savage words. He showed me his memories of you after I left. I hurt you more deeply than I'd realized. You were so shattered. I understood then why your brother despised me. I would've killed any man who'd done such to you."

Dylan shook her head. "John shouldn't have shown you that."

Shadowed topaz eyes met hers. "I asked him to. I wanted to understand. And so I saw what such words did to your spirit. I'll let no other hurt you that way. You are _not_ my whore. I love you more than my own life, and I'll not have you or my love for you disdained so." With a gentle hand he smoothed back her hair. "May I confess something?"

She nodded.

"Bres is my friend and ally—or was. We've loved each other as brothers for many centuries. He shares my distrust and hatred for humanity. I understand why he hates you for your race, mo crídh, though I know if I…if I merely _showed_ him, as I showed Zhenjin, he would understand. He would realize you're different from most of the children of Adam."

_Most_, she thought. _Not "the rest of the children of Adam," but "most" of them. Does he realize he's stopped assuming I'm the only good one to be found among humans?_ But Dylan didn't ask. She merely let Nuada continue.

"But I cannot. It was so difficult on Zhenjin, and the consequences have been more far-reaching than either of us anticipated." Dylan frowned, but didn't interrupt. "So I can only try to convince Bres. Yet you say it is more than just your humanity? That his loathing is personal?" Nuada shook his head. "I know not how to go about attempting to salvage his good opinion. I must, for Nuala's sake, but I know not how."

"Nuada," she whispered, almost pleading, "he's _evil_. I _felt_ it."

The prince passed a hand over his face. "Dylan…Bres is a good man. Blinded by his hatred, perhaps, but he would never attempt to actually hurt me. Us. If nothing else, it is bad politics. He was merely trying to scare you. Nothing more."

Dylan slid her hands over her eyes and focused on drawing breath after shaky breath. He didn't believe her. There was a monster lurking on the outskirts of her life, waiting to pounce, and Nuada...

"You don't believe me," she whispered. Nuada made a sound, as if he meant to speak, and she half-turned her face into the pillow. "You're supposed to believe me."

Nuada didn't speak for a moment. Finally, he asked, "Your sixth sense tells you this? The…the Spirit, as you say?" Dylan nodded miserably. He sighed. "You must let me look into things. I cannot condemn a friend, a brother, the betrothed of my sister, even with your testimony." Seeing her drawn expression, Nuada squeezed her hands. "Is it not that I don't trust you, Dylan. I do. You must believe that. Please do not be angry."

"Once you stop believing me, no one at court will listen. You're my voice among the fae right now, Nuada. Besides you, only the king will listen if I have a grievance, and we can't afford to trust him right now. I'm not angry; I'm scared."

"I would never let anyone hurt you, mo duinne. I would protect you even from Bres."

It cut him, like a razor's edge slicing across his heart, when Dylan shook her head. A tear rolled down her cheek. "No," she whispered. "You wouldn't, because you won't. You won't listen."

With almost violent swiftness, Nuada surged to his feet and paced to the fireplace. Dylan watched him, wide-eyed, as he savagely stirred the fire. He stared at the flames, his back to her, for several minutes. His shoulders were stiff with some hard emotion, his spine rigid. His fingers drummed on the mantel. Just when Dylan thought she might go crazy from waiting, he turned back to her. The firelight limned him in crimson and orange, turned him to a shadowy silhouette whose expression she couldn't read.

"You doubt me?" Nuada asked tonelessly. Before she could say anything, he half-turned, gripped the mantel, and snarled, "To the thirteen hells with it, then." His head snapped toward her. Amber light made his hair shine like spidersilk. "You have said it, and so it is—Bres is now our enemy. He'll not touch you without facing my sword. Which I will tell him as soon as possible."

"But…but you just said—"

"If I ever give you cause to doubt me," Nuada interrupted, "then I must change whatever it is I've done. So I shall. You say Bres is our enemy; thus he is. I will accept the burden of that truth and bear it. I will look into whether he currently means to move against us over the next few weeks, and I shall speak to my father about quietly breaking his betrothal with my sister. I trust your judgment. What?" He added, alarmed, when Dylan began to cry silently. He moved to her side, asking, "What have I done now? I thought…why do you weep?"

She shook her head, letting it drop to his shoulder when he embraced her. "Nothing," she mumbled through the tears. "It's nothing. Just…I love you. Thank you."

He hadn't realized, he thought, how much Bres had frightened her. He'd seen her terror on the balcony, seen the sick horror her nightmare had left behind, but it hadn't penetrated until now just how truly frightened she was of the Fomorian prince. Why? What had Bres said or done that would leave her like _this?_

Nuada didn't know, but he intended to find out. And the most expedient way was…

"Dylan…will you show me what happened tonight?" He held out his hand, palm up, a silent invitation to trust, to let him shoulder the fear for a moment. "Will you show me what you felt when Bres spoke to you?"

A hesitation, then Dylan laid her hand in his and opened her mind to him, giving up the unadulterated memory of the confrontation.

The Elven warrior sucked in a breath at the savage cold that clamped down on him. _This_ was what Dylan had felt while speaking to Bres. The same brutal chill she felt around such vile creatures as Westenra and Eamonn. But it couldn't be. Bres couldn't possibly instill such a vicious sensation of pure evil in his truelove as those…_animals_. And yet…

Nuada had known early on that the warnings Dylan received didn't come from within Dylan herself. The comforting warmth, the shining Presence he'd sensed that dwelt within yet apart from her that very first time he'd walked through her mind—this Presence was what gave Dylan those spot-on warnings of danger and deception. And she trusted this Presence, what the Star Kindler's followers called the Holy Ghost, with her entire heart…as did Nuada, for he felt the truth of it, and it had never yet led them wrong.

And now it revealed a vicious truth—that Bres, one of his oldest friends, was utterly soulless. Revealed him to be an abomination as monstrous as Westenra ever had been. That hard and bitter truth threatened momentarily to steal the strength from Nuada's body. Dylan had been right. Bres…a man he'd loved as a brother…was truly a monster.

The prince gritted his teeth and shored up his resolve. Bres had been his friend, but no longer. Nuada had promised Dylan he would treat Bres as an enemy, and he would. If he faltered, he needed only to remember this terrible icy feeling clutching at his chest, recall the darkness festering beneath Bres's mask.

Besides, the prince of Cíocal had made _his_ persuasion perfectly clear during his conversation with Nuada's truelove. Bres was his ally, his friend, no longer.

What would the prince do about Nuala?

He would deal with that later, after speaking to his father on the subject. Nuala would be…furious? Heartbroken? Nuada didn't know, but it was for the best. Tomorrow he would speak to the king.

In the meantime, Nuada would comfort his betrothed. He enfolded her in his arms, holding her close until finally she stopped trembling. Her head was a warm weight on his shoulder. Idly stroking her back, the prince nuzzled her temple. "It's all right, Dylan," he murmured. "I swear, my love, I won't let him hurt you." Nuada whispered to her in Gaelic for a time, knowing how much she liked it, how much it soothed her. He only paused when she lifted her head from his shoulder.

"I have a question," she mumbled.

"Hmmm?"

"Why don't you have an accent?" She dropped her head back to his shoulder with a sigh. "I mean, you sort-of do. You sound…not quite American. But you don't actually sound Irish. What's up with that?"

Nuada smiled a little. "I learned to mask my accent while in exile. I suppose it's habit, now. Are you curious about how I would sound?"

Dylan straightened, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He could see she felt a little silly, but she nodded and smiled sheepishly. Nuada grinned.

"Are ye, now?" He asked, making sure his accent came through. Dylan's mouth fell open for a moment, then she giggled, delighted. "An' what might ye be laughin' at, then, lass? Have ye never heard an Irishman a'fore?"

She snuggled up to him, her cheek pressed to his chest, over his heart. Curling her fingers in the collar of his sleep-tunic, she murmured, "Oh, do more. Please? I like it."

"Anythin' fer you, darlin'." He lightly traced the scar that ran from the corner of her eye to beneath her ear, raising goose-flesh on her skin. "D'ye ken just how much I love you, mo duinne? Mah own heart's blood…mah own dear soul…"

Dylan cocked her head. "'D'ye ken.' What's that mean?"

"It means, 'do you know?' D'ye ken how verra much I love you?"

Solemnly, she replied in an attempt at an Irish lilt, "Aye…I ken." Then she couldn't keep a straight face anymore and she laughed. "It sounds silly when I do it."

"Well, ye're no an Elf, ye ken."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Is that why?"

"Oh, aye," he replied with a smile. "More's the pity of it, ye're just a mortal sassénach wench…but ye're _my_ sassénach wench."

"Sassénach?" Then she remembered that "outlander" was a term used to describe foreigners in Ireland and Scotland. She smiled. "Wench, am I?"

"Darling," he murmured in his normal voice, taking her hand, grinning mischievously. "I meant it as only the highest compliment."

He kissed the back of her hand, then rose to his feet and went to one of the bookshelves lining the walls of his study. Not all the shelves played host to books. Some of his most cherished possessions decorated these shelves. One lay quiet in a golden-wood case on the shelf just behind his desk. On this shelf he also kept a miniature portrait of his mother, a wooden warhorse his father had carved himself for his young son, and several other treasures. It was the golden-wood case he sought, however.

Pulling down the case, he undid the gold latches and lifted the lid. He felt Dylan's eyes on him; felt her curiosity and surprise, when he withdrew from the case a gleaming, well-polished violin. Without looking at her, he turned the pegs, tightened the strings, and drew the bow lightly across the silver strings. The violin sang a hollow, mournful note, perfectly in tune. It had been awhile since he'd played, but surely it was like picking up a sword—muscle-memory would win out.

Now he glanced at Dylan as he set the violin against his shoulder, tucking his chin into the soft cup of the chin-rest, and set the bow ever so softly to the strings.

"Shall I play for you until you fall asleep?"

"I didn't know you played the violin," she murmured.

Nuada offered a negligent shrug. "In my country, in order to be considered a warrior, along with fighting and dancing, riding and hunting, as well as surviving in the wild, a man must also be able to sing, to be at least a passable poet, and to make music. Shall I?"

At her nod, Nuada caressed the silver strings of the violin with the bow and a slow, sweet song crooned into the fire-lit study. The golden glow of the fire turned Nuada's hair to a curtain of amber silk, morphed his strong frame into a swaying shadow. Dylan settled down on the sofa, curled beneath the blanket, and watched her prince play. The song wasn't quite slow enough to lull her to sleep, but it soothed her. She didn't know much about violins, but Nuada played wonderfully—at least, _she_ thought so.

And when that song ended with a final shimmering note, Nuada didn't stop. This time, the slow lullaby _did_ lull Dylan, blanketing her in warmth and a sense of safety. Her eyelids drooped, her entire body went limp, and slowly she drifted toward sleep on the strains of the tender song.

The last thing she said, as the song morphed into a darker, richer, but just as soothing melody, was, "Okay…I admit it. This is better than cake."

As if from far away, she heard Nuada chuckle.

He played until he could be sure she slept, and deeply, then he set the violin back in its case and returned the case to the shelf. Slumping into his desk-chair, Nuada sighed.

He would have to think of something to tell the king…but what to say? He doubted his father would trust in Dylan's sixth sense without more proof than they possessed. And it was a valuable arrow to keep stowed in their quiver; once the king learned of Dylan's gift, the Spirit's warnings and promptings, he would surely guard against it, and they would lose that edge over him. What to tell the king, then?

Dawn found Nuada slumped back in his chair, having fallen asleep some hours before while lost in thought. No nightmares disturbed him; perhaps the mere presence of his truelove kept them away.

**.**

After waking around nine and partaking of a light breakfast—and Nuada reassuring himself that his lady suffered no ill effects from the previous night (though the prince had a crick in his neck)—Dylan and Nuada and their retinue of guards went to the castle dungeons. They met John and Sétanta (acting as escort) at the entrance. An elderly Elven herald waited for them as well, with a scroll written in the king's hand. That was as they'd planned. What neither the prince nor his lady had planned on was Francesca's presence.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Dylan yelped when her sister strode up alongside John.

Francesca folded her arms and gave Dylan a stubborn look. Francesca wore, to Dylan's bafflement, a pair of black jeans, a tight black t-shirt, a black leather jacket, and black knee-boots. Her face was bare of makeup, and her hair had been severely swept back from her face in a tight braid. Holstered on her belt was a canister of Mace, as well as a Taser.

Dylan's eyes widened as she took in her sister's getup. John just wore his typical black slacks, white shirt, black tie, and black suit-jacket, since he needed to look every inch the FBI-guy.

Dylan sputtered, "What…why…John! Why is she here? Why did you bring her?"

John heaved a longsuffering sigh. "She wanted to know where I was going, since today was my day off. I didn't want to tell her, but she weaseled it outta me. She wants in. She made some good points about why she should get to help, so I said she could come."

"You…just…you…_what?_" Dylan ripped out her scrunchie and raked her hands through her hair. "No, she can't come! You can't be here," she snapped at Francesca. "You're going home right now!"

"No, I'm not," Francesca snapped back. "Not a chance. This jerk tried to kill you? Some freaking psycho tries to kill my baby sister, no way I'm staying home. I wanna piece of the creep. John already deputized me; right now I work for the FBI, so it doesn't screw up this stupid truce or whatever. Deal with it. His Highness will back me up."

Nuada arched an eyebrow. Clad in his standard sable and scarlet, sword at his side, he looked every inch the cold, fae warrior-prince. "Will I?"

"Dylan's my sister. This guy tried to _kill_ her. By right of kinship, I'm owed a part of this."

Dylan's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "How do you even _know_ about that?"

"The internet," Cesca said brightly. "Once I found out you were gonna be a fairy princess I did some research."

It took a great deal of effort to refrain from smashing her head against the wall repeatedly, but somehow Dylan managed it. Because he was the crown prince, Nuada _could_ have Francesca rousted from the castle and sent back to the mortal realm, but it wouldn't be honorable of him, because the mortal waitress was right. According to fae law, her relationship to Dylan entitled her to be a part of whatever punishment was to be doled out to the human assassin.

Dylan wanted to swear, but instead, she just glanced at Nuada, who looked like he wanted to throttle Francesca himself. He didn't attempt it; only glared at John before jerking his chin toward the door leading to the dungeons.

"Let's go," the prince said coldly.

The dungeons were pretty much what Dylan expected—cold, a bit damp, bare of any amenities. It stank of mold. Flickering torches gave off oily smoke and cast the entire place into sullen orange light and dancing shadows. The only difference between what she'd expected and what she saw was the doors; they weren't iron-lattice that hapless prisoners could reach through to grasp at passersby. Instead, the doors were heavy iron stamped with Gaelic script, with only one small window near the top—uncomfortably similar to the doors of the high-security ward of St. Vincent's Psychiatric Hospital.

At first, the cells they passed were empty. She heard no moans or grumbling, no scuttling of prisoners behind locked doors. There was only the _clunk-clunk_ of the guards' hobnail boots, the soft tread of Nuada and Dylan's leather soles, and the hard _click_ of Francesca's stiletto boots echoing in the long corridors.

They found only two cells occupied, further on in the maze-like warren. Dylan had forgotten that Guardsman Siothrún had been arrested for treason; rather, she hadn't thought about the fact that his arrest meant he'd be down here. His helmet was missing. Francesca barely stifled a scream when she saw him glaring through the small window in the cell door.

Dylan didn't care about Siothrún when she realized who the occupant of the cell beside his must've been. With a gasp, she rushed to the door, peering through the window-like opening at young Guardsman Loén, Siothrún's junior partner and Guardswoman Fionnlagh's younger brother. The young guardsman's four green eyes widened upon seeing the prince's lady. Fionnlagh, who'd accompanied her mortal charge along with the rest of Dylan's retinue of guards, took a single step toward her younger brother's cell.

"Loén!" Dylan cried when she saw him. Loén wore only linen trousers; his grayish skin was streaked with grime and sweat. Dylan saw bruises scattered across his chest. She'd known Loén was suspected of treason because of his ties to Siothrún, but that didn't mean they were allowed to beat the poor thing! He was just a boy, barely older than Tsu's'di and Ailbho, at least physically. Even though it made her leg twinge, Dylan forced herself up onto tiptoe to reach her hand a little further into the cell. "Are you okay?"

"My lady!" Loén gasped. The Butcher Guard who'd been so kind to A'du and 'Sa'ti looked _very_ young and _very_ frightened when he squeezed Dylan's hand. "Have you and His Highness come to release me? Is Fionnlagh with you?"

Behind Dylan, her guardswoman made a strangled sound and curled her hands into fists at her sides. Her partner, Gráinne, laid a gentle hand on her arm.

Nuada's lips thinned and he stepped up to the door. Seeing him, Loén released Dylan and bowed to the prince. Pain flashed across his face when some injury prevented him from bowing as low as courtesy dictated. He hissed in pain. Nuada's eyes narrowed. The Butcher lad hadn't been injured the last time the prince had seen him, and Wink had said Loén hadn't resisted arrest.

Nuada turned to the Butchers guarding Loén's cell. Voice like an arctic wind, he demanded, "What has been done to determine Guardsman Loén's innocence?"

The Butcher pressed his fist to his chest. "Sire, Loén McTadhg has been questioned about Siothrún mac Suibhne's duplicity."

"And has he been found innocent of Siothrún's crimes?"

"The investigation is ongoing, Your Highness, and King Balor has not seen fit to have him released."

Eyes like glittering topaz knives cut to Dylan's face, pale with fury, before focusing once more on Loén. Calculation entered the prince's eyes.

"Leave us," he snapped to the Butchers guarding the door. Exchanging an uneasy look, they obeyed by moving off several paces. Nuada leaned in and murmured, "Have I your loyalty, Loén McTadhg?" The young guard met Nuada's eyes, then bowed his head. Nuada glanced at Dylan. Was he telling the truth? Dylan nodded. The prince turned back to Loen. "Are you loyal to the king? To my royal sister and to my lady?" Loén nodded. Dylan confirmed with a brief nod the young guard couldn't see. "Can you bear to remain in this place for three more days? If you will bear it, I can assure your release by sunset of the third day. Will you do it?"

"Nuada," Dylan hissed, then remembered herself. "Your Highness," she amended. "Why can't we let him out now? We'll go to the king. Our other task can wait."

"No, it can't. What I do now, I do as a prince," he said softly to Dylan. "For your sake, Lady Dylan, to consolidate your power. To protect you. Trust me." To Loén, he added, "Will you do it, Guardsman Loén?"

"To protect Her Ladyship? I will do it," the young guardsman said firmly. "I will do it, and gladly. I can bear it, Sire, if…may I see my sister?"

Before Nuada could say yay or nay, Dylan said, "Absolutely." Turning, she gestured to her guard. "Fionnlagh, you can stay with Loén for a bit if you want. I'll be all right."

"May I?" The usually-stalwart and often sarcastic guardswoman's voice trembled slightly. Dylan felt a sharp stab of sympathy, and had to swallow her anger at the king for leaving Fionnlagh's brother in this pit. "May I stay with him, milady?" Fionnlagh asked. "I've been so worried…may I truly?"

"Of course," Dylan murmured. "We'll pick you up on our way out, all right? And Fionnlagh," Dylan added softly, "we're getting him out of here, I promise."

"Thank you, milady," Fionnlagh whispered. "Thank you."

Dylan didn't want to leave Loén, even though he'd been part of Nuada's retinue and not hers; he was just a kid. But his sister was with him, and she and Nuada had things to do. So she allowed Nuada to lead their group further down the dungeon corridors. Ignoring Francesca's shrill inquiry, "Who the heck was that? _What_ was that?" and John's muttering about disorganization, Dylan drew close to her prince.

"Why are we leaving him there?" She demanded softly. "Why don't we get him out today?"

"Your first official act as a noblewoman will be to beg pardon for Loén of any suspicion of crimes against the Crown," Nuada replied just as softly. "Because there is no hard evidence against him, you can do this—it is a right of any noble to beg clemency for a vassal or a fortunate favorite. The king won't deny you."

"How do you know?"

Nuada sighed. "Because he has no reason to. The only reason Loén is still down here is because my father no doubt forgot about him."

Dylan sputtered, "Forgot about him?"

"Much has happened since and surrounding Loén's arrest, Dylan. My father _does_ have an entire country to govern."

Nuada ignored the derisive noise his lady made and outlined his reasons for having her be the one to beg pardon for the young guard: to show that she had the king's backing; to show the anti-human factions of the court that Dylan cared about the fae, even ones who had no direct ties to her; to make the common folk, who would surely hear about her act of mercy, realize their prince hadn't chosen a heartless shrew scrabbling for rank and power as his bride; and to win Dylan more support at court and among the people.

"Which," the prince added, "was why Loén agreed; he has grown fond of you as he's grown acquainted with you, and this would help you."

She had to admit it _was_ a savvy political move. That didn't mean she liked it. But she could handle it, if Loén could. She just hoped no one hurt the young man any further.

At last the group arrived at the assassin's cell. Four Butchers Dylan didn't recognize guarded the doors. When they saw Nuada, they unsheathed their massive iron claymores. Nuada halted a few paces away, seemingly completely at ease despite the guards' threatening posture. He lifted his hand and gestured the Elven herald forward.

The skinny, bespectacled Elf was at least sixty-thousand years old. His voluminous burgundy robe and golden tabard hung from his bony frame. Dylan had noticed pages and squires wore baggy clothes, too; maybe that was the style. Settling his gold-rimmed spectacles more firmly on the bridge of his narrow nose, the herald cleared his throat and unfolded the scroll.

"Ahem. 'His Royal Majesty, Balor One-Arm of Bethmoora, King of the Golden Hall, Sovereign Lord of all Its provinces, and Master of the Órga Na Corónach, by the authority invested in him as monarch, gives leave for His Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance to remand the human known as Ian Malcolm to mortal custody in the form of the human guardsman, Special Agent John Thaddeus Myers, to thenceforth be dealt with in the manner most fitting his crimes according to mortal laws and customs, in keeping with the laws laid down by the honorable truce between our two peoples. Thus he swears, avows, and affirms. Signed, etc.'"

When the guards seemed unwilling to move out the way, the herald scowled. Dylan bit back a smile. Herald Murtagh had a funny, squeaky voice, and he was so skinny and short that the sight of him glaring at the guards was pretty hilarious. In his mousy voice, the herald snapped, "Well, really. His Majesty signed it and marked it with His Royal Seal, you incompetent ninnies. See for yourselves."

The herald brandished the scroll at the guards, who finally stepped aside. One withdrew a key from around his neck and stabbed it into the lock. With a harsh _click_ and screech of hinges in desperate need of oiling, the heavy door swung open. Nuada stepped in, followed by the three Myers siblings. Uaithne and Ailís followed after; the room wasn't large enough to fit any more people, so the other guards and Herald Murtagh remained in the hall.

John grabbed the door handle and held out his hand for the key. After a moment's hesitation, the guard handed it over. Face stony, John said, "I intend to question him here for now. I would appreciate it if there were no interruptions."

Before the guards could respond, he slammed the door shut. The Butchers guarding the cell glared at the shut door. Humans were so arrogant. Well, if the king had decreed this mortal be allowed to have the assassin, then it would be so. What did they care?

**.**

The assassin sat on the floor chained to the far wall of the cell. He simply stared at the three humans, two Butchers, and Elven prince as they strode into the room, his dirty face expressionless. Uaithne and Ailís took up positions on either side of the door. Francesca folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall, glaring hatefully at the assassin.

Nuada scanned the room. Besides the prisoner, there was a low cot against one wall and two three-legged stools. The prince lounged casually against the wall, as if the meeting were of no import to him. Inside, he was livid. How dare that human wretch look at Dylan as if she were nothing after he'd tried to kill her? Nuada wished he could have a few days with the mortal vermin to teach him better manners, but his father's blasted treaty prevented him.

"Do you have my things?" Dylan asked her brother in a voice as casual and steady as she could make it.

John nodded and handed her the briefcase he'd brought with him from the mortal world. His twin sister opened it to reveal two slender black plastic cases, as well as two clips for John's gun. John also handled Dylan something she rarely used: her surgical kit, a collection of sharpened blades and instruments in a black leather satchel. To use them as an intimidation tool, she pulled out the sterilized white cloth she kept in the bag, and began laying out the half-dozen blades in a neat row across the top of one of the stools. They gleamed like metal teeth against the pristine whiteness of the cloth.

"Torture?" The human assassin murmured, eyeing the blades. "Truly? Where is the so-called honor of the Golden Court and the royal family of Bethmoora? Torturing me is prohibited by the truce."

Those assembled ignored him. While his older sister pulled extra battery-packs for her Taser out of her jacket pocket, and his twin set up her things, John checked his gun to make sure it was loaded before slipping it back into his shoulder-holster. Shrugging out of his suit-jacket, he thanked the female guard with the braid—Ailís, he remembered—when she took it. Loosening his tie, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves.

When Dylan was finished, John came to stand in front of the assassin. He studied the chained human in silence for a long time. The prisoner began to fidget. John glanced at his sister.

"D, I need the other stool," he said. The assassin eyed the other man warily, and Dylan realized their quarry didn't understand English. Interesting. She handed the stool to her brother, who slammed it down in front of him. The prisoner jumped. "D, translate for me."

To the assassin, John said, "Ian Malcolm, you've been remanded to human custody and are under arrest for the assault and attempted first-degree murders of His Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora, His Imperial Highness Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong, and Lady Dylan of Central Park, as well as numerous charges of assault and the attempted second-degree murders of…" John rattled off the names of everyone who'd been injured subduing the assassins. "Because you're _not_ a US citizen, but have committed crimes against a citizen of the Unite States, as an officer of the federal government I have the right to do whatever I want with you. But I'm willing to cut a deal. Have a seat."

The assassin scoffed. "Deal," he muttered. Dylan translated for her twin. "What deal could you offer me, boy? Will you bargain with the Silverlance for my release? His agents will hunt me down and kill me before I make it past the township." He took the offered seat, however, though it stretched his chains as far as they could go.

John rolled his eyes. "Kill you? Listen, moron, I don't think you understand me. _I'll_ kill you if you don't tell me what I wanna know, and it'll be a lot worse than anything His Highness will do to you." Nuada snorted. John shot him a look. "I'll give you a little taste," the FBI agent added. "Cesca, give him a jolt."

"Wait a second!" Dylan said, wide-eyed. "What are you going to do?"

Francesca smiled sweetly. "Taser him."

"No!"

"Yes," her sister snapped, still smiling. "Creep deserves it. Besides, you technically don't have a say anymore because he's in FBI custody. So there."

Without another word, the waitress unholstered her Taser, strode up to the assassin, and jabbed him with the prongs between the legs. There was a series of tiny _pops_. The assassin jolted, screamed, and fell to the floor, clutching himself protectively. Dylan's jaw went slack.

"Oooh," Francesca murmured. "Bet that hurt."

"Ohmigawd you Tasered the guy in the balls," John mumbled, looking a bit sick. "I…that's…well played. But…seriously…how could you _do_ that? _I_ couldn't do that." He swallowed. "Jeez. What are you gonna do next, Mace the guy?"

Francesca perked up. "Oooh, good idea. Should I?"

"No," John said before Dylan could. "No, we've given him a taste of how much being Tasered hurts. Let's see what he has to say now."

Ian lay on the ground moaning. Together, John and Ailís yanked him to his feet and dropped him back on the stool. Ian hunched and glared at John from between hanks of dark hair hanging in his face.

"Didn't like that, did you?" John murmured. Dylan wondered if anyone else saw the tightness in his eyes, the lines around his mouth. John didn't want to do this anymore than she did. But he was doing it for her; they'd always looked out for each other. "Wanna deal now?"

Ian spat on the floor at John's feet. John surged forward, but his twin put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Keeping her voice and eyes cool as frozen sapphires, she said, "Allow me, John." She and her brother traded places.

Switching to Gaelic—she hoped Nuada would translate for her brother and sister—Dylan said, "You know the rest of your group is dead."

"It would've been worth it," the assassin hissed, "if we managed to put an end to _you_. Silverlance is a cold-blooded killer. How do you sleep at night, knowing you're being mounted by a monster?"

Nuada stirred, every movement predatory with menace, but Dylan shot him a look, and he subsided. She cocked her head and just looked at the assassin. Her face remained expressionless.

"Is he really that skilled?" The bound man demanded, voice dripping disgust. "Does he make you forget the hands that caress you are stained with innocent blood? Or does the guilt creep in along with the pleasure, the knowledge of just what you're letting inside you? Does it keep you up at night, twisting in your belly like an assassin's knife?"

Still she didn't speak, though she knew Nuada silently seethed behind her.

Finally Ian exploded, "Why are you just standing there? How dare you stand there looking so smug and condescending, you filthy whoring bitch! Do you think I'm the last one? There are others just waiting to take my place! They'll find you, they'll catch you in one trap or another, and they'll cut your throat! Then the knife that ended you will find his black, pitiless heart!"

_So there_ are _more assassins working for the same people this guy's working for_, Dylan thought, keeping her satisfaction inside. _Gotcha, you loud-mouthed moron_. Aloud, she said, "Obviously whoever hired you isn't the best at selecting assassins, since the entire group of you _failed_. Whoever you're working for, I'm not worried."

"You should be," the prisoner hissed. "Our master has more power than you could ever dream. Enough power that he and his allies could hide you from the soulless prince and his cohorts long enough to track you down and put an end to you."

"Except I'm still here," she murmured, allowing a smirk to curve her mouth. "He's _very_ impressive, your master."

_And it's a man,_ she thought. Was Nuada picking these things up from the assassin's furious words? _A man…and we were right, I think, that they combined powers to glamour Zhenjin and me invisible to Nuada and the others._

"My master has great power and influence, do not doubt it. He can even tame those once thought untamable, convince them to lend us their power, even from a great distance."

_Shaohao,_ Dylan realized. _Still trapped in the Yue Mountains, but somehow someone got into contact with him for this little party._

"Great power and influence, yet I'm _still_ alive." Dylan's smile turned pitying. "Gee. It must be so sad to realize the great man you work for can be thwarted by a common-born human slut who spreads her legs for any fae royal who pays her price."

Behind her, Nuada made a sharp, snarling sound, but she ignored him in favor of the crimson flushing Ian's cheeks. The assassin lunged for her. Was brought up short by the manacles around his wrists. Dylan didn't even flinch as he jerked to a halt less than six inches from her face.

"Whore," he spat. "Spreading your legs for a craven murderer—"

Feeling no remorse, Dylan gave Ian a swift kick in the side of the knee. He fell with a guttural cry. Only when he'd scrambled to his feet, swearing, did Dylan speak.

"Never insult Prince Nuada to me," she said coolly.

"Do you know what your precious prince means to do? He'll see your race wiped out. Once he's bored with you, he'll go sniffing after some other bitch in heat and leave you for the wolves. Or he'll kill you himself. My master knows! He's seen what the prince has done to the humans, and he knows what Silverlance will do to you when he tires of you!"

Dylan made a derisive noise. "No, he doesn't. Your master knows nothing about me or the prince."

"Oh, nothing, is it?" Ian snarled. "Nothing? He's seen you, you filthy slut. Knows you whore for the Silverlance, _seen_ you whoring for the Dragon Prince in the gardens. Seen you disrespecting the king, an honorable ruler. You're the one who knows nothing, you bitch."

_Seen me,_ Dylan thought, chilled to the bone, _with Nuada and Zhenjin. Seen me at least one of the times I've snarled at the king. It's someone in the Bethmooran court. A member of the court teamed up with Shaohao and others._ She knew it was others, not just Shaohao, because the assassin had mentioned "allies," plural.

"Did he just call you a bitch?" Francesca demanded. Dylan glanced at her sister, who glared silver-blue knives at the prisoner. "I don't speak Gaelic, but that's like, the gazillionth time he's used that word. Or was it the c-word?"

Dylan blinked. "I don't even know what the c-word would be in Gaelic." Francesca glanced at Nuada, who looked blank. "Never mind," Dylan said before the waitress could clarify for the Elven prince. "Yes, he called me…the first one."

"Uh-huh," Francesca said. And before her sister knew what she was doing, the older woman lunged forward and shot a stream of Mace into the assassin's face. He fell to the floor, writhing and howling, and Dylan dropped her face into her hands.

"Will you cut that out?" John demanded of his older sister, but his mouth twitched. Dylan kicked him in the shin. John winced. "D, you know it's kinda funny." She just glared at him. "Jeez, you're such a soft touch. Okay, okay. Sorry. Francesca, stop tormenting the guy."

"I don't want to," the waitress sniffed. "He tried to murder my baby sister. He deserves blood and torment for eternity. Or being forced to watch Barney non-stop for a week."

John shuddered. "You are _vicious_."

A knock sounded at the door, and Dylan had to resist the childish urge to point at Francesca and cry, "She did it!" John opened the door. Then his mouth dropped open and he stepped back to allow King Balor into the room. Nuada immediately straightened from his lounge against the wall. The two Butchers saluted their king. Dylan dropped a curtsy. Francesca didn't move, only glared. She didn't move even when Dylan whacked her hard in the arm in an attempt to make her curtsy or bow.

"King Balor?" Francesca asked in a deceptively mild voice. The king raised an eyebrow.

"I am," he said in English. "And you are?"

"Francesca Myers, Dylan's sister. You seriously suck."

Nuada's eyes blazed. The king's eyebrows shot up. John winced.

Dylan grabbed her sister's arm. "Will you shut _up?_"

"No! He's a jerk. First he flogs your smokin' hot boyfriend for protecting you, which is just douchey, then he makes it so I gotta put on this hideous black outfit in order to look intimidating so we can get info outta the guy who tried to kill you instead of like, torturing him or something, and he can't even keep you safe at your own engagement party, and he makes you live in this drafty stupid castle, and he's got antlers. That's just lame. Besides, you don't like him. I can tell—every time you mention him or look at him, you make your duck-face."

"I do _not_ make a duck-face! _What_ is a duck-face?"

"This." Francesca clenched her jaw, pursed her lips in a sort of sullen pout, squinted her eyes, and folded her arms. "You so do that every time he's brought up."

"No I don't!"

"Um," John began, but clamped his mouth shut when Dylan glared at him.

Francesca continued blithely on, "Besides, he sucks. Like, mondo suckage. He should go play in traffic. And he has antlers. Seriously, hon—antlers? Lame-sauce."

Speechless, Dylan looked helplessly at the king. "She's crazy, Your Majesty. Please ignore her."

Balor's lips twitched. "Mad, is she? A family trait, my dear?"

Surprised at his humor, Dylan found her own lips curving into a reluctant smile. "Touché." She whacked her sister again. Ignoring Francesca's indignant "Ow!" Dylan snapped, "Now apologize to the king."

"No!"

"Yes," Dylan snapped.

"No-effing-way."

"Yes, way."

"Are you nuts?"

"Are _you_?" Dylan demanded, exasperated. "Apologize, or…or…"

"Or what?" Her sister asked.

"I'll…I'll put a frog in your bed," Dylan snapped, knowing it was a lame threat.

Francesca snorted. "It's winter in New York. Where are you gonna get a slimy little frog?"

Dylan glared. "It's not slime, it's mucus. You should know that, you've seen the freaking movie enough times. And I'll buy one at the pet store."

Two pairs of identical silvery-blue eyes locked in challenge. Narrowing her eyes, Francesca hissed, "Bring it."

_The only reason Balor hasn't thrown her in prison_, Dylan thought, _is because he's busy laughing. On the inside, but still laughing_. Thinking frantically, finally Dylan muttered, "Ugh, for crying out loud. If you apologize I will make sure to get a picture of my…hunk…without a shirt on for you. Okay?"

Francesca's eyes widened as her gaze shot to the once-livid, now-horrified prince. She raked him in a quick, appraising once-over that took in the muscles beneath his shirt and tunic. Then she glared at her sister. "And I get to Taser the creep again."

"No."

Her sister didn't bat an eye. "Take it or leave it."

"Oh, my freaking…fine."

"Fine." To the king, Francesca mumbled, "I apologize, Your Majesty. I love my sister very much and sometimes I go a little crazy and say things without thinking when I'm worried about her."

Balor's eyebrows rose further. "Accepted, Lady Francesca. Now, Prince Nuada." Immediately the prince snapped to sharp military attention. "What are you doing to this mortal?" The king gestured to Ian, who'd stopped writhing and now hunched against the wall, breathing heavily, eyes streaming from the defensive spray.

"He's not doing anything, Your Majesty." It was John who stepped into the conversation, withdrawing his FBI badge as he approached diffidently but with an air of authority. "Special Agent John Myers, at your service. His Highness is merely here in case things get out of hand—to protect my sisters. I and my sister Francesca are questioning the prisoner. Lady Dylan is here as both a psychiatric evaluator and a medical professional, in case of unexpected injury or accident."

The king regarded John with a cool expression. "Indeed? And what have you learned?"

"He and his group are working for a member of the Golden Court," Dylan said softly. That sharpened both Nuada and Balor's attention. "Someone of notable rank. A man. This nobleman has other assassins in his employ to pick up where this group failed. He's also working with at least two other nobles or royals—I'm not sure which at this time. My suspicion is Prince Shaohao, but he isn't the only ally the employer has."

Uaithne asked, "How did you discern all of that, milady?"

Dylan smiled without humor. "I've had practice with this. I've worked with human law enforcement several times in my career. And the person he's working for, whoever it is, is pro-human, not anti-human."

Balor frowned. "He tried to have you assassinated, my dear."

Dylan shook her head. "They view me as a traitor to my race because I'm in love with His Highness. They're fanatical. Well, the employer may not be, but the assassins who came after us this round certainly were: fanatical in their hatred of me and Nuada, fanatical in their need to eliminate what they see as a viable threat to the truce. This is about honor to them, and protecting humans. They view Nuada and me as evil. I might be able to get more information out of him if I have more time."

The king sighed. "Unfortunately, Lady Dylan, some of the pro-human council members have argued that holding the prisoner here breaks the truce in and of itself. I came to inform you that he is to be taken to the mortal realm and given over to the authorities there, or released."

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_**Author's Note:**__ dun-dun-DUN! Yes, Balor so just did that. Boo. What do you guys think Dylan and Nuada will do next? Hmmm?_

_Oh, by the way, you guys should totally check out __CrazyNorwegian__ on DeviantArt (she's got a portrait gallery for Once, it's so AWESOME!) and you should look me up, too, because I've got some fanart for this fic up on my profile. My screen name is __LAKnight89__._

_Anywho, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! And I also updated_ Once Upon a Moonless Dark (_which is obviously darker than this fic but if anyone wants a certain type of immortal puppy and doesn't feel like waiting for it, they should check out_ Moonless Dark); _so we're on chapter 6 of that fic. Yay! Excitement! Anywho, reviews make me happy. Love you all! Hugs!_


	95. Whatever You Imagine

_**Author's Note:**__ so here's a fun little chap – well, half serious and half fun – in honor of someone's birthday! So everyone say happy birthday to SinceChapter38er! Their birthday is this Sunday and they're the reason this chapter is more than 15 days early._

_Unfortunately, this is the last birthday chap I can post. My beta's like, "Stop that. I'm busy enough as it is and you don't have time to write that much Once with everything else going on." Which is true. Sorry, guys. =(_

_Anyways, though, hope you enjoy the chap, and I'll see you at the end!_

_Oh, and the chapter title comes from a song in_ The Pagemaster.

_._

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**Chapter Ninety-Four**

**Whatever You Imagine**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Truth Serum, Interrogation, Fact and Fiction, a Request, a Thief, a Toy Store, a Case of Mistaken Identity, and the Big Book**

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The king sighed. "Unfortunately, Lady Dylan, some of the pro-human faction has argued that holding the prisoner here breaks the truce in and of itself. I came to inform you that he is to be taken to the mortal realm and given over to the authorities there, or released."

"What, now?" Francesca demanded. "No way! Dylan's making serious headway. We can't let him go now!"

Aged amber eyes narrowed. "Perhaps your sister has not explained this to you, Lady Francesca. I am the king. My word is law. I have made my decision; you _will_ abide by it."

The waitress opened her mouth to inform the king what she thought of _that_, when Dylan laid a hand on her shoulder. Francesca took one look at her younger sister's pale face and shut her mouth. Nuada had been leveling a smoldering glare on the king, but now he, too, noticed Dylan's pallor. Concern sharpened his gaze.

"May I have twenty minutes, Your Majesty?" Dylan asked softly. "Just twenty minutes."

He eyed her. "What can be done in twenty minutes?"

Dylan swallowed hard. John, seeming to read his sister's mind, yelped, "No! No, Dylan, no. Not after last time. I only agreed to bring this stuff because you asked, but I didn't think you'd need it. No." Seeing her carefully blank expression, the FBI agent snapped, "It's too hard on you. No way. Your Highness, tell her she can't do it!"

Nuada realized what the whelp was referring to—the truth serum. It would be hard on his truelove, emotionally as well as physically. She'd outlined the side-effects the day before: severe headache, nausea, lethargy or dizziness. She'd foregone taking her medications this morning because the truth-drug in conjunction with the other poisonous chemicals could, in an extreme case, kill her. And somehow Dylan would have to remain cognizant enough to question the assassin while drugged.

But this new time constraint made it all the more necessary. So Nuada merely closed his eyes and nodded to his lady, giving acquiescence, if not his actual blessing. John made a strangled sound and glared with all of his once-abandoned hate at the prince. Nuada ignored him.

Balor studied the mortal woman his son loved so dearly. Her face was pale and her hands trembled, but her shadowed gaze was steady when she met his eyes and explained what she meant to do to the prisoner. Balor's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"How do I know this…truth serum isn't some sort of poison?" The king demanded. "Perhaps my son arranged this to execute the man who attempted to kill you, Lady Dylan."

Francesca made a sound like a cat hawking up a hairball. Dylan ignored her and said, "I thought you would ask that, Majesty. So I brought two syringes of the truth serum—one for the prisoner, and one for me. Why would I take poison that would incapacitate or kill me? I wouldn't, as you well know. And if Nuada had somehow arranged to fill the syringes with poison, surely he wouldn't let me be injected with it. You may even choose which syringe is used on which subject."

The king raised an eyebrow. "A pretty offer. I accept."

Dylan offered the king the twin cases holding the syringes, and he made his choice. From her black satchel she withdrew antiseptic wipes and a length of black material. John tightened the cord around her arm, forming a tourniquet to make the vein stand out. Dylan tore one of the foil packets open and cleaned a spot on the underside of her forearm above the big blue vein running the length of her arm. Withdrawing the chosen syringe from the case, she tapped it with a flick of her finger to send any air-bubbles shooting away from the plunger toward the needle. Depressing the plunger just a touch eliminated any remaining air-bubbles in the syringe.

"Why do doctors always do that?" John asked. His voice was strained; he was only asking to help hide his own nerves. How could Dylan be so calm, move so smoothly, when she was getting ready to shoot that crap into her own body? "Tap the syringe and then shoot out just a little of whatever's in there?"

"Gets rid of air-bubbles," Dylan muttered as she set the point of the needle against her arm. The blue vein stood out faintly against her skin. Ever since she was twelve years old, she'd had to take IVs either in the back of her hand or the underside of her arm; the thick scar-tissue at the bends of her elbows made finding the veins there practically impossible. "You get an air-bubble in your vein, it makes its way into your chest, and you have a heart attack and die, whoop-bam. The end. Game over."

"Where'd you get the idea for this, anyway?" John asked. "Letting the king choose which syringe and all?"

Dylan smiled tightly as she gripped John's hand to make the vein stand out better. "_The Princess Bride_. That scene with Vezinni and the iocaine powder in the goblets of wine."

Fighting the urge to close her eyes, she slid the needle into the vein and depressed the plunger. Withdrawing the needle, she let John wrap the tiny wound. Less than thirty seconds later, Dylan clapped a hand to her mouth and dragged in a deep breath through her nose as the taste of rancid onions and garlic flooded the back of her throat—a side-effect of sodium pentothal. Nuada made a move as if to go to her, but she caught his eye and shook her head. A momentary look of anguish flashed across his face before his expression smoothed out. He could've been carved from marble.

An airy floating feeling swept over Dylan. _No,_ she snapped at herself as the corner of her mouth lifted. She bit her tongue, hard enough to taste blood. _Don't give into it. Not here. Not now. I've got a job to do._ She looked at the king. "Still alive, Your Majesty. If I may continue?" The king nodded. Dylan called to Uaithne, Nuada, and John, "Restrain him, please. I doubt he's gonna hold still."

It took some wrestling, but with the three men holding him down and Francesca sitting on Ian's chest, they managed to get him still enough that Dylan could safely administer the second syringe of the drug. She was practically chewing on her tongue to keep from laughing; it just seemed so funny to her. But she knew that was the sodium pentothal in her system making her hysterical. It would pass in about ten minutes, leaving her with a debilitating headache. She just hoped she didn't throw up.

Once the drug was in the assassin's system, Dylan could monitor its progress as Ian gagged and covered his mouth, then tried to stand up, only to fall back down, hard. He stared at her with dilated eyes.

"What have you done to me? Is this poison?"

"Truth serum," she said, allowing herself to smile. "Who are you working for?"

"My master," he replied, then bit his lip. "What? Why did I say that? What have you done to me? Is this magic? What have you done?"

Dylan swallowed a giggle. "Made you a puppet," she mumbled, feeling slightly drunk. "Feel me pulling your strings? What's your master's name?"

Panicked, the prisoner shook his head. "No, no! I won't tell you! I won't tell you! You cannot force me to speak. I won't speak."

Knees trembling, Dylan sat on the stool the prisoner had fallen from. Keeping her voice cheerful, she said, "Oh, you wanna talk to me. I know you do. You might as well. So what's his name? Lord Whatchamacallit?" John came up behind her; she knew it was more to keep her from falling off the stool than anything else. "Who's he working with? Is it Shaohao? The Mad Prince? Or someone else?"

"Bandits," the prisoner gasped, then covered his mouth with both hands as a hysterical laugh bubbled out of him. "He's working with the bandits. Robin Hood in reverse, a lure, a way to show the world what Silverlance is made of. My master will win in the end. He has a foothold in the household, you know." Another hysterical giggle, then Ian covered his face with his hands. "Oh, gods, what have you done to me?"

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the edges of the stool. "Whose household?" Copper-salt blood filled her mouth so that she constantly had to swallow in order to speak, but the taste masked the rancidity of onions and garlic. "What bandits?"

"To the north," he giggled. Panicked eyes wheeled in his head. "To the north. Famine. My Lord Dearth. He will end you. Filthy slut. You've poisoned me. Whoring bitch. We know; my master told us. You carry the heir, but that can't happen. You'll poison the bloodline. Mortality and madness, one from each. You have to die. Both of you have to die, and then _he_ has to die. She'll weep when he dies." Ian nodded, looking suddenly lost. "Why does she love him still? She is so good. Silverlance is evil. Why does she love him? But she is honorable, too. She won't fail. Our master will make sure."

"Who won't fail?" It was getting hard to breathe. The air in the room was too close, too stuffy. It felt like she was choking. Just another side-effect, she told herself. She could handle it. "Who says I'm carrying the heir?"

"The healer," he mumbled. "Heard it at the healer's. Not feeling well, are we, Lady Dylan?" Laughing now, the assassin nodded knowingly. "We'll fix that for you soon enough. No need to fret. Carve out that abomination growing in your womb."

Dylan's hand instinctively lifted to cover her stomach. Balor's gaze sharpened as it slashed between Nuada and Dylan. Uaithne and Ailís, well aware the prince and his lady weren't bedfellows, exchanged puzzled looks. But Dylan didn't acknowledge anyone in the room except the assassin in her sights. She murmured, "I thought you wanted to protect the humans from the Silverlance."

Ian shook his head. "Protect the humans, but have to keep the blood clean. You're mortal, and evil, to bed him. To let him seed you with his darkness. Your evil, your mortality, mixed with his madness…protect your race by eliminating that monstrosity. Kill you. Kill the creature in your belly. Kill your bastard girl, as well. Kill the prince. Leave the kingdom to Balor and Princess Nuala. Weed out the rot of the royal line. Carve up your little bitch-whelp and the one unborn, cut you into pieces, never to be raised again. Then eliminate the prince before he can whelp another bastard. The truce can't hold while any of his direct line remain alive." Ian grabbed his head in his hands, smacked his palms against his temples. "Stop it, stop it, stop it."

Sharp pain lanced Dylan's left temple, behind her eye. She brought her hand to her forehead, cringing. John squeezed her shoulders, a silent demand to know she was okay. She straightened. The drug's loose-tongued effect was wearing off on her, which meant she was almost at the end of her king-given twenty minutes, and she was going to have to get out of here before the after-effects knocked her on her butt.

"What's your master's name? Who is he?" Dylan demanded through gritted teeth. "Tell me his name."

"He is hunger," the assassin hissed, eyes blazing at her between his fingers. "He is thirst. He can drink the blood of a thousand enemies and not burst. He can lie a thousand nights on the ice and not die. He is famine. He is drought. He is death and life. He protects the innocent and feasts on them. He will end your dark influence, Silverlance." Ian's gaze fixed on the prince. "He will end you, and he will kill her _and_ your little bastards. Think on that when you lie with her."

She sensed savage intent without having to turn, sensed Nuada's rage, and decided now was a good time to bite the bullet and be a wimp. Dylan turned suddenly as Nuada made to stride past her and gripped his sleeve. In English she gasped, "I need to get out of here."

Nuada shot her a look sharp with concern and anger. He wavered between the fierce desire to unleash his rage on the assassin and the need to care for his lady. Finally, he nodded. Somehow he managed to hustle her out of the too-tiny cell despite the king's presence. The only thing Dylan was really aware of besides Nuada's hand on her back was the snap-crackle-pop of Francesca's Taser, a shrill cry of pain from the assassin, and John crying in exasperation, "Francesca!" Ignoring everyone else, Nuada scooped his truelove into his arms once they were in the hall and carried her quickly out of the dungeons, collecting Fionnlagh on the way.

Once back in the castle proper, Nuada set Dylan on her feet. She clung to him, swaying, her face tight with pain and nearly bloodless. Immediately he pressed his fingers to her temples and sent soothing magic into her skull. The tension in her features eased and she dropped her head to his chest.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "Thank you." She began to shudder. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Nuada thought he did, but he decided he would let Dylan explain her thoughts to him before he made his own known to her. "Tell me," the prince murmured. "Quickly, before my father arrives."

"There's a traitor among the healers," Dylan whispered. "And among the courtiers. At least two—a man and a woman. The courtier is a man. There might be a noblewoman working with him, or it might be a female healer. I don't know. But whoever they are, they think I'm pregnant and that Niamh is our child. They're going to try for her, too. We have to put guards on her. Our enemies are connected, but not so well-connected that rumor doesn't get in their way. Which eliminates certain people in our immediate circle."

"The traitor is working with Shaohao, is he not?" Nuada asked softly.

Dylan sighed. "I'm not sure. I think so. With the whole thing about 'taming the untamable, even from a distance.' Unless there are any other crazy royals or nobles you know of?"

Even more softly the prince said, "A few, but this follows what my agents have learned. One of my agents warned me that Shaohao might have an agent in the palace, but he wasn't certain of their identity. He wasn't even sure they were from Dilong." Nuada's gaze turned inward, eyes glittering topaz as he calculated and considered. "Yes…my instincts say that Shaohao is a part of, and not separate from, all of this."

"Which means we've got to worry about him, but it also means Zhenjin's got our backs, right?" Dylan asked. Nuada nodded. "I wonder if Siothrún is a part of this or not. Loén isn't, though. He's loyal to us. Back to the stuff the assassin was saying…from what I gathered from everything he said, the bandits are attacking the northern villages at the behest of this traitor in the court, whoever they are."

Voice a low snarl, the prince muttered, "That makes sense, actually. It must be someone wealthy, then; only a few possess enough wealth to bribe bandits to raid in winter. This would explain why the raiding hasn't stopped with the coming of the late-autumn snows. I've wondered." Through clenched teeth, he added, "Our plan for escorting the caravans to the northern villages must be abandoned. The aid will still be sent," Nuada said before Dylan could protest, "but you cannot accompany them. This whole thing reeks of a trap."

Dylan shook her head. "I have to go. No, Nuada, listen. I _have_ to go, and John and Francesca have to come too. The anti-human factions of your kingdom—not just your court, but your _kingdom_—have to see that I'm different from the humans they've known before. They have to _see_ me doing my part, not just hear about it. If I go through with this despite the danger to myself, that will just hammer the truth home even better."

"If it is a trap—"

"Then at least we know it," Dylan replied softly. "Or suspect it. I know it's dangerous, Nuada. I know. But I can't be a princess and just take the cushy, easy jobs without accepting the risks, too. If I do that, your people will have a real reason to hate my guts. You have to let me do this. Our people need us to do this."

His hands convulsed around her shoulders. Anyone looking at him would've seen a warrior, calm and composed, but those who truly knew him would've noticed the whiteness of his knuckles, the feral glitter of topaz in his gaze, and the war raging behind his eyes. In a voice so low Dylan could barely hear it, Nuada rasped, "If we do this…if we go to my people's aid, and you're harmed in any way because you're set upon doing your duty by them, a duty _I_ saddled you with…shades of Annwn, I would lose my mind, Dylan."

She covered his hands with hers. "I knew the risks when I swore myself to you, Nuada. I knew them when I agreed to marry you. I'm willing to take those risks to be with you, and to protect our people."

_She's gone_, Nuada thought suddenly, with a sudden lightening of his heart. Gone was the innocent mortal girl whose shadows and miseries had weighed her down like chains. Dylan's grief and heartbreak were still there—Nuada could sense them, knew they would never vanish completely, and that those soul-wounds still required healing—but in the last few days, something, somehow, had helped her to make a transition between that battered woman-child and the strong princess who stood before him now, ready to shoulder the burdens inherent to the Crown. Perhaps it was nearly losing him to the assassin. Perhaps it was her visits to Healer Lóegaire and her own mortal mind-healer. Whatever had caused this change, the Elven warrior was glad of it.

_She can handle this,_ he realized. _She's ready for the crown. She has much still to learn, but she is ready to be the princess Bethmoora needs._

"I am in awe of you, _mo crídh_," Nuada murmured, brushing a kiss across her forehead. "For our people, then—we shall see it through to the end." He would've said more, but at that moment the doors to the dungeon-levels opened and the king strode out, gaze sharp and scrutinizing. Nuada bowed to his father. Dylan had to lean on her prince in order to make the proper curtsy; her knees still wobbled from the after-effects of the pentothal.

"Not poison," the king said coolly, almost icily, eyeing the human woman. "Yet you seem to be falling ill, Lady Dylan. Is it the truth-serum…or perhaps a touch of morning sickness?"

Dylan frowned. "Morning…" Then she started to laugh, even though it made her head throb. Finally she managed to say, "Oh, wow. Oh, my gosh, Your Majesty, not you, too. Jeez. I'm not pregnant. There is no way I could possibly be pregnant. Wow. Even kings listen to gossip, I guess. Oh, wow." She rubbed the back of her neck, still chuckling. "We knew there were probably rumors going around that I was pregnant—especially considering how quickly we're getting married—but I didn't think _you'd_ believe them."

The king's frown deepened. "I do not see how this is a laughing matter, Lady Dylan. If you are carrying the heir to the Bethmooran throne-"

"There'd be no way in Hades I'd shoot myself up with anything like truth-serum," she interrupted. "Not a chance. There's no way of knowing what it would do to a fully-grown Elf, much less an unborn one."

Balor's furrowed brows knotted. "The assassin seemed so certain."

Dylan shrugged. "No doubt he got it from castle gossip. Once Nuada and I are married, whenever I _do_ get pregnant, all anyone has to do is count the months. Not a big deal."

Nuada took his lady's hand. _It might become one,_ he murmured silently. _If the assassin's venom about any heir of mine is anything to go by, the danger to you will multiply if I get you with child, Dylan. Our enemies will not stand for an heir with a mortal mother._

_I don't care,_ she said briskly. _I want a family. I want a baby—_your _baby. When we're married. I'm not giving up my dreams of having a family with you just because of some crazy human guy stupid enough to think he can get past you and all my guards. I have faith in you, Nuada. In us. We're going to make it through this, and every other crisis._

"How can you be so certain you're not with child, Lady Dylan?" The king asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Because I'm not sleeping with anyone." She didn't tack on the word _duh_, but the sentiment was still felt. "As for relevant information from Mr. Malcolm, there's a traitor among the healers, or at least someone passing information to the traitorous noble, whoever he is. The healer might not know this person is a bad guy. They've got other assassins waiting to finish us off, they've got a hand in the bandit raids in the north, and they're working with others, including—most likely—Prince Shaohao."

Balor looked reluctantly impressed. "Your skills as a mind-healer told you this?"

"Yes, sir. You can let him go anytime, by the way."

Dylan felt Nuada's stiffening through their linked hands. She squeezed his hand lightly and said, _Look, the FBI isn't going to take him? They may know about Faerie, but what John did isn't technically legal, since he didn't get his superior's permission to be here. Ian could go free simply for that reason. We can't risk that._

_We cannot risk him going free in Faerie, either,_ Nuada protested.

_Relax. Think about it. His master will learn soon enough that he talked to us. The good thing is, the assassin didn't tell us anything that isn't set in stone. The traitor can't change his identity, or his status as a noble, so that information is solid. He can't change the fact that he's worked with certain individuals—also solid information. The only thing he can do is kill off the assassin, which saves us the trouble. And due to the nature of the drug, the assassin's not going to remember what he told us. Even a mind-scan, like what you can do, wouldn't help because he's been drugged. He's too weak and disoriented to try for us again in the next couple of days, especially if we have him dropped off at the edges of the township and tell the Provost's Guards to keep an eye out for him. If they see him, they'll just pick him up and dump him back at the outskirts until he's summoned by or makes his way to his master—who will kill him. If we hand him over to the FBI, they'll let him go as some crazy homeless guy. There's no reason to hold onto him._

_You've thought this all through,_ Nuada murmured, voice tinged with admiration, _how to work around and with the truce, as well as around and with our enemies._

_I got tired of watching you get hurt because I wasn't paying attention or thinking things through, or using my mental skills the way I should,_ Dylan said somberly. _I'm not doing that anymore._

Nuada realized she blamed herself for the assassination attempt on Midwinter Eve. Realized it, and knew nothing he said would change her mind. Was this what had helped her make that mental shift? But he didn't ask. Only gave her hand one quick pulse of affection before focusing on his father.

"If it pleases Your Majesty," Dylan added, brushing a lock of hair from her face, "I'd like to take Prince Nuada and our servants to the mortal realm today, for an overnight visit."

Balor noted his son's brows raise a fraction before a look of realization passed over Nuada's face. The king merely said, "For what?"

"It's Christmas Eve, Your Majesty," Dylan murmured. "I'd like to spend it with my family in my home."

"And are we, Princess Nuala and I, not also your family, Lady Dylan? You are marrying my son, after all. Nuala has asked you to call her 'sister,' and refers to you as such. I have bequeathed a gift on you as my future daughter. Are we not also your family? Is Findias not your home?"

Before Dylan could respond, John—who'd had to pack up Dylan's stuff before coming through the tunnels—emerged from the door and said, "I think she meant with her blood-kin, sir."

"Then the prince has no reason to accompany her."

"They probably want to play the Horizontal Monster-Mash," Francesca said, drawing abreast of her brother. Eyeing the prince appreciatively, she added, "I know _I_ would."

Dylan barely managed to keep from strangling her older sister. John rubbed the bridge of his nose. Nuada looked momentarily torn between horror, disgust, and outrage before smoothing his features to blankness. The king glanced between the four of them before focusing on Dylan.

"And what is this…Horizontal Monster-Mash?"

_I will murder you,_ Dylan thought at her sister with a sharp, exasperated look. Aloud she said, "Um…it's human slang, Sire. For…carnal activities."

"I see." He deliberately quirked one brow. "I thought you were not—how did you put it?—sleeping with anyone."

"She's not," Francesca groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I don't _get_ it. Dylan, seriously—why won't you just sleep with the dude already? He's so hot!"

Again before Dylan could say anything, someone spoke—the king, this time. "Hot?"

Nuada spoke up. "It is another term of human slang. It means I am considered attractive by human women." He favored Dylan with a slow, smug—and also forced—smile. "Obviously."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "Elven Casanova. Anyway, so may we go, Your Majesty? We'll be back Christmas Day, sometime in the afternoon, but my family has many traditions for Christmas Eve-"

"Can you not practice them here?"

Dylan frowned. Behind her, she sensed Nuada scowling—although in court-style, which was more an expression of "would be scowling, but can't, because people are watching, so I look mildly irate and bored."

"I…suppose," Dylan said at last. "I would prefer not to, though-"

"I would like to spend at least some part of the holiday with my son, Lady Dylan," Balor said softly. Immediately the tension drained from Nuada's body. Dylan smiled.

"For pity's sake, Your Majesty, why didn't you say so?" She murmured, shaking her head a little. "We can stay here, then, can't we?" A nod from the prince made her smile more brightly. "It would be our pleasure. Although," she added, biting her lip lightly, "we _do_ need to go to the mortal realm for one thing. We have to go somewhere, but it shouldn't take more than a couple hours."

Intrigued by the secretive smile playing about her mouth, Balor asked, "And where are you going, my dear?"

She grinned. "I've been planning on taking the children to a _very_ special toy store for Christmas. And also to pay A'du'la'di back for saving my life. You two gave him boons or what-have-you, and I know he appreciated them, but he's a kid. He deserves some nice kid-thing, too. And while we're there," she added, glancing at Nuada, "there's someone I really want you to meet." Affecting a bit of little-girl-bounce, Dylan added to the king, "So please, can we go? Please, Your Majesty?"

To everyone's surprise, Francesca wiggled in next to Dylan, clasped her hands together, stuck out her bottom lip, and begged, "Yeah, can she go, Your Majesty? Can she, can she, can she? Please?"

The king scoffed, but without rancor. Sometimes, the mortal girl forcibly reminded him of Nuala as a child when she'd begged for some treat or other. The two mortal women working in tandem reminded him of Nuala and Polunochnaya as children. Balor inclined his head. "As long as you return in time for banquet tonight, you may go."

"Yay!" Francesca bounced up and down like a child, then grabbed her sister and bounced with her. "Awesome! Your boyfriend finally gets to meet—"

"Shut up!" Dylan yelped. "It's a secret, remember?"

Francesca stopped bouncing, looking dejected. "Oh, yeah."

**.**

Before they went anywhere, however, they needed to speak to Healers Táebfada and Lóegaire. Both women met with the prince and his lady in Táebfada's office and explained what had happened the night before with Dylan's nightmare. The young healer and the old mind-healer exchanged troubled golden glances.

"The potion _should_ have kept you from dreaming, milady," Táebfada murmured while pressing her slim, white hand to Dylan's abdomen. Since they were there, the healer had decided she would take this opportunity to initiate the first treatment for Dylan's internal scarring—the first step to making it possible for the prince's lady to bear him a child. "That _was_ its purpose," Táebfada continued as magic spread through Dylan's body. "Have you been under any new strain lately?"

"Nothing new that happened last night," Dylan murmured. "I mean…" She thought of Bres's threats. "I had a run-in with another noble last night, and they made some threatening remarks about His Highness and I, but that's not enough to break through medicated sleep, is it?"

Lóegaire shook her head. "Not so vividly, at any rate." Dylan hadn't told them what the dream was about, but Nuada _had_ mentioned that she'd woken up screaming. "My professional recommendation is to add another half-dose to what you're currently taking. You'll sleep more deeply than you are now, and it should block your dreams completely. If it doesn't work, let us know immediately."

"Thank you," Nuada said softly as Dylan hopped off Táebfada's examination table. She went to him, fitting herself against his side as if she were made to be there. Nuada laid his hand against the small of her back. "Both of you. Shall we, _mo mhuire?_"

**.**

Though it felt like crawling through raw sewage to be forced to travel amongst the humans, Nuada walked along the snow-laden New York City streets, navigating Manhattan with Dylan. She kept a firm grip on A'du and 'Sa'ti's hands, and the Elven prince, Tsu's'di, and John walked almost in formation around the mortal and the children. Nuada kept the fey members of the party glamoured.

Francesca had been escorted through the subway by Becan after they'd all left Faerie and informed her sister she'd join up with Dylan and her party at this "very special toy store" in order to say hello to "you-know-who."

To John and Dylan's surprise, passersby on the street gave Nuada a wide berth. Usually navigating the streets of Manhattan in December involved a lot of: squirming, dodging, slipping on ice, avoiding slush-piles, and saying, "Excuse me." But something about the savage glower on Nuada's face made everyone avoid him and the other members of his group.

Except two people.

A rapier-thin, sallow-faced man raced up behind the group, somehow managed to duck between John and Nuada, shove A'du out of his way, and snatch Dylan's purse in about two seconds. Just as the Elven prince grabbed the thief's hand, the thief tossed the mortal woman's purse. Another man snatched it out of the air and took off through the crowd.

"I got him," John growled, but Nuada shoved him back.

"No," the prince hissed. When the human thief he held tried to twist away, Nuada jerked him closer. The Elf indicated the escaping thief with a nod of his head. "One of mine has him."

Dylan, furious that A'du had been shoved around, gathered the little boy close and watched as a slender, copper-skinned man on a ten-speed mountain-bike jumped over the dirty slush, mounted the curb, and braked hard right in front of the thief. The man grabbed the human thief and sent him flying into the street crowd, but Dylan saw that he'd managed to retrieve her purse. The cyclist walked his bike toward the group.

Rubbing her eyes, Dylan thought she saw tiny lines—like a fox's whiskers—dark against the cyclist's cheeks. As the guy came closer, Dylan heard a low murmuring behind her and realized Nuada was speaking softly to the human who'd made the initial snatch.

"…and if you ever touch this woman or lay your hands on another child or innocent again, I will know, and I will hunt you down and gut you like the miserable cur you are. The only reason I don't kill you now is that the woman I love is very tenderhearted, and there are children present. Try my patience, however, and you are a dead man," Nuada hissed.

With a savage jerk, Nuada shoved the captured thief into the icy street, where he narrowly avoided being rundown by a taxi. The driver swore colorfully at the thief as the prince's former captive staggered away, clutching his arm to his chest.

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Did you break his wrist?"

Nuada's expression remained carefully blank. "Perhaps." Then he focused on the cyclist, who'd stopped a respectful distance away and bowed over the handlebars of his bike. "You have my thanks, Ren Fei, for retrieving my lady's valuables and punishing the thief."

"It was my honor, _Wángyé_." He bowed to Dylan. "It is my great privilege to meet my honorable master's most noble lady. I am Ren Fei of the Húli Jing, and your servant."

"The pleasure's mine," Dylan replied, smiling. "Thanks for rescuing my purse. You're a fox, right?" She asked hesitantly. Ren tapped the bend of the earpiece on his sunglasses, dropping them down a fraction of an inch to reveal the vibrant tawny eyes of a dog-fox. "Wow. That is so cool!"

He grinned, revealing very white, very even, and _very_ sharp teeth. "Thank you, my lady." Once the final pleasantries were exchanged, the húli fae rode off down the street.

Nuada leaned in to whisper in Dylan's ear, "He is the agent I spoke of, the one who warned me of Shaohao's spy. Many viable rumors pass through China Town; Ren hears all of them. He has the ears of a fox, after all." He smiled when Dylan laughed. Taking the children once more by the hand, Dylan and her group again set off toward their destination.

**.**

It was a small shop, squashed between a beige stone building and a glass skyscraper, both of which towered over the toy store. It looked, as a matter of fact, more like a house or cottage than a store. Its roof had been painted a lovely pale green—somehow free of the snow that had fallen the night before—and sported both a tiny, round tower and a small, peaked secondary roof with a little circular window. Above a wooden awning painted the same pale celadon as the roof, the sunlight glinted off a stained-glass window decorated with a bronze circle in its center framing a large glass M. The glass storefront displayed hundreds of toys: bouncing balls, stuffed animals, miniature hot-air balloons, wooden models. To Nuada's astonishment, one of the stuffed toys—a small monkey that appeared to be made of socks—waved at them as they approached. What startled him even more was when Dylan waved back.

"Hi, Oscar," she said, grinning. The sock-monkey squirmed out of the pile of stuffed animals smashed up against the window and disappeared. Dylan caught a glimpse of Nuada's expression and laughed. "All the wonders of Faerie and you're surprised by a toy coming to life?"

Nuada blinked at the storefront window. "This is a mortal toy store?" He demanded when a regular human woman and her two children nipped past the prince to enter. "This place is owned by a human?"

"Ummm…I wouldn't call him a human, exactly. I'm not sure what he is, to be honest, but his apprentice is human. She's an old friend of mine from college. She taught me to play the piano. Anyway, I think A'du and 'Sa'ti want to go in."

"Ooooh, can we?" A'du asked breathlessly, while 'Sa'ti pressed her face against the glass in a desperate attempt to see inside. "There are other fae kids in there! Can we go in?"

The prince glanced at Dylan. She smiled. "We can absolutely go in." Dylan laid her hands on the brass plaque on the door, which read _Push_ in stylized, geometric letters. "Come on."

The bell jingled pleasantly when Dylan pushed the door open. A'du and 'Sa'ti gasped, delighted, and once their mistress gave them permission, rushed off to explore. Nuada stared around him, stunned. He'd never seen so many toys. Then again, when he'd been a child, he hadn't needed to go to a toy store. The Royal Toymaker had simply been commissioned to make whatever he or Nuala desired. He turned to Dylan.

"What _is_ this place?"

Her grin was absolutely delighted, and completely unshadowed for the first time in weeks. She spread her arms and twirled slowly in a circle, saying, "This is Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium." She dropped her arms, sighing with happiness. "I used to work here when I was in college during rush seasons—Christmas and Black Friday. Sometimes I still help out, but lately I've been…busy. You know." She laughed softly, eyes glowing with love and happiness. "I've missed this place."

"Can you still work _The Big Book?_" John asked, smiling affectionately at his sister. "I mean, it's been…what, more than a year since you worked here? Do you think it still works for you?"

"I dunno," Dylan replied. "I guess we'll have to check with Mahoney."

"_The Big Book?_" Nuada asked.

Dylan tugged his hand. "Come and see. And be nice to Mahoney. She's human, but she's my friend, and she's okay."

His truelove led him through the store. Despite the fact that the place was crawling with children, somehow he never seemed to be in danger of stepping on them. What surprised him even more was that mingling with the human children were countless fae children.

A young ekek, her wings clamped to her back to keep them out of the way, happily smeared paint on a rainbow-splotched canvas with her taloned fingers. Beside her stood a mortal boy in jeans and a t-shirt, crimson and green sprinkled across his cheeks, offering the ekek girl a cup of blue paint to dip her fingers into. In another corner, three people—a red-haired flower troll in a purple hat, a blond girl in overalls, and a slim sapling of a dryad—played jump-rope. At a long table near the back of the store, a mixed group of human and fae children built a model of what looked like a castle out of miniature varnished wooden logs. As Nuada watched them while Dylan led him toward the check-out counter, he realized the children were actually getting along.

"Do you see them?" Nuada asked his truelove. She paused and scanned the store before looking back at him. "The children?" Dylan frowned, doing another slow scan, then smiled brightly.

"You mean that they can see each other, know each other, and aren't afraid?" Dylan asked softly. "This is one of the places fae can come without glamour—or much glamour. Some of the scarier-looking fae need to tone it down a bit, for all the kids. But the humans think it's just part of the store. Part of the 'magic.' The human adults, that is."

"But the children know?" Nuada murmured. "They know…and they don't…"

"Don't reject," she replied. "Don't hate. Don't push away. They accept. That's part of the magic of the store. It's one of the reasons I love being here so much. I don't know too many other places you'll find something like this. And it's safe. I don't know why, I don't know how he does it, but somehow Mr. Magorium keeps evil out of this place. And…oh!"

Dylan's eyes lit up as she spotted someone over Nuada's shoulder. The prince turned to see an elderly man with bushy gray hair and brows in a neat, berry-red suit with holly-green pinstripes, a cream-colored shirt, and a holly-and-gold striped tie. The old man came toward Dylan, arms outstretched, a benevolent smile creasing his wrinkled face.

"Dylan Roberta Sahara Niamh Myers," he said warmly. "Merry Christmas, my darling girl."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Magorium!" Dylan went to the old man and embraced him. He kissed her cheeks the way a grandfather might and then lightly grasped her shoulders, holding her at arms' length and studying her face. To Nuada's surprise, Dylan's cheeks flushed pink. "What?"

"My dearest piece of apple pie, you look happier than I've ever seen you." He patted her cheek. "Always I have seen a shadow, a deep loneliness in your heart. When I've seen it, I've been filled with dysphoria. Yet now…that shadow, that loneliness…is gone. And in your eyes I see a light I've longed to catch a glimpse of." The old man, Mr. Magorium, turned to Nuada. "I trust this gentleman is the reason for that light."

A brilliant smile bloomed on Dylan's face. She took Nuada's hand and gave a happy little bounce. "Mr. Edward Magorium, may I introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Nuada Silverlance…the best man I've ever known, and my fiancé."

Nuada met the dark eyes set in the wrinkled face and felt it—the heavy, rich sense of vast power. Toymaker this man might've been, and kindly grandfather-figure to lost girls whose families had cruelly abandoned them, but that wasn't all he was. This man, this Edward Magorium, was something Nuada had only seen a few times before. Here was a being of the same caliber as Moundshroud. That understanding filled Nuada's eyes, and acknowledgment filled Mr. Magorium's. He knew the prince understood just what the toymaker truly was, even if Dylan didn't.

"I'm very happy for you, my honeycomb," Magorium said to Dylan, and patted her cheek again. "And Thad will be, too." At that point, Dylan shot Nuada a look and bit her lip. The prince arched a brow. Who was this "Thad," that his truelove was nervous about the Elf meeting him? The toymaker added, "He's with Eric and Mahoney at the cash register."

"Thank you, Mr. Magorium," she said. A flicker of movement over Dylan's shoulder caught Nuada's eye. Seeing his look, Dylan stuck out her hand in time to catch a bouncing rubber ball splashed with all the colors of the rainbow. She grinned at the bouncy-ball. "Really? Like I'm not used to you guys doing this stuff all the time. Bounce off." Dylan didn't move a muscle, but the ball leapt out of her hand and bounced off toward a group of youngsters. Smiling with all the joy of a small child, Dylan took Nuada's hand. "Come on."

Weaving through the aisles and dodging around toys, Dylan finally managed to get to the check-out counter, her prince in tow. The first person Nuada saw was a slender, compact human woman with short brown hair in a striped skirt and a white t-shirt covered in multi-colored handprints. Perched on the counter chatting amiably with her was a human boy in a ridiculous jester's hat who might've been perhaps nine years old. But beside them stood a man who was well into his sixties. An oval face, thin lips, and familiar blue-gray eyes…the old man looked familiar. Where had Nuada seen him before?

Then it struck him, a fist in the belly that left him seething with black hatred. The old man looked like what John might, once the whelp reached that age. This man could've been John's father. Dylan's father. It _had_ to be. The physical similarities were too distinct. This was Dylan's father. The heartless bastard who'd abandoned his daughter to imprisonment, torture, starvation, rape…

Fury pounded through Nuada's temples, boiled in his blood. He took a single step forward. Crimson hazed across his vision. He might've leapt across the polished wooden counter and gone for the filthy wretch's throat if Dylan hadn't suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked on it, hard, digging in her heels to make sure her prince went _nowhere_. Nuada whirled on her, rage pulsing through him. His eyes flashed vibrant crimson.

"What's wrong?" Dylan whispered. "What is it?"

"I'll kill him," Nuada snarled, so low she could barely hear him. "I'll rip him apart. He left you. He left you in that hell. You were a little girl, dammit. You're his daughter, he should've protected you from—"

"That's not who you think it is," Dylan hissed, eyes wide. "It's not my father. That's my uncle. The one who helped me. That's my Uncle Thaddeus. Okay? I told you, my parents are dead. Remember?"

Nuada clenched his teeth and fought for calm. Of course. Of course, the monsters who'd abandoned her were dead. A bus accident, she'd told him. Of course. Her uncle, then. The one who'd helped her and John after she'd escaped the institution. Yes. The Elven warrior shuddered, reminding Dylan of an enraged stallion edging back from battle-fury. She lightly stroked his arm until the tension eased out of him.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't think you'd want to meet anymore of my family, so I didn't tell you who it was I wanted you to meet, because I really want you to like my aunt and uncle. They're good people. It never occurred to me you'd think he was my dad. I know, I know, he looks _so_ much like John; he and our mom were twins. I'm sorry."

The Elven warrior let out a breath. "I don't wish to meet anymore of your family," he muttered. "They're not as wretched as I first thought—some of them, at any rate—but that doesn't mean they deserve you."

"My uncle helped me a lot, Nuada. You know that. He did the best he could."

Nuada shook his head. "He didn't get you out of that place—"

"He _tried_," Dylan whispered. "He tried to talk to my parents, tried to convince them there was no reason to lock me up, but they wouldn't listen. He sued for custody of me multiple times. He tried to take me from my parents, to protect me, but the courts decided against him every time. When…when Patrick and Xander…my sisters told my cousin Renee, and she told my uncle. He tried to have it taken care of, he tried to get me out, but…"

"But he _failed_," Nuada snarled bitterly.

"I expected him to," Dylan replied, her voice soft as a shadow. Nuada frowned. "You still don't understand—no one could touch Patrick and Xander or Westenra. My uncle went to the police; he went to the hospital board. He told my parents; they didn't believe him. He hired a private detective at one point to get evidence. He even tried to break into Patrick and Xander's house, Westenra's house, even Westenra's office, to try and find evidence on his own about what was happening. The security at both places put him in the hospital every time, they beat him so badly.

"Renee told me they'd get me out, but I knew it wouldn't work. Not as well connected as Patrick and Xander and their father were. _Are_. But Uncle Thaddeus did everything he could, Nuada. Eventually my parents told the doctors to call the police if he showed up at St. Vincent's or tried to get in contact with me. Westenra told them he was 'encouraging my delusions.' Uncle Thad wasn't my father, or my legal guardian. He didn't have any options. Don't you see?"

After a long moment, the prince murmured, "You never told me this."

"I didn't think I needed to," she replied, exasperated. "I thought if I told you he was a good man, you'd believe me."

"You can be blind when it comes to dealing with your family, mo crídh."

There was a hitch in Nuada's voice that had Dylan narrowing her eyes at him. _Can be blind_…

"_Can_ be blind," she repeated aloud, "but not this time?"

Nuada's eyes were no longer crimson with fury and hate when he looked at the man working industriously behind the counter. Now they were simply gold. "No," he murmured. "Not this time."

He didn't resist when she led him up to the counter. He even inclined his head politely to the mortal woman who said, "Good morning, sir," before her eyes fixed on Dylan. With a delighted squeal, the woman rushed around the counter and flung her arms around Dylan's neck. Dylan hugged her back just as tightly.

"Oh, my gosh, Dylan!"

"Hi, Mahoney!" The psychiatrist pulled back a little to smile at the boy drumming his heels against the counter. "Good morning, Eric. What a marvelous hat."

"Thanks, Doctor D." The boy, Eric, reached over and tapped Dylan's uncle on the shoulder. "Thad. Thad, hey. Pay attention." The man was poring over a ledger, and brushed off Eric's insistent tapping. "Thaddeus, Doctor D's here. Hey."

Dylan smiled. "Ugh, he's just like Simone!" Leaning across the counter, Dylan stretched out her hand and waved it between the ledger and the man's face. He looked up, irritated, but a welcoming smile spread across his face when he saw who'd interrupted him. "Hey, Uncle Thaddeus."

He shut the ledger. "Well," he said, his voice a rich rolling baritone. "There's my girl. Merry Christmas, cute stuff. How are you? Haven't seen you in a while."

"I'm sorry. I've been busy with…stuff."

Mahoney arched an eyebrow. Grinning smugly, she jerked her chin at Dylan's left hand. "Would that 'stuff' have anything to do with that gorgeous ring on your finger?" Dylan blushed and Mahoney's grin widened. "Oh, my gosh! Don't tell me—you're getting married!"

Dylan nodded. "Yes." A grin to match Mahoney's flashed across her face. "I _am!_ Oh, my gosh, I'm so happy, Mahoney! You have no idea, it's just…it's so wonderful."

The mortal woman nodded to Nuada. "Is this the guy?"

"Yep." Slipping both arms around one of Nuada's, Dylan introduced the prince, then introduced the boy—"This is Eric, he's one of my patients. He works here sometimes, unofficially."—and her friend—"This is Molly Mahoney, but we just call her Mahoney; she's Mr. Magorium's apprentice and the store manager."—and her uncle. To Nuada's surprise, Mahoney actually bobbed a small curtsy. Eric and Dylan's uncle offered truncated bows. Then Thaddeus held out his hand to the prince.

"Dylan hasn't told me much about you, but what she has told me…well, if I'm guessing right, we owe you a lot for what you've done for her. Thank you. Thaddeus Bardson."

To Dylan's astonishment, her prince took the proffered hand with no sign of distaste. Nuada murmured, "Nuada Silverlance. It is an honor to meet you, sir." Dylan's mouth fell open. Nuada continued, "If what my lady tells me of you is truth—and I have no reason to doubt her—then it is _I_ who owe _you_ thanks for seeking to protect her from…her enemies."

Thaddeus gave Nuada an appraising look. "I think we're going to get along, Your Highness."

Nuada inclined his head. "Surprisingly, I believe so."

Before things could get weirder—Nuada had said it was an honor to meet her uncle. Her _human_ uncle!—Dylan was distracted by Eric tugging on her sleeve. "Dr. D, where's John?" Just at that moment, John ambled over, trailing a half-dozen multicolored plastic and metal Slinkies wrapped around his lower legs.

"Got held up by the Slinkies," John said, waving at Eric and shaking off the clinging toys. "Hey, Uncle Thad. Eric. Lookin' good, Mahoney. So, D, can you still work _The Big Book?_"

Once it was explained to Mahoney just why Dylan had come over, Mahoney went and pulled a large, relatively thin book down from the shelf behind the register. It was easily more than half as tall as Mahoney herself. It's dusty, forest-green binding sported gold-leaf stamped to form the title _The Big Book_. Dylan caressed the leather cover with the tips of her fingers.

"This book contains the inventory for the entire store," Dylan explained softly to Nuada, still dancing her fingers over the leather. "Anything you want, if the store carries it, you can find it in here." Turning a little, she called for the children. Within a minute, they'd squirmed out of whatever gaggle of playmates they'd collected and made their way to the counter, giggling and grinning, purring like mad. Dylan grinned down at them.

"A'du, you remember when you saved me in the orchard?" The cub nodded. "Well, His Highness and the king both rewarded you, but I haven't yet. What would you like from this store? Anything at all."

The cub's eyes widened. "Anything?"

"Anything," Dylan replied. "Name it, and if it's in the store, it's yours."

A'du'la'di raked his claws through his wild, tufty mane and tried to think. Dylan watched with a smile as his whiskers quivered, his fur bristled and flattened and bristled again, and his tail lashed slowly back and forth for a moment before subsiding. He peeked up at his mistress and asked, "What about 'Sa'ti? Can she get something, too? I want her to have a toy, too. I mean, I know Christmas is tomorrow, but…well, when our mama and daddy was still alive, and we had birthdays, we each got a little present, too, even if it wasn't our birthday. Would that be okay?"

Dylan exchanged a glance with Nuada. The prince inclined his head; better to reward the child's generosity, and encourage such a trait. So Dylan nodded. "Sure."

"Oh! Oh!" 'Sa'ti cried, bouncing up and down. "Paper dolls! Paper dolls! Please? I saw them over there," she added, pointing back toward the crowded aisles. "They had pretty dresses! Please?"

"And I want a Transformer!" A'du cried. "Please."

Clearly startled, Dylan stared at the little boy with furrowed brows. "How do you even know what a Transformer is?"

"They got lots of TVs at the Troll Market," A'du explained, smiling. "I used to watch it sometimes. I kinda wish you had a TV at the cottage, _A'ge'lv_."

John snorted. "Yeah, that'll never happen."

"Television rots your brain," Dylan replied. "But okay, a Transformer it is." She grinned in anticipation when Mahoney spun the massive book around so that it faced right-way-up when Dylan pulled it toward her. Her fingers danced along the tabs sticking out of the book the way Nuada had seen them dance across the keys of her piano. "Mahoney does this so much better," the mortal psychiatrist added to her prince under her breath. Louder, she said, "T for Transformer."

Catching the proper tab, Dylan hauled open the massive leather-bound toy catalogue. To Nuada's bafflement, the page was completely blank. Dylan caressed the heavy, thick parchment and murmured, "A Transformer, please, for this young man here."

In a puff of golden smoke a clockwork warrior appeared. His parts gleamed silver, metallic crimson and sapphire, and when Dylan touched him, the clockwork soldier transformed into…a motor vehicle. Nuada thought the humans called such vehicles "semi-trucks." The toy was made of Elven silver and faerie metal. Nuada raised both brows, mildly impressed.

When Dylan showed the toy to A'du'la'di, the boy gasped and hugged the toy much as 'Sa'ti had hugged the doll Nuada had given her.

"Whoa! Optimus Prime!" A'du cried. "Wow!"

"Oh, dude!" John said, leaning down to get a better look. "That is wicked sweet."

"John, your nerd is showing," Dylan said with a laugh.

The whelp rolled his eyes. "D, be quiet. Oh, man, he's got the new paint job and everything. Does he light up or talk?" John asked A'du'la'di.

"I dunno," A'du murmured, inspecting the Transformer for buttons. Finding them, the boy began pressing them at random.

"I am Optimus Prime," the toy said in a surprisingly deep voice. Its eyes lit up and glowed yellow as a cat's. "Leader of the Autobots."

"Whoa!" A'du'la'di exclaimed. He held the toy up to Nuada. "Look, Your Highness!"

Nuada shot Dylan a look—one that clearly said the toy would end up melted down in his forge if he heard it proclaiming its name and title too often—before saying to the boy, "I am glad you're pleased with your gift, A'du'la'di."

"And P for paper dolls," Dylan added, flipping to the proper place in _The Big Book_. "With pretty dresses for the young lady, if you please." The book obliged. Dylan smiled. "Ha. I haven't lost my touch after all."

"Nope," Thaddeus murmured, reaching out to pat Dylan's shoulder. "You're still amazing."

Nuada's fingers brushed Dylan's wrist before sliding down to touch her palm. Voice like a velvet caress in her skull, the prince whispered, _Yes, you are._

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_**Author's Note:**__ so…what did you guys think? Hmmm? We finally get to meet someone in Dylan's family that Nuada doesn't automatically hate. Anywho, let me know what you guys thought, any favorites, etc. Huggles! Including (especially) SinceChapter38er!_


	96. Christmas Eve pt 1

_Author's Note: it's the beginning of the month, and here at last is the latest Once chapter! Sorry to take so long. My beta really enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you guys do. Happy fourth of July, by the way! Love you all!_

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**Chapter Ninety-Five**

**Christmas Eve**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of Reminiscing, Toying with a Prince, Molly Mormons, a Sisters' Quarrel, Begging Pardon, Nymphs and Elves, and a Small Get-Together**

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Dylan and Nuada stayed at the store for over an hour, to give the children a chance to play with fae and human young ones their own (relative) age. To pass the time, Dylan tugged Nuada through the store, pointing out things displayed along the aisles that she'd played with as a little girl.

"That's Connect-Four," she said with a little laugh, pointing to a table-top board game in a blue cardboard box with a picture of a yellow plastic thing with holes in it on the lid of the box. "John could never beat me, but I could never beat Francesca. You have to get four of your checker pieces in a row to win while keeping your opponent from doing the same thing. We use to play that for hours, all eight of us taking turns. Pauline sucked at it, but she'd play with us, anyway."

Nuada hesitated, then asked gently, "Do you still play such games with your sisters?"

He regretted asking when a shadow passed across her eyes. She shook her head. "It's kind of lost its appeal since I got out of the institution. The girls…don't like to play anymore. Sometimes I play with my nephews, though." A smile curved her scarred lips. "Russell and David. They're both sweet boys. Russell loves dogs. And Ari, my niece, she's a good girl. We play cards sometimes. I'd love to spend more time with them, but Petra doesn't like me spending too much time with her kids. Pauline and Gardenia don't, either."

Somehow he managed to bite out from between clenched teeth, "Your sisters are…" He swallowed the profane insult before he risked offending her.

Dylan shrugged. "It's understandable. I spent eleven years in a mental institution. They probably overheard my parents talking about all the times I was put in Isolation for fighting or violent behavior. They know being there didn't 'cure' me, so they worry. I understand."

"I beg your pardon?" Nuada snarled too softly. "You _understand?_"

"Well, what if they were right? What if I _was_ crazy, and they left me alone with the children and I hurt them? How could a parent forgive themselves if their child was injured because they left their child alone, in danger? Can you imagine how that would feel—that grief, that guilt, because you weren't there when your child needed you? And they've never understood…they don't See what I See. So yes, I understand that my sisters fear for their children with me."

He shook his head and gazed sightlessly at the game-boxes on the shelf. "I despise your family, mo crídh. All but your uncle—he risked all that could be asked of him to protect you. Surprisingly, I find myself with a great deal of respect for him." Nuada shook his head again. "Respect for a human…two humans," he added ruefully, glancing at her. "I never would have expected it. But your sisters are cruel to you, Dylan. Your sister Francesca no longer fills me with the urge to wring her neck, but your other sisters…they're vicious to you. You deserve better."

She huffed a humorless laugh. "You're sweet, the way you always jump to defend me."

"I am _not_ sweet."

She gave him a true laugh this time. Cuddling against his arm, she said, "You are absolutely sweet. You're like a cake, remember? All hard and stiff on the outside like frosting, warm and squishy and sweet on the inside. I know we've talked about this before."

"Silence, insolence chit," he replied with grand hauteur. "Need I remind you that I am a prince? A legendary warrior?"

A smile, bright and sweet, flashed up at him. "You're very rugged and manly, Your Highness; you're right. But there's just one thing." She rose up on tiptoe to press her warm lips to his ear, and whispered, "You. Are. The. Sweetest. Guy. Ever."

Ignoring the flush of pleasure the words brought him, he fixed her with a mock-scowl and murmured, "I will pay you back for that, Lady Dylan."

Dylan's smile melted into something that might've been called sultry. Her eyes darkened to a beautiful and intense sapphire. "Oh, I look forward to it. We'll make it a date. The seventh of February. We can meet up at the sanctuary. Mmm, sometime in the evening works for me. How about you?"

Nuada swallowed hard as understanding—and the first shimmer of desire—washed over him. He was surprised that his fingers didn't tremble when he reached up and touched the satin curve of her cheek, tracing the scar he loved so dearly to touch. At the first caress of his fingertips, she arched a provocative brow. Little imp. She was torturing him on purpose, wasn't she? With this and her previous comment about wedding cake. His voice was surprisingly steady when he murmured, "We shall make it…a date, then. Payback for your mockery."

She did her best to suppress a grin. Mischief and love sparkled in her eyes. "You'll enjoy that, won't you? Even more than the wedding cake."

_By the Fates_…Somehow he managed to clear his throat. "I imagine I will."

She turned with a swirl of skirts and took a step down the aisle to the next board-game. "I'll just bet. And who knows?" She added airily. "Maybe I'll enjoy it, too. You never know."

He could take no more. His hand shot out like lightning and grasped her wrist, drawing her back against the shelter of his body. Throwing up a wall of glamour between themselves and the rest of the toy store, Nuada turned Dylan around and snaked an arm around her waist, leaning over her to touch his forehead to hers. His free hand came up to cup her cheek. He trailed his thumb across the fullness of her bottom lip.

"We're in public," she whispered.

One knife-thin brow quirked. "I've put up a glamour. No one can see or hear or feel us."

"Yeah, but—"

"Shhh." He took her mouth in a slow, languid kiss that left her weak-kneed and breathless. When he managed to drag himself away from the temptation of her lips long enough to speak, Nuada muttered, "You should know better than to toy with an Elven prince."

Dylan's lips quirked. "We _are_ in a toy store."

"That's no excuse," Nuada replied, and kissed her again. Her fingers curled in the collar of his tunic. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest as she pressed her mouth harder against his and made a happy sound. "My betrothed is such a wanton creature," he murmured against her lips.

"Am not," she mumbled. "You're just deliriously attractive."

A quick brush of lips across hers. "Well, I _am_ an Elven warrior, mo duinne. And a prince. Of course you would find me so."

"Shut up."

"You are the one talking." Another kiss, teasing and light. "It seems I'm not holding your attention very well. Perhaps I need to try harder."

"If you try any harder, I'll turn into a puddle," she mumbled. "Now stop that. You're making my life very difficult right now."

Nuada smirked. "Am I? Poor darling." He whispered his lips across hers, feather-light and torturous, then pulled back. His smirk widened when she made a small sound of disappointment. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

"I'll get you back for this, Your Highness," Dylan promised breathlessly. "I _will_. Count on it."

He grinned. "Oh, _mo crídh_, I am." His attention shifted to a point beyond her left shoulder. "The children are looking for us…and your sisters."

The smile fled from Dylan's face. "Sisters, plural?" She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder to see Francesca walking with Petra, Mary, Pauline, and Victoria. "Fantastic. Well, at least Gardenia's not here. I'm not in the mood for her sarcasm. Okay, okay, unglamour us. Well, unglamour me. Can you…stay glamoured?"

He arched a brow. "Is this not a good time to reveal my true form to them?"

"No. Petra and Pauline both have kids, and it's Christmas Eve. Today is the last day you want to give them anything to stress over. Especially if…" She trailed off, scanning the store. "I knew it. They've got their kids with them. Yeah, not a good time for an unveiling."

Inclining his head regally, the prince murmured, "As you wish, mo mhuire—my lady." A moment of concentration and a brief flick of power made Dylan completely visible to the store's inhabitants while simultaneously cloaking himself to make his appearance more human. Not ten seconds afterward, Francesca spotted the pair and began dragging Petra and Victoria toward them. Mary and Pauline followed at a more sedate pace.

Before the sisters could actually get close enough to engage Dylan, however, a pair of mortal women who looked to be in their mid-to-late forties suddenly appeared as if by magic, beaming benignly at Dylan and Nuada with glittering eyes that reminded the prince of voracious predators.

"Well, Sister Myers, what a pleasant surprise! Fancy seeing you here!" Cried the first woman, a plump brunette with green eyes in a cheerful yellow sweater and slim jeans. Around her neck hung the same medallion that Dylan always wore.

"Sister Finley and I were just saying we never see you at church anymore, and then there you are, large as life," said the second woman, a starkly slender blond woman wearing too much lipstick and a jogging suit.

Dylan looked like a terrified doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. "Sister Means," she said, a strained smile on her face. "Sister Finley. It's so nice to see you both. How is everyone in the ward?"

"Oh, well, you know Brother Phillips got in a car accident last week. Broken arm and twenty stitches, don't you know?" The blond woman, Sister Means, said with bloodthirsty relish. "And Sister Almsley's little girl was sent to the bishop's office for something. Of course no one's saying what, but you know how these young people are these days. Probably drugs or alcohol. You know her father's not a member, and what kind of influence is _that_ for a child?"

"Well…I doubt it's that bad. Lori Almsley's a good kid. Oh, by the way, this is—"

Sister Finley broke in with, "And they've replaced you in the Primary, did you know that? Poor dear, we all know you tried so hard and put in so much work with those children. And to be replaced like that, without even giving you a new calling…tsk, tsk, tsk. We're so sorry, Sister Myers."

"It's not a problem," Dylan said in a voice that aimed for jovial and fell a bit short. "I'm moving, you see, so I'm not going to be in the ward anymore. That's why I haven't been at our ward lately—I've been out of town most Sundays and been attending the ward where I'm going to be living. You know, making new friends, getting acquainted with the bishopric. All that good stuff. See, I wanted to introduce you to—"

"Moving?" Sister Means asked with a false smile. "Why, where could you be going to, Sister Myers? Why on earth would you be moving?"

"I'm getting married," Dylan said proudly. "I'm moving to Ireland."

Thank the Fates, Nuada thought with some asperity, her words seemed to shut them up long enough for him to put an arm around his truelove and thus draw the mortal women's attention to him. Both older women focused on the strange man with his arm around Dylan's waist, then re-plastered those false smiles on their faces.

"Ireland?" Sister Finley replied. "Why, you don't say? What's waiting for you in Ireland?"

"My ancestral home," Nuada said coolly. He didn't _like_ these women. He had no reason to loathe them as fiercely as he did his beloved's kinfolk, but there was something about the women who were obviously from Dylan's mortal church that rubbed the prince the wrong way. "Hello," he said anyway. "I am Nuada Áirgetlámh, Dylan's fiancé."

Sister Means offered her hand for him to shake. Swallowing revulsion, he did so, keeping the hand-clasp as brief as possible. He did the same with the plump Sister Finley. It took everything he had not to wipe his hand on his trousers when he was finished.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Brother Áirgetlámh. And which temple do you plan on getting married in?" Sister Finley asked Dylan. Nuada noticed something tighten in Dylan's gaze. "The one in New York?"

"_Is_ there even a temple in Ireland?" Sister Means asked with an even brighter smile. "Oh, but how silly of me, I'm sure there is. Is it in Dublin or…" She trailed off, finally giving Dylan a chance to answer the question.

Nuada forced himself not to frown when Dylan didn't answer right away. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He noticed her hands trembled ever so slightly, and the toes of her boots bulged and then smoothed out a few times; he realized she was scrunching her toes in agitation. Finally she glanced at Nuada before fixing a smile on her face.

"We're not getting married in the temple. Nuada isn't a member of the Church."

This obviously took both women aback. Nuada wondered why. They gaped at Dylan as if she were speaking a foreign language before shooting him stunned looks. Then they seemed to recover themselves.

Sister Finley said, "Well, that's just lovely. Another soul has found the Gospel, it seems."

"Absolutely lovely," Sister Means added. "Have you set a date?"

"A date?" Dylan asked in a voice that was carefully neutral. "For what?" Nuada frowned. Surely they meant the wedding?

But apparently not.

"For your fiancé's baptism, of course, dear," Sister Finley replied with a bubbly laugh.

"I bet he's in a hurry," said Sister Means brightly.

Dylan glanced at him again; Nuada realized her look was one of apology. Suddenly he remembered what she'd told him about people in her Church giving her grief about being romantically involved with someone who was not also a follower of the High King of the World. Was this what she meant?

"Nuada isn't getting baptized," Dylan said with a smile. "He doesn't believe in our doctrine, though he has a great deal of respect for the Church and our values."

Sister Means' smile slipped, while Sister Finley's took on an edge. Sister Means asked, "So…he's not planning on becoming a member?"

"No," Nuada said in arctic tones. "I am not."

Sister Finley tried to appear kindly and compassionate when she said, "Oh, my dear Sister Myers. I understand. We understand, don't we, Louise? Poor dear. We all make mistakes, of course, and Heavenly Father forgives us. I'm sure He'll forgive this one, too. The Law of Chastity is important, as you know, but as long as you repent, the Celestial Kingdom is not beyond your reach—"

Dylan laughed, but Nuada didn't know why; he only knew that her laugh had held no humor whatsoever, and that according to these women, marrying him somehow broke the Law of Chastity that Dylan held in such high regard. But Dylan's next words clarified their meaning.

"I'm not pregnant, Sister Finley."

Another silence fell, finally broken by Sister Means. "You're not? Then…but then why…why would you…I mean…think of your _children_."

"I'm marrying Nuada because I love him," Dylan said firmly. "And he loves me. Now, it was lovely to see you both, but my sisters are waiting for me just there, and I need to speak with them. If you'll both excuse me."

"Of course," Sister Means mumbled, nodding as if dazed.

"Lovely to see you, dear," Sister Finley added as Sister Means began dragging her toward the store's front exit. "Congratulations on getting engaged."

Once the women were out of sight, Dylan turned to her prince and pressed her forehead against his bicep, hard, as if trying to melt into his body. She sighed. "I'm sorry. People in my ward don't normally come here. I mean, they do sometimes, but…well, actually, Sister Means and Sister Finley should be home trying to outdo each other with their Christmas lights. I didn't think _they'd_ be here. I'm sorry, Nuada."

"That was what you meant, wasn't it? When we spoke of why you wished me to attend church with you a few days past? Those are the sorts of people you were speaking of." A low pulse of fury throbbed through him like a toothache when she nodded. "Do people at the castle treat you the same way?"

"It's a bit more subtle there," she admitted. "I'm your lady and everything, after all. They can't be rude out loud; they'd get in trouble. But yeah, basically. Not everyone. Just the Molly Mormons and Peter Priesthoods." He frowned and cocked a brow. She smiled. "I mean, the super-strict followers of the Church who take everything to extremes. The sorts of people who believe it's wrong to associate with non-members."

"I see." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I am glad you're not a…Molly Mormon."

She laughed. "So am I. I'd have way less fun. And I wouldn't get to do this hardly ever." Popping up on her toes, she pressed her mouth firmly to his, uncaring of the crowded store. Nuada drew a breath and held her to him for a few glorious moments while he lost himself in the sweetness of those petal-soft lips. Forget sour old mortal gossips.

"Well," he said when they parted, "then I am _most_ glad you're not one of those."

"Me, too. You're not so bad at this kissing stuff, by the way."

As she'd no doubt intended, he smiled. "Was that a challenge, _mo duinne_?"

"Maybe. You can accept it later. Here comes the next wave," she added when her sisters began moving toward them again. "At least the kids are with them."

Nuada took a moment to appraise his lady's sisters once more as they approached. Petra and Pauline were nearly identical in features—same slender bones, same thin lips and steely blue-gray eyes; the only way to tell them apart was that Petra still sported the same thick, dark braid down to her waist and wore a charcoal business suit, whereas Pauline's hair was swept up against the back of her head with a plastic clip of eye-searing green and she wore jeans and a magenta sweater. Nuada remembered Dylan telling him that although Petra, Pauline, and Mary were triplets, only Petra and Pauline were identical.

Victoria and Francesca were also almost entirely identical, even down to hairstyle. The only reason Nuada could tell _them_ apart was that Francesca had a small scar on her left cheekbone. And Nuada remembered Mary from the small birthday celebration at Dylan's cottage a few days prior. From the wary look in Mary Myers' eyes, she remembered Nuada, as well.

A'du and 'Sa'ti had also found their mistress and liege lord, and were currently hanging on Dylan like monkeys clinging to a tree, laughing, purring, and chattering at her excitedly about all they'd been doing while playing in the store. Someone—Nuada suspected Mr. Magorium—had glamoured the cubs to look like human children. It wasn't an issue for the other fae children all around the store, but Dylan's sisters might actually comment on the appearances of the two children in Dylan's service, and it was just easier to avoid the issue entirely if at all possible.

"Hey, you two!" Francesca cried, grinning. It took the prince a moment to realize she was speaking to the cubs, who darted from their mistress to their mistress's sister and treated her to the same clinging affection. "Having fun and acting crazy?"

"Yeah!" 'Sa'ti cried, nuzzling Francesca's hand.

"Uh-huh," A'du murmured, swinging her other hand back and forth. Nuada opened his mouth to reprimand the children, but then caught sight of Dylan's smile. Clearly she wanted the cubs to be on good terms with her family. Better this childish amicability than A'du's overt hostility toward John, the prince supposed. "What're you doing here?"

Francesca waggled her slender black brows. "Getting into trouble. I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good. Which is exactly what you guys should be up to. Beat it so I can talk some grownup-talk with your boss." Focusing on Nuada and Dylan as the children scuttled off, she added, "How's it going, Mr. Áirgetlámh? Dylan—hey, sweets, merry Christmas."

Surprised the mortal woman had remembered the false surname he'd given Dylan's family, and irritated that he had to be polite to these…people…Nuada inclined his head toward his lady's five sisters. "We are quite well; I appreciate your concern." Hers, at least. Francesca seemed to be the only one who could exhibit consideration for the youngest Myers woman.

"Quick intro—Petra, Mary, Tori, you've met Mr. Áirgetlámh, Dylan's fiancé. Mr. Áirgetlámh, you remember my big sisters Petra and Mary and my twin sister, Tori? Pauline!" Francesca turned to the woman in jeans. "Pauline, this is Mr. Nuada Áirgetlámh, Dylan's fiancé. This," jerking a thumb at Pauline, "is our second-oldest sister, Pauline. And those are her and Petra's 'wascally wabbits' over there."

Dylan laughed at this opaque remark and, leaning on Nuada in order to rise onto the tips of her toes, waved to a group of seven children playing with a spiral of Slinkies at a table. Nuada counted three boys and four girls, all of whom looked like they could be siblings. The two youngest, a pair of boys in spangled blue shirts with white A's stamped on the chest, waved back at Dylan.

"That's Russell and David," Dylan told her prince. "They're Petra's boys, I've told you about them. Then there's Ariana, their sister—she's the eldest of everyone. The other four are Pauline's. See the one in the chef's hat? That's Remy. The girl next to him who's tying up the two girls next to her with the Slinkies is Collette, Remy's twin sister. The two girls actually _getting_ tied up are Maggie and Wendy."

"Are they tying each other up _again_?" Pauline demanded, standing on her tiptoes to peer over the short shelves at her children. "I don't know why they do that. It's a new phase they're going through, but I don't understand it at all."

"Children like having control," Dylan said, "but they know they don't really have any. It's one of the reasons they enjoy playing with their toys and don't like sharing. They want to be in charge of what happens to which toys when. Here, they want to be in charge of each other and make the other kids do what they say. One of the easiest ways to exert control over someone is to tie them up. They're virtually helpless and dependent on the person doing the tying. But at the same time, children don't want to be _completely_ in control, because they know subconsciously they're not equipped to handle everything that might go wrong, so they're doing it in such a way that if this is something bad, they'll get caught."

Dylan's five sisters stared at her for a moment. Even Nuada found himself raising his eyebrows at his truelove. Children couldn't be _that_ complex in their thinking…could they?

Victoria gave a low whistle. "I forget you're a psychiatrist sometimes."

"Me, too," Francesca mumbled.

Mary snorted. "Funny. You know so much about kids, but you don't have any of your own. Ow!" She cried when Francesca dug her elbow into Mary's stomach. "What? It's not like she's raised any kids of her own. Unless there's something you wanna share about why you're getting married so fast," Mary added, eyeing Nuada. Dylan flushed.

Nuada's voice came as cold as winter wind when he said, "I object to what you're insinuating. _Never_ would I even dream of treating Dylan so disrespectfully." Seeing his beloved's discomfiture, he took the precaution of glamouring the group so that only John, Dylan's uncle, and the children could find them if need be.

The human shrew quirked an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Well, you're not marrying her for her face, that's for sure."

"Mary!" The other four women snapped, but Dylan said nothing. When Nuada glanced at her, he saw she'd gone pale. Shocked hurt glistened like unshed tears in her eyes. Petra grabbed her younger sister's arm hard enough that Mary hissed in protest. "Mary, do you have to do this _every_ time? It's Christmas Eve, for pity's sake! We're in _public!_"

"I was just _saying_," the harpy-shrew protested. "Look at her, Petra. Seriously. Then look at him. Be realistic, now."

Seething, knowing that if he slapped the mortal as he so desperately desired to his father would punish him and Dylan would become upset, Nuada growled, "I can assure you, _madam_, I much prefer my lady's face over _yours_. Where I come from, men are often cautioned about choosing beauty over substance. It is my good fortune that my lady was blessed with _both_. Also where I come from, women are cautioned against jealousy. I suggest you heed such words."

Dylan laid a hand on his arm and pressed her forehead against his bicep. "Nuada," she said softly. "Don't worry about it. It's okay."

"No," he said coldly, never looking away from Dylan's supposed kin. "It is _not_. It is _not_, as you say, 'okay,' and it never will be."

Mary sputtered soundlessly for several seconds before demanding incredulously, "You actually think I'm jealous of _Dylan?_"

Francesca and Victoria were eyeing each other; Nuada had the strange idea that they were silently debating dragging their older sister out of the store using bodily force, but hadn't been pushed far enough to actually attempt it yet. Pauline was rubbing the bridge of her nose as if to ward off a headache and shooting irritated looks at Dylan, of all people. Nearly white with anger, Petra hissed, "Mary, so help me, if you don't shut up right now—"

"Why would I be jealous of Dylan?" Mary demanded.

Nuada allowed a coldly amused smile to curve his lips. Dylan pressed his arm, a silent entreaty for him to keep silent, but he ignored it. Voice icy, he said, "Because she is everything you are not, everything you never could and never will be. She is kind, gentle, compassionate. She is intelligent as well as wise. And though you are too blind to see it—or too foolish to acknowledge it—she is more beautiful than you will ever be, both in body and soul. Why would you be jealous of her, you ask? I ask you—why wouldn't you be?"

His words left Mary gawping without a sound while Petra regarded him with an expression as if she'd never seen him before. Victoria and Francesca listened with smug looks on their faces, and when he finished speaking, mouthed the word "ouch" at each other and wiggled their fingertips against each other's in a gesture the prince had seen humans make before.

Pauline, on the other hand, said coolly to her sister, "Dylan, why is it that we always have fights whenever we visit or run into _you?_ Why does this only happen when we're with _you?_"

"Because you're haters," A'du'la'di said, making the women jump. Silent as a cat, none of them had noticed his approach. Now he glared at Mary while half-hiding behind a tall bin of stuffed animals.

"A'du'la'di Ewah," Dylan said sharply.

The boy flinched, then shot his mistress a mutinous look before crying defiantly, "That's what John said! Erm…Master John. He said they were haters!" His expression grew a touch less annoyed when he added, "Except Mistress Francesca. But that's what he said! I don't know what that means, but it's bad, and he said it's why they're so mean to you!"

"Okay," Pauline snapped. "Who is _that_?"

Dylan ran her hands through her hair and replied, "My servant boy. Who is _embarrassing_ me," she added sharply. A'du ducked his head. "And who is going to go over there and play with his sister _now_." Seeing his mistress wasn't fooling around, the cub bowed and scampered off again. Glaring at Nuada, Dylan demanded, "Are you smiling?"

Nuada offered her a bland look. "Smiling? I? Because the boy had the gumption to say exactly what these shrews needed to hear? Would I do that?" Judging by his truelove's expression, that hadn't been the proper response. The Elf couldn't find it in himself to regret his reply, though.

"Did he just call us shrews?" Pauline demanded.

To the prince's surprise, Francesca shrugged. "Hey, if the shoe fits." Then she frowned and glanced at Nuada. "You _weren't_ talking about me, right? Because I'm trying to fix the shrew thing." Seeing her sisters' expressions, Francesca added to them, "Look, I don't wanna get all into this right here, right now—and considering Dylan looks like she's about to have kittens, she probably doesn't, either—so all I'm gonna say is, I've found out some stuff in the last week that made me feel more than a little horrible about the way we treat Dylan. It needs to stop."

"What do you mean, the way we treat her?" Pauline asked. "We love Dylan." Focusing on her youngest sister, she added, "What's she talking about? We love you."

Nuada scowled. "Clearly," he said, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "It's so obvious, even a blind man could see it. Why, I am nearly overwhelmed by the outpouring of familial affection amongst you all." Why did Francesca keep smiling like that, he wondered?

"You can't marry this guy," Pauline said, ignoring Nuada and fixating on her sister. "He's a jerk. Seriously, you can't marry him."

"And what will you do if she does?" Nuada asked softly. "Cut her off? Carve her out of your hearts like a cancer and forsake her completely? Perhaps she would be better off."

"Okay, everyone needs to stop now," Dylan said in a voice that cut through the tension like the sharp edge of Nuada's dirk. "We are _not_ having this conversation in public. We're not having this conversation at all."

Francesca shrugged. "It's gotta happen sometime, hon."

Dylan gave her an exasperated look. "Shush, you. You've caused enough trouble today, Tasering people on Christmas Eve." Tori shot her twin a wide-eyed look.

"Yeah; I ought to be ashamed of myself." Francesca grinned. Nuada felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Even he had to admit that Dylan's kinswoman exacting that small vengeance against the assassin had been satisfying to watch. "Anyway, for the record, _I_ like Nuada. He's a good guy."

Mary had finally recovered from Nuada's verbal assault enough to make a retort. "He hates us." Pointing an accusing finger at the prince, she added, "Don't even bother to deny it."

Nuada fixed her with a frosty look. "Why would I?"

"You don't hate me," Francesca interjected, smiling brightly. Nuada said nothing. Francesca merely rolled her eyes and shook her head, still smiling. "We're working on it, anyway." To her sisters she said, "Look, he's stupid in love with her. Okay? And we aren't exactly Sisters of the Year or anything. Besides, it's not like he hates _all_ of us. He likes John and Uncle Thaddeus."

"So…he likes the people who encourage Dylan's delusions," Pauline said coolly.

The other women froze, wide-eyed. Beside Nuada, Dylan went utterly still. She hardly even seemed to breathe. The prince was reminded of a rabbit, uncertain whether to hide or flee.

"Don't act all surprised," Pauline added. "Don't act like we don't know she still has them. Why would you encourage something like that?" She asked Nuada reproachfully. "What is _wrong_ with you? Dylan is _sick_; don't you see that? She doesn't need you screwing her up even worse—"

Pauline didn't get a chance to finish. Just as Nuada started forward, murder on his mind and a crimson haze of fury beginning to descend across his vision, a strangled sound escaped Dylan and she took off like a shot, dashing across the store and out into the frosty winter air. Momentarily torn between following her and ripping Pauline Myers to shreds, Nuada closed his eyes and forced down his fury and detestation. Bronze eyes snapping open, the prince slapped the mortal in question with such a look of vicious loathing that it had her stumbling backwards, white as milk. His hand itched to strike her for true…but a real man didn't hit a woman in anger. Even one of the harpy-shrews. Instead, hot copper eyes fixed on Francesca.

"Tell your brother and your uncle what has happened, and fetch A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti. We will be outside near the doors." Then the prince followed after his lady.

He found her outside, leaning against the beige concrete front of the building next door. Head bent, arms folded defensively across her stomach, shoulders slumped, she shuddered continually as Nuada approached. Only when he drew close could he tell Dylan was crying.

"_Uimh_," he murmured gently, lifting her chin. _No_, he said in tender Gaelic. Her mouth quivered as crystalline tears slid down her cheeks. Nuada brushed them away with his thumbs. "_Uimh__, a thaisce, mo shearc, a ghrá geal_." No, my treasure, my darling, my bright love. "_Uimh, uimh_. _Ná caoin—_don't cry." Drawing her against him, ignoring the repulsive humans shambling past on the sidewalk, he pressed her head to his chest and murmured in her ear, "_Ná caoin, a ghrá_._Tá sé ceart go leor_; it's all right. Forget them. Their words mean nothing."

"I'm not sick," she mumbled against his shirt. "I'm not sick and I'm not crazy." Her voice broke when she added, "I'm _not_."

Nuada settled his chin atop her head. "No, you're not. I know that and you know that. Forget those who don't. They don't matter. They're nothing."

"They're my family."

He held her more tightly. "Perhaps," he said, though he wanted to deny any such connection. They didn't deserve her. "But so are John and your aunt and uncle. So is Francesca, who knows now how very wrong she has been all this time." Pulling back just a little, he tilted her chin up to look into her wet eyes. "And am _I_ not your family, _mo duinne_? For you are mine, and I love you so very much. _Ná caoin_—don't cry; you are tearing out my heart with your tears."

Dylan swiped at the tears chilling her skin with the back of her hand, offering him a tremulous smile. "Don't worry about me. I'm just a bit stressed out, that's all. Same with the girls. They didn't mean any of that, but Christmas is stressful—especially for Petra and Pauline, because of the kids, you know?" Nuada opened his mouth to protest, but Dylan touched her fingers to his lips. "I know what you're going to say: not to make excuses for them. But I know things wouldn't have escalated like that if it wasn't for all the stress we're all feeling. Okay? Please don't be angry with them, Nuada."

It was like chewing glass to hold back the vicious invectives blistering his throat. Angry wasn't the word for how he felt toward Dylan's sisters—especially Pauline and Mary. How dare they insult her that way? No, he needed something stronger than mere "anger" to describe the roiling mass of emotions churning in his gut. But he would _not_ lash out at Dylan in his anger, as her sisters seemed to do so often.

Instead, he offered Dylan a gentle smile and pretended to nibble on the fingertips laid against his mouth. A giggle rewarded him. He brushed a kiss across her knuckles, and her eyes went misty. "I love you," he whispered against her fingers. "Never forget it."

"Never," she promised softly. "You're all I need, Nuada."

"Shall we go home, then?" The prince asked. "After we bid your uncle and Master Magorium farewell?" She started to nod when an adolescent wail of despair snagged their attention.

"_A'ge'lv_!" The adults broke apart as A'du and 'Sa'ti raced over to them, followed at a more sedate pace by John and Francesca. A'du'la'di rushed to his mistress and threw his arms around her, pressing his face into her stomach. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do anything wrong, I'm sorry! I won't ever say anything like that again, I promise!" He glanced up, and bright gray eyes widened. "You're crying! Don't cry! I'm sorry, don't cry!"

Dylan sniffled and wiped at her cheeks again. "Not because of you, honey. But you shouldn't have said what you did to my sisters. That was very rude."

John nudged the cub's shoulder. A'du stared at the cement under his feet. "Master John made me apologize."

_Poor child,_ Nuada thought with a twinge of sympathy. Being humiliated by apologizing to those harpies? The boy's pride had to be hurting.

"That's exactly what he should've done," Dylan said firmly, with a quick nod to her twin. "You interrupted a conversation that didn't include you, you were rude to people you didn't know, and you repeated things said by someone that shouldn't have been repeated. But," she added, "now you've apologized and promised not to do it again. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," the boy said in a small voice. "Am I in trouble?"

Dylan sighed and glanced at Nuada. The prince gave his own sigh, then abandoned his dignity enough to lay a comforting hand on the boy's head.

"My lady," the prince said. He forced his features into a beseeching expression. "Surely the lad has learned his lesson and will speak more carefully from now on. Won't you, A'du'la'di?" The cub nodded so quickly, Nuada was surprised the child's eyes didn't rattle around in his head. Lowering his voice and feigning the utmost gravity, the prince said, "Lady Dylan, as prince of Bethmoora and this boy's liege, I beg you to grant my vassal clemency in this matter." Catching her eye and gazing at her soulfully, Nuada said softly, "I would be willing to pay _any_ price you might ask for his pardon."

Dylan turned away to hide her smile. Any price? That was quite a promise, coming from Nuada—but then, he knew exactly what he was doing. If she'd been Francesca, the mortal psychiatrist knew _exactly_ how she'd get him to pay up. But since she had higher moral standards than that, she decided on a different form of compensation—one that involved music, dancing, lemon custard, and mistletoe after the children had gone to bed.

"Very well, Your Highness," Dylan replied gravely. "I accept your offer and grant your vassal clemency. The price shall be agreed on later this evening."

Nuada canted his head. "As you wish, my lady."

"Oh, Your Highness," A'du murmured, looking aghast at his hero. "You said 'anything!' You shouldn't've done that. She's gonna get you."

The Elven warrior made sure the boy wasn't looking before he allowed himself a smile. Yes, Dylan was most certainly going to "get him." In fact, he was looking forward to it.

"Come on," Francesca said, propping her hands behind her head. "Let's say goodbye and get outta here. Tori's dealing with World War Three in there, so we gotta make it quick. Hey, John and I are invited to Christmas whatever at your guys' place, right? At the palace?"

Dylan and Nuada exchanged glances. Were they? Nuada briefly thought of dignity, royal image, his pride, and similar things. They were important, were they not? Vital. Yet he forswore them all in order to shoot Dylan a look that silently begged her to give Francesca an unequivocal _no_.

"Um," Dylan began, and Francesca beamed as if Christmas had come a day early.

"Awesome! I'll have to borrow a dress, though."

Horror stole as coldly and smoothly as a serpent down Nuada's backbone.

**.**

Things were starting to look up, Dylan decided. It had gotten a bit tense at the store with her sisters, but now that she and her entourage were back in Findias and supper was less than an hour away, things were looking up. Nuada had sent to Themba for a dress for Francesca and clothes for John—after Dylan had soothed some ruffled feathers with compliments and kisses—and now the mortal sisters sat in front of Dylan's bathroom counter putting on makeup.

"Now, you'll be polite to the king?" Dylan asked for the umpteenth time as she allowed Francesca to carefully line her eyes with vivid black makeup. "Thanks for doing my eyes for me, by the way, Cesca."

"No problem, I always do Tori's, too. And yes, I'll be polite to the king. I won't embarrass you, sweetie pie, I promise. Well…I might tell some embarrassing stories about you when you were little. That would be kinda fun. Does he know about the time you told Dad that God didn't love him anymore because he spanked you?"

Heat spread through Dylan's cheeks even as she laughed. "Oh, my gosh, I had the weirdest ideas when I was a kid. No, that little anecdote of my childhood hasn't popped up in conversation yet. I give you permission to tell that one if it's relevant, though."

"Ha, awesome. I won't spill anything too heinous, though. So I have a question about your prince. Hang on, close your eyes." Dylan obeyed. Francesca leaned in and carefully blew on her sister's eyelids to dry the liner more quickly. "There. Okay, can you help with my mascara? I need someone to hold the card for me. Thanks. So my question is, how much does he know about what happened in the institution?"

Propping her elbow on the counter, the mortal psychiatrist held a piece of cream-colored cardstock against her sister's eyelid to prevent smudging while she applied the black mascara. Focusing on that allowed her to keep her voice steady as she said, "More than you guys do. He knows everything."

Francesca's hand didn't shake as she swiped mascara along her lashes. "You told him everything? And he reacted okay?" The waitress saw her sister nod. "Were you okay after telling him?"

"No," Dylan murmured, "but he helped me become okay. Thanks for standing up for him to the girls today."

Her sister sighed. "I should've stood up for _you_."

"But you did."

"Before now," Francesca muttered. "I don't know how you can just forgive me like this. And I'm sorry about what Pauline said about you being…you know."

"It doesn't matter."

Francesca shot her a look. "Tell that to His Royal I'll-Kill-Anyone-Who-Makes-My-Girlfriend-So-Much-A s-Sniffle out there. Don't tell me you weren't crying. He was about ready to deck Pauline." Silence descended while the two women finished up their makeup, then Francesca added, "Why do you always say that? 'It doesn't matter.' You know it bothers you."

She shrugged. "I should be used to it by now. I don't have a reason to get so upset. It's not like I don't understand. And what Pauline was saying…she meant well. She was worried Nuada was taking advantage of me. You know, since I've got so-called 'problems.'"

"Is that a Mormon thing? You being all understanding?"

Dylan smiled. "No. That's a Dylan thing. I _do_ understand where she's coming from; I'm a psychiatrist. So that makes it…easier."

"But not easy."

Another shrug. "Life's not easy. I'm pretty lucky as it is; what more can I ask for? I have a great twin brother, an awesome big sister who knows I'm not nuts, and a man I love more than I ever thought possible. I'm good."

Francesca shook her head. "I wish I was that easy to please. I wouldn't be happy unless I had a million dollars and a reverse-harem."

The younger woman gave her sister a perfectly-tailored WTF? look. "A what?"

"A reverse-harem. You know, instead of a harem of girls, it's a harem of guys? I want one of those."

"I thought you had a boyfriend."

"I love Davio. I adore him and all of his scaly muscles. He's got _delicious_ biceps. For my reverse-harem, I'd just clone him. Then I'm still being monogamous," Francesca explained in a voice that sounded as if she were imparting the secret of life.

"No you're not!" Dylan cried, exasperated. "What do you need a harem for, anyway?"

Francesca shrugged. "What if I only had one Davio, and he had a long day at work? What would I do then?"

"Take a nap?" The younger woman suggested dryly.

"It might surprise you to learn that there are so many more interesting things to do in this world besides take a nap when you have a hunk-tastic significant other. You'll figure it out when you get married."

Dylan gave her a look that spoke volumes. "That…is…I don't have words for this."

The older woman sniffed haughtily. "Well, what about you? What are you gonna do after you get married if it turns out Nuada can't keep up with you? Hmmm? As repressed as you are, once you realize sex can actually be _fun_, you're gonna turn into a nympho."

Dylan arched a brow. "A nympho."

"Yep. Raging. I've seen it a million times. What will you do with Nuada then?"

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Dylan replied flatly.

"Yeah, but how do you _know?_"

"Elves have a great deal of stamina." A deep voice from the doorway had them both jerking around on their vanity stools to see Nuada with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. Dylan's cheeks flushed hot. Francesca's eyes widened. "Endurance is a key trait in any fae warrior."

Dylan's mouth went dry and her face flamed with embarrassment. She half-covered her burning countenance with her hands. Embarrassment warped into humiliation when Francesca, with the shining eyes of the nosiest older sister, demanded, "In a contest of endurance between you and a nymph, who would win?"

Nuada's gaze landed on Dylan. She peeked at him between her fingers and saw his indulgent smile turn lazy and smug, edged with just a hint of masculine pride.

"I would, of course. My lady, if you would attend me for a moment."

Somehow Dylan got to her feet. On her way out of the bathroom, she turned on her sister and mouthed, "I will _kill_ you." Francesca just gave her a jaunty wave before going back to admiring herself in the mirror.

Nuada snagged Dylan, pulling her into his arms the moment she followed him into his bedroom. She squeaked, surprised, but the squeak was cut off by Nuada pressing his mouth against hers with barely-restrained fervor. Giving herself up to the kiss, she twined her arms around his neck. He was warm and strong and solid, the perfect antidote for the cold that had seeped into her since her run-in with her sisters at the toy store. He tunneled his fingers in her hair, something she loved, and kissed her as if he were starving for her.

But when he pulled back, Dylan burst out laughing. Nuada scowled.

"What is so funny?"

"You," she giggled, "you have—my lipstick—_all over_ your mouth!" Startled, the prince swiped a finger across his lips and glowered at the smear of color on the pad of his finger. Still laughing, Dylan plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Here," she murmured. "Let me." With expert care she cleaned the wine-red color from Nuada's lips. "There. How's mine look?"

Glower fading, Nuada skimmed his knuckles over the curve of her cheek. "You are absolutely lovely. You're so beautiful, it makes my heart ache. And tonight, thank the Fates, I don't have to share you with anyone except your brother and sister, my father, and my sister. And Naya."

"Oh?" Uneasy at _Ledi_ Polunochnaya being at such a seemingly-exclusive gathering, still Dylan was excited about not having to monitor Francesca and John at a court banquet. "Why did the plans change?"

Now a frown passed across Nuada's face. "My father, he's…feeling unwell tonight, but he wants to spend time with my sister and I, and to become acquainted with you and your family. He claims a small gathering in a private room suits him better. Naya will be there because she has no family, unlike that vulture."

A sudden thought sent a thrill of fear spiking through her like ice. "Bres won't be there, will he?"

"No," Nuada replied. "I told my father that expecting Bres to put up with three humans was asking too much of him." The prince sighed. "I'll have to speak to him about Nuala's engagement soon."

"Tomorrow?" Dylan asked plaintively. "Or even tonight?"

After a moment, Nuada nodded. "I will see if he will speak with me about it tonight." He hesitated before adding, "Dylan…you know he may not heed my words." Seeing the fear in her eyes, he said, "But I swear to you, I will speak to him. I'll not let Bres harm you."

"I just…I have the worst feeling about him," she whispered, pressing close to the Tuathan prince. "I don't know what it is. I've never felt anyone so…so evil. He hates me."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks," Nuada said firmly, kissing her hair. "I love you. Do you understand? I love you, and nothing and no one is ever going to take you from me."

Feeling inexplicably better, Dylan smiled. "Same goes for me. No one's gonna take you away from me, either. Okay, lemme get a good look at you. I wanna make sure we match."

And they did: Nuada's burgundy tunic and trousers went well with Dylan's wine-red kirtle, and his hunter-green shirt matched Dylan's under-dress. Little gold accents and Dylan's gold medallion and earrings completed the ensemble.

"We look pretty Christmasy, I think," Dylan said with a bright smile. "Let's go terrorize your dad like a couple of little kids who've drunk too much coffee."

**.**

Dinner was simple—compared to the standard banquets served at Findias, at any rate. Ham, roast duck and boiled baby potatoes, winter cabbage and bacon soup, lemon custard at the behest of the royal twins, and sugared bannocks opened up John and Francesca's eyes to the standards of a royal table. Elven wine was served, which of course Dylan politely declined in favor of spiced hot cider. To her surprise and pleasure, Nuada chose the cider as well.

_I presumed,_ the prince murmured silently as he sipped the deliciously hot cider, _that as you were not allowed to drink alcohol, you weren't allowed to imbibe it secondhand by catching wine droplets from my lips when I kiss you, either._

_Thank you,_ she said. Then, smiling impishly, she added, _So that means you expect me to imbibe cider secondhand from your lips, then?_

Nuada's voice was a soft, black-velvet purr when he asked, _Does my lady object to the taste of cider when I take the liberty of kissing her? I should like to think she has other things on her mind when I surrender my mouth to her. Am I wrong_, mo crídh? Nuada leaned in and touched his lips to her temple, a subtle and seemingly-chaste kiss that made the hair on the back of Dylan's nape prickle. _When my fingertips whisper over your skin, when I lean into you and I cover your mouth with mine, when I taste you, those teasing kisses that leave us both so hungry, are you truly thinking of a partiality to cider…or are you thinking of me?_

Dylan swallowed hard. Even her mental voice squeaked when she replied, _You_. It took everything she had not to fan herself and pant for breath as color crept into her face.

He smiled against her temple. _I thought so. Remember, my love, I possess considerable skill…and I shan't allow you to forget it._

"Are you two okay?" Francesca asked, frowning in bewilderment at her sister and future brother-in-law. Nuada looked like a cat that'd just lapped up a bowl full of cream, while Dylan was bright pink in the face and her eyes were sparkling. What was going on with them?

"Oh, we are both well enough," Nuada said politely. Smiling at Dylan, he added, "You are quite well, I trust, my love?"

His mortal lady cleared her throat. "I'm fine. Thank you."

As the night went on, it turned out that Francesca and Nuala got along terrifyingly well. Both enjoyed needling their engaged siblings. John seemed to enjoy talking to Polunochnaya, who paid more attention to him than to Nuada—to Dylan's relief.

For Dylan, the most fun was watching Nuala and Balor's reactions when Dylan presented them with her Christmas gifts. Even Nuada didn't know what they were; he hadn't even known she'd planned on giving his father and sister anything. He was just as avid an observer as Dylan during the unwrapping.

"Oh," Nuala gasped when she'd unwrapped the blue and gold paper from the carefully-packaged present. "Oh…oh, but how did you…? When did you…? When did _he_…?" Eyes glimmering with unshed tears, she looked at her twin's betrothed. "Oh, Dylan."

Balor simply stared at his gift.

Dylan had gone to a telepathic friend of hers, a sketch artist who worked for the police department, and convinced her to paint two different portraits of Nuada from Dylan's memories—portraits of him happy, smiling. Something the king and princess rarely got to see.

Nuala's portrait had captured all of her brother's brash arrogance and strength, as well as that kindness and compassion that Dylan always saw…and Nuala never seemed to glimpse. As for the king's painting, Dylan had focused on a memory of her prince from their time in the royal forest. Did Balor see the little-boy mischief in his son's eyes? Did that impish quirk to Nuada's smile remind the old king of his son in younger days?

Dylan hoped so. The mortal couldn't tell at first if Balor liked it until a beatific smile spread across Nuala's face while she gazed at her father. The king looked up at Dylan with a soft look in his eyes and murmured, "Thank you…Daughter."

Nuada squeezed Dylan's hand. _Well done_, mo crídh._ Well done. Your gifts are very clever and well-chosen. Do I really smile like that?_

_You do. All the time. For me, anyway._ She smiled back at her prince. _And if you like these, you'll love my gifts for tomorrow._

_Oh? I look forward to opening them in the morning._

Things got even more interesting when Nuala asked John and Francesca for stories about Dylan's childhood.

"What was she like as a little girl?" The princess asked Francesca, who laughed. "Is she much changed?"

"Oh, yes," Naya said, urging Francesca on. "Tell us about her."

Francesca glanced at the king, who watched the proceedings with tired interest from his chair. The mortal grinned at her younger sister. "Well, she's always been very opinionated. Always tried to do for herself, didn't believe in crying or whining or anything like that."

"Like that time she hit me in the face with a baseball," John muttered. Dylan nearly snorted into her cup of cider. John mock-scowled. "Don't you even laugh. That hurt. You hit me right in the forehead."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "You were wearing a helmet."

"Still made my ears ring."

"Made you cry," Francesca reminded him, grinning. John grimaced. "Oh, my gosh, Dylan was hilarious. All of us older kids were freaking out because John, who was second-littlest, had gotten hurt and was bleeding on the ground—"

"He wasn't bleeding _that_ badly," Dylan interjected. "And it was because he bit his tongue."

John gave her a flat look. "You are an emotionless machine." Dylan just raised an eyebrow and took a sip of cider. "She didn't do it on purpose," he added to be fair. "But still."

"So we're all panicking and Dylan just marches over to him. She's maybe five at this point. She marches over to him and says, 'Are you _crying?'_ All outraged about it."

"I _was_ outraged," Dylan said. "I'd gotten a tooth knocked out the day before and _I_ didn't cry about it. Of course that's because I'm an emotionless machine," she added, dropping her head on her twin's shoulder.

"Darn straight," John muttered. "And when I told her that yes, I was crying, she started making fun of me."

"I did _not_ make fun of you," Dylan cried. "I just gave you the lecture."

Nuala had her elbows propped on her knees on the couch across from theirs and was leaning eagerly forward at this point. "What lecture?"

"_The_ lecture. The baseball lecture. How did it go, D?" John asked.

Dylan cleared her throat and recited, "'Are you crying? What? There is no crying. There is no crying in baseball. No crying—'"

"'No whining,'" Francesca added.

"'No bleeding,'" the sisters chorused, grinning at each other.

"And what did you say to such rousing words, Lord John?" Balor asked with an inquiring lift of his brow.

John and Dylan both scoffed. "He spat blood on my brand-new sneakers, wiped his face, and told me I pitched like a girl," Dylan said. Smiling at her brother, she added, "Meanest thing he'd ever said to me."

Francesca's sigh was heavy with nostalgia. "You didn't _say_ stuff like that to kids who played baseball back then. Oh, my gosh, Dylan. Do you remember when you said that to Tommy Malone from down the street?"

Dylan lifted her chin. "I didn't say he _pitched_ like a girl," she replied haughtily. "I said he _played ball_ like a girl."

"Oh, you made him _mad_," John said, shaking his head. "I remember he couldn't believe you said that. Didn't he beat you up for that later?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "No, he beat me up for the fairy thing."

Francesca frowned. "Didn't he break your arm?"

"That's what happens when you start rolling around on top of playground equipment trying to beat the stuffing out of each other," Dylan replied dryly. "I broke his nose, though."

Nuala and Naya were both wide-eyed at this point. "How did you manage that?" Naya asked, sounding as if she weren't sure she wanted to know.

Dylan smiled. "I kicked him in the face. That's why I fell off the playground. I got in trouble after I got home from the hospital."

"In trouble?" Nuala spluttered. "For defending yourself?"

"Oh, man, Dylan got in trouble _all_ the time when we were kids," Francesca said, grinning. She didn't notice that Nuada had gone very quiet at her words. "I still remember that time Dad spanked you and you told him God didn't love him anymore." Dylan sputtered into her cider, giggling. "You were, what? Three?"

She shrugged, smiling. "Something like that. Back when I thought a quick swat counted as child abuse. I remember the time Dad caught you playing Choo-Choo in the garage with Tommy Malone."

"Hey, not my fault. I was seduced by an older man."

Balor, who'd remained mostly silent and smiling during most of the reminiscing, straightened in his overstuffed leather chair. "What is…Choo-Choo?"

Dylan and Francesca exchanged a glance and started giggling again. John took it upon himself to explain that their father had caught a five-year-old Francesca and a six-year-old Tommy Malone in the garage pretending that Tommy was a steam engine and Francesca was a tunnel. The significance of this arrangement was clarified when John explained that Francesca had been wearing a dress. Master Myers had dragged young Master Malone home to speak to his father.

"What a repulsive little boy," Naya exclaimed. "How dare he? Nuada would never have done such a thing when we were children!"

"No," Nuada said stiffly, "I wouldn't have."

His twin sister smiled. "Even if you'd had the notion, _Áthair_ would've murdered you. I remember you told me once that you knew you'd likely get whipped by Father fairly often before you became a man, but that you never intended to let him whip you over a girl."

Francesca and Dylan shared another look, this one heavy with silent communication, but John didn't notice. Nuada did, but said nothing. He knew what his lady was thinking of.

John asked, "Wait, you got beat when you were a kid? I though royalty didn't believe in corporally punishing their children."

Nuada scoffed. "Maybe human royals didn't believe in disciplining their children. It would explain a great deal. I've lost count of the number of times my father took a strap to me as a boy. I always deserved it, though," the prince added, "when I was young. I cannot think of a time _my father_ physically punished me unjustly."

Dylan noticed Nuada's emphasis on the words "my father." No, his father hadn't punished him unjustly as a boy…but his king had unfairly punished the man Nuada had become. Fey-like blue eyes flicked to Balor's face. He hadn't missed the underlying message in those words, either.

As if sensing the rising tension in the room, Nuala said brightly, "Father, do you remember when I 'drowned' Nuada's favorite stuffed warhorse in the garden fountain and he cried for days?"

"Nuala!" The Elven warrior cried in outrage. His sister smiled sweetly at him. Narrowing his eyes, Nuada said, "Well, I remember the time you threw a fit and cut off all your hair because Father said you weren't allowed to have boots like mine because you were a princess, and you swore you'd be a prince, and Father merely laughed at you."

"I didn't mean to laugh," Balor protested while his daughter scowled. "She was just so…adamant. If princesses couldn't do things, then she didn't want to be a princess anymore," the king added to the assembled mortals. "So she decided to be a prince."

"Her hair looked awful," Nuada added with a smug smile. "Our governess was furious."

Nuala shot him a look. "What about the time Na'ko'ma tied you up and hung you from an apple tree?"

Nuada scowled. "She snuck up on me while I was sleeping. And I paid her back for that bit of treachery, if you recall. She looked a right fool with her hair in elf-knots for a week."

"But then she shocked you with a thunderbolt and left your hair standing on end."

The prince scowled ferociously. "Yes, but I got her back, didn't I?"

Dylan's eyes widened. "What did you do?"

Balor heaved an aggrieved sigh, but the mortal could see he was smiling. "He enacted a strike from three fronts, the little scoundrel. First, he put pepper in Na'ko'ma's tea on random days for an entire moon; the poor girl never knew when it would happen. Second, he somehow managed to dye the poor child's hair _bright orange_." At this point Nuada was grinning with nostalgic self-satisfaction. "And third, he kidnapped her dolls and held them for ransom."

"You didn't!" Dylan's smile seemed to reflect the ghost of impish, boyish delight she could see in Nuada's eyes. "Your father's right, you _were_ a little scoundrel."

Nuada lifted his chin. "I'll have you know, I acquitted myself with honor. They were returned intact and unharmed, as promised. She left me alone for an entire three moons."

"So it was worth it?" Dylan asked. He nodded. "What about your hair? How'd you fix the whole static-stand-up thing?"

"Oh," Nuada replied, smiling brightly. "Máthair fixed it. She was a…" He trailed off when his father and sister stiffened. Silence descended, thick and choking. Dylan could see how much of a strain it was for him to continue, "She was a sorceress when it came to such things."

For the second time, the tension thickened amidst the group. In an attempt to quell it, Dylan asked, "You were an unholy terror as a kid, weren't you?"

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Only to sisters and foster-sisters who didn't know not to pester me when I was busy. With everyone else, I was the epitome of charm and chivalry."

"Though the pair of them got along quite well most of the time," Polunochnaya added with a wistful smile. "Nuada and Nuala, that is. He and Na'ko'ma have always been more like a pair of feral cats tossed into a wet sack." Naya winked at Dylan, who for some reason had to actually force herself to smile. The Zwezda Elf continued, "Why, Nuada, do you remember when she shot you by accident when she was first learning archery? Nuala doted on you for weeks while you healed. She was practically your slave."

Dylan's eyes widened. "You _shot_ him?" She demanded of the blushing princess. "Where?"

Nuala opened her mouth, but closed it when her twin shot her a quelling look. "Perhaps," the princess murmured, "I shouldn't say. It was an accident, of course. I would never dream of hurting my brother." Golden eyes noted Dylan's raised eyebrows, and Nuala flushed. "It would be like hurting mysel—Oh, someone's at the door."

At that moment, a Butcher Guard entered the room and announced a young page holding a large white wicker basket in his arms. "Delivery for His Royal Highness Prince Nuada," the page murmured.

Nuada smiled. "Ah, it's arrived. Right on time, too," he added as the clock chimed ten. "Give it to Lady Dylan."

The pageboy handed it to the mortal, bowing and diffidently tugging his forelock. The mortal smiled at the child and thanked him quietly. Guard and page were summarily dismissed by the king. Every leaned forward, save Nuada, to gaze the basket. Dylan shot her prince a curious look.

"My sister has often told me that women like things to match properly," the prince said. "I thought you would prefer this, then—a match for Eimh and Sétanta."

Thoroughly bewildered by this time, Dylan flipped open the lid of the wicker basket…and squealed in utter delight. Nuada grinned. Everyone else jumped.

"_Bat!_" Dylan scooped up the meowing black cat and hugged him to her chest. He purred so loudly it seemed as if the room should start vibrating, licking Dylan's cheek and butting his head against her chin. His paws pressed against her shoulder, kneading with feline pleasure. "Oh, Bat. Oh, I missed you." Dylan kissed his head. He didn't even protest, just continued to purr and rub his head against her. "Bat, Bat. Oh, my baby, I missed you so much."

Bat allowed his two-legger to cuddle and pet him for a few more minutes, basking in the devotion that was his due, before he squirmed out of her hold and hopped back into the basket. He popped out again with something fluffy and white clenched between his teeth. Dylan reached out instinctively, and the black cat dropped a _very_ small ivory kitten in his two-legger's hands.

The kitten, barely old enough to be weaned, opened its eyes and blinked sleepily at the human, yawning to show its little pink tongue. It rolled over briefly on its back and stretched its paws, kneading the air and revealing that it was, in fact, a girl-kitten. A perfect match, then, for Eimh—white and female.

The little kitten curled up in Dylan's hands with a yawn and went back to sleep.

"Ohhh," Dylan breathed. "Ohhh, Nuada. She's so little. Look at her. She's so cute." Dylan cradled the kitten like a baby in her arms. She didn't seem to mind, cuddling against Dylan's chest and purring. She carefully stroked under the little chin. "Oh, listen to her purr. Little motorboat. Ohhh."

She met Nuada's eyes. He smiled. She grinned back and mouthed, "Best gift _ever!_"

Her prince gave her a look that said quite eloquently, "But of course."

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_**Author's Note**: Bat is back! Woo-hoo! What did you guys think of the chapter? Any favorites? Who likes the new kitten? I need a name for her, so I'm open to suggestions. And Christmas isn't over yet, either. Some stuff looms on the horizon, dun-dun-DUN! Hope you're excited! I'll see you guys hopefully soon. Cuddles!_


	97. Christmas Eve pt 2

_**Author's Note**__: I know! I know! It has been more than a month. The problem was, I got super-stuck on this for the longest time. But my beta helped me get through/fix the problem, but unfortunately I had to cut this chapter in half for my beta. So the resolution of the conflict (however it gets resolved) that arises in this chapter doesn't show up until next chapter. Please don't hate me, I love you all, I'm sorry this took so long, love you, bye._

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**Chapter Ninety-Six**

**Christmas Eve (Part 2)**

**that is**

**A Short Tale of a Painful Question, Crushing the Dreams of Nerds, Being Careful Where One Sticks Their Fingers, a Sister's Entreaty, Rash Words at a Late Hour, Waking to More than Moonlight, Talk of a Miracle, and a Timely Interruption**

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Dylan leaned against Nuada's shoulder while Bat and the new kitten curled up together on her lap. The mortal still hadn't settled on a name for the little thing, but she'd only had her for an hour; there was still time. In the meantime, she would simply enjoy cuddling with her prince and listening to the friendly conversation between her siblings, Nuala, the king, and _Ledi_ Polunochnaya. Nuada wasn't saying much, but he'd relaxed his guard enough that he'd slipped an arm around Dylan's shoulders and laid his cheek against her hair. His feral, wildwood scent made her smile; it was so comfortable and comforting. It made her feel so safe.

"So where's the queen?" Francesca asked abruptly, and the comfortable feeling was gone. Beside Dylan, Nuada tensed so tightly she thought he might snap in half. The smiles faded from Nuala, John, and Naya's faces. The king suddenly looked very, very old. Francesca, sensing she might have asked the wrong thing, shrank just a fraction in her seat and shot a panicked look at her younger sister.

Courageous as always, Nuada braved the silence and answered her. "My mother was murdered when Nuala and I were children," he said tonelessly.

Francesca blanched. "Oh. I'm so sorry."

Nuala smiled gently at the waitress and laid a hand on her arm. "It was long ago. The court does not speak of it, so it is understandable that you wouldn't have heard the story."

"What _is_ the story…if you don't mind my asking?" Francesca asked diffidently.

After a long moment, the king said, "Humans killed her," in such a tone that everyone knew not to ask anything more about it. Eventually the conversation regained its normal tone, but Francesca had lost some of her natural vivacity. When the clock chimed midnight, she and John mumbled something about going back to the mortal realm to sleep. Even Dylan was feeling a bit drowsy.

"But you'll miss the kitchen dragons hatching," Nuala protested. All three mortals perked up. Dylan rubbed her eyes with one hand and glanced at her prince, who inclined his head in acknowledgement. "They always hatch on Christmas Eve—we've no idea why—and it should be any time now."

As if on cue, there came a knock on the door. When bade to enter, a pageboy in scarlet and gold came in. Dylan couldn't help smiling at the sight of an Elven child missing his two front teeth. Bowing to the king, prince, and princess, he said in a lisping voice, "Master Caspar says the kitchen dragons are hatching, Sire. Prince Nuada, Lady Dylan, and Her Ladyship's family are invited to come and see."

Regaining her childlike enthusiasm all at once, Francesca swiveled in her seat to gaze beseechingly at the king. Dylan smiled. _What the heck?_ She thought, and folded her hands under her chin and adopted the same pleading expression as her sister. It was hard to keep a straight face when John decided to join in.

"You look silly sticking your lip out like that," Dylan told her brother.

John stuck his lip out further and somehow managed to say, "Don't judge me. You're doing it, too."

"Why do _you_ want to go?" Nuada asked the mortal man, arching a condescending eyebrow.

"Dude," John replied in his normal voice, straightening out his face. "You have dragons that live in your kitchen. You!" He pointed at his twin, feigning a look of betrayed hurt. "Why wasn't I informed of this coolness?"

"Your nerd is showing, John-boy," Francesca said. "Only girls can like dragons. No nerds allowed."

John just looked at her for a moment. "Um, I'm sorry, but did they name a candy after you? No. They named a candy after nerds. Thanks. So being a nerd is cool. I will show my nerd proudly and go look at some flying, fire-breathing lizards."

"They can't fly," Nuada said. "Or breathe fire."

Elf and mortal locked eyes, and John demanded in a pained voice, "You just like crushing my dreams, don't you?"

His sisters exchanged glances. The king caught Dylan's eye, nodding permission for her to take her family and go on to the kitchens. She smiled her thanks before taking John's arm. "Come on, Johnny. Let's go see the dragons. No doubt they'll be cool, even if they can't fly. Maybe they have rocket boots."

"Your Disney references aren't helping, Sis," he mumbled, heaving himself to his feet. "They're cute, though. Will I be impressed by these dragons?"

"What Disney reference?" Francesca asked, following suit.

Dylan slung an arm around her twin brother. "John, they're dragons. Not only that, but they probably won't try to eat you. What more do you want from life?"

"What Disney reference?" Francesca repeated.

"I want a million dollars and some of your apple pie," John informed his sister as they made their way toward the door. "And a girlfriend would be nice. Can I have a nice Elven girlfriend? One who won't make fun of me for being a nerd?"

Nuada shot him a cold look. "You would have to work quite a bit harder to be worthy of one of our women, whelp," he said coolly. To the king, he inclined his head. "Good night, Father. Nuala, aren't you coming?"

His sister shook her head. "I'll stay a bit longer with Father. I've seen dragons hatching before; I'll see them again next year. Naya? What about you?"

Dylan tried not to feel relieved when the beautiful Zwezdan noblewoman shook her head. She really shouldn't have been so nervous about Polunochnaya's presence, but she still felt cold whenever she thought of the woman Nuada had once…what? Loved? Or had it been just a youthful infatuation, serious enough at the time, but coals to the flame when compared to how he felt for Dylan now? Whichever, the mortal was glad Naya was staying behind.

"What Disney reference?" Francesca wailed.

"Good night, Your Majesty," Dylan called from near the entryway. John offered an interrupted bow as Francesca shoved him out the door. The mortal waitress shot the king a jaunty wave and skipped out the door after her brother. Dylan and Nuada followed. A pageboy was waiting in the hall; Nuada sent him to retrieve the cats and take them to his suite before everyone set off down the hall.

Francesca—who'd given up finding out about the Disney reference—practically skipped down the corridor, chirping, "Dragons, dragons, dragons," with every hopping step. Every fifth step, she would randomly say, "Terrible thunder lizards!"

"Those are dinosaurs, dear," Dylan called from several paces behind.

Francesca flapped a hand at her over her shoulder. "Whatever. Dinosaurs, dragons, same thing."

John raised an eyebrow. "Not really."

"Shush it, Nerd Boy. Do not pester me with details or cloud the issue with facts. They're scaly, ancient, and cold-blooded. So there."

Keeping pace with Dylan, Nuada said, "Dragons are warm-blooded."

"John's right," Francesca lamented. "You _do_ like crushing people's dreams, don't you? Cease your cruel torments." Turning to walk backwards down the hall, she smiled at the Elven prince. "So do you still hate me and think I'm a shrew? Or am I the adorable yet irritating little sister you wish you could hate but secretly love?"

Dark lips curled into a sardonic smile. "My, what a fertile imagination you mortals have."

She grinned. "Dylan's mortal, you know."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "No. Dylan is herself, nothing more and nothing less." He was rewarded when his lady pressed against him, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. John made a gagging sound. Both prince and mortal psychiatrist ignored him.

"Awww, that's so cute," Francesca cooed. "I think John's gonna barf. You look a little green, Johnny, you okay?"

"Don't make me come up there," John replied, smiling. "I'm not scared of you, Cesca."

"Anymore," Dylan added with a smirk. Her twin chose to ignore her.

**.**

"Lemme see it!" Francesca whined, trying to peer over Nuada's shoulder. He shot her a look over his shoulder and she sank down on her knees, sighing. "I wanna see the egg. Lemme see."

The four of them sat on cushions around the large kitchen hearth. In a wicker basket full of soft, clean straw near the fire sat six eggs twice as large as Dylan's doubled fists. Those six remained quiescent in their basket. The golden light of the fire danced across the textured surface of the eggs. But one egg, separate from the rest, slowly shifted from side to side in Dylan's lap, cradled by her hands and cushioned by the velvet of her skirts.

"It is my gift to _Dylan_," Nuada reminded her. "A dragon hatching is something special, not to be sullied by your common hands."

Francesca heaved a melancholy sigh. "She's not even going to keep it. It's staying in the kitchen, for crying out loud. Why can't it hatch in _my_ lap?"

"Let Dylan alone to enjoy the hatching," Nuada told the mortal absently; his gaze was also riveted on the gently rocking egg. "If you cannot control yourself, there are other eggs you can look at."

"Nuada, it's okay," the lady in question murmured without looking at her prince. Her gaze was drawn as if magnetized to the large, pebbly oval cradled in her hands. Its sandy texture was almost like rough velvet under her fingertips. It rocked in her grip occasionally, but hadn't yet started shaking violently—which Caspar Kabouter had told them would mean it was getting ready to hatch. "Francesca can look at this one."

Francesca cried, "See? I can look! She said I can! I love dragons, let me see!"

"Cesca," John murmured. "Your nerd is showing."

"Oh!" Dylan cried before her older sister could make a snappy retort. Dylan sat bolt upright in front of the fire, gaze fixed on the egg now rocking ferociously back and forth in her lap. A sharp _tap-tap-tapping_ came from inside the shell. If Dylan listened, she thought she could hear the faintest _peep_ coming from inside, too.

Everyone leaned in, watching the shaking egg. After this, the others would hatch in order of being laid, but for now all their attention was fixed on this one dragon egg. Dylan held her breath as a thin crack appeared in the shell. Another crack spider-webbed out from it, and another, and another. The cracks crept across the shell's surface until a few of them formed a lopsided triangle. With one more sharp jerk to one side, the triangle popped away from the egg and clattered to the stone floor of the kitchen, leaving a dark hole in the egg.

Hesitantly through the hole came a pair of tiny, silver-edged nostrils at the end of a long, jewel-purple snout. John made an exultant noise. Francesca cooed. Nuada smiled, clearly pleased. Dylan held her breath as another piece of shell broke away. A silver claw poked out near the snout and flexed. A faint _cheep_ came from the dark confines of the egg.

"Ohhh," Dylan whispered. "Ohhh, look at you, working so hard. Come on, little one. Come on out. I can't wait to see you. Come on. You can do it."

Suddenly the egg bounced several times in Dylan's lap. Then a dozen tiny pieces of shell broke off, tumbling to land on the floor with soft _tinks_. Three more claws and a chubby little tail thrust out of the holes. Then the dragon went limp. Dylan made a small sound.

"She is merely resting," Nuada murmured reassuringly. "Being born is difficult work for such a little thing. Just wait." He laid his hand against Dylan's back, feeling the tense excitement radiating from her. "Once she's had a moment to breathe, she'll go back to breaking out."\

"How do you know it's a girl?" Dylan asked in a whisper. Nuada pointed at the tiny claws poking out of the little holes. When the mortal looked closer, she saw the serrations on the claws' undersides.

"Male dragons are typically the hunters with mated pairs," the prince explained as the little purple tale began twitching back and forth. "Their claws are smooth, more for raking and piercing than anything else. Female kitchen dragons actually use their claws to cut up their kills, like knives. It's rather fascinating to watch, if a bit messy. Ah, here she goes, trying once more. Do not let the egg roll out of your lap or she could be hurt, Dylan."

"I won't," the mortal promised fervently. Her entire being seemed focused on the rocking egg. "I've got her."

Bits and pieces of shell chipped away as the baby began hammering at the inside of the egg with her egg-tooth. Her teeny claws chipped at the edges of the holes as she flexed them.

There was an indignant chirping sound. Then came a quick shake, and long crack spread between the holes, linking them like a chain. With another annoyed peep, the top part of the shell broke away from the rest and sailed to the floor with a _clack_.

A silver and purple baby dragon about the size of a six-week-old kitten sat in the plush nest of Dylan's velvet skirts, looking around as if it was more than a little confused. Tiny, iridescent lavender wings unfurled from its back and stretched out, trembling with the effort of being held open. Dylan looked at Nuada.

"Her wings are wet and very fragile right now," the prince explained. John and Francesca, also absorbed with the little baby, kept glancing between him and the dragon hatchling as he spoke. "Her instinct is to dry them out. The fire is warm; it will help rid her wings of moisture from inside the egg. If her mother hadn't been killed by a passing stray dog, the _she_ would clean the hatchling up and help the wings dry. As it is…" Nuada reached back to Caspar, who'd been watching the prince's lady with approval. The kitchen sprite handed the prince a very soft cloth. Nuada gave it to Dylan. "She will let you pat her wings dry, but you must be very, _very_ gentle."

With Nuada's supervision and softly-spoken instructions, Dylan carefully dried the baby's fragile wings while she lay in the mortal's lap and rested from the laborious effort of hatching. Once the wings were dry and she'd dozed for a few moments, the hatchling lifted its head and focused enormous gray eyes on Dylan's face. Opening her mouth wide, she closed her eyes and warbled mournfully.

"Don't stick your fingers in her mouth," Nuada cautioned when Francesca reached for the baby. "She wants food. She has to learn she can't eat humans."

"So what do we give her?" Dylan asked softly, smiling at the little dragon.

Nuada sighed. "She's too small to catch mice yet, so she needs meat from somewhere else. Caspar, do any of your boys—ah. Good man." The prince accepted a plate of meat scraps from a waiting kitchen boy and handed it to Dylan. "Be careful. If she bites you, the kitchen staff will have to spend weeks teaching her not to try to take bites out of helpless scullery maids and pot boys."

While Dylan carefully fed the little beauty some scraps of Christmas ham and turkey, John turned to Nuada. "You guys use _dragons_ to catch _mice?_"

The prince raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Every well-to-do household has at least one mouser, one ratter, and one kitchen dragon."

John just looked at Nuada for a moment. "I understood the kitchen dragon part. What's a mouser and what's a ratter?"

"A cat and a dog that catch and kill vermin," Dylan supplied, still intent on feeding the baby dragon. "A palace like this would have a ton of cats and rat terriers to deal with it. Dragons are new, though." She smiled at Nuada as the baby snatched a strip of ham from her fingers. "Is your father's carriage pulled by pegasi or bicorns or anything like that?"

Nuada smiled. "Phookas, actually."

Dylan matched his smile with her own. "Why am I not surprised?"

**.**

It was on their way back to the royal suites that Nuala caught Nuada's attention, calling to him through their rarely-used link. Nuada stopped short at the familiar touch against his mind like a flutter of butterfly wings. _Sister?_

_Brother, you must go and speak to Father._

_Why?_ Nuada asked silently even as he escorted Dylan through the door of her sitting room. _Is he all right?_

Nuala hesitated, sending uneasy whispers down the crown prince's spine. He focused on reading his sister's mental well-being. She was worried, but not frightened; unhappy, but not morose. Whatever had happened, it wasn't too serious. But she'd reached out to him on their well-worn telepathic link, which she hadn't done willingly in a long, long time. Why would she do that now?

_Father sorrows,_ Nuala murmured, breaking his thoughts. _He mourns for Máthair, and he will not speak to me, will not let me comfort him. Can you do it?_

_You think he wants me?_ Nuada asked incredulously. _What makes you think so?_

_You two have become so much closer since Dylan's arrival,_ was the astonishing reply. _Surely you can reach him where I cannot. Perhaps he feels that, as a warrior, he cannot show me his tears. Perhaps as my father he feels he cannot mourn in front of me. I don't know. Talk to him. Please, Brother._

_I do not think it wise, my sister._ His father wouldn't welcome his presence, especially if Balor was thinking of Cethlenn. Didn't Nuala realize how much the king resented the fact that Nuada had survived when the queen had not? Nuada had thought it obvious to anyone with eyes. Perhaps not. _Father has not asked for me. I would not wish to intrude_—

_Must you be asked before you will help someone who loves you?_ Nuala demanded.

The prince stopped at the threshold of Dylan's bedroom as his lady walked in and sank onto the bed, reaching for her hairbrush. The sting of his twin sister's words scorched him like a flame. Put that way, he sounded callous and uncaring. He loved his father, didn't she see that? But Balor wouldn't welcome his presence.

_Brother, please. Father is so sad._

Nuada carefully avoided Dylan's questioning eyes as he turned to gaze at nothing. Swallowing, he murmured, _I think it ill-advised to impose my company upon our father…but for you, Sister, I will do nearly anything. I will go._

_Thank you, Nuada._

Nuada approached Dylan, who watched him with obvious curiosity. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers, a chaste sweetness that made him wish he'd refused his twin's request. Then he said, "I will return shortly. In case you fall asleep, I bid you goodnight, my beautiful one." He kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight, Prince Charming."

He closed his eyes briefly as he walked out of the room. Prince Charming. She loved him so much. That in and of itself was a small miracle. He would hold onto that love and let everything else occur as it willed. He would need to remember that love if his father was in a dark mood over memories of the queen.

_Máthair_, Nuada thought as he strode down the corridor toward the king's suite. _Máthair…Áthair misses you so. We all miss you, all three of us, but Áthair most of all. He is a broken man since your death. Máthair, can you ever forgive me for what happened? Can you ever?_

Perhaps the queen already had forgiven him in whatever afterlife had been given to her. Nuada didn't know. He only knew his father _hadn't_ forgiven him. He doubted Balor ever would.

**.**

Nuada found his father leaning heavily against the desk in his private study, breathing hard. A shudder ran through the king. Nuada knew what Balor was thinking of—Cethlenn, her smile and her laugh, the sound of her voice, the fragrance of her perfume…the way she'd looked when Wink had brought her body back from the spot of horror where she'd been butchered. Nuada hadn't been conscious when the troll warrior had carried queen, prince, and princess back to Renvyle, but he'd picked up the memory during a brief, accidental mind-touch with his father sometime later.

"_Áthair_?" Nuada ventured cautiously, uncertain whether the king would spurn him or not. That had been Balor's habit the entirety of Nuada's recollection, ever since the queen's death…but Nuala had asked him through their link—something she was normally loath to do—to go to their father, to make sure he was all right. And even now, he could deny his twin sister almost nothing.

Balor straightened abruptly. Passing a hand over his face, he turned to his son and offered a wan smile. "My son, you should be celebrating the holiday with your lady, not worrying about an old man."

"Nuala was concerned," the prince murmured. "Are you well?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," he replied. "I was simply…thinking, that's all."

Wondering if it was a mistake, Nuada hazarded, "About _Máthair_?" After an excruciating moment, Balor nodded. "Because of what Dylan's sister said earlier tonight?" Another nod. "I do not think Lady Francesca meant to cause you pain, Father."

"I know," the king murmured, still with that sad smile. "She dislikes me, but not that much. It is simply…very difficult to think of your mother. She would have been proud of you," he added, startling the prince. "For abandoning your vengeance. For adhering to the treaty, choosing honor over selfishness. She would have been so proud of you, my son."

Conflicting slices of pain slashed across Nuada's heart at his father's words. It hurt that his father still believed he'd wanted the war for revenge, not out of necessity. How could Balor believe that of him? And it hurt to think that his mother would have been just as horrified and sickened by his hatred for and disgust with the children of Adam as his father was. It was one of the things that haunted him late in the night—would his mother have been ashamed of him, of the man he'd become? Now that he'd forsworn honor to be with Dylan, his father claimed Cethlenn would have been proud. What if he'd had the courage to defend the Fair Folk as they needed to be defended? Would she still have been proud? Would his mother have understood why he felt he needed to go to war?

They needed to get off this subject; thinking of Cethlenn fogged Nuada's mind with regret, with grief, with rage and sick horror that churned in his belly like poison. He'd never spoken of what had actually happened that day with his father. They'd danced around it, skirting it like a pool of acid in the middle of their conversations, but the king didn't want to hear a first-hand account of his wife's murder. Nuada couldn't blame him. He would have given nearly anything to forget the sight of his mother screaming and struggling beneath the weight of a rutting human beast.

"Father," Nuada managed to say, somehow keeping his voice steady despite the nausea suddenly twisting in his gut. "I need to speak to you about something."

Balor raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"It is about Nuala. She cannot be allowed to marry Bres."

Aged amber eyes widened and the king's brows rose nearly to his hairline. "I see. Have you spoken to your sister about your concerns?"

Nuada shook his head. "Dylan wished me to speak to you first. I thought it a wise course."

Now those pale brows furrowed in confusion. "Dylan? What has your lady to do with it?"

How to explain Dylan's sixth sense to his father without giving away one of the advantages they had over the old king? He would have to couch his words carefully. Speaking with caution, Nuada said, "Dylan possesses almost preternatural instincts for danger. For evil. She recognizes evil when it draws near. She has sensed this in Bres…the same sort of evil as the men who murdered _Máthair_."

Balor leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his chest, eyeing his son sternly. "That is a grave accusation, my son, especially against a man who has always been our friend and ally. Take care you do not speak with undue haste."

"Father, I'm not a child," Nuada said sharply. "I am not a fool, either. If I was not certain, I would not speak to you about it. Bres is evil. He cannot be allowed even a foothold in this kingdom. He cannot be allowed to have Nuala. Bres cannot be trusted with the well-being of either our people or their princess."

"What proof do you have, other than your lady's 'instinct for evil?'"

Remembering the terrible cold that had clamped down around Nuada when he'd read Dylan's memory of her confrontation with the prince of Cíocal, the prince replied, "I need nothing more than that."

There was a measured pause, then the king said softly, "Forgive my cynicism, Crown Prince, but you claim your lady possesses an innate sense for evil when it comes before her, that she can recognize evil when confronted by it…yet she has given her heart completely and utterly to you, even before you gave up your quest for the Crown piece."

Nuada felt his eyes widen as the word _evil_ echoed in his skull. His father still thought that of him? _Still?_ After all the concessions he'd made, after all the ways he'd compromised his honor and integrity by capitulating to the king's wishes, Balor thought him _evil?_

"You still condemn me," Nuada said softly, surprised his voice didn't shake. He didn't bother to mask the hurt underlying his words. "Why?"

"You sought the slaughter of countless innocents," Balor said gently.

Nuada shook his head. "I gave up my quest."

"But you still desired that outcome in the first place, abandoned or not," the king replied. What made it all worse, Nuada thought, was that the king's expression was gentle, almost understanding, like a parent telling their child a hard truth they were sorry for. "How can I trust your lady's instincts when they seem so skewed?"

What was he supposed to say, when he'd wondered the same thing? Why didn't the Spirit warn Dylan of the darkness in Nuada's heart? Or had it, and she'd simply ignored it out of love for him?

"You would have to ask Dylan about her perception of me, Majesty," Nuada said eventually. "I cannot speak for her in all things. But my king, I implore you…for the sake of this kingdom and my sister, Nuala cannot be allowed to marry Bres. You must break her engagement. It is not as if she is formally, publically betrothed; surely you can simply have a quiet word with Bres."

Balor quirked a brow at his son. "Why should I do this based on nothing more than your word?"

A brief pause, then Nuada asked softly, "Do you not trust my judgment in this, Father?"

"No," Balor replied, not unkindly. "When it comes to your sister, your judgment can rarely be trusted, my son. And I know your lady has her own prejudices against Bres for what happened at her dance lesson with Cíaran—"

"That has nothing to do with this," Nuada protested. "Dylan has no prejudice against Bres; she's _afraid_ of him. He threatened her. Threatened both of us. Why shouldn't she fear him?"

Balor shook his head. "She simply misunderstood," the king said. Nuada's jaw went slack and his brows rose. "Crown Prince Bres spoke to me of his conversation with Lady Dylan already. He merely intended to warn her that her choice to wed you may not be looked upon favorably by all of our people. You have known this to be true for some time yourself, Nuada. She needed to be warned of the dangers that will arise once you are wed. I confess, I was surprised you hadn't appraised her of them before this."

How was it that his father could treat him this way, make him feel like a little boy in need of chastisement? Struggling to maintain his dignity and refusing to let Balor put him on the defensive, the Elven warrior replied, "I have. She knows the danger. She is neither foolish nor blind; she knows that the path we have chosen is a difficult one, but that has nothing to do with what Bres said to—"

"I shall not break your sister's betrothal," Balor interrupted. Nuada's mouth snapped closed with an audible _click_ of teeth. The first whisper of real anger slithered through his blood. "The match is a good one politically, uniting our kingdom with Cíocal upon my death and the death of King Elatha. Nuala is happy with the match. She and Bres are fond of each other. There is no reason to disrupt your sister's happiness."

"Father," Nuada protested. He wondered if this sharp edge of frustration had afflicted Dylan the night before when she'd tried to explain to her prince just why she was so afraid of the Fomorian crown prince. "Father, Bres is evil!"

"Yet he is your friend," Balor said softly.

Nuada shook his head. "My friend no longer, Sire. He is my enemy, and knows it."

"Your enmity should have no bearing on your joy for your sister's upcoming nuptials," the king said sharply. "She is happy. Bres is happy. I and Elatha are both pleased with the match. You and your lady are the only ones distressed by these events. You claim Bres is your enemy, that he is an evil man, yet until only a few days ago, he was one of your dearest friends. Is your loyalty such a flimsy thing, then?"

Stung, the prince drew himself up and forced himself to meet the king's golden eyes. In a voice devoid of any emotion, Nuada said, "My loyalty is first and foremost to my king and my country, then to my family, and then—and only then—to my friends and comrades."

"If you are loyal first to your king, then we have nothing more to discuss, do we? I have said Nuala and Bres shall marry. That should be all you require." When Nuada opened his mouth to protest again, Balor added, "Of course we both know your first loyalty is not to me, don't we?"

The stinging words bit even deeper now. Baffled by his father's hostility, Nuada shook his head in confusion. "Why do you say these things? I am only trying to do what is best for Nuala. For our kingdom. I am trying to protect her."

With a sigh, the king moved around his desk to sink into the plush chair. "Protect Nuala? Just as your desire to protect the Fae led you to go against my orders, abandon your kingdom to your foolish exile, and seek out the means to slaughter an entire race? Your wish to protect what you profess to love led you to seek the deaths of countless innocents? And when you acted to protect your lady, you broke the treaty that honor holds us to, murdered humans after I expressly forbade such an act, and expect your supposed intentions to excuse you?"

Nuada stared at his father, who gazed impassively back. "You're…still angry about the human assassins?"

"Yes, I'm angry," the king flared. "Your pride and temper have put me in bad positions many times in the past, and still you have yet to learn to control yourself. That same pride and temper have brought you into my study now. You are a man grown, not a feckless child! It is time you began acting like it!"

He could have spat back words at the king about how if _he_ was a child, then Balor was an old man, a fool, a coward. If Nuada hadn't learned to act like a man, it could have been said that his father was to blame for failing to teach him honor and duty. But it was Christmas Eve, and Nuada loved his father. He didn't want to hurt him.

Fighting for a calm tone, he said only, "Father, this has nothing to do with pride—"

"Oh, no?" Balor demanded. "Bres upsets your lady, the woman bound to _you_, and then you come to me and say your sister cannot wed him because his heart is tainted with evil, when mere days ago you told me that Bres was a good man? And I am to believe that your pride has nothing to do with it?"

All of Nuada's good intentions were being forcibly set at naught, it seemed. Raking a hand through his hair, the prince growled, "You cannot possibly be serious."

The king settled back in his chair. Nuada noted with distant unease when Balor rubbed his left shoulder as if it pained him. "I am serious. I'll not allow you to interfere with your sister's happiness. I have heard the rumors, Nuada."

Cold fury washed through the prince. Gossip again. He _loathed_ gossip. He'd been at its center in the palace since his mother's death; he _despised_ rumor-mongering. "What rumors?" He demanded icily, though he already knew. Rumors of unnatural desire of various sorts had followed him throughout his life, his enemies' way of discrediting him. And didn't his betrothal to Dylan only confirm such things? Many Fair Folk considered a fae consorting with a human to be worse than rutting with farm animals. What were other unnatural appetites compared to lusting for a human?

Balor's gaze didn't waver as he met Nuada's infuriated copper gaze. "You know what rumors."

"They're not true," Nuada said immediately, voice quaking with rage. "I love _Dylan_, and no other. This gossip has nothing to do with my objections to Nuala's betrothal. Bres is _not_ our ally. Nuala cannot be happy with such a man."

"I have already made my position clear, Crown Prince."

"With all due respect, Majesty," the prince replied in a voice carved from jagged ice, "it is your duty as Nuala's father and king to protect her—from _any_ threat, including—"

"How _dare_ you speak to me of duty!" Balor suddenly shouted, surging to his feet. Nuada was so startled he actually took a step back from the desk. Slapping both hands onto the desk's surface—the wooden hand making a hard _thwok_ against the hawthorn—Balor raged, "Do _not_ speak to me of my duty to protect your sister! My daughter! I know my duty in that regard, Crown Prince! I have not forgotten it!"

Cautiously, well aware that somehow the ground beneath his feet had shifted seismically so that every step in the conversation could well be his last, Nuada said, "I did not mean to imply that you—"

"I need no reminding from _you!_" Balor snarled, eyes flashing molten bronze.

The words sliced away the rest of what Nuada meant to say, leaving him in stunned silence. No reminding from him. No reminding of a man's duty to protect his family…as he, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, had failed to do that long ago day when his mother had been murdered and Nuala so badly hurt. Was that what his father meant?

Nuada took an involuntary step back. He swallowed. It felt as if his heart were hammering in his throat. He tasted blood and wondered vaguely if he'd bitten the inside of his cheek or his tongue somehow.

"From me?" Nuada echoed.

Balor's narrow-eyed glare was like an iron dirk in Nuada's belly. In the back of his mind, as if from a great distance away, he heard his mother screaming. He smelled the phantom odor of Elven blood and fought not to retch. Gods…gods, no. It hadn't been his fault, it hadn't…

"I will not, tonight of all nights, sit here and listen to _you_ tell me how I should protect Nuala from a man's predations. I will _not_. Not when I have had to listen to you speak of _my wife_ and how she was butchered by human _animals_ as if no one was at fault, when we both know that you—"

"Don't," Nuada whispered, the word sharp and cold in his mouth. "How dare you? The fault was—"

"We both know who is to blame for your mother's death," Balor said savagely, looking away. "There is nothing either of us can do about it."

There were no words Nuada could find to shove away what his father was saying. It was one thing to know that Balor blamed him for Cethlenn's murder, but something else entirely for the king to actually _say_ so. Something sick and vicious rose up in the prince's throat, and he found he couldn't swallow it back. His eyes stung, a thousand needle-pricks, and moisture gathered in his eyes, as if the wind were blowing into his face.

He hastily blinked the wetness away. Nodded once, because he still couldn't find any words. Without even bowing, he turned and strode quickly out of his father's private study, unable to stop his trembling. He didn't speak. Without a backward glance, he walked out of the room, out of the royal suite, and went where he could be alone. He would not fall apart in front of his father. He could not.

He could _not_.

**.**

John and Francesca, both pleasantly exhausted, looked up as Nuada strode into Dylan's sitting room.

Francesca opened her mouth to greet him, but something in her sister's fiancé's face strangled the words before she had a chance to actually make a sound. Without speaking or even looking at them, Nuada crossed the room and went into Dylan's bedroom.

"What was that about?" John mumbled when the door swung shut behind the prince.

**.**

Dylan somehow managed to pry her eyes open even though sleep and medicinal drowsiness dragged at her. Something was calling her back to the waking world. She _had_ to wake up, and she had to do it _now_. Something was wrong. She had to wake up and fix it.

Blearily shoving her hair from her face, the mortal woman sat up. The bed didn't so much as creak under her shifting weight. She swiped a hand over her face and yawned. She was so tired. Why was she awake? Because she had to be…for some reason. Why? Something was wrong. Dylan blinked and peered at the window. There was a shadow in front of the window. Why didn't that freak her out?

Then she realized why, and she came instantly awake. Her heart gave a lurch in her chest. An odd stinging swept across her eyes and she blinked to shove back what felt suspiciously like tears. A heavy weight settled over her, like a thick shroud of icy fog. She knew without having to stop and think about it that it came from her prince.

Nuada stood in front of the window, head bowed so that the moonlight through the window turned his hair to luminous silver. He'd thrown his tunic on the floor and stood in his shirtsleeves. His shoulders shook silently. Being careful to make the usual amount of noise, Dylan slid out of bed and approached, laying her hand on the sharp ridge of Nuada's shoulder blade. She felt him quiver like a wild horse. He made no sound, and he didn't turn to her or lift his head. He simply stood in the moonlight with his back to the mortal he loved, one hand pressed to the glass.

"Nuada?" Dylan asked softly, gently. Nuada's fingers curled and his hand against the window convulsed into a fist. He thumped it against the glass. His head drooped lower. Voice still gentle, she repeated, "Nuada? What is it?" His other hand came up to press palm-down against the window. A low sound of pain ripped out of him. Dylan's eyes widened and she drew closer. "Hey. It's okay."

He shook his head, still refusing to look at her. "No." The word was a whisper of shadow in the dark room.

"Yes," Dylan whispered, stroking down the length of his back in an attempt to soothe him. A sigh shuddered through him. "It's okay, _mo airgeadach_. Whatever happened, it's okay. I'm here. It's okay. Will you look at me?" When he said nothing, she added, "Please?"

At last he turned to her, and her heart cracked more than a little at the sight of the diamond trails of tears coursing down his pale, scarred cheeks. Dylan's mouth fell open slightly at the sight of those silent tears, the utter devastation twisting his features. Raising her hands, she framed his face, letting her thumbs whisper caresses over the royal scar carved across his wet cheeks. Nuada closed his eyes at her touch.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he rasped, covering her slender wrists with his hands. He twisted his head so that his hair hung in a half-curtain between them. "Nothing. Go back to bed, dearest. It's nothing. It doesn't matter."

Dylan shook her head. "Yes, it does." Stepping closer to him, so that she could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt and her pajama shirt, she whispered oh so gently, "It matters." Dropping her hands, Dylan slid her arms around him and held him tightly. He stiffened for a fraction of an instant before melting into her embrace. His arms came up to wrap around her, holding her tight to him, and Nuada buried his face in the crook of her neck. She stroked his hair. "It's okay," she murmured sleepily. "It's okay."

His sigh shivered warm across her neck, ruffling her hair. His fingers tangled in her hair as he shifted and pressed his forehead hard against the side of her throat. He didn't weep the way he had the night of his terrible nightmare, but he clung to Dylan just as tightly.

"What happened?" Dylan asked, stroking his hair still. "Tell me."

Nuada's voice came muffled, "Nuala asked me to speak to my father. He was…grieving. For my mother. We all grieve for her still; that wound will never heal, I fear. My father is a broken man without her. We talked, we…we argued. He blames me still. I had hoped…hoped that after all this time, after all I have done to try and please him, he…he would have forgiven…but I was wrong."

"Blames you? Blames you for what?"

The words were a whisper of heartbreak when Nuada replied, "My mother's murder. It was my fault. It was my fault, Dylan. He knows it, I know it. It was my fault."

Dylan forcibly swallowed the anger that erupted in the pit of her stomach like a fireball. What in the world had Balor said to Nuada to reduce him to _this?_ Something about his mother, about how he blamed Nuada—which was just stupid, not to mention cruel—but what, exactly? Dylan was going to find out when she went to Balor and ripped him to pieces for doing this to her prince.

_Want to spend some part of the holiday with your son, my dainty little foot,_ she thought venomously. _Oh, you are_ dead, _you scumbag! Truce is over, I'm coming after you. You're dead, you jerk._

But now wasn't the time to lash the king with her rage. Now was the time to comfort her prince, who had loved his mother so much, and seen her so brutally murdered…and whose father apparently blamed him for it all. Like Nuada, she'd thought things were smoothing out between king and prince, but obviously they'd both been wrong.

She said none of this. She simply held him while he murmured, "I never wanted her to come to harm, Dylan, never. I loved her. She was _my mother_. I _loved_ her. I would give nearly anything to get her back. How can he not know this?"

"Maybe," the psychiatrist replied gently, "Francesca's question stirred up more negative feelings than the king was willing to deal with tonight, or capable of dealing with. He may have said things he didn't mean. Family does that often, my love, you know that. We've done it to each other often enough, haven't we?"

Nuada nodded, but she could tell he wasn't buying it. Neither was she. Even in all of the vicious arguments Dylan had had with her sisters, they'd never accused her of being at fault for things beyond her control. She'd had the option all those times of lying about the faeries, of pretending they weren't there, and she'd chosen not to; so in a way, the fallout was her fault, for doing what was right. And she'd known things would be difficult if she refused to back down. But Nuada hadn't known those monsters were waiting for him, Nuala, and Queen Cethlenn that day, and it hadn't been his decision to only bring a couple guards with them, or even venture out to the woods. Cethlenn had been the adult; it had been her choice.

A dull ache had begun to whisper through her bad knee; she'd been on her feet a lot today already, and standing made her damaged joint twinge. When Dylan shifted, however, Nuada tightened his grip on her.

"Let me hold you a few moments longer," he murmured against her throat. He hadn't pulled his face away from the hollow between her neck and shoulder yet. A soft flutter tickled the inside of Dylan's stomach at the caress of his breath on her skin. "I cannot bear to go back to my own suite alone just yet. You comfort me…and my sister presses me for answers I cannot give her."

"So just tell her to buzz off," Dylan replied with forced lightness. "If you don't want to talk, she shouldn't force you."

"She can feel my emotions," Nuada said. "She knows I am upset, knows it has something to do with our parents, and wants to make it right. I think she will abandon that desire once she finds out I attempted to break her engagement to Bres tonight."

Dylan winced. "I take it that didn't go very well." Nuada shook his head. "Wonderful. You know what? Don't worry about the thing with Prince Bres." At that, the prince jerked back to stare down at her. Moonlight poured through the window, illuminating his baffled expression. "I'll take care of it," she added. "Things are tense between you and your dad right now and we don't need him getting madder at you just because…just because. So I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"_Mo duinne_, I would rather you left it to me—"

"I can handle it," she interrupted. "Besides, your dad has a soft spot for me, being human and all. Let me try in the morning. And you know if you don't want to be alone, we can stay together. You can stay with me for a bit. I don't mind just snuggling with you on the couch in front of the fireplace until dawn, though I might fall asleep before then. But it's tradition in my family that we stay up all night Christmas Eve to wait for dawn on Christmas Day. When we would visit my aunt and uncle in Pennsylvania, it was even better, because they had a small farm and livestock."

Nuada's brows furrowed and he cocked his head, bemused. "Why would that make it better? Did you not have chores and such, even on Christmas morning?"

"Oh, yeah, we did, but that wasn't so bad. No, the fun part was staying up to wait for 'the miracle.' Our parents told us about it when we were little and we always wanted to see it, but we never did—I think because it's bogus, but it was fun to watch out for, like Santa Claus."

As she'd hoped, her words turned Nuada's mind from the king and his cruelty. The prince asked, "What miracle do you mean?"

A fond smile curved her mouth. "Here, why don't we sit down?" Taking his hands, she drew him toward the bedroom door that led to her sitting room. "Just to warn you, I think Eimh and Sétanta know there's something up with you." She pointed at the crack of light under the door. Two doggy heads pressed to the carpet so woeful eyes could peer under the door. Nuada smiled as the hounds whined mournfully. "They're probably out there with squeaky balls because they're worried about you and want to cheer you up."

Nuada nodded as if this made perfect sense. "They are very good dogs," he murmured. "That is why I chose them for you."

Dylan frowned. His voice was soft, melancholy. She wouldn't be able to take away this pain his father had inflicted on him, she knew that, but even helping him to forget it for a time would be hard. And perhaps she wasn't in the proper frame of mind to do so anyway. At the moment she wanted to drop-kick the king over a cliff.

Instead of committing regicide, she slid her arms around Nuada's arm and hugged him. "I love you," she said. "You are my favorite person in the history of ever."

A brief but warm smile appeared on his handsome face. "A fact that continues to humble and astonish me every time I am reminded of it," he replied. Caressing her cheek, he added, "I adore you. Now tell me of this miracle."

They made their way through the door and toward the sitting room couch. Eimh and Sétanta sat on the floor in front of the sitting room hearth, both of them holding rubber balls sporting obvious chew-marks in their mouths. When the prince and his lady walked into the room, the hound pups dropped their balls and heaved themselves to their feet, trotting over to the prince with lolling tongues and wagging tails. Nuada knelt, oblivious to the risk of dog hair on his holiday finery, and rubbed Eimh's silky head and the side of Sétanta's neck.

*Oh, Master,* the she-hound said, bouncing on her hind paws a little so she could get her pale upper body draped across Nuada's bent legs. *We love you so much.*

*Yes,* Sétanta added, pressing his head against Nuada's knee in a shameless entreaty for even more pets. *We love you a lot. You are the best master in the world. Do you want to play Ball with us? You can throw it and we will fetch it. And we will be careful because we are inside.*

*Or should we sit on you?* Eimh asked diffidently, laying her head on the large white paws on Nuada's knees. *We can do that too because we love you.*

Nuada sighed and laid a hand each on Eimh and Sétanta's heads. "Sit with me and my lady awhile."

*Yes, Master,* the puppies chorused, wagging their tails even harder. They walked to the couch, then looked back at Nuada and Dylan expectantly as if to say, "Well, come on!"

Smiling a little, the mortal and her prince sat together in the center of the couch. Eimh bounced onto the cushions and dropped her head in Dylan's lap. Sétanta took a more aggressive approach, plopping his entire body across Nuada's legs, then rolling onto his back to offer his belly for a scratch. Then he fixed the Elven warrior with a look of such potent pleading that the prince laughed.

"Cheeky little beggar," Nuada murmured, rubbing Sétanta's black-furred stomach. The dog made a happy noise, but said nothing, only rolled and writhed in canine ecstasy while Nuada petted him.

"So, the miracle," Dylan said when Nuada began to relax into simply petting the hounds. "So you know the story of the birth of Christ, how there was no room for Mary and Joseph in the inn, so they were in the stable when He was born, right? Which means the very first to lay eyes on him, aside from his mother and her husband, were the animals in the stable. The story goes that because they made obeisance to Him, and loved Him, they were blessed with the miracle—that all the animals everywhere in the world kneel down and pray in human voices at midnight on Christmas Eve.

"It's nonsense, of course, but we didn't know that when we were kids. We always wanted to catch the cows talking. Never happened, though. We always fell asleep too soon. There are all kinds of lovely stories about it, though. Like _The Stable Rat_, I've always been fond of that one, and _Annabelle's Wish_. That one's sweet."

Nuada said nothing, merely stroked Sétanta's belly while the dog drowsed in the prince's lap. Dylan rubbed between Eimh's floppy ears. Both dogs' tails wagged slowly; they were only puppies, and were starting to drift off into sleep after the long night.

Dylan kept her eye on her prince as the hounds fell deeper and deeper into sleep. Just the presence of the hounds seemed to soothe him. She remembered him saying once that the kennels and the stables had always been a refuge for him.

They'd been sitting in silence for almost half an hour when Nuada reached over and gripped Dylan's hand. She glanced over at him and offered a smile. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to each of her knuckles. Fluttering warmth flooded her stomach. She ducked her head, suddenly feeling oddly shy. Sometimes he did that to her. Just being with him made her feel like a girl on her very first date. Dylan smiled at her prince.

"Dylan, I have something for you for Christmas. Do you want it at midnight, or do you want it in the morning?"

Anticipation shivered through her. "What is it?"

"That would be telling, my love."

"Cheater," she muttered good-naturedly.

Nuada feigned outrage. "Cheating? I? You have impugned the honor of the crown prince of Bethmoora, my lady. Such insults shall not go unpunished."

Smirking, she replied, "You have a dog on your lap, hot shot. What are you gonna do?"

The prince's lip curled into a smug smile. Without looking at either hound, he said in a commanding tone, "Sétanta, Eimh!" Both dogs' heads lifted sleepily from their respective laps to focus on the prince. "Down." The puppies rolled off their humans to plop on the floor. Pointing at the door, Nuada added, "Guard." They trotted to the door leading to the hall and plunked themselves in front of the threshold, pointedly looking away from the two-leggers in the room. Nuada smirked at Dylan. "You were saying, my lady?"

"I was saying that I should never have said anything that could be taken as a slight against your honor, Your Highness—" In the middle of her statement, Dylan launched herself off the couch and darted across the room…or tried. Unfortunately, Nuada was clever, and knew his quarry well. Before she could rise more than a few inches off the couch, his arm was around her waist and the Elven warrior was hauling her back to the cushions.

"I have you fast, milady," Nuada informed her, holding her tight against him. Dylan could feel the muscles in his arms tensing as he locked her in place. "You'll get nowhere without first offering me some token of apology for your insults."

She twisted around to look him full in the face. "Um, 'scuse me, but don't you owe _me_ for pardoning A'du'la'di earlier today?"

"You would have done so anyway," Nuada said. "My offer was merely a formality."

"Uh-huh. Cheater."

One slender blond brow rose. "Say that again," the prince commanded in a dangerously low tone, bending his head to her. His hair brushed against her cheek, tickling.

Dylan smiled. "Cheater."

"I do not believe I heard you correctly, my lady," Nuada murmured silkily.

Looking him dead in the eyes, Dylan smiled wider and enunciated very carefully, "Cheat-er."

"You'll pay for that," he growled and captured her mouth. The tension of the past half-hour caught up to her then as Nuada's hand came around to cup the back of her head. His fingers tunneled into her hair as Dylan pressed close. His mouth was velvet and warmth as it molded to hers, pressing in just a little.

Nuada never asked for more than she was willing to give, but he always offered all of himself. Dylan could taste that in his kiss as his lips moved leisurely over her own. Pulse pounding, lips tingling, she sighed into the kiss as warmth and golden light flooded beneath her skin. Her fingers tangled in the collar of his silk shirt as she yearned toward him. He was warm, so warm, and solid and strong against her. His hair whispered against her cheeks and neck as it fell around her in a silvery curtain.

Dylan felt herself being tilted backward and clung to Nuada for balance. The arm of the couch braced against her back as Nuada moved over her, fingertips caressing the side of her neck, mouth so gentle against hers. Dylan made a small sound and Nuada groaned against her lips. Her hands slid over the plush velvet of his tunic and the silk of his shirt-sleeves glided over her skin.

Too fast, she thought even as his lips moved to the corner of her mouth, the fragile line of her jaw. How did it always happen? They loved each other so much, wanted each other so much, and there was so much at stake…it was hard not to seek solace with each other.

Velvet kisses brushed along her jaw and Nuada murmured her name. She let out a shaky sigh as his lips touched just underneath her ear. He whispered, "Dylan, stop me. Please, I do not think I can…I want…I love you, Dylan. Please, you must tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this."

But she did want it, didn't she? His kisses. His arms around her. So why…but then she felt the first gentle pressure of his weight above her as he began closing the distance between their bodies. Panic and longing twisted together, flooding her veins with fiery ice. She couldn't…they couldn't...they had to stop. Her body didn't want to, and neither did his, but they had to. She tried to focus on that, but the thought fled her mind when he kissed the side of her neck.

"Nuada…" Her entire body trembled at his nearness, the solid strength and heat of him. After what her sisters had done earlier, after waking to his obvious pain, she didn't want to push him away. She wanted to hold him and comfort him. But then they would—

*What are you doing, Master?* Sétanta called, shattering the tension between Elf and mortal. Dylan actually jumped and squeaked. Nuada sighed as the tension eased out of his body. They'd forgotten about the dogs.

_Good dogs_, Dylan thought a little hysterically. _Good dogs_.

"Nothing," Nuada mumbled, pushing back to give Dylan the opportunity to sit up. She did, trying not to blush under the intensity of Nuada's gold-kissed ivory stare—and failing miserably. "Nothing, Sétanta." To Dylan he added, "My lady, I fear despite sticking to most of your rules about chastity, your virtue is not safe with me in my present mood. And it is late; you should get to bed."

She shoved at her now-disheveled hair. "I'm sorry. I wanted to comfort you, I didn't think things would go this far. It's like…one chaste kiss from you has the knockout power of a make-out session."

To her relief, he smiled. "I will take that as a compliment. It is the same for me with you. One touch from you, no matter how innocent, threatens to be my undoing." Clearing his throat, he rose to his feet and took her hand. "You should sleep, beloved. Good night." He kissed her knuckles and turned away.

At the door leading to his suite, he stopped when Dylan asked, "And what are you going to do?"

"I?" He raised an eyebrow. "I am going to avail myself of the shower. It has been a long day and I believe the cold water will help clear my head."

Furious heat flooded Dylan's cheeks. "Oh. That…makes sense. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, _mo duinne_."

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_**Author's Note**__: so, what do you guys think? I'm seriously rushing on this (I have 2 minutes to get this thing posted) so…I gotta go. Love you all, bye! Good luck for all you guys starting school!_


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